The Thomist 71 (2007): 505-28

AQUINAS ON ORAL TEACHING
KEVIN WHITE
The Catholic University of America
Washington, D.C.

I

N QUESTION 42, article 4 of the Tertia Pars, Aquinas asks
whether Christ should have handed on his teaching in writing.
He argues that it was fitting he did not, for three reasons:
because of his dignity, because of the excellence of his teaching,
and so that his teaching might go forth from him to everyone else
in an order. I propose to consider this article more closely. 1 By
way of a prologue, I will begin with a look at its most important
written philosophical antecedent, even though Aquinas does not
seem to have known it, namely, the argument in Plato's Phaedrus
that no serious teaching can be transmitted in writing. To
contextualize the issue in Aquinas's work I will then briefly
mention some passages on writing in his commentary on
Boethius's De Trinitate and his Summa Theologiae. Finally, with
respect to the article on Christ's not having written, I will discuss
its Augustinian source, its sed contra, and its three arguments.

1 For a thoughtful earlier consideration of Aquinas's article see Domenico Farias, "Utrum
Christus debuerit doctrinam suam scripto tradere," Divus Thomas (Piacenza) 59 (1956): 2037. The present discussion differs in emphasis from that of Farias, who, for instance, draws
some useful connections with texts of Aquinas on the nature of teaching. See also Jean-Pierre
Torrell, Le Christ en ses mysteres: La vie et !'oeuvre de Jesus selon saint Thomas d'Aquin
(Paris: Desclee, 1999), 2:250-54. For the general context of STh III, q. 42, see the discussion
of the structure of the Tertia Pars in John F. Boyle, "The Two-fold Division of Thomas's
Christology in the Tertia pars," The Thomist 60 (1996): 439-47.

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I. THE PHAEDRUS ON TEACHING AND WRITING

The Phaedrus consists of a conversation between Socrates and
Phaedrus that treats the question of how to compose a speech
addressed to a beloved, then goes on to discuss written composition in general and the difference between good and bad
writing. Towards the end Socrates offers a critique of the art of
writing in three parts. 2
First he presents a myth about the invention of writing (274c275d). Someone who had invented writing and many other arts
showed them to a king, praising the art of writing in particular as
a drug for improving memory and wisdom. The king disagreed.
He said that writing would instill forgetfulness rather than
memory, because men would come to rely on written marks
instead of exercising their memories; it is a drug for being
reminded rather than for improving memory, and it would instill
an appearance of wisdom rather than the reality, because its users
would lack instruction, although they would be "hearers" of many
things who as a result would seem to know a lot. Socrates
comments that anyone who believes he can put knowledge into
writing, and anyone who accepts writing as if anything clear and
steady could come from it, are foolish to think that written words
can do more than serve as a reminder to someone who already
knows what the writing is about.
Socrates next compares writing to painting (275d-276a). The
products of the art of painting stand there as if they were alive, he
says, but if you ask them something they are very silent and
solemn. It is the same with written words: they speak as if they
had understanding, or so you would think, but if you want to
learn something and ask them about it, they just keep signifying
the same one thing. Once a speech is written, it rolls around
promiscuously in all directions, among those who understand it
and those for whom it is unsuitable, and it does not know the
difference between those to whom it should and those to whom
it should not speak. If it is attacked and unfairly accused it always
2 Cf. Plato, Seventh Letter 341a-342a.

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needs the help of its "father" or author, since it is unable to
defend itself. By contrast, the living speech of one who knows,
which is the "legitimate brother" of the written word and of
which the latter is a mere image, is "written" with knowledge on
the soul of the learner, is capable of defending itself, and knows
to whom it should speak and before whom it should be silent.
Finally Socrates compares teaching with farming (276b-277a).
An intelligent farmer might, for amusement, plant seeds that
flower in eight days, but when he is being serious and applies his
art, he is happy if his seeds reach perfection in eight months.
Likewise, anyone who has knowledge about what is just, beautiful,
and good will be intelligent about the "seeds" he plants. When he
is not serious he will sow them in black ink with a pen, using
words that can neither defend themselves with a word nor teach
the truth adequately. He will sow gardens of letters for
amusement, writing for himself and others, and saving up
reminders as protection against the forgetfulness of old age. While
others are amusing themselves with pleasure, he will write. This
is noble, but much nobler still is serious talk about the just, the
beautiful, and the good, in the application of dialectic to the
"planting" of words in a suitable soul, words that are
accompanied by knowledge and are capable of defending both
themselves and their "planter." These words bear fruit from
which seeds grow in others, in a process of transmission that can
go on forever, and they make the one who has them as happy as
it is humanly possible to be.
II. AQUINAS ON TEACHING AND WRITING

What might Aquinas have made of this passage? An answer to
this question would have to begin by saying that no Christian, and
no Jew or Muslim, could speak quite so lightly about the written
word in general. The importance of sacred writing for Christians
is recalled in the first sed contra of Aquinas's Summa Theologiae,
which quotes 2 Timothy 3:16 on the divinely inspired scriptura
that is useful for teaching, arguing, correcting, and instructing in

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justice. 3 Aquinas clearly regarded his own writings as serious and
potentially useful, although towards the end of his life he is
reported to have disdained them as "straw" "in comparison with
what I have seen," and on his deathbed he submitted them for
correction to the holy Roman Church. 4
On the other hand, in question 2, article 4 of his commentary
on Boethius's De Trinitate, Aquinas does reflect on the written
word's incapacity to discriminate between those to whom it
should and those to whom it should not speak. The question is
whether in theology what is divine should be veiled by verbal
obscurity. The response begins by saying that a teacher's words
should be adjusted so as to help, not harm, the hearer. Some
things, namely, the things that everyone is bound to know, harm
no one if they are heard and these should not be hidden but
clearly presented to all. But some things do cause harm to the
hearers if they are clearly presented, and this in one of two ways.
If the arcana, the secrets, of the faith are exposed to unbelievers
who detest the faith, the latter will mock them. For confirmation
of the point Aquinas quotes Matthew 7:6, "Do not give what is
holy to the dogs," which, incidentally, are the first words of
Christ quoted in the Summa Theologiae (STh I, q. 1, a. 9, ad 2),
and he also quotes Dionysius's Celestial Hierarchy. On the other
hand, if subtleties are presented to the unlearned, what they
understand imperfectly will only give them material for going
astray. For confirmation here Aquinas quotes 1 Corinthians
3: 1-"Brothers, I could not speak to you as spiritual men; rather
I gave you, as little ones in Christ, milk, not meat" -the last part
of which is the epigraph of the Summa Theologiae, a work

3 STh I, q. 1, a. 1, s.c. (Opera Omnia [Rome: Leonine Commission, 1882-]), 4:6a: "Sed
contra est quod dicitur II ad Tim. III: omnis scriptura divinitus inspirata utilis est ad
docendum, ad arguendum, ad corripiendum, ad erudiendum ad iustitiam."
4 On Aquinas's concern for usefulness in his writings, see Rene-A. Gauthier's preface to
Sentencia libri De anima (Leonine ed., 45.1:276*). On hls comment about straw, see JeanPierre Torrell, Initiation asaint Thomas d'Aquin: Sa personne et son oeuvre (Fribourg-Paris:
Editions universitaires-Editions du Cerf, 1993), 401, 424. On his submission of his writings
to correction by the Church, see ibid., 428.

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509

directed to beginners; he also quotes a gloss by Gregory. 5 Secrets
and subtleties, then, are the two kinds of things that should be
concealed when revealing them would cause harm.
Drawing from Augustine's De doctrinachristiana,Aquinas then
explains the relevant difference between the written and the
spoken word. A speaker can make a distinction between hearers
that allows him to say in private to the wise what he leaves in
silence in public, but no such distinction can be applied in writing,
for a book can fall into anyone's hands. In writing, then, some
things must be hidden by verbal obscurity in such a way as to be
beneficial to the wise who can understand them and hidden from
the simple who cannot. No one is put upon by this: those who do
understand are caught up in their reading and those who do not
are not forced to read. 6
Socrates, from what he says in the Phaedrus, would seem to
have regarded dialectic as an essentially private kind of teaching.
5 Super Boetium De Trinitate, q. 2, a. 4 (Leonine ed., 50:101.53-79): "Dicendum, quod
uerba docentis ita debent esse moderata, ut proficient, non noceant audienti. Quedam autem
sunt que audita nemini nocent, sicut ea que omnes scire tenentur, et talia non sunt occultanda,
set manifeste omnibus proponenda. Quedam uero sunt que proposita manifeste auditoribus
nocent.
"Quod quidem contingit dupliciter. Vno modo si archana fidei infidelibus fidem
abhorrentibus denudentur: eis enim uenirent in derisum; et propter hoc Dominus <licit Mat.
VII 'Nolite sanctum dare canibus', et Dionisius <licit c.II Celestis ierarchie 'Que sancta sunt
circumtegens ex immunda multitudine tamquam uniformia custodi'. Secundo quando aliqua
subtilia rudibus proponuntur, ex quibus perfecte non compreensis materiam sumunt errandi;
uncle Apostolus <licit I Cor. III 'Ego, fratres, non potui uobis loqui quasi spiritualibus, set
tamquam paruulis in Christo lac potum uobis dedi, non escam'. Vnde Exo. XXI, super illud
'Si quis aperuit cisternam' etc., <licit Glosa Gregorii 'Qui in sacra eloquio iam alta intelligit,
sublimes sensus coram non capientibus per silentium tegat, ne per scandalum interius aut
fidelem paruulum aut infidelem qui credere potuisset interimat'. Hee ergo ab his quibus
nocent occultanda sunt."
In Rewritten Theology: Aquinas after His Readers (Blackwell: Oxford, 2006), 170-85,
Mark D. Jordan discusses Aquinas's citations of Matthew 7:6 ("Nolite sanctum dare canibus")
here and in other texts.
6 Super Boet. De Trin., q. 2, a. 4 (Leonine ed., 50:101.80-102.102):
"Set in colloqutione
potest fieri distinctio, ut eadem seorsum sapientibus manifestentur, et in publico taceantur ..
. . Set in scribendo non potest talis distinctio adhiberi, quia liber conscriptus ad manus
quorumlibet uenire potest; etideo suntoccultanda uerborum obscuritatibus, ut per hoc prosint
sapientibus qui ea intelligunt, et occultentur a simplicibus qui ea capere non possunt. Et in hoc
null us grauatur, quia qui intelligunt lectione detinentur, qui uero non intelligunt non coguntur
ad legendum .... "

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His practice of private teaching certainly made him the target of
such accusations as those of Callicles in the Gorgias. Aquinas, on
the other hand, seems to have preferred public teaching, and in
fact his famous challenge to the Averroists to "go public" at the
end of De unitate intellectus contra averroistas makes him sound
a bit like Callicles accusing Socrates of whispering in corners with
boys. 7 In the article of the Summa Theologiae just before the one
we are going to examine, Aquinas argues, with qualification, that
Christ taught publicly. There are, he says, three ways in which
someone's teaching may be said to be concealed (in occulto). One
is with respect to the intention of a teacher who does not want to
share his knowledge with the many either because he wishes to be
superior to others in his knowledge or because of something
shameful in his teaching, and such was certainly not the case with
Christ. A teaching may also be called concealed because it is
presented to only a few, and neither was this the case with Christ,
who presented all of his teaching either to the whole of the crowd
or to all his disciples in common. But a teaching may also be
concealed with respect to the mode of teaching, and in this sense
Christ did teach something hidden inasmuch as he spoke to the
crowds in parables, thereby proclaiming to them spiritual
mysteries that they were unfit or unworthy to understand.
Aquinas says that it was better for them to hear the teaching about
spiritual things under cover of parables than to be deprived of it
altogether, and that Christ also explained the truth of the parables
to his disciples, through whom it would reach others who were
suited for it. 8 This theme of a mediated teaching also occurs in the
7 De unitate intellectus contra Averroistas 5 (Leonine ed., 43:314.431-41).
Cf. Plato,
Gorgias 485d.
8 STh III, q. 42, a. 3 (Leonine ed., 11:412b-413a): "Dicendum quod doctrina alicuius
potest esse in occulto tripliciter. Uno modo, quantum ad intentionem docentis, qui intendit
suam doctrinam non manifestare multis, sed magis occultare. Quod quidem contingit
dupliciter. Quandoque ex invidia docentis, qui vult per suam scientiam excellere, et ideo
scientiam suam non vult aliis communicare. Quod in Christo locum non habuit. . . .
Quandoque vero hoc contingit propter inhonestatem eorum quae docentur .... Doctrina
autem Christi non est neque de errore neque de immunditia . ... Alio modo aliqua doctrina est
in occulto, quia paucis proponitur. Et sic Christus etiam nihil docuit in occulto: quia omnem
doctrinam suam vel turbae tori proposuit, vel omnibus suis discipulis in communi .... Terrio
modo aliqua doctrina est in occulto, quantum ad modum docendi. Et sic Christus quaedam

AQUINAS ON ORAL TEACHING

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first article of the same question, which presents several
arguments for the fittingness of Christ's having preached to Jews,
not Gentiles. One reason is so that his coming would be shown to
be from God. As St. Paul says, "whatever is from God is ordered"
(Rom 13:1), and due order required that Christ's teaching first be
presented to Jews, who by their faith in and cult of the one God,
were closer to the one God, and that through them it be
transmitted to Gentiles. 9 The teaching of Christ, then, manifests
three overlapping sequences of orderly transmission: through
Jews to Gentiles; through disciples to others; and, as we will see
shortly, from Christ's spoken words, through the spoken and
written words of disciples and others, to everyone.
III. THE SUMMA THEOLOGIAE ON WRITING AND BOOKS

The difference between the spoken and the written word has
been a prominent theme in philosophy, theology, and other
disciplines in recent decades. 10 If we take up Aquinas's Summa
Theologiae with this theme in mind, we notice several things at
turbis loquebatur in occulto, parabolis utens ad annuntienda spiritualia mysteria, ad quae
capienda non erant idonei vel digni. Et tamen melius erat ei vel sic, sub tegumento
parabolarum, spiritualium doctrinam audire, quam omnino ea privari. Harum tamen
parabolarum apertam et nudam veritatem Dominus discipulis exponebat, per quos deveniret
ad alias, qui essent idonei .... "
The topic of concealed teaching in the case of esoteric writing has been much discussed
recently thanks largely to the work of Leo Strauss, who ensured that what he called this
forgotten kind of writing would, at least in certain circles, never stop being remembered. In
"Esoteric versus Latent Teaching," The Review of Metaphysics 59 (2005): 73-93, Frederick
J. Crosson makes an important distinction between the "esoteric" way of writing, which is
meant to conceal its teaching from, and in fact deceive, the majority of readers, and a "latent"
teaching that presents a meaning that is concealed but discoverable in principle by everyone.
Aquinas, Crosson argues, did not know of the tradition of esoteric writing, but was well aware
of a Latin and Christian tradition of latent teaching.
9 STh III, q. 42, a. 1 (Leonine ed., 11:410b): "Secundo, ut eius adventus ostenderetur esse
a Deo. Quae enim a Deo sunt, ordinata sunt, ut dicitur Rom. XIII.1. Hoc autem debitus ordo
exigebat, ut Iudaeis, qui Dea erant propinquiores per fidem et cultum uni us Dei, prius quidem
doctrina Christi proponeretur, et per eos transmitteretur ad gentes .... "
10 One reason for this, as Walter Ong plausibly suggests, may be technological: "Contrasts
between electronic media and print have sensitized us to the earlier contrast between writing
and orality" (Walter Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizingof the Word [London and
New York: Methuen, 1982], 3).

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once. The prologue, which mentions both written "expositions of
books" and oral "occasions of disputation," immediately presents
us with the peculiarly scholastic mixture of the spoken and the
written. Each of the more than two thousand articles that make
up the work is a miniature drama, an imitation in writing of an
oral exchange motivated by a desire for understanding-that is,
a sort of briefer, more formal version of the Platonic dialogue.
And, apparently by coincidence, one article in each of the
Summa's three parts makes the art of writing thematic.
In the first part, the article concerning writing is on the
meaning of the scriptural image of "the book of life." Aquinas
distinguishes interpretations of this term on the model of the term
"book of knighthood" (liber militiae), of which he distinguishes
three senses: a book in which the names of those chosen for
knighthood are written, a book in which the military art is
transmitted, and a book in which deeds of knights are recounted.
Correspondingly, "book of life" may refer to God's knowledge of
those he has chosen for eternal life, to the Bible's teaching of the
actions that lead to eternal life, or to God's power to recall to the
memory of the blessed the actions that they have performed in
reaching eternal life. 11 This comparison between senses of "book
of knighthood" and those of "book of life" would seem to suggest
a division of books in general, according to their different
relations to time and action, into memoranda for the future,
textbooks for transmitting arts from past to future in the present,
and records of past deeds. In any case the principal sense of "book
of life" for Aquinas is God's knowledge of his predestination of
11 STh I, q. 24, a. 1, ad 1 (Leonine ed., 4:286b): "Ad primum ergo dicendum quad fiber
vitae potest dici dupliciter. Uno modo, conscriptio eorum qui sunt electi ad vitam: et sic
loquimur nunc de libro vitae. Alia modo potest dici liber vitae, conscriptio eorum quae ducunt
in vitam. Et hoc dupliciter. Ve! sicut agendorum: et sic novum et vetus Testamentum dicitur
liber vitae. Ve! sicut iam factorum: et sic ilia vis divina, qua fiet ut cuilibet in memoriam
reducantur facta sua, dicitur liber vitae. Sicut etiam fiber militiae potest dici, vel in quo
scribuntur electi ad militiam, vel in quo traditur ars militaris, vel in quo recitantur facta
militum." On Aquinas's many and various remarks concerning knighthood, see Edward A.
Synan, "St. Thomas Aquinas and the Profession of Arms," Mediaeval Studies 50 (1988): 40437. Synan discusses the distinctively medieval use of miles as meaning "knight" (ibid., 418)
and the senses of liber militiae (ibid., 430).

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the elect. As he explains, it is customary for the names of those
who are chosen for something such as knighthood or a senate to
be written in a book (senators were once called patres conscripti);
by extension, the names of those chosen by God for eternal life
are said to be "written" on his knowledge. And because things are
sometimes written in books as aides-memoire, something that a
person holds firmly in memory is said to be "inscribed" on his
intellect, or, as is said in the book of Proverbs, on his heart; thus,
again by extension, God's firmly fixed knowledge of those he has
predestined to eternal life is called the book of life. In the sense
in which writing in a book may be an indication of something to
be done, as in a memorandum to oneself, God's knowledge is, as
it were, an indication to himself of those whom he is to lead to
eternal life. 12
In the second part of the Summa writing is often mentioned in
the treatise on law. For example, Aquinas says that it is essential
to law that it be promulgated, and not only in the present, but
also, by means of the fixity of writing, in the future, and it is
because law is written that the very word for law, lex, is,
according to an etymology of Isidore, derived from the word for
reading, legere.13 The eternal law is promulgated both by the
divine word and by the book of life, that is, by a kind of divine
12 STh I, q. 24, a. 1 (Leonine ed., 4:286a-b): "Respondeo dicendum quod libervitae in Deo
dicitur metaphorice, secundum similitudinem a rebus humanis acceptam. Est enim consuetum
apud homines, quod illi qui ad aliquid eliguntur, conscribuntur in libro; utpote milites vel
consiliarii, qui olim dicebantur Patres conscripti . ...
"Dicitur autem metaphorice aliquid conscriptum in intellectu alicuius, quod firmiter in
memoria tenet, secundum illud Prov. III, ne obliviscaris legis meae, et praecepta mea car tuum
custodiat; et post pauca sequitur: describe illa in tabulis cordis tui. Nam et in libris
materialibus aliquid conscribitur ad succurrendum memoriae. Uncle ipse Dei notitia, qua
firmiter retinet se aliquos praedestinasse ad vitam aeternam, dicitur liber vitae. Nam sicut
scriptura libri est signum eorum quae fienda sunt, ita Dei notitia est quoddam signum apud
ipsum, eorum qui sunt perducendi ad vitam aeternam .... "For further considerations of the
nature of books, see the parallel texts: III Sent., d. 31, q. 1, a. 2 (Scriptum super libros
sententiarum, ed. Pierre Mandonnet and M. F. Moos, 4 vols. [Paris: Lethielleux, 1929-194 7],
3:973-78); De Veritate, q. 7, a. 1 (Leonine ed., 23.1:197-201).
13 STh I-II, q. 90, a. 4, ad 3 (Leonine ed., 7:152b): "Ad tertium dicendum quod
promulgatio praesens in futurum extenditur per firmitatem scripturae, quae quodammodo
semper earn promulgat. Uncle Isidorus <licit, in II Etymol., quod lex a legendo vocata est, quia
scripta est."

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"speaking" and "writing. " 14 Other kinds of law are either literally
or metaphorically written. Human positive law and the old law
are literally written. Natural law and the new law are both
primarily unwritten, being in different ways indita, "inscribed,"
as it were, on man himself. Natural law pertains to human nature,
from which its primary and universal precepts cannot be, so to
speak, "deleted. " 15
The first article on the new law brings the theme of writing to
the fore by arguing that the new law is not literally written but
rather "inscribed" on the hearts of the faithful. The argument is
that a thing appears as what is most important in it and what is
most important in the law of the new testament, what its whole
power consists in, is the grace of the Holy Spirit, given through
faith in Christ. Primarily, then, the new law is something
unwritten, or rather "written" on the heart. But in addition to the
grace it gives, the new law includes certain secondary matters
concerning predisposition to or use of grace, and the faithful have
to be instructed about these matters through speech and writing
about what should be believed and what should be done. 16 In the
following article, on whether the new law justifies, an objection
argues that justification is the proper effect of God, and that the
old law was no less from God than the new. Aquinas answers that
the sa.me God gave the old and the new laws, but in significantly
different ways: he gave the old law as something written on

14 STh I-II, q. 91, a. 1, ad 2 (Leonine ed., 7:153b): "Ad secundum dicendum quod
promulgatio fit et verbo et scripto; et utroque modo lex aeterna habet promulgationem ex
parte Dei promulgantis: quia et Verbum divinum est aeternum, et scripura libri vitae est
aeterna."
15 STh I-II, q. 94, a. 6 (Leonine ed., 7:173a-b).
16 STh I-II, q. 106, a. 1 (Leonine ed., 7:273a-b): "Respondeo dicendum quod unaquaeque
res illud videtur esse quod in ea est potissimum, ut Philosophus dicit, in IX Ethic. Id autem
quod est potissimum in lege novi testamenti, et in quo tota virtus eius consistit, est gratia
Spiritus Sancti, quae datur per fidem Christi. Et ideo principaliter lex nova est ipsa gratia
Spiritus Sancti, quae datur Christi fidelibus ....
"Habet tamen lex nova quaedam sicut dispositiva ad gratiam Spiritus Sancti, et ad usum
huius gratiae pertinentia, quae sunt quasi secundaria in lege nova, de quibus oportuit instrui
fideles Christi et verbis et scriptis, tam circa credenda quam circa agenda. Et ideo dicendum
est quod principaliter nova lex est lex indita, secundario autem est lex scripta."

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515

tablets of stone, but the new law "on the tablets of flesh of the
heart," as St. Paul says (2 Cor 3:3). 17
The only other occurrence of this Pauline verse in the Summa
is in the article that concerns writing in the Tertia Pars, that is, the
one in question 42 on Christ's not having written. The subject of
question 42 is not the content of Christ's teaching but its manner,
audience, and order of transmission. The question's four articles
argue that it was fitting for Christ to have preached to Jews, not
Gentiles; that his teaching inevitably offended the leaders of the
Jews; that his teaching was public, although hidden in parables;
and that it was fitting for him not to have transmitted his teaching
in writing. These conclusions touch on two subjects of great
contemporary interest, namely, Jewish-Christian relations and
means of communication.
Modern editors of the Summa indicate no parallels in the
Thomistic corpus to the last article of question 42. The question
it asks seems to have been suggested to Aquinas by a passage of
Augustine's De consensu evangelistarum that also supplied him
with three extensive quotations for the article.
IV. QUOTATIONS FROM AUGUSTINE

De consensu evangelistarum is an attempt to harmonize the
four gospels, but it begins by addressing a preliminary question
posed by some of Augustine's contemporaries, namely, why did
Christ not set his teaching down in writing? 18 Most of the first
book of this work is taken up with this excursus or quaestio, a
digression from Augustine's main concern that provoked the
remark, later repented of, by Henri Marrou that "St. Augustine
writes badly" ("Saint Augustin compose mal"), a professedly
17 STh I-II, q. 106, a. 2 (Leonine ed., 7:274b): "Ad tertium dicendum quod legem novam
et veterem unus Deus dedit, sed aliter et aliter. Nam legem veterem dedit scriptam in tabulis
lapideis: legem autem novam dedit scriptam in tabulis cordis carnalibus, ut Apostolus <licit,
II ad Cor. III." This article complements an article in Aquinas's early Sentences commentary
on the necessity of the old law, and especially the Decalogue, having been a written law: III
Sent., d. 37, a. 1 (Mandonnet and Moos, eds., 3:1234-36).
18 Augustine, De consensu evangelistarum 1. 7-35 (ed. F. Weihrich, CSEL 43/4: 11-61).

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modern and French judgment of taste on Augustine's insertion, in
writing about writings about Christ, of a discussion concerning
Christ's not having written at all. 19
The third objection of Aquinas's article quotes from the beginning of the excursus, where the question is introduced. Augustine
says that before treating his main point he must first discuss a
question that is regularly asked, namely, why the Lord himself
wrote nothing, so that one must believe others who did write
about him. The askers of this question are pagans who dare not
make accusations or blaspheme against Christ, to whom they
attribute the highest wisdom, but only a human wisdom, and of
whom they say that his disciples made of him more than he was,
calling him the Son of God, and the Word of God through whom
all things were made. Augustine comments that these questioners
would seem to have been prepared to believe what Christ had
written about himself but not what others preached about him by
their own decision. It would seem, then, that, as the objection in
Aquinas's article concludes, Christ ought to have handed on his
teaching in writing. But Aquinas answers, in the spirit of
Augustine's response, that those who are unwilling to believe the
writings of the apostles about Christ would not have believed
Christ himself if he had written. 20
19 Henri Marrou, Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique (Paris: Boccard, 1983), 61,
665. This book was first published in 1938; the second edition, published in 1949, included
a Retractatio in which the author withdrew his original condemnation of Augustine's style.
20 STh III, q. 42, a. 4, obj. 3 (Leonine ed., ll:414a): "Praeterea, ad Christum, qui venerat
illuminare his qui in tenebris et in umbra mortis sedent, ut dicitur Luc. I, pertinebat erroris
occasionem excludere, et viam fidei aperire. Sed hoc fecisset doctrinam suam scribendo, <licit enim Augustin us, in I de Consens. Evang., quod solet nonnullos movere cur ipse dominus nihil
scripserit, ut aliis de illo scribentibus necesse sit credere. Hoc enim illi vel maxime Pagani
quaerunt qui Christum cu/pare aut blasphemare non audent, eique tribuunt excellentissimam
sapientiam, sed tamen tanquam homini. Discipulos vero eius dicunt magistro suo amplius
tribuisse quam erat, ut eum (ilium Dei dicerent, et verbum Dei, per quad facta sunt omnia. Et
postea subdit, videntur parati fuisse hoc de illo credere quad de se ipse scripsisset, non quad alii
de illo pro suo arbitrio praedicassent. Ergo videtur quod Christus ipse doctrinam suam scripto
tradere debuerit." Ibid., ad 3, 414b: "Ad tertium dicendum quod illi qui Scripturae
apostolorum de Christo credere nolunt, nee ipsi Christo scribenti credidissent, de quo
opinabantur quod magicis artibus fecisset miracula." Cf. Augustine, De consensu
evangelistarum l.7 (CSEL 43/4: 11.16-23, 12.5-7).

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The corpus of Aquinas's article mentions another opinion
reported by Augustine in his excursus, namely, the view that
Christ did write some books containing the magic by which he
supposedly performed his miracles, a view that, as Aquinas says
following Augustine, Christian teaching condemns. Augustine
observes that those who say they have read such books by Christ
do not perform the miracles he did. He also says that holders of
this view have been deceived by fictitious pictures showing Christ
with Peter and Paul, and they claim that the books in question
were dedicated to these two disciples. With a characteristic rhyme
he comments, "No wonder if dreamers [fingentes] were deceived
by painters [a pingentibus]. "21 The odd detail of misleading
pictures of Christ having brought about belief in the existence of
writings by him complicates the background of the question faced
by Augustine and taken up again by Aquinas.
The two quotations mentioned so far are from near the
beginning of Augustine's excursus. In the reply to the first
objection Aquinas includes a third quotation from later in the
excursus. The first objection introduces the article by saying that
writing was invented so that teaching could be committed to a
sort of memory for the future, but the teaching of Christ is to
endure forever, and therefore it seems he should have handed it
on in writing. Aquinas's reply quotes from the end of Augustine's
excursus. Christ is head of all his disciples, they being like the
members of his body. Therefore, since they wrote what he made
manifest and said, it should not be said that he did not write, since
the "members" produced what they knew because the "head"
21 STh III, q. 42, a. 4 (Leonine ed., 11:414b): "Sciendum tamen est, sicutAugustinus dicit,
in I de Consens. Evang., aliquos gentiles existimasse Christum quosdam libros scripsisse
continentes quaedam magica, quibus miracula faciebat, quae disciplina Christiana condemnat.
Et tamen illi qui Christi libros tales se legisse affirmant, nu/la talia f aciunt qualia ilium de libris
talibus fecisse mirantur. Divina etiam iudicio sic errant ut eosdem libros ad Petrum et Paulum
dicant tanquam epistolari titulo praenotatos, eo quod in pluribus locis simul eos cum Christo
pictos viderunt. Nee mirum si a pingentibus fingentes decepti sunt. Toto enim tempore quo
Christus in came mortali cum suis discipulis vixit, nondum erat Paulus discipulus eius." Cf.
Augustine, De consensu evangelistarum 1.9-10 (CSEL 43/4: 14.20-16.16). On the pagan view
of Christ as magician, see Goulven Madec, "Le Christ des pa!ens d'apres le De consensu
euangelistarum de saint Augustin," Recherches Augustiniennes 26 (1992): 3-67.

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dictated it, for he commanded them to write whatever he wanted
us to read of his actions and speech, they being like his hands. 22
Aquinas uses quotations from De consensu evangelistarum,
then, to make three points. To the objection that Christ should
have written his teaching to preserve it, the answer is that he did,
via his disciples. To the assertion that he wrote books of magic,
the answer is that this is contrary to Christian teaching and is
based on a deception by pictures. To the objection that he should
have written in order to remove occasion of error and open the
path of faith, the answer is that those who are unwilling to believe
the writings of the apostles about Christ would not have believed
Christ himself if he had written. Still, the burden of Aquinas's
article is not that Christ did in fact "write" via his disciples, nor
that he did not write books of magic, nor that any writings of his
would not have been believed-but that it is fitting, conveniens,
that he himself did not commit his teaching to writing. 23 Before
returning to Aquinas's three arguments for this convenientia, let
us consider the article's sed contra, and some implications of the
question being asked.
V. IMPLICATIONS OF THE QUESTION

The sed contra breaks with the usual pattern of Scholastic sed
contras that refer to Scripture: instead of offering an authoritative
quotation it simply says that no book by Christ is included in the
22 ITh m, q. 42, a. 4, obj. 1 (Leonine ed., 414a): "Videtur quod Christus doctrinam suam
debuerit scripto tradere. Scriptura enim inventa est ad hoc quod doctrina commendetur
memoriae in futurum. Sed doctrina Christi duratura erat in aeternum, secundum illud Luc.
XXI, caelum et terra transibunt, verba autem mea non transibunt. Ergo videtur quod Christus
doctrinam suam debuerit scripto man dare." - Ibid., ad 1 (Leonine ed., 11:4l4b): "Ad prim um
ergo dicendum quod, sicut Augustinus dicit, in eodem libro, omnibus discipulis suis tanquam
membris sui corporis Christus caput est. Itaque, cum illi scripserunt quae ille ostendit et dixit,
nequaquam dicendum est quad ipse non scripserit. Quandoquidem membra eius id operata sunt
quad, dictante capite, cognoverunt. Quidquid enim ille de suis fact is et dictis nos legere voluit,
hoc scribendum illis tanquam suis manibus imperavit." Cf. Augustine, De consensu
evangelistarum l.35 (CSEL 43/4: 60.16-61.2).
23 On Aquinas's arguments from convenientia, see Gilbert Narcisse O.P., Les raisons de
Dieu: Argument de convenance et Esthetique theologique selon saint Thomas d'Aquin et Hans
Urs van Balthasar (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires Fribourg Suisse, 1997), 72-73 and 485,
which refer to STh III, q. 42, a. 4.

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519

canon of Scripture. Here it is the absence of an authoritative text
that authoritatively decides the question about the appropriateness
of Christ's not having written.
The implication of this negative fact is that Christ's act of
teaching was originally not the making visible of something on a
writing surface but "an event within the history of sound," to
borrow a fine phrase from Stephen H. Webb. 24 The circumstances
attendant on this event must loom large for any Christian thinker,
as they did for Augustine and Aquinas. Christ taught orally and
publicly for just a few years, two thousand years ago. His voice
was male and he spoke principally in Aramaic. There are written
records of his speech in the Gospels, but they are, for the most
part, translations; a few of his Aramaic words remain, but
otherwise he is represented as speaking Greek. Different Gospels
sometimes present what seem to be different versions of the same
speech, and modern Scripture scholars claim that Christ did not
say much of what is attributed to him by the evangelists. In view
of all this, why did he not commit his teaching to writing? Did he
not in any case, as Augustine and Aquinas indicate, intend that the
words be written by someone? Why did he himself not set down,
or cause to be set down, a written composition by him teaching,
for example, among other things, that "Blessed are the poor in
spirit," so that everyone might read copies of "what he wrote," or
copies of copies, or translations of copies of copies? Would not
the words have more authority that way? His teaching would
seem to be disadvantaged by the fact that he himself neither set it
down, nor caused it to be set down, in a composition of his own,
a written work "by Christ."
These questions call for comparison not just between the
effects of the spoken word and those of the written word, but also
between the activities and intentions of speakers on the one hand
and those of writers on the other. 25 A speaker may assert in his
24 Stephen H. Webb, The Divine Voice: Christian Proclamation and the Theology of Sound
(Grand Rapids, Mich.: Brazos Press, 2004), 103.
25 In some of the following remarks I draw on distinctions and suggestions made by Robert
Sokolowski in "Quotation," in Pictures, Quotations, and Distinctions. Fourteen Essays in
Phenomenology (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992), 27-51; and in
"Predication as a Public Action," Acta Philosophica 14 (2005): 59-76.

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own name or quote someone else. If he asserts, he may make a
simple or a declarative assertion, the latter being an assertion in
which he emphatically declares himself as the one who is
asserting, and in which he becomes, as it were, more emphatically
himself, more unified as a speaker, than when he simply asserts.
Again, a declarative assertion may be complete in itself, or it may
be intended to be quoted by others, whether in their speech or in
their writing. If a speaker quotes someone else, he may do so
without agreement or with agreement; in the latter case two
persons become, as it were, one. To schematize this division of
speaking:
Assertion
Simple assertion
Declarative assertion
Simple declarative
Declaring so as to be quoted by others
in their speech
in their writing
Quotation
without agreement
with agreement

Christ, it seems, spoke in all of these ways, but Augustine and
Aquinas especially stress his speaking so as to be quoted by others
in their writing. Also striking is his repeated combination of
quotation and declaration: "You have heard it said ... " (or "It is
.
written
. . . ") , "But I say to you . . . " .
The various intentions of writers seem to correspond to those
of speakers. One may write in one's own name or one may write
to report, with or without agreement, what another has said.
Writing in one's own name tends to be declarative, emphasizing
the author as the one asserting, and it always presents itself as
quotable by others, whether in their speech or their writing.
Writing in one's own name makes one person become, as it were,
two, in the division between the body of the writer and the body
of the writing surface. To write in one's own name is to double

AQUINAS ON ORAL TEACHING

521

oneself, to quote oneself, to perform a kind of ventriloquism with
a page or screen. This is what Christ, according to Augustine and
Aquinas, emphatically did not do, although neither of course did
he write to report what someone else had said. The latter is so
evidently a servile activity that it is immediately intelligible that
he, as teacher, would not give himself to it. But why did he not
write in his own name? After all, "Writing is the clearest form of
that detachment which makes a speech available again and again
as the same, holding out invariant against modifications. "26
Each of Aquinas's three arguments for the fittingness of
Christ's not having written is incomplete and demands supplementation by the reader. Whether they are intended or not,
these incompletenesses draw attention to the art of writing itself,
showing that a writing may hint at more than is contained by the
letter and that a reader must be active in bringing the letter to life
agam.

VI. WRITING ON THE HEART
The first reason for the fittingness of Christ's not having
written is his dignity. A more excellent teacher should have a
more excellent mode of teaching, and Christ, as the most
excellent teacher, had to use the mode by which he would imprint
his teaching on the hearts of his hearers, which is why he is said
to have taught as one having power. Likewise the most excellent
teachers among the Gentiles, Pythagoras and Socrates, wished to
write nothing, since writing is ordered to the impression of a
teaching on the hearts of hearers as its end. The incompleteness
here is in this last inference. Aquinas does not say so, but he seems
to imply that oral teaching accomplishes directly and so in a better
way what writing aims at but can achieve only indirectly.
The image of writing on the heart was widespread in the
ancient world. 27 As we have seen, Aquinas knew the image from
26 Thomas Prufer, Recapitulations (Washington, D. C.: The Catholic University of America
Press, 1993), 59.
27 Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, ed. G. Kittel and G. Friedrich, trans. and
abridged by G. W. Bromiley (Grand Rapids, Mich.: W. B. Eerdmans, 1985), s.v. tyypa<jiw.

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passages in Scripture, including 2 Corinthians 3 :3, which he
quotes here in response to the second objection. The objection is
that the old law, which came first and as a figure of Christ, had to
be written by God, and that therefore Christ too should have
written his teaching. Combining 2 Corinthians 3 :3 with Romans
8 :2, Aquinas answers that because the old law was given in
perceptible figures it was appropriately written with perceptible
signs, but the teaching of Christ, as the law of the spirit of life,
was written not with ink but with the spirit-that is, the
"breath" -of the living God, and not on tablets of stone, but on
the tablets of flesh of the heart. 28
Aquinas's reference to Pythagoras and Socrates is apparently
borrowed from Augustine's response to those who ask why Christ
wrote nothing. Augustine says that these people would seem to
have been prepared to believe what Christ had written about
himself but not what others preached about him by their own
decision. But I ask them back, Augustine goes on to say, why, in
the case of some of the noblest of their own philosophers, they
believe the written recollections of them by their disciples even
though the philosophers themselves wrote nothing about
themselves. Pythagoras, the Greek most famous for contemplative
virtue, is believed to have written nothing whatsoever; Socrates,
the first in practical virtue and the wisest of men according to
Apollo, did, it is true, adapt some of Aesop's fables to verse, but
he wrote only because he was forced to do so by his daimon, and,
being forced to write, he preferred to embellish someone else's
thoughts rather than his own. Why then do the questioners
believe what the disciples of these men have written about them
but not what the disciples of Christ have written about him? 29
28 STh III, q. 42, a. 4, obj. 2 (Leonine ed., 11:414a): "Praeterea, lex vetus in figura Christi
praecessit .... Sed lex vetus a Deo fuit descripta .... Ergo videtur quod etiam Christus
doctrinam suam scribere debuerit." Ibid., ad 2 (Leonine ed., 414b): "Ad secundum dicendum
quod, quia lex vetus in sensibilibus figuris dabatur, ideo etiam convenienter sensibilibus signis
scripta fuit. Sed doctrina Christi, quae est lex spiritus vitae, scribi debuit, non atramento, sed
spiritu Dei vivi, non in tabulis lapideis, sed in tabulis cordis carnalibus, ut apostolus <licit, II
Cor. III."
29 "Cum ergo quaerunt, quare ipse non scripserit, videntur parati fuisse hoc de illo credere,
quod de se ipse scripsisset, non quod alii de illo pro suo arbitrio praedicassent. A quibus
quaero, cur de quibusdam nobilissimis philosophis suis hoc crediderint, quod de illis eorum

AQUINAS ON ORAL TEACHING

523

Aquinas reduces this elaborate Augustinian passage to a mere
reference to Pythagoras and Socrates as great, nonwriting pagan
philosophers, thereby establishing that the superiority of oral to
written teaching is not peculiar to the case of Christ but is rather
in the nature of things. The use of speech is naturally superior to
the use of script in teaching because it is closer to the end of
teaching, which is to impress a teaching on the hearts of an
audience.
Incidentally, Aquinas knew from Augustine's City of God that
Pythagoras was held to have been the coiner of the word
"philosopher" and thereby the source of the word "philosophy," 30
Greek words that have been transliterated, rather than translated,
into Latin, Arabic, English, and many other languages. It's strange
to think that when we say these words we are imitating in the
accents of our language sounds said to have been first uttered in
Greek by a man who famously wrote nothing. It is in no small
part thanks to writing that the "spirit" of whoever did coin these
words-both in the sense of his mind or thought and in the sense
of the sound of his breath-continues to move through the world
in these words. 31
Aquinas's adoption of Augustine's comparison between Christ
and Socrates as nonwriting teachers touches on one element of a
discipuli scriptum memoriae reliquerunt, cum de se ipsi nihil scripsissent? Nam Pythagoras,
quo in ilia contemplativa virtute nihil tune habuit Graecia clarius, non tantum de se, sed nee
de ulla re aliquid scripsisse perhibetur. Socrates autem, quern rursus in activa, qua mores
informantur, omnibus praetulerunt, ita ut testimonio quoque dei sui Apollinis omnium
sapientissimum pronuntiatum esse non taceant, Aesopi fabulas pauculis versibus persecutus est
verba et numeros suos adhibens rebus alterius, usque adeo nihil scribere voluit, ut hoc se
coactum imperio sui demonis fecisse dixit, sicut nobilissimus discipulorum eius Plato
commemorat, in quo tamen opere maluit alienas quam suas exornare sententias. Quid igitur
causae est cur de istis hoc credant, quod de illis discipuli eorum litteris commendarunt, et de
Christo nolint credere quod eius de illo discipuli conscripserunt; praesertim cum ab eo ceteros
homines sapientia superatos esse fateantur, quamvis eum fateri Deum nolint?" (Augustine, De
consensu evangelistarum 1. 7 [CSEL 43/4: 12.7-13.12]). The story of Socrates versifying Aesop
evidently derives from Plato, Phaedo 60d-6lb.
30 STh II-II, q. 186, a. 2 (Leonine ed.,
10:488b). See also In duodecim libros
Metaphysicorum Aristotelis expositio l.3 (Rome: Marietti, 1950), n. 56. Cf. Augustine, De
civitate Dei 8.2 (ed. B. Dombart and A. Kalb, CCL 47:217.5-12).
31 For a recent review of the ancient evidence concerning Pythagoras's authorship of the
word philosophy, see Christoph Riedweg, Pythagoras: His Life, Teaching, and Influence, trans.
Steven Rendall (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2005), 90-97.

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topos with a long history in Christian thought, namely, the
similarity between the two eminent cases of oral teaching, both
involving execution of the teacher for his teaching, transmission
of the teaching through several written accounts, and a long
success in the world. Eventually, of course, the continuation of
Christ's teaching in various ways competed with, conflicted with,
agreed with, and partly absorbed the continuation of that of
Socrates.
VII. WHAT CANNOT BE CAPTURED IN LETTERS

Aquinas's second argument is based on the excellence not of
the teacher but of the teaching. This excellentia or "loftiness,"
Aquinas says, "cannot be captured in writing" (litteris comprehendi non potest); but if Christ had committed his teaching to
writing, people would think nothing "loftier" (nihil altius) about
the teaching than what the writing contained; it was, then, fitting
for him not to have committed his teaching to writing, Aquinas
implies, because he thereby obviated the possibility of this
mistake. Evidently this argument turns on the danger of
underestimating a teaching that has been put into writing, a
danger particularly acute in the case of the teaching of Christ. But
the mechanics of the syllogism are less than perfectly clear. Let us
consider each of the premises.
Aquinas establishes that the excellentia of Christ's teaching
escapes capture in writing by quoting the last verse of the Gospel
of John and Augustine's comment on it. "There are also many
other things Jesus did which, if they were each written down, I
suppose that even the world itself could not take in [capere] the
books that would have to be written" (John 21:25). Augustine
explains that "It is not to be thought that the world could not
spatially 'take in' [capere] the books, but rather that they could
not be 'taken in' [comprehendi] by the 'capacity' [capacitate] of
their readers. " 32 At first sight this bit of wordplay seems to mean
32 Augustine, In Iohannis Evangelium Tractatus CXXIV, 124.8 (ed. D.R. Willems, CCL
36/8:688.6-9): "Non spatio locorurn credendurn est rnundurn capere non posse, quae in eo
scribi quomodo possent, si scripta non ferret? Set capacitate legentium cornprehendi fortasse

AQUINAS ON ORAL TEACHING

525

that the finite capacity of human readers could not take in the
many things that might be said about Christ's deeds. What Christ
"did," however, includes his teaching, the loftiness of which was
mentioned at the beginning of the argument. This loftiness
escapes being put into writing because it escapes the capacity of
readers to comprehend it. But what about that part of his teaching
that was put into writing by his disciples? According to this first
premise, the loftiness of the teaching must escape being put into
writing by anyone. Why, then, permit anyone to put any of
Christ's teaching into writing? On the other hand, if any of it is
going to be put into writing, why should it matter who does the
writing?
This last question is presumably resolved by the minor premise,
which is that if Christ had put his teaching into writing, people
would think nothing loftier about the teaching than what the
writing contained. Aquinas does not say why this is so. In part,
perhaps, it has to do with the very nature of writing. Because, as
the Phaedrus says, it "speaks" but does not answer questions, a
piece of writing always seems to insinuate its own completeness,
suggesting at the end that nothing remains to be said on the
subject. To counter this feature of writing, forms of writing such
as dialogue and aphorism have been used to draw attention to the
incompleteness of the written word by emphasizing precisely its
having been written and thereby reminding readers of the spoken
word. 33 Aquinas seems to imply that the written word's
non possent."
33 "Paul Friedlander's remark 'The dialogue is the only form of book that seems to suspend
the book form itself' could perhaps be elaborated on as follows: a (Platonic) dialogue has not
taken place if we, the listeners or readers, did not actively participate in it; lacking such
participation, all that is before us is indeed nothing but a book" (Jacob Klein, A Commentary
onPlato'sMeno [Chapel Hill, N.C.: The University of North Carolina Press, 1965], 6. Francis
Bacon praises aphorisms over the apparently exhaustive expositions, which he calls
"methods," because aphorisms do not allow readers to think that everything has been said:
"Aphorisms, representing a knowledge broken, do invite men to enquire farther; whereas
Methods, carrying the shew of a total, do secure men, as if they were at furthest" (The
Advancement of Leaming 2 [The Works of Francis Bacon, 14 vols., ed. J. Spedding, R. L. Ellis,
and D. Heath (London: Longman, 1857-74), 6:292]). On the oral origins of the Scholastic
quaestio-another written form that evokes the spoken background of writing-see Bernardo
C. Bazan, "Les questions disputees, principalement dans !es facultes de theologie," in Bernardo

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presumption of completeness is particularly strong when a teacher
writes in his own name. The fact that our knowledge of Christ's
teaching comes from writings that quote or report, rather than
"declare," in their own names, leaves room, so to speak, for
recognition of the incompleteness of our knowledge and for
reflection on the loftiness of the teaching that escapes the grasp of
lowly letters.
VIII. UNDERSTANDING MEDIA

Aquinas's first two reasons are introduced with a propter ("on
account of") indicating causes of which Christ's not having
written is the effect, namely, the excellence of the teacher and
that of the teaching. The third reason is introduced with an ut ("in
order that") indicating an intended effect of his not having
written, namely, that his teaching would reach everyone in a
certain order in which he himself taught his disciples immediately
or without mediation, and they would then teach others in speech
and writing. If he himself had written, Aquinas says, his teaching
would have reached everyone immediately, which, it is implied,
would have been a bad thing. But why? Would it not seem to a
Christian to be the contrary of objectionable for the words of
Christ to reach everyone immediately in this way? There seems to
be a missing further premise, and it seems to be the statement of
St. Paul quoted earlier in question 42 that whatever is from God
is ordered. 34 Because of its divine character, it was appropriate
that Christ's teaching not be written, that is, that it not be made
available to everyone immediately or without mediation, but that
it rather be spoken immediately, without mediation, to his
hearers, who would then transmit it to everyone else by speech
and writing, so that it would go forth according to an order. The
C. Bazan, John F. Wippel, Gerard Fransen, Danielle Jacquart, Les questions disputees et les
questions quodlibetiques dans les facultes de theologie, de droit et de medicine: Typologie des
sources du moyen age occidental, Pase. 44-45 (Turnhout-Belgium: Brepols, 1985), 13-149,
at 25-48.
34 STh III, q. 42, a. 1, commentaria Cardinalis Caietani (Leonine ed., 11:410b): '"Quae
enim a Deo sunt, ordinate sunt,' ut dicitur Rom. XIII.1."

AQIBNAS ON ORAL TEACHING

527

written word by itself is lacking in order not because it is
disordered but because it reaches everyone according to no order,
that is, immediately or without mediation.
Cajetan proposes the objection that Aquinas's first and third
arguments contradict one another, the first suggesting that oral
teaching is superior because it is immediate, the third that it is
superior because it is mediated. In answering his own objection
Cajetan argues that both arguments are good but in relation to
different persons. The first concerns the teaching of Christ in
relation to his disciples, who were taught immediately out of the
mouth of Christ himself. The third concerns the teaching in
relation to everyone, which calls for order and therefore
mediation. 35 Cajetan's objection and response draw attention to
Aquinas's awareness of the combination of immediacy and
mediation in teaching in general and Christian teaching in
particular. The combination is obviously pertinent to the theological theme of "Scripture and tradition" and to contemporary
concern with "media" of communication. It seems clear that since
Aquinas objected to the immediacy that would have resulted from
Christ's having written, he would argue a fortiori against the
greater immediacy, and therefore the greater impropriety, of
Christ's teaching by means of a printed book or electronic
communication. The immediate writing, publishing, or broadcasting of what comes from God would preclude its proceeding
in an order.
I close with two final observations. One is that it is striking
how much Aquinas's three arguments are anticipated by the
35 STh III, q. 42, a. 4, commentaria Cardinalis Caietani (Leonine ed., 11:415a): "Sed
occurrit hie dubium, quia tertia ratio adversatur primae. Nam tertia fundatur super ordine quo
Christi doctrina pervenire quo Christi doctrina pervenire de bet ad omnes, scilicet, mediantibus
quibusdam: prima autem fundatur super immediatione inter doctorem et discipulum. Haec
enim sibi invicem adversari patet: nam, si immediate, ergo non ordine quodam; et si ordine
quodam, ergo non immediate.
"Ad hoc dicitur quod utraque ratio vera et efficax est, ad diversos relata. Nam prima ratio
respicit doctrinam Christi respectu discipulorum, qui ex proprio Christi ore edocti sunt. Tertia
autem respicit doctrinam Christi respectu universorum, quocumque tempore a Christo
discunt. Etrespectu illorum, immediatio excellentior est: ut prima ratio sonat. Respectu autem
universorum, ordo excellentior est ut ad alios mediantibus quibusdam perveniat doctrina: ut
tertia assumit ratio. Nulla ergo est controversia inter rationes sane intellectas."

528

KEVIN WHITE

Phaedrus, which also speaks of an elevated teacher and teaching,
and which also describes a chain of transmission and mediation of
a teaching.
The other point is that the order by which Christ's teaching
spreads out to everyone includes the Summa Theologiae itself. The
unwritten doctrina Christi that is the subject of question 42 of the
Tertia Pars is transmitted through the written doctrina Christiana
of which the Summa Theologiae is meant to be an exemplary
case. 36 In composing-and, by the way, dictating, not manually
"writing" -article four, Aquinas must have been conscious that he
himself was acting as a mediator, using the written word to
perpetuate and defend the teaching that had, long before, come
from the mouth of Christ. 37

36 See the prologue

of the Summa Theologiae (Leonine ed., 4:5a-b).
On Aquinas's use of secretaries, see Torrell, Initiation a saint Thomas d'Aquin: Sa
personne et son oeuvre, 350-57.
A draft of this article was read at a session on Thomas Aquinas held on 6 May 2006,
during the 41" International Congress on Medieval Studies at Western Michigan University.
The session was organized by John F. Boyle of the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul,
Minnesota.
37

The Thomist 71 (2007): 529-54

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER IN
NEWTONIAN AND POST-NEWTONIAN PHYSICS
]OHNW. KECK
Institute for the Study of Nature
Washington, D.C.

I

N THE CENTURIES since Isaac Newton delivered modern
science into an astonished world, the great unanswered
question remains: what do its suppositions and abstractions
mean in terms of common human experience? The critical
problem remains how to incorporate science's valid insights into
a well-grounded philosophy of nature.
Certainly the rise of modern science has been the most jarring
intellectual movement in history. The dislocations sprung from
this science originate not only in its technology, but even more in
its concepts and discoveries that are ostensibly at odds with
traditional natural philosophy. Natural philosophy is the basis of
Aristotelian-Thomistic metaphysics and ethics, "because it is
through the senses that we are open to things, and something
enters us, according to our natural mode of knowing. " 1 As
theology makes use of philosophy, natural philosophy also makes
an indirect contribution to theology. 2 Modern science and
Aristotelian-Thomistic philosophy claim the same sensible world
as their home territory. 3 Science's tremendous successes advertise
Jacques Maritain, Science and Wisdom, trans. Bernard Wall (New York: Charles
Scribner's Sons, 1954), 35.
2 Jacques Maritain, An Introduction to Philosophy, trans. E. I. Watkin (New York: Sheed
and Ward, 1962), 87.
3 Benedict M. Ashley, The Way toward Wisdom: An Interdisciplinary and Intercultural
Introduction to Metaphysics (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2006), 9091.
1

529

530

JOHNW. KECK

that it has some real claim to truth about this world, so 1t 1s
difficult to blame the world for failing to take seriously a
philosophy that, while claiming to be grounded in sense
experience, fails to account for the real aspects of nature that
modern science has discovered. In the absence of such an
accounting, inferior philosophy readily occupies the vacancy. It is
incumbent on the perennial philosophy to provide an adequate
account of the sensible world-all of it. The task of the present
inquiry is to begin to pay part of this centuries-old debt by
resolving Newtonian and post-Newtonian physics in terms of
traditional natural philosophy.
The chasm that separates science from natural philosophy runs
between their understandings of nature. At the beginning of book
2 of the Physics, Aristotle defines nature as "a source or cause of
being moved and of being at rest in that to which it belongs
primarily. "4 Nature is an inherent source of motion and rest. In
his discussion of chance, Aristotle emphasizes the purposefulness
of nature's acts: "action for an end is present in things which
come to be and are by nature. " 5 In stark contrast, modern physics 6
restricts itself to the mathematical principles of nature. Since
quantity is most closely related to matter, which is inactive and
undetermined insofar as it is material, modern physics is blind to
purpose, as well as to closely related substantial form. 7
It is instructive to examine how modern physics treats
Aristotle's four kinds of causal explanation. Nature, as Aristotle
wrote, includes four causes and "it is the business of the physicist
to know about them all. " 8 Modern physics, by reducing all of
nature to the quantifiable and measurable, has effectively
4 Aristotle, Physics 2.1.192b21-22 (trans. R. P. Hardie and R. K. Gaye, ed. Mortimer].
Adler, in Great Books of the Western World 8 [Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., 1952],
257-355; this translation is used throughout this article).
5 Ibid., 2.8.199a6-7.
6 Modern physics here means (modern) mathematical natural philosophy, not quantum
mechanics.
7 David L. Schindler, "Introduction: The Problem of Mechanism," in David L. Schindler,
ed., Beyond Mechanism: The Universe in Recent Physics and Catholic Thought (Lanham, Md.:
University Press of America, 1986), 4.
8 Aristotle, Physics 2. 7.198a23.

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER

531

eliminated all but one of the four causes. Matter exists not as
analogical potency, but (since quantity is the only recognized
accident) univocally as the ultimate actuality beneath all things. 9
Formal causality persists but accidentally through mathematics
(e.g., the form of "roundness" makes a ball round). Substantial
form is completely excluded, 10 as is intrinsic final causality, its
correlative. Final causality in general defies quantitative description and finds in a purely quantitative description no anchor
intrinsic to individual things. What remains is only one narrow
kind of efficient causality-the quantifiable, such as forces. 11 A
comprehensive knowledge of nature will require not only
resolving the modern notion of matter into Aristotelian terms, but
even more the recovery of undiluted formal and final causality. 12
Recovery of substantial form and intrinsic final causality has
the additional benefit of allowing modern science to assimilate
into the whole of human knowledge. The end of a natural
substance is its limit. Just as limiting points not only set
boundaries between one part of a line and another but also unite
the parts, so also establishing the ends of matter will allow the
incorporation of physics into the hierarchy of other disciplines
and resumption of its foundational role for ethics and
metaphysics.
The intention of the present inquiry is to begin a recovery of
a more complete conception of nature, which includes formal and
final causality. The method is to use the real features of the world
uncovered by modern science to recover the closely related notion
of natural motion with regard to matter in the modern
sense. Unfortunately, the great mass of unwarranted baggage
surrounding this notion needs to be unloaded before we turn to
its recovery.
9

Schindler, "The Problem of Mechamism," 3.

10 John Goyette, "Substantial Form and the Recovery of an Aristotelian Natural

Science,"
The Thomist 66 (2002): 519-20.
11 "The efficient causality of the teacher in directing the activity of the artist, however
cannot be so [quantifiably] described" (Michael J. Dodds, "Science, Causality and Divine
Action: Classical Principles for Contemporary Challenges," C1NS Bulletin 21, no. 1 [2001]:
3-12, at 5).
12 In natural things, the formal and final causes coincide (Aristotle, Physics 2.7.198a25).

JOHNW.KECK

532

Natural motion and "natural place" are part of Aristotelian
physics, prominent pieces of which are outdated if not outright
wrong. In Aristotle's cosmology, the four elements had specific
places to which they naturally moved: earth at the center of the
universe and fire to the outer sphere, with intermediate spheres
occupied by water and air. When displaced from its respective
sphere, an element would return through natural motion. 13 These
ideas were swept aside when Copernicus and his intellectual heirs
located the sun at the center of the cosmos, and Lavoisier,
Mendelev, and their allies replaced the classical four elements
with the modern periodic table.
Despite these legendary victories of the scientific revolution,
the core of Aristotle's physics remains inviolate, and in fact forms
the foundation of the modern scientific enterprise. A prime
example is teleology, which remains one of the most controversial
philosophical topics in modern science. The controversy is
unmerited. At the heart of the modern scientific conception of the
world is the assumption that nature is a knowable order. Without
this belief, Galileo would never have troubled himself to roll balls
down inclined planes. Chemical reactions would be pointless to
investigate. Geneticists would have no reason to take pains
sequencing nucleic acid bases. What modern scientists take for
granted was established by reasoned observation in the ancient
world. In book 2 of the Physics, Aristotle establishes that nature's
obvious regularities-its tendency to act in particular ways (which
itself maintains the good of the cosmic order)-reveal an ordering
to specific ends. That things happen "always or for the most part"
indicates finality or purpose.
The only alternative to purpose is chance 14 and, although
chance events often obtain, the natural world is inherently
teleological. Scientific laws, modern and ancient, physical,
chemical, and biological, capture nature's regularities and im-

13

Aristotle, On the Heavens 4.3.

14 Aristotle, Physics 2.8.199a3-8;

also 198b34. Cf. Ashley, The Way toward Wisdom, 324.

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER

533

plicitly testify to teleology. 15 That baking soda and vinegar react
expansively, and that confetti is normally attracted to the static
electric charge on a balloon show the order and purpose of
nature. Far from being opposed to modern science, teleology is its
conditio sine qua non.
The ascendance of the Darwinian narrative leaves the situation
unchanged. Natural selection's more evolved twentieth-century
descendant, Neo-Darwinism, encompasses two pieces, chance
mutation and natural selection: genetic novelty originates in
chance, and (2) novel forms less suited to existence tend to fail in
passing their genes to posterity. Being a teleological process,
"survival of the fittest" reveals order, and so contributes to the
scientific understanding of the world, but chance mutation simply
attaches a name to an unknown. As Aristotle's classic definition
observes, chance is the intersection of two otherwise unrelated
lines of causality. Chance is not a per se cause; to invoke chance
is not to explain without qualification. 16 To the extent that any
theory relies on chance, that theory is no causal explanation, but
simply a chronology of historical events. 17
The champions of chance argue that teleology is an intellectual
opiate that kills the quest for the agents of change. This error may
find justification in the misconception that Aristotle's teleological
"natural places" exert a pseudo-efficient pull on their elements. 18
15 Aristotle writes that ends must be not only final states, but also goods (Physics
2.2.194a30-34). Whatever scientists may say about the goods to which nature moves, science
itself as presently constructed cannot speak about goods one way or the other, even though
the lawfulness of nature that science discovers is itself good. The present argument is not that
science endorses teleology, but that it evidences teleology, much as a convict witnesses to the
existence of the justice of law whether or not he cares to admit it. Further, it is unnecessary
to identify a particular good to which a motion tends in order to conclude that it is
purposeful-the fact that it happens "always or for the most part" indicates purpose as
opposed to chance, as we read in Aristotle, Physics 2.8.199a3-8. Regularity is by itself ample
evidence that a motion is directed toward some good and is thus a natural motion, even if it
is not clear what that good is. Of course, identification of that good perfects knowledge of the
motion.
16 Aristotle, Physics 2.5.197a12-14.
17 Cf. Ashley, The Way toward Wisdom, 273.
18 Benjamin Morison attributes the belief to the commentators (On Location [New York:
Oxford University Press, 2002], 49-50). Similarly, attributing efficient causality to all four
causes seems to have become the modem scholarly consensus, as Thomas Larson documents

534

JOHNW.KECK

On the contrary, teleology does not make the efficient cause
redundant, as Vincent Smith writes:
The final cause is not another quasi-efficient cause, as Descartes [and the
mechanists] would have said, but the very determinant of the efficient cause, the
cause of the efficient cause, the correlative to it. Efficient and final cause are two
moments of one effect, the one accounting for the production of the effect and
the other accounting for its determination to be this rather than that. 19

A blueprint has no power to construct a house without the
builder, nor can a builder realize a form as his end without the
blueprint. Similarly, a final cause has no causal power without an
efficient cause, but neither does an efficient cause have a
determination without a final cause. The distinction is less clear
in living things, because the form constitutes the efficient and final
causes, but these causes are still distinct principles. In growth, for
example, an organism's immature form works as an efficient cause
toward the end of realizing its mature form. 20 Grasping the inner
unity that characterizes the form of a horse does not substitute for
knowledge of the mechanical forces that maintain its form;
conversely, accounting for all mechanical forces in a horse does
not dispose of the need to grasp its form. 21 Teleology compliments the other three modes of explanation, and a complete
explanation requires all four.
As we have seen, purpose is central to Aristotle's philosophy of
moving substances. In a profound way, natural motion is at the
heart of his view of nature. To reestablish a footing for natural
motion in the modern natural sciences, we look to the teleology
implicit in them, and we find two ready examples. Preliminary to
our main considerations, we must establish the relationship
between matter in the modern physical sense and matter in the
classical Aristotelian sense. We shall then contrast the unnatural
in the present issue (Thomas Larson, "Natural Motion in Inanimate Bodies," The Thomist 71
[2007]: 555-58).
19 Vincent E. Smith, The General Science of Nature (Milwaukee: The Bruce Publishing
Company, 1958), 217; cf. Ashley, The Way toward Wisdom, 323.
2 Cf. Aristotle, Physics 2.1.193b13.
21 Cf. Goyette, "Substantial Form," 531.

°

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER

535

(violent) motion of Newtonian force with the natural motion
manifested in Einstein's general relativity. Using these categories,
we shall turn to the fundamental forces as understood in modern
physics and find that gravity is a natural motion and that violent
motion is a manifestation of electromagnetic contrariety. The
result of this contrariety is the world of matter and magnitude,
which allows the natural, dissociative motion characteristic of
entropy. Finally, we shall summarize our considerations while
further tying the two natural motions of mass-energy to
Aristotelian form and matter.
I. A MATTER OF TERMINOLOGY: THE TERMINOLOGY OF MATTER

Matter in the original Aristotelian sense is the constant
component underlying substantial change. It is an analogous
notion correlative to the two substantial forms it successively
instantiates-the least common denominator, so to speak. For
example, in turning a tree into a rocking horse, the carpenter
reduces the tree to its material component (wood) and turns the
material into the horse; the wood is the substratum of change. In
digesting an apple, the body breaks down the substance of the
apple into its component biological macromolecules (proteins,
lipids, carbohydrates, nucleic acids), which it then incorporates
into its own substance. The matter successively loses the form of
the apple and takes on that of the body.
For Aristotle, matter exists relative to form and "to each form
there corresponds a special matter. " 22 The Scholastics came to
speak of this sensible kind of matter as secondary matter, to
contrast it with the insensible primary matter which is known only
through analogy. Primary matter is pure potentiality and, lacking
all actuality, it is insensible and unintelligible of itself. In contrast,
secondary matter on its own is sensible and intelligible because it
possesses at least a minimum of actuality and can be conceived as
a form instantiated by a lower level of matter. 23 For example,
22 Aristotle, Physics 2.2.194b9.
23 Aristotle, On the Parts of Animals

2.1.646a13-24; Meteorology 4.12.

536

JOHNW. KECK

while biological macromolecules are the matter of the body, they
can also be regarded as a natural form whose material is atoms.
Prime matter, as the lowest conceivable level of matter, is the
universal material substrate of any conceivable substantial change
or series of changes. While its reality is inextricably intertwined
with the substances that actualize it, it is definitionally unconnected to any particular substance: it is univocal, the same for all
substances.
All material beings have prime matter and all have matter in
the modern sense, 24 but it would be a mistake to confuse modern
matter (mass-energy) with prime matter. Mass-energy shares with
primary matter its univocal definition, and with secondary matter
its actuality and sensibility (some properties of which persist
through substantial change). Though an opponent of atomism,
Aristotle himself admits that there must be smallest physically
realizable parts of matter. 25 Similarly, we can say that mass-energy
is the closest physically realizable approximation of prime matter,
and the lowest physically realizable form of secondary matter.
"Matter" in this article refers generally to this modern, scientific
notion; exceptions should be clear from context (e.g., matter
when contrasted with form is Aristotelian matter).
In modern science, though volume is often important, mass is
the primary measure of quantity (of matter). There are two forms
of mass, inertial and gravitational. Inertial mass is a measure of
the dynamical being of a physical body. Just as being resists
change, so inertial mass resists alteration of its state of motion
(i.e., velocity). Gravitational mass is the "charge" (analogous to
electrical charge) through which the force of gravity draws bodies
together. 26 Einstein's general relativity postulates the "equivalence
24 This includes particles like photons which are said to have "zero rest mass," a phrase that
simply indicates an inability to be at rest (and to move at other than the speed of light). David
Bohm calls rest mass an "inner" movement, so that light is purely "outward" movement
(David Bohm, The Special Theory of Relativity [New York: Routledge, 1996], 118).
25 Called "minima" by his commentators; cf. Aristotle, Physics 1.4.187b13-21.
26 Charge primarily refers to electrical charge. When used in an extended sense for
gravitational mass, it will be enclosed in quotation marks. Also, the standard terminology in
physics is to refer to a charged particle as "a charge"; thus we speak of matter simply as a
charge as well as carrying a charge.

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER

537

principle": the two kinds of mass are numerically equivalent,
which experiment has confirmed to high precision. 27
II. SENSES OF "NATURAL," NATURAL AND FORCED MOTIONS

Like "matter," the word "nature" is analogous according to
Aristotle. He defines nature as "a source or cause of being moved
and of being at rest in that to which it belongs primarily." 28 There
are two intrinsic sources for nature's motion and rest: "the shape
or form which is specified in the definition of the thing" and "the
immediate material substratum of things. " 29 But, he says, nature
refers preeminently to form, which is the principle of perfection
and persistence, "for a thing is more properly said to be what it is
when it has attained to fulfillment than when it exists potentially."30 So there are two main senses of "nature," form and
matter, with form being the primary sense. 31
With regard to motions, "natural" can likewise take on
different meanings. The present considerations concern the
natural motion of matter in the modern physical sense: material
things insofar as they are material. While mass is an essential
property of matter, (electrical) charge is purely accidental, and so
outside the primary interest of the present inquiry. 32 Being less
essential, (electrical) charge is not as integrally related to the
nature (form) of matter: it is relatively unnatural. And indeed we
shall find that the motions to which charge gives rise are less
natural than those of gravity. 33 As we shall see, the more natural
Presently, a few parts in a trillion; see Clifford M. Will, "Relativity at the Centenary,"
PhysicsWorld 18, no. 1 Oanuary 2005): 27.
28 Aristotle, Physics 2.1.192b21-22.
29 Ibid. 2.1.193a28-31.
30 Ibid. 2.1.193b8.
31 Cf. ibid. 2.8.199a31: "'nature' means two things, the matter and the form."
32 Mass cannot be reduced to charge, but neither can charge be reduced to mass. In nature,
matter is more fundamental, while materially, since all massive (baryonic) particles are
composed of charges, charge is more fundamental.
33 This result does not make the motion of (electrical) charges unnatural in an absolute
sense, but simply in one sense less natural than the motion of gravity. All motions in nature
are natural, but some spring more intimately from the natures of things.
27

538

JOHNW. KECK

motions are related to mass-energy's inherent form, while the less
natural motions come from its correlative material principle.
In book 8 of the Physics, Aristotle discusses the natural motions
of the four classical elements, and he contrasts their natural
motions with violent, unnatural motions: "So when fire or earth
is moved by something the motion is violent when it is unnatural,
and natural when it brings to actuality the proper activities that
they potentially possess. " 34 In On the Heavens, Aristotle further
explains the difference:
But since 'nature' means a source of movement within the thing itself, while a
force is a source of movement in something other than it or in itself qua other,
and since movement is always due either to nature or to constraint, movement
which is natural, as downward movement is to a stone, will be merely
accelerated by an external force, while an unnatural movement will be due to the
force alone. 35

On the one hand we have the operations of nature and intrinsic
principles of motion; on the other hand, we have the operation of
the unnatural, the violent or destructive, and forces or constraints
(acting from without).
Furthermore, natural motions cause acceleration, as Aquinas
most clearly states, "And insofar as anything is closer to its
perfection, it is proportionately more powerful and more intense.
Hence it follows that the motion by which rest is generated
becomes proportionately faster as it approaches nearer to the state
of rest. This is quite clear in natural motions. " 36
Natural motions are therefore not violent or destructive, but
actualize the proper potencies of what locomotes. And bodies in
natural motion accelerate as they near their end.

Aristotle, Physics 8.4.255a29-30.
Aristotle, On the Heavens 3.2.301b18-22 (trans. J.L. Stocks, in Great Books of the
Western World 8, ed. Mortimer J. Adler [Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., 1952], 357405). See also Physics 5.6.230b10-21.
36 Aquinas, V Phys., lect. 10 (Marietti ed., 743); cf. Aristotle, Physics 5.6.230b24-25. In
modern terms, a positive feedback process, of which the contractions of childbirth are an
example.
34
35

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER

539

III. NATURAL MOTION AND FORCE IN
MODERN MECHANICAL PHYSICS

In Newtonian mechanics, only inertial motion is strictly
speaking natural. Newton calls inertia the "innate force of matter
... a power of resisting, by which every body, inasmuch as in it
lies, continues in its present state, whether it be of rest, or of
moving uniformly forwards in a right line." 37 Newton's first law
of motion, in its modern formulation, says that a body in motion
tends to maintain its state of motion (direction and speed) unless
it is acted on by an outside force. Only forces cause deviations
from a body's inherent uniform, straight-line motion. For
Newton, all forces are violent: that is to say, they interfere with
what a body would 'naturally' do left to itself.
In one sense, gravity is a force, but in another, it is not.
Newton's Principia is also famous for establishing the law of
universal gravitation, which treats gravity as a force that imparts
the same motion (acceleration) to all bodies regardless of mass. In
contrast, Einstein's general relativity treats gravity not as a force,
but as the curvature of space-time. We need not discuss the
meaning of "curvature of space-time" to take up the suggestion
that while gravity causes acceleration, it is not a force in the usual
sense of the word. How can this be? Consider why astronauts
orbiting the Earth seem to float within their spacecraft. Clearly it
is gravity that curves the path of the ship around its orbit. Is there
no gravity within the ship? Does the ship somehow shield its
occupants from gravity? The explanation is that the astronauts
appear to float within the ship because they are falling around the
Earth at exactly the same rate as the ship: everything moves
together. All matter in freefall-that is, moving solely under the
influence of gravity-accelerates at the same rate. This is called
Galileo's Law of Falling.
Now, consider someone waking inside a windowless, elevatorsized room and finding that he experiences no apparent
37 Isaac Newton, Philosophiae Natura/is Principia Mathematica, definition III, trans.
Andrew Motte (1729) in Great Books of the Western World 34, ed. Mortimer J. Adler
(Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., 1952), 1-372, at 5).

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JOHNW.KECK

gravitational pull. A ball released in mid-air seems to float. Has he
somehow been transported to deep space beyond all influence of
gravity? Or is the room merely a free-falling elevator? Because of
the Law of Falling there is no way to tell without looking outside.
Einstein called this the Equivalence Principle, which forms the
basis of his general theory of relativity. In his conception, a freefalling object defines an inertial reference frame.
Objects in freefall behave as if they are undergoing inertial
motion: things seem to float relative to each other as if unperturbed by any force. What is true of multiple bodies is also
true of parts of a single body. Textbooks typically describe a force
as "a push or a pull." Whereas forces affect the closer side of the
body before the farther, gravity affects all parts of a body
uniformly. 38 For example, in being hit by a truck (imagined in
slow motion), the proximate side of one's body is compressed
before the force can propagate to the far side. Such violent forces
can crush or rend. By contrast, if one were to fall out of a plane
the only force would be air resistance; without it, one would feel
as if one were floating. We shall return to the deeper mechanisms
behind this difference later. The point for now is that gravity is
not a source of violent motion (force), but of natural motion.
How does this definition of natural motion compare with
Aristotle's discussion of the natural motions of the four classical
elements? By the definition we have just uncovered, only the
downward motions of the elements are natural, because insofar as
they are downward, they are purely gravitational. The upward
motions are due to buoyant forces which, although they result
from gravity, nevertheless are themselves forces: as the heavier
element sinks, it displaces the lighter element, pushing it upward.
That buoyancy is a force is reflected in the fact that a single body
can be composed of parts with different buoyancies. For example,
in an emergency, a buoyant submarine might inflate even more
buoyant balloons to take it to the surface more rapidly. The
tethers to these balloons would have to be sufficiently strong to
prevent the balloons from tearing themselves free. In other words,
38 We ignore tidal forces, which are the result of action on extended

bodies.

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER

541

there is a violent, differential 39 force between the parts that can
tear them asunder.

IV. GRAVITI VS. ELECTROMAGNETISM
Of the four fundamental forces described by modern physics,
two rule the macroscopic, human-sized world: electromagnetism
and gravity. 40 Electromagnetism mediates any (nongravitational)
macroscopic force. As we have seen, these forces are unnatural
and violent compared to gravity, which is a natural motion.

A) Electromagnetism and Volume
The source of this violence is the dual polarity of electric
charge (positive and negative), which makes possible (electrically)
charge-neutral, voluminous conglomerations of matter. Likepolarity charges repel and opposite-polarity charges attract. Two
charges of identical magnitude but opposite polarities combine
into a charge-neutral whole. (Indeed, the electromagnetic force is
so strong that unbalanced charge always quickly neutralizes itself
by attracting the opposite polarity-sometimes violently, as in the
case of lightning. Charge imbalance exists in nature rarely.) The
typical arrangement of neutral matter is the atom: a negatively
charged cloud of electrons surrounds and exactly complements
the positive charge of the compact nucleus.
To see how neutral matter produces voluminous quantity,
consider two helium atoms on converging paths. At large
distances, their charge neutrality makes them utterly indifferent
to each other. At close range, their electron clouds begin to
39 Reichenbach's terminology: "universal" vs. "differential" forces (Hans Reichenbach, The
Philosophy of Space and Time, trans. Maria Reichenbach [New York: Dover Publications,
1958], 13).
40 Strong and weak nuclear forces are of very short range; they operate on the length scale
of the atomic nucleus, 10- 15 meters, and consequently their influence is less apparent. Whereas
awareness of gravity as a force goes back to Galileo and Newton, and Maxwell summarized
electromagnetic forces in the mid-nineteenth century, the nuclear forces were only discovered
at the turn of the previous century.

542

JOHNW.KECK

overlap to the point that their nuclei can "see" each other: the
positive nuclei, no longer shielded by the electron clouds, repel
each other. Thus the two atoms cannot occupy the same region of
space. 41 Other elements combine in more complicated
arrangements, but always to produce charge-neutral configurations in sum. By similar means all matter repels other
matter, but only at short ranges. The result is that a body can act
on the proximate part of another body more than on the distant
part: hence, the electromagnetic mediation of violent, unnatural
forces, as we saw in the slow-motion example of the crashing
truck.
On the level of individual charges, the action of electromagnetic forces tends toward the natural end of (electrical) charge
neutrality. Holding only for charged matter, electromagnetic
motion is unnatural in comparison with gravitational motion,
which holds for matter per se. It is also less natural than
electromagnetic
radiation (light), which moves without
acceleration or resistance. Nature prefers to dissipate applied
forces as radiation rather than to accelerate charges: the
acceleration of charges by electric and magnetic forces gives rise
to radiation reaction forces that oppose changes in acceleration by
radiating away part of the added energy. 42 In other words,
electromagnetic acceleration is inherently self-opposing. 43 Despite
the relative violence of electromagnetic forces, that charges move
each other toward definite natural ends (in the broad sense) is
undeniable. 44
41 This conclusion only concerns the immediate efficient cause of the impenetrability of
atoms and the things they compose. See Aquinas, In Boet. De Trin., q. 4, aa. 3-4 for St.
Thomas's insightful formal demonstration of corporeal impenetrability.
42 Richard P. Feynman, Robert B. Leighton, and Matthew Sands, The Feynman Lectures
on Physics, vol. 2, Mainly Electromagnetism and Matter (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley
Publishing Company, 1964), chap. 28.
43 Atomic electrons in stationary states about the nucleus have qualities analogous to
motion (angular momentum, kinetic energy), but are not, properly speaking, in motion.
44 The finality of the natural motions of charges, channeled through the quantum
mechanical rules for combining atomic electrons, supports the higher finality of chemistry,
which supports that of biology.

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B) Gravity and Mass
Unlike electromagnetism, gravity's one "charge" makes
shielding matter from gravity impossible. Gravitational mass has
no opposite "charge" to neutralize its influence. Gravity only
attracts, and a uniform gravitational field imparts the same motion
to all things and all parts of a given thing.
Newton's law of universal gravitation describes gravitational
motion as a force drawing two masses together that is
proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely
proportional to the square of the distance between them. 45 The
force's proportionality to the attracted inertial mass gives gravity
the property we have already seen: it accelerates all bodies, and
all parts of all bodies, in the same way. This uniformity of motion
means that an object or a person acted upon only by gravity feels
no force, in the sense of violent influence (as we saw in the
previous section with regard to freefall). A gravitating body does
not draw other matter to itself through some sort of extrinsic
agency or force, but through the very matter itself. Gravity is the
kind of motion that Aristotle describes in book 8 of the Physics as
"bring[ing] to actuality the proper activities that [material bodies]
potentially possess." It is a natural motion-a natural motion
toward physical or spatial unity, a surrender of the masses'
separate existences to a greater participation in the transcendental
perfection of unity. The more matter they contain, the more they
are already united in sharing a sympathy of being, and the more
strongly (i.e., with greater force) they are drawn together still.
Near the surface of the Earth, falling bodies accelerate
downward: their motions hasten as they descend. Such
acceleration is characteristic of natural motions, as we saw in the
previous quotation from Aquinas. This hastening is even truer
over astronomical distances, where the universal law of
gravitation applies. The force's inverse proportionality to the
the force is written as F = G m1mifd!-, where m 1 and m 2 are the two
masses and dis the distance between them; G is an experimentally determined proportionality
constant, whose small magnitude reflects the small degree of formation inherent to massenergy.
45 Mathematically

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JOHNW.KECK

square of the distance means that the force is stronger and the
acceleration faster as the two bodies draw together. In other
words, the more spatially united the masses are, the stronger still
their tendency to unite.
We can summarize these findings on gravity working to unite
matter by means of the matter itself and of its proximity with the
formulation: Matter has the inherent tendency to seek further
unity to the degree that it already possesses unity.
Gravity, then, is a natural motion because it is inherent to the
things it moves, is not destructive but rather perfective, and
furthermore accelerates as it moves bodies to this perfection of
spatial unity.
C) Summary

We have seen that gravity is a natural motion that draws matter
together into association. Gravity's single "charge" means that it
does not oppose itself, as electromagnetism's two charges do; the
former has a unity lacking to the latter. Gravity acts in a single
direction, making it more 'time-like'. Electromagnetism, with its
back-and-forth contrarieties, is more 'space-like'.
While gravitational mass lacks an opposite "charge," the
electrostatic charges together, in a sense, fulfill the role of
opposing gravity. The two electrical charges are analogous to the
two sexes present in most higher creatures. The duality of sexes
makes possible families, which knit individuals into communities.
Notice that marriage unites not only two individuals, but also two
families. Likewise the sexes in organisms in general unite each
species into a whole (by enabling the flow of genetic material). If
only like sexes of a species mated, the result might more
accurately be described as two separate species, not one.
The same motif of "opposites attract" holds with electric
charges. The duality of charges knits together material things and
in some sense constitutes the universe into a whole. If instead
opposite charges repelled and like attracted, the result would
merely be two gravities with entirely separate spatial

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545

domains-effectively separate universes. Charges, like sexes, make
possible union in extension.
The mutual attraction of opposite electrical charges (instead of
like to like) is a teleological contrariety that underlies the
contrarieties 46 so characteristic of nature. It is the 'twist' in
creation that ties together opposite places within a single universe
and opposite parts within a single body. This spatial extension
opens the way for the dissociation characteristic of entropy.
V. DISSOCIATION AND ENTROPY

A) Spatial Dissipation
Dissipation is another natural motion of matter. Imagine, for
example, steam 47 expanding from the funnel of an old locomotive
and disappearing into the air. Why do the water molecules
separate?
It is easy to show that a collection of noninteracting particles
(as water droplets in steam are essentially) with arbitrarily
assigned velocities (such as exist in a hot gas) will inevitably
separate. This is more obvious when one examines the simplified
case of a pair of particles with arbitrarily assigned velocities.
There are two initial cases: they are moving either toward each
other or away from each other. If converging, they can only do so
for a finite time before they pass each other, but they can separate
indefinitely. So the predominant motion must be separation.
The principle holds more strongly for larger collections of
particles. For example, red dye molecules naturally diffuse from
an open bottle throughout a swimming pool; once they have
diffused, they do not spontaneously gather back into the bottle.
The places and motions allowed inside the bottle are so limited
compared to those allowed outside that the molecules eventually
migrate outside. To put it in terms of probability and
Physics 1.6.
Actually water vapor: steam is invisible but at common air temperatures quickly cools
and condenses into a vapor of microscopic water droplets that are collectively visible and
commonly called "steam."
46 Cf. Aristotle,
47

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JOHNW.KECK

configurations: since all configurations (collections of positions
and velocities) of molecules occur with equal probability, the
system will naturally tend to assume one of the vastly more
numerous configurations outside the bottle than one of the
limited number of configurations inside. The system inevitably
and spontaneously moves from one of the few "organized" states
(inside) to one of the much more numerous "disorganized" states
(outside) simply through the greater probability for disorder. 48
The odds of standing unchanged or going in reverse are essentially
nonexistent, making molecular diffusion irreversible. There is no
force involved. The natural diffusion of smoke or steam is like
that of dye in a pool: there are so many more configurations of
the individual molecules in occupying a large volume than a small
volume that the system naturally evolves to occupy the larger
volume. The same principle explains visible material things'
natural disintegration to dust, which Aristotle notes is so inherent
to them that it is often attributed to time itself. 49

B) Generalized Dissipation: Entropy
What is true of spatial dissipation also holds for other modes
of corruption. The temperature (average kinetic energy) of a
collection of particles is one basic example. Separation between
hot and cold is a form of order; the natural tendency is for the hot
and the cold to blend together to a uniform temperature, as when
a hot cup of coffee cools to the temperature of its surroundings,
or an ice cube warms and melts into a drink. The reverse
tendency-for hot and cold to separate from uniformity-never
happens spontaneously. This is why lakes fail to freeze on a warm
day, and why a refrigerator requires energy input to keep its
inside cooler than its outside. A quantity called entropy
parameterizes the disorder associated with the movement of heat
energy; entropy, like disorder, always increases for an isolated
system. Without treating the lengthy, mathematical treatment of
48 This is not to say the cause is random; the motions of the individual particles are simply
innumerable.
49 Aristotle, Physics 4.13.222b16-26

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this, 50 we may merely note that, analogous to spatial dissipation,
there are many more configurations for all the particles in a
collection to have a middling amount of energy than for, say, half
of the particles to have high energies while the other half have
low. For any characteristic, the mediocrity of disorder always
prevails because these states so greatly outnumber the ordered,
divergent states.
Order dissipates in any process consisting of more than a few
things. The minimal requirements are that the bodies (or parts)
are multiple, finite, and not directed by an immaterial intelligence.
There is no force acting to increase entropy; the effect is purely
a result of the probability distribution which itself comes from the
structure of space: 51 there are simply more places for the particles
to be that are distant than near. Even with attractive influences
present, the only requirement is that these influences have a finite
range (as all do). 52 As theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking
famously found, even an object as compactly bound as a black
hole decays. 53
On the question of whether dissipation accelerates as it
progresses I shall not provide a conclusive answer, but merely
some preliminary considerations, as the answer is not completely
clear. There seem to be two classes of dissipation. As an example
of the first, consider than after a certain degree of decrepitude, a
weakened or diseased organism (e.g., missing teeth or with a
compromised immune system) more readily contracts further
damage that hastens its demise. As an example of the second class,
consider that the temperature change of a warm body slows as it
5 ° For a very readable popular explanation of the statistical origin of the second law of
thermodynamics, see Alan Lightman, Great Ideas in Physics (New York: McGraw Hill, 2000),
chap. 2; see also Richard Morris, Time's Arrows: Scientific Attitudes Toward Time (New York:
Simon & Schuster, 1985); Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to
Black Holes (New York: Bantam, 1990), chap. 9.
51 Either physical or configuration space.
52 That is, F(r) -> 0 in the limit as r-> oo. Macroscopic forces typically diminish as 1/r with
distance. r.
53 Hawking, A Brief History of Time, chap. 7; Stuart L. Shapiro and Saul A. Teukolski,
Black Holes, White Dwarfs, and Neutron Stars (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1983), 36469. It must be emphasized that Hawking's conclusion is purely theoretical and has yet to
receive observational confirmation.

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JOHNW. KECK

approaches the ambient temperature. 54 In the first example, the
accelerating dissipation occurs to a substantial form (through its
accidents, of course). In the second example, the form dissipating
is purely accidental. Once a substance ceases to be, the remaining
form is accidental, and its dissipation then proceeds as with the
second example. In contrast to gravity which moves toward a
definite unity, dissipation continues even after passing this natural
ontological limit of the substance. The underlying principle is
that, though corruption moves toward an end, it does not move
toward a unique end. There is no unique state of decomposition
of a carcass, for example. There are many states of disorder in
contrast to the few states of order. It is instructive to compare this
nonuniqueness to the movement of Aristotle's element fire to the
lunar sphere-a definite end, though not a unique point-and to
contrast this with the uniqueness of the end of the element earth.
With this caveat on the indefiniteness of end in mind, it seems
that at least in some cases the separation of bodies leads to
increasing disunity, so that matter tends toward further disunity
insofar as it already possesses disunity.
But how does dissipation perfect matter? In addition to the
perfection of unity, matter also manifests the lesser accidental
perfection of magnitude-and in fact quantity is the first property
of changeable substances. 55 That large quantities are greater than
small quantities is immediately obvious, but they also posses a
greater being, albeit of a crudely material sort. Not only is a large
apple greater than a small apple, but it also participates more in
the perfection of being. The same holds for discrete quantity: a
larger number of apples has a greater being than a small number.
In expanding, a gas seeks greater magnitude. Matter strives for the
perfection of greater magnitude, but, because of the privation of
its physical limits, instead of growing, it dissipates.
Entropy, then, is a natural motion in an extended sense
because it is inherent to the parts of the thing it dissociates, and
more fully actualizes the corporeal perfection of magnitude.
54 It asymptotically approaches

the ambient temperature as a decaying exponential.
Ashley, The Way toward Wisdom, 8 8. Quantity is not much of a perfection, which may
explain the paradoxical naturalness of dissipation.
55

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549

C) Objection 1: Dissolution Is Unnatural
It might be objected that natural substances tend to their own
preservation, not dissolution. In On Generation and Corruption,
Aristotle writes that "Nature always strives after 'the better,"' 56
and preservation is better than dissolution for natural substances.
Also supporting this view he writes that "not every stage that is
last claims to be an end, but only what is best. "57
Contrary to the objection, it is clear that dying of old age
results from an intrinsic corrupting cause and so is natural. 58
Aristotle supports this observation in book 5 of the Physics: "it is
not true that becoming is natural and perishing unnatural (for
growing old is natural). . . . We answer that if what happens
under violence is unnatural, then violent perishing is unnatural
and as such contrary to natural perishing. "59 The corruption of
aging is inherent to material things.
Just as there is natural perishing, there is also natural
dissolution. We have already seen that nature has two senses:
formal and material. Dissolution is natural 60 to material things
insofar as they are material, though not insofar as they are
substances. Materiality is the seat of privation and the potential to
change, and, as Aquinas explains, "mutation in itself is destructive
and corruptive ... [f]or when a thing is moved, it recedes from
[i.e., loses] a disposition that it formerly had." 61 Natures in our
material world are material natures; they are subject to change
and thus naturally lose their qualities. Dissolution is thus natural
to material things.
56 Aristotle, On Generation and Corruption 2.10.336b28 (trans. Harold H. Joachim, in
Great Books of the Western World 8ed. Mortimer ].Adler [Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica,
Inc., 1952), 407-41).
57 Aristotle, Physics 2.2.194a30-34.
58 Cf. Aquinas, IV Phys., lect. 22 (Marietti ed., 622). Revelation might seem to imply that
immortality is in some sense more natural than decay and death, but the laws of such a
prelapsarian nature are certainly very unlike our own.
59 Aristotle, Physics 5.6.230a28-32.
60 Of course, this is the secondary, material sense of nature, as in Aristotle, Physics
2.1.193a28-31.
61 Aquinas, IV Phys., lect. 22 (Marietti ed., 621).

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JOHNW. KECK

We shall see in the response to the second objection that
dissolution is in fact essential to the workings of living things.

B) Objection 2: Organisms Defy Entropy
It might further be objected that living things defy the
inexorable growth of disorder.
While appearances certainly support this claim, organisms
constitute no exception to the law of entropy. The resolution of
the paradox is that the second law of thermodynamics postulates
increasing entropy only for isolated systems, and living things are
not isolated systems. In fact, shortly after an organism ceases to
exchange matter and energy with its environment-through
feeding, breathing, and excreting-it ceases to be an organism,
that is, it dies. The entropy of a nonisolated system can decrease,
so long as the entropy of its environment increases by at least an
offsetting amount.
The classic technological example is a refrigerator: it pumps
heat from its interior to its environment, decreasing the internal
entropy, but correspondingly increasing the external. Heat is a
degraded form of energy. In the process of pumping, the
refrigerator does work, and, as any real, imperfect machine
necessarily dissipates part of the ordered work-energy as
additional heat-energy. Thus the entropy within the refrigerator
decreases, but only by increasing the total entropy (as well as the
heat) of the refrigerator plus its environment. 62
Life similarly increases its internal order at the expense of
external order. Extensive empirical studies bear out this
conclusion by showing that (1) living things conserve
energy-they do not produce more energy than they consumeand (2) part of the energy they consume is given off as heat
(energy no longer useful for work). 63 As Erwin Schrodinger
62 This is why on a hot day opening the refrigerator will not cool the room containing it.
The refrigerator merely moves heat, but to accomplish this it produces more heat. At best it
can briefly cool part of the room until the hot air combines to raise the net temperature.
63 E.g., W. A. Atwater and F. G. Benedict, Metabolism of Matter and Energy in the Human
Body (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1903); F. G. Benedict and R. D.
Milner, Experiments on the Metabolism of Matter and Energy in the Human Body

THE NATURAL MOTION OF MATTER

551

famously wrote, "Life feeds on negentropy" 64 or negative entropy.
The increase of order or negentropy on our planet feeds off the
vast increase of entropy from the dissipation of the sun's energy
into interstellar space. 65
Far from defying the law of entropy, life depends on it. The
workings of life are not only built around the unavoidable reality
that unusable energy (heat) requires dissipation; rather, all the
workings of organisms depend on the conversion of usable energy
to unusable. Chemical reactions that increase order of the body
(or of any system) must be coupled to reactions that decrease the
system's order by at least a corresponding amount. 66 Organisms
depend on this principle to control their body chemistry. Rather
than being unnatural to living substances, dissipation is integral to
their natures, which, insofar as they exist in the world, are
necessarily tied to matter.
C) Objection 3: The Reversibility of Newtonian Mechanics

Newtonian mechanics describes the motions of individual
bodies, while statistical mechanics describes with parameters like
entropy the motions of large collections of bodies. The
widespread belief is that the Newtonian mechanics that rule the
microworld are more fundamental than statistical mechanics.
Therefore since micromechanics fails to capture dissipation in
time, the argument goes, such dissipation is not inherent to the
physical world.
To understand this objection, we need first to understand the
difference between reversible and irreversible processes. Imagine
watching a film of a steam locomotive traveling backward, say
Buster Keaton's 1927 film The General. ls it possible to tell if the
direction of movement results from the train actually running
backward or from the film running backward? By concentrating
(Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1907); Kenneth Blaxter , Energy
Metabolism in Animals and Man (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989).
64 Erwin Schrodinger, What Is Life? (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1945).
65 The sun's order originated ultimately in the order inaugurated at creation.
66 Precisely speaking, for all spontaneous processes, the (Gibbs) free energy available to the
system to do useful work decreases.

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JOHNW.KECK

solely on the locomotive engine itself, it is impossible to know:
the machine runs substantially the same backward as forward. But
the steam is the giveaway: common experience has taught us that
steam doesn't collect itself back into the smokestack, so the film
must be running backward if the steam moves so.
The locomotive illustrates the two alternatives for physical
processes: reversible and irreversible. The bulk motion of the
engine exemplifies a reversible process: a film of the engine
moving backward is indistinguishable from viewing in reverse the
film of the engine moving forward. The dissipation of steam is an
example of an irreversible process: a backward film of the steam
is easily distinguishable from a forward film because steam's
spontaneous action is exclusively expansion.
Newtonian mechanics is reversible because it is the science of
bulk motion; its equations are the same backward as forward
because Newton deals with few bodies at a time and treats them
as simple, permanent, and isolated from the rest of the universe:
all capital abstractions. In reality, every ordinary-sized object we
encounter is composed of countless parts with the potential to
break apart.
Newton's simplification has the great virtue of allowing the
mind to focus on the most important relations in an interaction.
Its vice is masking the relative unimportance of composition and
spatial extension as complete inconsequence. As we have seen, the
composition of things and the relations among their numerous
parts make the increase of entropy inevitable.
Thus we see that the growth of entropy, far from being a
foreign, "unnatural" principle added on to the truly "fundamental" laws of Newtonian mechanics, is inherent to the
extension of matter and its existence within a much larger
um verse.
SUMMARY

We have seen that gravity is a natural motion toward unity,
while electromagnetic forces produce the violent motions that

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553

endow matter with voluminous quantity and contrariety. Quantity
and contrariety make possible the self-antagonism that underlies
natural motion toward disunity. These contrary motions toward
unity and disunity provide the basis of the dynamism that enriches
nature, but ultimately leads to its dissolution. Thus gravity is
natural and the electromagnetic forces are comparatively violent;
given the existence of violent forces, entropic movement to
disunity is natural.
Again, the term "natural" is used analogically here. There can
be no doubt that electromagnetic forces are an intrinsic part of
nature and essential to her workings. The claim is simply that
their influence is unnatural compared to that of gravity.
The ends of Aristotle's four elements were absolute places like
the center of the universe and the lunar sphere. Our reflection on
the results of modern science indicates that the ends of matter are
not absolute places, but rather relative places or states: the
acquisition of spatial unity and disunity. 67 Matter seeks further
unity insofar as it is already united, and (it seems to a limited
extent) further disunity insofar as it is already disunited. These
extremes are two sides of the same coin. Spatial unity is a physical
participation (albeit limited) in the transcendental perfection of
unity. Aristotle's maxim that nature strives toward perfection 68
refers preeminently to living things, whose corruption springs not
from their unity in form but from the privation of their matter.
Analogously mass-energy's tendency toward disunity (which rests
on the teleological disunity of charge) reflects the privation of its
primary matter, 69 while its tendency toward unity reflects its
inherent form and finality. Since mass-energy is the most basic
form of actual matter, it is clear that natural teleology extends
even to the lowest levels of physical existence.
67 Natural motion elaborated here is more faithful to Aristotle's relative notion of place in
Physics 4.4.212a20 than his own conception of natural motion elaborated in De Caelo
2.14.296b7ff. The former is the surroundings of the body (i.e., relative to the body), while
the latter is relative to the whole of the cosmos (i.e., absolute) ..
68 Aristotle, On Generation and Corruption 2.10.336b28, cf. Aquinas V Phys., lect. 10
(Marietti ed., 739).
69 We have already seen that corruption lacks a definite end; here we see that it is not
natural in the full sense of springing from the nature (form) of things.

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From the point of view of natural philosophy, that uniting and
disuniting are opposite motions of matter is unremarkable. What
is new here is the connection of these motions to the
empiriometric concepts of universal gravitation and entropic
dissipation. To describe gravity and entropy as comparable
influences, let alone as inverses, is unexpected from a modern
scientific standpoint, but we have recognized its roots in the two
macroscopic fundamental forces.
The rediscovery of undiluted formal and final causality begins
to fill out the causal picture that a comprehensive knowledge of
nature demands. Just as the spatial unity and disunity to which
nature tends would have no way of being realized without the
efficient causes that modern empiriometric science discovers, so
the physical forces modern science describes have no direction or
meaning without ends. Far from supplanting the efficient
explanations of modern physics, such as gravitons and space-time
curvature, recognition of formal and final causes complements the
explanatory modes traditional to modern science and further
guides our exploration of the natural world.
More importantly, we have begun to resolve into terms
common to all human experience the motions of the macroscopic
world that have until now been systematically expressed only in
the abstractions of Newton, Maxwell, and Einstein. Thus, we can
begin to see how to integrate the valid insights of modern science
into an adequate philosophy of nature, one that fits organically
into the unified view of reality presented in the perennial
philosophy of Aristotle and Aquinas.

The Thomist 71 (2007): 555-76

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES
THOMAS LARSON
Saint Anselm College
Manchester, New Hampshire

I. INTRODUCTION:
A STRONG TREND IN MODERN ARISTOTELIAN SCHOLARSHIP

W

HAT DOES ARISTOTLE MEAN when he says in the
second book of the Physics that nature is a principle of
motion belonging to a body essentially? Among modern
scholars of Aristotle there exists a good deal of disagreement on
this point. One trend is to understand the internal source of
motion as a kind of efficient cause. Daniel Graham is one scholar
who clearly articulates this position. For example, Graham claims
that, according to the second book of the Physics, "[w]hile forced
motions are brought about by external agents, natural motions are
brought about by the agency of the thing itself." 1 According to
Graham, "[a]s an inherent source of change and rest, a nature is
already an efficient cause. " 2 Graham claims that the teaching of
the second book of the Physics is that nature is a principle,
belonging essentially to a body, that "originates" the motion of
the body, 3 and he thinks that only self-motion qualifies as natural
motion.
T. H. Irwin also takes "origin" (his translation of "arche") of
motion as an efficient cause that initiates a change. He notes, for
1 Aristotle's Physics: Book VIII, trans. with commentary by Daniel Graham (Oxford:
Clarendon Press: 1999), xiii.
2 Ibid.
3 Ibid., xv.

555

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THOMAS LARSON

example, the difficulty that Aristotle (in Physics 2.1) seems to
imply two things: on the one hand, he seems to imply that form
and matter are efficient causes, "since they are origins of change";
on the other hand, he makes a clear distinction between formal
and material causes, and this would imply that form and matter
are not efficient causes. 4 According to Irwin, since matter and
form are principles of change, they must be taken as efficient
causes of motion.
According to John M. Rist, book 2 of the Physics presents
nature as a principle of life and self-motion. Rist notes that in
book 8 (255a5ff.), Aristotle says that though elements and
inanimate bodies are natural, they are not self-movers, "[b]ut in
Physics 2, the elements are included with living things without
comment, as containing the principle of motion within themselves
and intrinsically. "5 The two passages are the source of the
following issue:
although in Physics 2 the study of nature deals with those subjects which contain
the principle of motion and rest within themselves intrinsically, Aristotle does
not identify a class of self-movers (animals and men) within 'nature' and treat
them separately from plants and the four elements. Yet, according to Physics 8,
these last groups, though natural and containing the principle of motion and rest
within themselves, are not self-movers. Once Aristotle has made this distinction,
of course, he should tell us in what other sense plants and animals "contain the
principle of motion and rest within themselves intrinsically." 6

4 T.H. Irwin, Aristotle's First Principles (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 9 (emphasis
added). Irwin goes on to argue for interpreting matter, form, and final causes as abbreviated
accounts of efficient causality: "The appearance of four causes instead of one seems to result
from incomplete specifications of the causes and effects. If nothing more can be said for
Aristotle's doctrine of four causes, then it does not describe four objectively different causes,
but only four ways to describe the cause; and three of these ways are mere abbreviations of
the fourth cause." According to Irwin, Aristotle cannot defend the claim that "the formal and
material causes are different types of causes from the efficient cause", but "he can still
reasonably argue that they are different types of efficient causes, differing from each other,
though not from all types of efficient cause" (ibid., 96).
5 John M. Rist, The Mind of Aristotle: A Study in Philosophic Growth (Toronto, Buffalo,
London: University of Toronto Press, 1989), 123.
6 Ibid., 124 (emphasis added).

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557

Note that in this passage Rist takes it as obvious that in book 2 of
the Physics nature is an intrinsic efficient cause of self-motion
belonging at least to animals and men; he then states that there
needs to be some other (and less obvious) way nature can function
as a principle of motion for non-self-movers like plants and
inanimate natural bodies. Rather than opt for nature as a passive
principle of motion to solve this problem (as I shall in this article),
Rist argues that for Aristotle all matter, and hence all material
things, are possessed of "pneuma," in virtue of which they tend
and strive, both individually and communally. 7
Helen S. Lang summarizes the arguments of a number of other
scholars who take the position that nature is an active, efficient
cause of self-motion in the natural body: 8
Guthrie argues, "In this first chapter of Phys. B, Aristotle has already given a
rough preliminary description of what he means by natural objects-those,
namely, which seem able to initiate their own motions of growth, etc. From
which it follows that phusis itself is to be described as that within objects by
virtue of which they move or grow." 9 ••• In his commentary on Physics II, 1,
Charleton contends that "despite his general protestation" (presumably Physics
VIII, 4 ), Aristotle would argue that the elements are self-moved. 10 Likewise, for
Waterlow nature is a self mover, and she concludes that there is a major problem
between PhysicsII, 1, and PhysicsVIII, 4. 11 Waterlow's argument is criticized (as

7 Rist states: "plants grow, or as Aristotle might put it, they strive for the perfection of
their form even though they have no desiring faculty. So they must contain something which
will account for this tendency, and in Aristotle's view this 'nutritive soul' is similar to the
'origin' of the nutritive soul possessed by female animals. This origin can, in fact, be nothing
more than pneuma, that common pneuma which somehow exists even among the four
elements. Hence they too 'tend' or 'strive' both individually and 'communally'; for all things
'in a way' are full of soul; not soul itself, of course, but of 'soul-heat', which is pneuma" (ibid.,
133).
8 The following quotation and all citations and references contained within it are from
Lang's, The Order of Nature in Aristotle's Physics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998), 41-42.
9 W. K. C. Guthrie, "Notes on Some Passages in the Second Book of Aristotle's Physics,"
Classical Quarterly 40 (1946): 70-76.
10 Aristotle's Physics: Books I, II, trans. with introduction and notes by William Charleton
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970), 92.
11 Sarah Waterlow, Nature, Change, and Agency: A Philosophic Study (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1992), 192, 240, and chap. 5 passim.

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THOMAS LARSON

is her conclusion) by Furley in his review of this book. 12 Witt agrees with
Waterlow "that natural beings are self-sufficient to determine the pattern of their
typical changes." 13 More recently, Cohen asks how a motion caused externally
can be natural (Physics VIII) if being natural implies "an internal principle for
natural motions. " 14

II. DIFFICULTIES FACING THE MODERN TREND

There are, however, several important difficulties that result
when the principle of nature is understood as an efficient cause of
motion. For one, this interpretation runs into problems when it
comes to book 8, where the natural motion of inanimate bodies
is treated. There Aristotle draws a clear distinction between selfmotion on the one hand and non-self-motion which is nonetheless
natural. Reading book 2 as saying that nature is an efficient cause
of self-motion, however, requires that all natural motion be selfmotion; that is, every natural substance would be a self-mover,
since each one has, essentially, an efficient cause of motion. Such
an understanding of nature leads one to understand Aristotle to
have in some way animated all of nature. 15
Some of the above commentators, noting that book 8 cannot
be squared with the interpretation of the principle of nature as an
efficient cause of motion, opt to conclude that the doctrine of
12 David Furley, "Review of Nature, Change, and Agency by S. Waterlow," Ancient
Philosophy 4 (1984): 110.
13 Charlotte Witt, Substance and Essence in Aristotle: An Interpretation of Metaphysics VIIIX (Ithica: Cornell University Press, 1989), 69 n. 6.
14 Sheldon Cohen, "Aristotle on Elemental Motion," Phronesis 39 (1994): 152-53.
15 Rist seems to takes this path with his reading of the role of pneuma: "One of Aristotle's
very !ates works, the De generatione Anaimalium, sheds light on the final stages of Aristotle's
development of such ideas: 'Animals and plants are found in the earth and in that which is wet
because water is present in earth and pneuma is present in water, and in all pneuma there is
present soul-heat, so that in a way all things are full of soul' (3.762a18-22). To say, as Skemp
[citing "The Activity of Immobility," in Etudes sur la Metaphysique, ed. P. Aubenque (Paris,
1979), 229-41] did, that this passage 'is closely related to the biological priority of the to
thermon and the doctrine of sumphuton pneuma' [ibid., 236] is of course true; but that is not
to suggest, as Skemp holds, that it does not support 'the case for a kind of teleological
"hylozoisim".' . . . pneuma is not itself soul, let alone Mind .... It is only the bearer of soul.
'In a way', though, pneuma is a partial substitute for a discarded 'immanent God' or nature
as Mind of Aristotle's earlier physics" (Rist, The Mind of Aristotle, 131).

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

559

nature set forth in book 2 is set aside, or replaced by book 8. 16
Graham, for example, maintains:
According to Book II [of the Physics], a natural body originates its own motion;
according to Book VIII, no body in motion originates its own motion. Indeed,
it is precisely the ability of natural bodies to move by themselves that
distinguishes their motion from forced motion, caused by an external agent. 17

This reading suggests that the two texts cannot be reconciled.
Graham himself concludes that the theory of natural motion in
book 8 is a drastic revision of the original theory put forward in
book 2, and that the two conflict:
If we push the claim that every moved body requires an external mover, we
would be compelled to erase the distinction between natural and forced motions,
and ultimately to treat natural motion as no different from forced motion. 18

We see then that a tension between the second and eighth
books of the Physics results when book 2 is taken to define
"nature" as an efficient cause of motion. Such an interpretive
move has an enormous effect on the way one approaches the
Physics. For example, it raises the question of the coherence of
the text: does the Physics present a coherent doctrine, or does it
present a series of inconsistent doctrines that manifest different
stages of Aristotle's thought?
Another result of regularly taking the principle of nature as an
efficient cause is a general neglect of the role form and matter
might play as principles of motion. By looking for an efficient
cause of motion, commentators such as Graham tend to avoid
asking and investigating how form and matter might serve as
principles of motion in some way other than as efficient causes. It
is obvious from the first and second books of the Physics that
Graham identifies Hans Von Arnim (Die Enstehung der Gotteslehre des
Aristoteles[Vienna: Hiilder-Pichler-Tempsky A.-G., 1931]) and Friedrich Solmesen !,Aristotle's
System of the Physical World [Ithica, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1960], 232-34, 100-101)
as examples of scholars who take the doctrine of book 8 to be inconsistent with the doctrine
of book 2. See Graham, Aristotle's Physics: Book VIII, xiii.
17 Graham, Aristotle's Physics: Book VIII, xv.
18 Ibid., xvi.
16

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THOMAS LARSON

form and matter are intrinsic principles of natural bodies, but to
many it is not obvious whether-and if so, how-matter and form
might be principles of motion.
III. NATURE AS A PRINCIPLE OF BEING MOVED

In light of this trend in Aristotelian scholarship, and the serious
implications it has on understanding several important aspects of
Aristotle's thought, another look at the relevant passages is called
for. I intend in this article to provide an exposition of book 8,
chapter 4 that supports the doctrinal unity between books 2 and
8. The crucial place to start, however, is with Aristotle's definition
and initial discussion of nature in book 2, chapter 1. Consider the
following three statements: 19 "All things existing by nature appear
to have in themselves a principle of motion and standstill,
whether with respect to place or increase or decrease or
alteration" (192b13). "So nature is a principle and a cause of
being moved [kinesthai] or of rest in the thing to which it belongs
primarily and in virtue of that thing [kath' auto] but not
accidentally" (192b21ff.). "Indeed, the form is a nature to a
higher degree than the matter" (193b7). In light of the trend in
scholarship discussed above, two points must be stressed. First,
nature is defined in the passive voice (kinesthai) as a principle, not
of moving but of being moved. 20 Second, the two contenders for
the title "nature" are the intrinsic principles of matter and form,
and in the final analysis form proves to be nature more than
matter, though matter remains essential. One should seek to
understand precisely how Aristotle understood form and matter
to function as principles of being moved and standstill.
It is helpful to recall that, for Aristotle, physics is a science of
movable being, or beings in motion. As such, it is a very general
science, for the class or genus of beings that are in motion is very
19 Unless otherwise noted, I use Aristotle's Physics, trans. with commentaries and glossary
by Hippocrates G. Apostle (Grinnell, Iowa: The Peripatetic Press, 1980) as a basis for the
translations I provide in this article.
20 Helen Lang has a strong argument showing that kinesthai must be read as passive voice,
and not middle; see Lang, The Order of Nature, 42-44.

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561

large and contains within itself a large number of species that
differ in important ways. For instance, the general science of
physics considers both living and nonliving bodies; these two
classes of beings are treated specifically by the more specific
sciences of biology and chemistry, respectively.
As a science, physics attempts to see and articulate the
intelligible causes and principles that belong commonly to all
beings in motion. In this regard, Aristotle's Physics was a very
daring work, for it emerged from the shadow of Parmenides (who
judged motion to be unintelligible and, hence, impossible) to
claim that, since motion obviously is, there must be intelligible
principles and causes in the orderly motions of natural beings.
The motions of natural bodies are not chaotic; if they were, a
science of nature would be impossible. Instead we find, for the
most part, that bodies exhibit motions that tend to be both regular
and orderly. The human mind comes to understand the nature of
bodies by attending to their characteristic behaviors, and trying to
see the intelligible order of such motions. In sum, Aristotle was
convinced that because motion exists it can and must be
explained.
For Aristotle, matter and form are the intrinsic principles that
render motion intelligible. He does not intend either of these
principles to be taken as efficient causes of motion. Rather, as the
passive form of the verb kinesthai implies, they are passive
principles of motion. They are sources that serve to render
intelligible a body's natural motions; we will see that they do this
by determining the passivities of the body to which they belong.
The questions addressed in book 8, chapter 4 of the Physics are
such that Aristotle is forced to provide a more complete
articulation of these principles.
IV. PHYSICS 8.4: CLARIFYINGTHE PROBLEM OF NATURAL
MOTION OF INANIMATENATURAL BODIES
By Aristotle's own admission (see Physics 8.4.254b34ff.), the
motion of inanimate natural bodies is perhaps the most difficult

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THOMAS LARSON

issue he faces in the Physics. Book 8 of the Physics, as a whole, is
ordered toward proving the existence of an unmoved mover that
is ultimately responsible for the motions of the entire cosmos. In
order to prove an unmoved mover, however, Aristotle must first
establish the fact that no being independently moves itself, but,
rather, that everything in motion is moved by some other. This is
the purpose of chapter 4. In the background are two questions:
how can Aristotle's definition of nature as articulated in book 2,
chapter 1 of the Physics apply to both living and nonliving natural
bodies, while at the same time preserving their differences? and
how does natural motion of inanimate bodies differ from violent
motion if both are efficiently caused by an external agent?
A) Self-Motion vs. Being Moved by Another; Natural vs. Violent
Aristotle begins by distinguishing two classes of movable
beings: "Of things which are in motion according to themselves,
some are moved by themselves, and some are moved by others,
and some are moved by nature but others by force or contrary to
nature" (254b12-14 [translation emended]). Reiterating that
natural things are moved or in motion "according to themselves,"
which is to say that they possess a nature, or some kind of an
intrinsic "source" (arch§) of motion, 21 Aristotle goes on to make
two key points. The first is that while some things, by nature,
move themselves (as in the case of animals), 22 others, also by
21 It is important to recognize a difference between motion "according to itself" (kath'
hauto, commonly translated as "essentially") and motion "by itself" (hauto). This difference
will be discussed in what follows.
22 Later in the text (see 257a33-258b9) Aristotle argues that even self-moving bodies (viz.,
animals) require heterogeneous parts which act upon one another, thereby preserving the
distinction of mover and moved, and ruling out the possibility of simple self-motion. Further,
at Physics 8.6.259b2-18, he points out that animals "helped create the opinion that in a thing
a motion which did not exist at all [before] may arise ... for it seems that at one time they
[i.e., animals] are without motion, but later they are moved." This opinion, however, he goes
on to say, is the result of a failure to recognize that "self-movers" are not as independent as
they seem: "This must be granted, then, that such things do cause in themselves one [kind of
motion] but that they do not cause it independently; for the cause [of their motion] is not from
them, but there are other natural motions which animals have, but not through themselves,
such as increase, decrease, respiration .... The cause of these [motions] is the surrounding

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

563

nature, are moved by others: "And of things which are moved by
others, some are moved by nature" (254b20-22 [translation
emended]). The second point is that natural things (whether selfmovers or not) are sometimes subjected to unnatural or violent
motions. The classification of movers and bodies in motion is as
follows:
Bodies in Motion
I. Moved by nature
A. self-movers
B. non-self-movers moved by something else
II. Moved by force
A. self-mover moved entirely by something else
B. non-self-mover moved by something else

What is the importance of these distinctions? First of all, we
note an important distinction between types of motion; some
motions are said to be "natural," while others are said to be
violent, compulsory, or "contrary to nature." But what is it that
makes a motion natural, and what makes a motion unnatural?
Before we give a positive answer, it is important to recognize that,
according to the passage above, "violent motion" is not
synonymous with "being moved by another," nor is "natural
motion" synonymous with "self-motion. " 23
environment, and many things which enter the animal, such as food .... But the first source
of these motions comes from the outside" (translation emended and emphasis added). These
passages demonstrate adequately enough that Aristotle's account of self-motion is far from
simple.
23 Graham seems to miss this very point. According to Graham, the discussion of Physics
8.4 threatens the doctrine of Physics 2.1: "Note that if Aristotle were right in his present
analysis of motion [that is, in Physics 8.4], he would be forced to abandon his distinction
between nature and power. Nature [according to book 2] is an internal source of change,
power is an external source of change. But it will turn out [in 8.4] that every nature is really
a passive power; hence there really is no internal source of change in the world, only patently
external sources of change and latently external sources of change. Some external agent is
needed to originate motion even in natural substances. Thus a basic distinction between
natural motion and non-natural motion collapses" (Graham, Aristotle's Physics: Book VIII,
86). One notes that if Graham were correct, not only would Physics 8.4 contradict Physics
2.1, but the second half of Physics 8 .4 would undermine the first half. After all, the distinction
between natural and violent motion is explicitly made in Physics 8.4, and it serves as the

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THOMAS LARSON

For Aristotle, as this passage makes clear, being moved by
another can be, and in fact often is, fully in keeping with a body's
nature. Hence, being moved by another is simply not sufficient
grounds for naming a motion "violent"; rather, some further
qualifier is needed.
A passages from the Nicomachean Ethics proves very helpful
in providing the needed qualifier to designate a motion as
violent. 24 In this passage, Aristotle provides a definition of "force"
(bia) as it pertains to human action: "It seems ... that what forces
a man is that whose moving principle is external, without the man
who is forced contributing anything. " 25 There are two criteria for
a human action to be "by force": first, there must be an external
moving principle, and second, the man being moved must
"contribute" nothing. Thus, we can infer that if the man
"contributes" something to the motion, his motion is not entirely
forced. When these conditions are met, however, the resulting
motion will either be contrary to nature, or at least not by nature.
From the discussion of human actions, we can easily abstract
the criteria for judging any motion to be violent: first, the mover
must be an external agent; and second, the body being moved
must not contribute anything to the resulting motion. Violent and
natural motion may be alike in that both may have an external
source of motion, but in natural motion the motion caused is
"according to" the nature of the body being moved, whereas in a
violent motion the resulting motion either is "contrary to" the
nature of the moved body, or the nature of the substance being
moved contributes nothing to the character of the resulting
motion. What determines a motion as "violent" or "natural" is

starting point of the current difficulty.
24 I was first referred to this connection years ago by James A. Weisheipl's "Natural and
Compulsory Movement," in Nature and Motion in the Middle, ed. William E. Carroll
(Washington D.C.: The Catholic University Press of America, 1985), 29; the article was
originally published in The New Scholasticism 29 (1955): 50-81.
25 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 3.1.111 Ob15 (translation emended and emphasis added).
See also ibid. 3.1.1110a2; and Aristotle, De Caelo 3.2.301b18ff.

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

565

not whether the body is moved by another or by itself, but, rather,
whether the motion is in keeping with the body's nature. 26
The question remains, however, in light of these distinctions,
as to how a motion whose efficient cause is "in another" can at
the same time be in accordance with the nature of the substance
being moved. What does Aristotle have in mind when he says that
a body, though being moved by another, can none the less
"contribute something" to its motion, and thus render the motion
"natural"? I will argue that the contribution in question is
grounded in the body's proper, determined passivities; passivities,
that is to say, that are established and defined by the body's first
entelecheia, or substantial form. At this point in the analysis,
however, it is enough to underscore Aristotle's point that both
self-movers, on the one hand, and bodies that by nature are
moved by others, on the other, are subject to motion that is
natural and motion that is violent. The point to note is that
motion from another is clearly not synonymous with violent
motion.
While Aristotle does say that an animal, as a whole, can move
itself by nature, this does not mean that the principle "everything
moved is moved by another" does not apply to living things.
However, it must be remembered that a living thing is made up of
heterogeneous parts that are capable of moving and being moved
by one another, thereby causing the whole to move. Upon
examination, it becomes clear that even in self-movers there is
always a distinction between mover and moved, though in living
things it is at times not clear "how to distinguish in them that
which causes motion and that which is moved"(Physics
8.4.254b29).
It is in violent motions, or motions contrary to nature, that
mover and moved are most easily distinguished, since in such
cases the motion is clearly caused by another, the moved object
26 For this reason, I prefer to translate "kath' hauto" literally as "according to itself." A
body can be moved by another, but so long as the resulting motion is in accord with its own
fundamental nature, the motion is natural. Such motions, we will see, are grounded in the
body's natural "pathe" which are themselves grounded in the body's fundamental substantial
order.

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THOMAS LARSON

clearly contributing nothing to the motion. The most difficult
case, however, is that of the natural motions of inanimate
substances. Nonliving natural bodies-bodies, that is, that are in
motion kath' hauto-are by nature moved by another:
The greatest difficulty, however, lies in the remaining part of the last division;
for of things moved by others, some on the one hand were posited by us as being
in motion contrary to nature: and opposed to these, on the other hand, there
remain those that are in motion by nature. The latter are those (such as light and
heavy objects) that would cause the following difficulty: By what are they
moved? For each of these is moved to its opposite place [antikeimenous topous]
by force, and to its proper place [oikeinous topous] by nature (the light moves
up, the heavy moves down), but that by which they are moved is not quite so
evident as it is in a thing which is moved contrary to nature. (Physics
8.4.254b34-255a6)

The question is clear: By what are these bodies moved when they
are moved "by nature"?
As Aristotle begins to address this question, he expresses an
important assumption that underlies his considerations, namely,
that natural bodies have proper and opposite places. Fire, it
appears, would rather be up, and earth would rather be down.
The validation for the claim of "natural places" comes principally
from the observation of regular behaviors of bodies. Fire, for
example, regularly goes up. From this we infer that up is the
proper place of fire. Aristotle is not thinking of place principally
as a designated location in the universe, but rather as a
surrounding environment, the quality of which is constituted by
the bodies that make it up. What he means is that a natural body
regularly moves towards and comes to some sort of rest in proper,
natural places (places, we may say, that are hospitable to its
nature) and away from opposite, unnatural, or improper places
(places, that is, that are inhospitable to its nature.) Such a
regularity found in natural phenomena is the basis for the claim
that substances have natural places. 27

27 See Thomas Larson, "Aristotle's Understanding

62.

of Place," The Thomist 67 (2003): 439-

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

567

B) Inanimate, Homoeomerous Bodies Cannot be Self-Movers
Aristotle's question, then, is the following: what naturally
moves an inanimate body, with observable regularity, away from
inhospitable surroundings and towards its natural place? For
Aristotle, the inanimate body moves "according to" its nature
(kath' hauto), and therefore not by force; but the inanimate body
does not move itself. In fact, Aristotle rules out the possibility that
the inanimate body could cause itself to move or stop, and this for
two reasons. The first reason is that self-motion is recognized in
the power of living things to control and govern their own
motions. Nonliving bodies, however, simply are not found to be
capable of governing their motions. Instead we find that they
always move in the same direction and stop in the same
conditions or circumstances, whereas living things are capable of
moving naturally in different, even opposite, directions. Aristotle's
objection here hinges on the "unreasonableness" of the claim that
something that causes itself to move would have only one natural
motion. If earth had the independent power to make itself go
down, it must also have the power not to go down, or even to
make itself go up. Absent these latter two capacities, there are no
rational grounds for saying earth moves itself down.
The second reason Aristotle gives against the self-motion of
inanimate bodies provides a stronger foundation for his first:
Again, how does something which is continuous (sunexes) and has a natural unity
(sumphues) admit of causing itself to be moved? For in so far as a thing is one
and continuous but not in contact, it is apathes; but in so far as separation has
been made, one [part] can by nature act (poein) and the other, be acted upon
(pasxein). So none of these things causes itself to be moved (for each has a
'uniform nature' [sumphue]), nor does anything else that is continuous, but in
each case the mover must be divided from that which is being moved, as in the
case of lifeless things when observed to be moved by living things. (Physics
8.4.254b34-255a18 [translation emended])

Here we encounter an important feature of his consideration of
inanimate substances. For Aristotle, inanimate substances differ
from living substances by having what he calls a "natural unity"

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THOMAS LARSON

(sumphues). In other passages he says that such substances are

"homoeomerous," meaning that the substance is such that "we can
apply the same name in the same sense to a part of it as to the
whole. " 28 Each and every part of a nonliving body is made up of
the same stuff; that is to say, in more precise language, the
material possesses the very same fundamental substantial order
throughout, and there is thus no distinction of parts. Water is
water throughout; if one were to designate parts in a body of
water by dividing it up into various smaller quantities, one would
find that the substantial order of each part is identical with the
substantial order of all other parts, and of the whole.
Living things, on the other hand, are made up of
heterogeneous parts: bones, marrow, lungs, heart, etc., all of
which are organs (working parts) that perform distinct operations
(works). The heterogeneous parts and their operations are, in
turn, all ordered toward the good of the whole organism. In light
of this heterogeneity, the matter-form relationship in living things
becomes very complex; one must consider a hylomorphic unity
that accounts for the variety of fundamental formal orders found
in the diverse parts of the organism, while at the same time
preserving the oneness of substantial form of the whole-no small
task. The matter-form relationship in nonliving, homoeomerous
substances, by contrast, should appear simple. In these substances,
all of the matter-of whatever part, or whatever designated
quantity-shares the same substantial order; each part has the
identical formal definition as the whole. The result is that each
part behaves and reacts in the very same manner as the whole;
that is to say, in more Aristotelian language, each part, having the
same substantial order, has the same defined work (energeia,
ergon).

In homoeomerous substances, it is impossible for one part to
act upon and hence change another part. The reason is that no
one part has anything that the other parts do not also have. 29
Motion always involves contraries: white becomes tan, what is up
28 On Generation and Corruption 1.1.314a19.
29 See Dennis Des Chene, Physiologia: Natural Philosophy in Late Aristotelian and
Cartesian Thought (Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press, 1996), 230.

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

569

comes down, heavy becomes light, hot becomes cold, wet
becomes dry; and the cause of such changes must, in some way,
possess the contrary perfection that is brought about.
In order for a motion to take place, then, at least two things
are necessary. First, the body to be moved in a certain way must
be capable of being moved in that way; pale skin is able to become
tan skin, but it is not capable of becoming perfectly transparent.
There are limits to what changes a given substance can undergo
and still remain itself. Second, and more technical, a motion
always requires a mover that already possesses the perfection
towards which the moved body is being moved. For motion, as
Aristotle defines it, is entelecheia of dunamis qua dunamis (see
Physics 3.1.201a9ff). So, for example, if the skin on an arm is able
to become tan, but presently is pale, Aristotle would say that the
surface of the skin has a certain order (morphe or eidos) that gives
the skin the perfection, or actuality (entelecheia) of being "pale";
but that same skin can be reordered in such a way that it will have
the perfection of being tan. Dunamis is this ability to be
reordered, which in this case belongs to the surface of the skin.
Note, however, that pale skin could not itself be the cause of the
skin becoming tan. Even though pale skin is potentially tan skin,
it cannot cause itself to become tan, for it does not have the
perfection necessary to be a sufficient efficient cause. Every
change must have a sufficient cause, and the result of the change
will bear some semblance to the cause. The pale (the order on the
surface) of the skin cannot cause the skin to become tan (a
different order in the same surface). The white of a surface cannot
cause the surface to become black. One order cannot itself be the
cause of its own destruction and the generation of a new order.
One or more other causes are needed.
This is precisely why homoeomerous bodies cannot move
themselves. Each part possesses the same formal order; formal
order is what engenders the body with its active and passive
properties. Since each part has the same active and passive
properties, no part can act upon or initiate a change in any other
(heterogeneity)
m the
part. There 1s no contrariety

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THOMAS LARSON

homoeomerous substance, and thus there is no possibility of self
motion.
To return to our initial question: how can we say both that
nonliving substances are always moved by another and that their
motions can be "by nature," as opposed to violent? We can see
that we are not to think of the principle of nature as an efficient
cause of motion, or as a little imp inside the body causing the
body to move. Nor can we say that the body moves itself.
Aristotle denies that inanimate bodies are self-movers since they
do not seem to move themselves with any independence and their
homoeomerity makes self-motion impossible. Instead, the natural
inanimate body, according to Aristotle, is moved naturally by
others. But what exactly does this mean?

C) Aristotle's Solution-Distinguishing

the Levels of Dunamis

Rounding out the difficulty, Aristotle makes one final point:
But it happens that these things [i.e., inanimate substances] are always moved by
something; this would become manifest if we were to distinguish the causes. It
is possible to take the things said [about the things being moved] and [apply
them] also to the movers; for some of them are movers contrary [para] to nature
(for instance, the lever [moluxos] is not by nature a mover of heavy things); some
things by nature (for example, the hot in-work [energeia] is the mover of that
which is hot potentially [dunamis]. And the same holds similarly for other such
things. (Physics 8.4.255a18-24)

This passage does two things. First, it reinforces the points
Aristotle has been making previously, namely, that of things
moved by another, some are moved naturally, and some by force.
The same distinctions can be applied to the extrinsic agents of
motions: some extrinsic movers cause motion by force or
violence, such as a lever; other extrinsic movers cause motion by
means of nature, as for example, the actually hot moving the
potentially hot. Here, again, is the source of our question: how
are we to distinguish, in a rigorous fashion, natural motion from
violent, in a way that preserves the reality of both, when some
natural motions are indeed caused efficiently by an exterior agent?

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

571

Second, Aristotle has begun to solve the problem. The key to
his distinction between natural and violent motion, we shall see,
lies not in the false dichotomy of self-motion and violent motion;
rather, it is found in the cooperation between the agency of
another, on the one hand, and the naturally defined, limited, and,
in some cases, elevated potency (dunamis) of the body moved, on
the other.
Aristotle asserts that the source of difficulty in identifying the
cause of inanimate natural motion lies in the complexity of the
principle of dunamis: "Since dunamis is said in many ways, the
cause of the being moved of such things [i.e., inanimate
substances] is not manifest" (Physics 8.4.255a30-32). He then
provides an example that connects his analysis of inanimate
natural motion to his analysis of living natural motion:
The learner is potentially a scientist in a different way from the man who has
[the knowledge] already, but is not in work. Always, whenever at the same time
to poetikon and to pathetikon are, the thing in dunamis comes to be in work, as
for instance, the learner from being in potency comes to be in a different potency
(he who has the science but is not contemplating is, in a way, in potency to being
a scientist, but not in the same way as before he learned [the science]), whenever
in this way he holds, if something does not impede, he will be in work and
contemplate, or he will be the contradictory and in ignorance. (Physics
8.4.255a33-b5)

In this example (which is very similar to the example he uses in
De Anima [2.1] to explain his definition of the soul as a first
actuality of a body with the potential for life), we find two distinct
levels of dunamis. First, there is a student who currently has no
knowledge of a particular science. The student is not "disabled"
in any way; he just has not, at this time, acquired the information.
He is not a knower, but he has the ability to be. Next there is a
somewhat complicated form of potency: namely, a man "who has
the science but is not contemplating" it. The scientist, like the
student, is not currently "contemplating," which is to say, he is
not in-work (energeia) as a scientist; but we know that the scientist
can contemplate his science, and so he is a potential knower. We
can also recognize, however, that the potencies for contemplation

572

THOMAS LARSON

are different in the noncontemplating scientist and in the ignorant
student. The scientist "has" something that the student does not.
The scientist has the knowledge; his intellect has been "informed." Being "in-formed" puts the scientist's intellect in a more
immediate potency for contemplation than the student's. Thus,
there is a formal difference between these two
I
hasten to add, both remain potencies.

D) Form and Matter as Co-Principles of Natural Motion of
Inanimate Bodies
Although this discussion of cognitional potencies has much
more to offer in its own right, we must keep in mind that it is
offered as an example, a means for helping us understand the
motion of inanimate natural bodies. How does such an example
help in this regard? Aristotle explains as follows:
These things hold similarly for natural things; for the cold is potentially hot, and
whenever it changes, it is already fire, and it burns, unless something prevents
and impedes; these things hold likewise for heavy and light things; for light
things come to be from heavy-for example, air comes from water (for this is
first in potential) and when it is light, it goes to work immediately, unless
something obstructs. The being-in-work of light things is to be in a certain
'where' and up, and it is obstructed whenever it is in its opposite place. And this
holds in the same way for quantity and quality. (Physics 8.4.255b5-13
[translation emended])

The basic point of this complicated passage can be stated in this
way: There are at least two important levels of potency when we
consider potency in relation to energeia, or "being in work," and
the difference between the two potencies is due to the differing
formal order, which limits, defines, and, in some cases, elevates
one of them. Taking Aristotle's first example, we have something
cold, which is potentially hot, or potentially fire. A change takes
place, the matter is in some way reordered, and now what was
cold and potentially hot is now something hot. Notice, however,
that the subject now being hot is not the end of Aristotle's
account; rather he points to a further completion, namely,

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

573

"burning." While it is the case that something hot is ordered
towards burning, a strict reading of the text implies that burning
does not necessarily follow upon something being hot; for, as
Aristotle points out, something could impede or prevent the hot
body from burning. This is similar to what we saw before in the
scientist. Though he had the knowledge in question, he was not
necessarily functioning as a scientist; having the knowledge
rendered him more immediately capable (potency) of
contemplating. Having the formal order making it to be hot does
not necessarily lead the body to work (burn) as a hot thing, but
the formal order does put the body into a more immediate
potency for such activity (since the formal order actually orders
the body towards that activity).
The same reasoning applies to a light body; it comes to be
from something heavy, yet even when light it can be prevented
from acting or working in accordance with its nature. When
prevented, the light body is still in potency to its own proper
activity or work; and this potential is a result of its having a
specific formal order that makes the body to be light. Certain
conditions must be met if the ordered potential of the body is to
be brought into complete functioning. That is to say, in order for
a body to act or work in accordance with its specific potential, it
must have impediments removed; the body must be in "a place"
where the surroundings do not inhibit, but rather, foster its being
in work.
Aristotle is now in a position to draw his conclusion:
This, however, is what is sought, [for the original question was,] on account of
what are the light things and heavy things moved to their place? The cause is
their natural 'where', and this is the to-be of light and heavy, the one is defined
by "up," and the other by "down." Something is potentially light and heavy in
many ways, as was said; for whenever something is water, it is in a way
potentially light, and when something is air, it is still potentially light (for it
admits of being impeded and not being up); but if the impediment is taken away,
it comes to be in work, and is always upward. Similarly, the quality changes to
being-in-work (energeia); for the scientist immediately contemplates unless
something impedes; and a quantity expands unless something obstructs. (Physics
8.4.255b13-24 [translation emended])

574

THOMAS LARSON

Aristotle has been trying to explain how inanimate bodies move
'naturally'. The solution to this problem, he tells us, lies in the
right understanding of dunamis. Both water and air, he says, are
light, but in different ways. Water does not possess the quality of
lightness, but there is an underlying potency to water that can be
changed, or reordered, in such a way that the body takes on the
property of lightness. Should the body of water be reordered in
such a way as to lose the quality of heaviness, and take on the
quality of lightness, the body is no longer water, but now is air.
Since water can be changed into a light thing, it is potentially
light. But air, too, according to Aristotle, is potentially a light
thing. This may surprise us, since it seems that once a body is air,
it is already light. Not so. It is now potentially light, but potentially light in a way different from the way water is potentially
light. The key to understanding this new potential is to recognize
that towards which the potency is ordered.
A body of air has a basic substantial order that makes it to be
air. One of the essential attributes, or properties, of air is the
quality of "being light." Now "lightness" clearly corresponds to
a specific behavior, or natural motion-namely, moving upward.
But neither the basic substantial order, which grants the quality of
lightness, nor the quality of lightness itself, is completely or
independently responsible for the upward motion of the body. It
must be recognized that the surrounding environment either
impedes or engenders the motion of the body. The immediate
surroundings of the place in which the body is found are essential
for explaining its motion. This explains why Aristotle always
refers to a body "being moved" upward, rather than simply
"moving upward. " 30 Again, immediately following the above
quoted passage, we find Aristotle reasserting a general but
essential point: "It is clear that none of these things moves itself
by itself; but they do have a principle of motion, not of moving or
30 It is worth noting that the Greek word Aristotle uses for locomotion,

phord (see Physics
3.1.208a31-32) is related etymologically to the verb phero, "to carry." In light of Aristotle
definition of nature as a principle of being moved (kinesthai), and Helen Lang's argument that
kinesthai is a passive, and not a middle, verb (Lang, The Order of Nature, 42-44), it is likely
that phord, as well, is to be understood as passive.

NATURAL MOTION IN INANIMATE BODIES

of acting, but rather, of being-acted-upon
8.4.255b29-31).

575

[pasxein]" (Physics

V. PHYSICS 2.1 AND PHYSICS 8.4 COMPARED
According to book 2 of the Physics, both matter and form serve
as intrinsic principles of motion, and form is nature to a higher
degree than matter. In book 8, chapter 4, Aristotle provides a
complex example of how these intrinsic principles serve as
sources of natural motion. What is now absolutely clear is that
neither matter nor form functions as efficient causes of motion,
nor must they in order for the resulting motion to qualify as
natural. Rather, matter provides potential, an.d form renders that
potential determinate. (One might say that matter makes motion
possible, while form makes it intelligible, hence making form
"nature" to a higher degree.) Motion that is natural arises from
these two intrinsic sources; but while these sources are necessary,
they are not sufficient. It is vital to keep in mind that nature is a
principle of being acted upon; hence form, as a substantial order,
establishes specific and proper pathB--species specific passivities,
or potencies. Form orders the very passivities and potencies of
matter, rendering them capable of being affected by other
correlatively defined agencies. The surrounding environment, or
place, is essential to natural motion, and hence an essential
extrinsic principle of natural motion. It is place that functions as
the efficient cause of the natural motions of inanimate natural
bodies. According to Aristotle, place is made up of bodies which
possess sundry forms of agent power; such surrounding agencies
act upon the passivities of a body, thereby moving a body in
accordance with the body's own specific nature. This is a natural
motion.
If a body is acted upon by the surrounding environment in
such a way that the specific potencies are not brought into work,
but instead the body is moved contrary to its specific natural
potencies, we recognize the motion as forced or violent. Hence,
by clarifying how matter and form function as passive principles

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THOMAS LARSON

pf motion, we are in a better position to understand the difference
between forced and natural motion.
VI. CONCLUSION

I believe that the exposition and analysis provided in this paper
offer an superior alternative to those readings that, by taking
nature in book 2, chapter 1 of the Physics as an efficient cause of
motion belonging essentially to a body, pit the doctrines of book
8 against the doctrines of book 2. As I have shown how the
arguments of book 8, chapter 4 are consistent with book 2,
chapter 1, my reading supports a unified reading of the Physics.
My reading has a further advantage. If one compares the
Physics's discussion of the levels of potency (in 8.4) with De
Anima's discussion of the levels of actuality (entelecheia, in 2.1),
one immediately sees similar themes. I cannot here take up the
comparison in any detail, but I believe that when the comparison
is carried out one comes away with the conviction that notion of
first entelecheia is the heart of Aristotle's understanding, not only
of the soul, but of nature in general. Anyone trying truly to
understand Aristotle ought to try to see how the general concept
of nature can be applied to both living and nonliving natural
bodies without animating the nonliving and without killing the
living.

The Thomist 71 (2007): 577-608

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?
CHRISTOPHER TONER
United States Air Force Academy, Colorado

W

HILE ARISTOTLE HAS BEEN the primary historical
source in the recent revival of virtue ethics, Aquinas has
played an important role in his own right, especially
with such philosophers as Philippa Foot, Rosalind Hursthouse,
and Alasdair Macintyre. 1 Virtue ethicists have drawn on and
developed many aspects of the ethical thought of Aristotle and
Aquinas. One point to which they have not paid sufficient
attention is whether the classical and medieval conception of the
moral life as the pursuit of happiness (eudaimonia, beatitudo)
amounts to a (perhaps very subtle) form of egoism. Yet there are
philosophers who have argued that eudaimonistic approaches like
those of Aristotle and Aquinas are indeed egoistic.
Strangely, it is often sympathetic commentators who make
these arguments. They then go on to maintain that the theory in
question is only "formally egoistic" or some such, and to suggest
that this is not objectionable. Scott MacDonald and John Langan, 2
whose views I shall consider below, take largely this approach to
interpreting Aquinas. I find this problematic because it seems to
1
See Philippa Foot, Natural Goodness (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001), Rosalind
Hursthouse, On Virtue Ethics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), and Alasdair
Macintyre, Dependent Rational Animals (Chicago: Open Court, 1999).
2 Scott MacDonald, "Egoistic Rationalism: Aquinas's Basis for Christian Morality," in
Michael Beaty, ed., Christian Theism and the Problems of Philosophy (Notre Dame: University
of Notre Dame Press, 1990), 327-54, at 332; John Langan, S.J., "Egoism and Morality in the
Theological Teleology ofThomasAquinas," Journal of Philosophical Research 16 (1991): 41126. Langan, I think, finds the egoism objectionable, but thinks we can salvage a substantial
part of Aquinas's theory despite it.

577

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

me that "egoism" is "said together with the bad." Instead, I
advocate an interpretation according to which Aquinas is no sort
of egoist at all, but rather a perfectionist.
After defining some key terms, I shall sketch a preliminary case
for taking Aquinas to be an egoist, and then outline my own
interpretation of him as a perfectionist who sees well-being as part
of human perfection properly understood, and as choiceworthy
precisely as perfective. Following this I shall set out arguments
drawn from MacDonald and Langan, together with other arguments based on passages drawn from Aquinas's writings, that seek
to show that, despite the reasons adduced for my interpretation,
Aquinas was an egoist (or perhaps that he waffled between
perfectionism and egoism). I shall respond to each of these arguments in turn, endeavoring to show how each prima facie
plausible case for egoism collapses under the weight of closer
scrutiny of the textual evidence. I accept the principle that inconsistency should be attributed to a great philosopher only when
absolutely necessary; here is where I shall show that the attribution is not necessary even for the most "egoistic-sounding"
passages of Aquinas.
I. DEFINITIONS AND PRELIMINARY CLARIFICATIONS

I use perfectionism in a nonconsequentialist way, such that a
theory is perfectionist if it recommends to each agent that he or
she pursue, as a primary and overriding goal, his or her own
perfection. 3 For human beings perfection consists, essentially, in
virtuous activity; it is about being the best person one can be,
acting well and "being good." Egoism, on the other hand, is about
"well-being." It is the doctrine that each agent takes as his
primary, overriding goal the achievement of his own welfare.
This might initially seem to be a distinction without a
difference: Is it not the case that in both doctrines the agent takes
as his primary goal what is good for him? There is, however, a
3 The term "perfectionism" is often associated with Thomas Hurka'a agent-neutral version
of the theory; not so here (the view I attribute to Aquinas is closer to what Hurka calls agentrelative perfectionism).

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

579

crucial difference of emphasis. The perfectionist takes as his
primary overriding goal what is good for him-the "for him" is
necessary because what it is to be good varies across persons (e.g.,
a man who has children cannot be good without being a good
father, whereas as a childless man can). As the true athlete is
committed to excellence in sport and not to feelings of exhilaration, so the perfectionist is committed to living a successful
human life and not to the pursuit of pleasure and satisfaction for
their own sakes. Of course, given certain assumptions about
human psychology, it is surely the case that excellence in sport
turns out to involve feelings of exhilaration. And similarly, given
similar assumptions, a successful human life will involve pleasure
and satisfaction-pleasure
in being good, for example, and
satisfaction with how one's life is going. The point, however, is
that such feelings are consequent to, not the ground for, the
excellence of which they are the enjoyment.
This crucial relationship between "being good" and "wellbeing" is reversed for the egoist, who takes as his primary goal his
own welfare, what is good for him (pursued precisely as what is
good for him). It may well turn out the world is such that the best
way to pursue one's own welfare is to lead a life that seems quite
unselfish from the outside. It may even be that the prudent egoist
will foster habits of fairness and feelings of concern for others (so
that the good of others, or some others, may come to be partly
constitutive of the agent's own good, as some of those who interpret Aristotle and Aquinas as "formal egoists" claim). The egoist,
that is to say, might look rather like the perfectionist. Still, the
relationship between perfection and welfare is reversed. Ultimately, the egoist does not enjoy or take satisfaction in things or
in his life because they are valuable, but values them because they
satisfy him.
Some may still insist that (agent-relative) perfectionism is
egoistic (although perhaps in a nonobjectionable way) because the
agent's primary object of concern is still his own life and activity.
With these, my dispute may ultimately be terminological-they
are simply using the terms differently. But terms can be important,

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

especially terms with such connotations as "egoism" has. To see
this, consider first the testimony of Henry Sidgwick, Aquinas's
unlikely ally on this point:
[W]e must discard a common account of Egoism which describes its ultimate end
as the 'good' of the individual; for the term 'good' may cover all possible views
of the ultimate end for rational conduct. Indeed it may be said that Egoism in
this [to be discarded] sense was assumed in the whole ethical controversy of
ancient Greece; that is, it was assumed on all sides that a rational individual
would make the pursuit of his own good his supreme aim: the controverted
question was whether this Good was rightly conceived as Pleasure or Virtue, or
any tertium quid. 4

Sidgwick's view is that the term "egoism" will become useless if
we allow it to cast too wide a net-so wide as to capture, for
example, the pursuit of virtue and perfection. Here I think he is
absolutely right. Secondly, "self-centeredness" seems a more
promising label than "egoism" for a primary concern with one's
own life that does not take the form of myopic concern with one's
own welfare. The allegation that a theory endorses selfcenteredness may well imply an objection, but it would be a
different objection. 5 Finally, understanding egoism in terms of the
pursuit of one's own welfare dovetails with common usage (an
egoist is generally taken to be a selfish person, one driven solely

4 Henry

Sidgwick, The Methods of Ethics, 7th ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1981), 91-92.
Bernard Williams illustrates the distinction between egoism and (mere) self-centeredness
with characteristic clarity and crispness in a discussion of his notion of ground projects: These
projects "do not have to be selfish.... Nor do they have to be self-centered, in the sense that
the creative projects of a Romantic artist could be considered self-centered (where it has to
be him, but not for him)" (Bernard Williams, "Persons, Character and Morality," in Twentieth
Century Ethical Theory, ed. Steven Cahn and Joram Haber (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice
Hall, 1995), 642.
Although this is not my chief concern in this paper, let me suggest why I think this
objection fails. There seems good reason to think that pursuit of one's own perfection need
not be, in fact needs not to be, self-centered, just as excellence in sport typically involves
excellence in teamwork. We shall see in sections 3 and 4 that concern with one's own life, as
Aquinas understands it, is in large part to direct it toward, and in service of, others and
ultimately God (see Christopher Toner, "The Self-Centredness Objection to Virtue Ethics,"
Philosophy 81 [2006]: 595-617).
5

WAS AQIBNAS AN EGOIST?

581

by self-interest) and with that of recent writers on welfare, such
as L. W. Sumner. 6
But how are we to understand welfare, or well-being? Sumner
himself defines it as "authentic happiness," where happiness
comprises cognitive and affective satisfaction with one's life as a
whole, and authenticity ensures that the satisfaction does not rest
upon compulsion or deception. Others may prefer to define it in
terms of, for example, a pleasant life, or a life experienced as
worthwhile. Still others may insist that not only must a life of
well-being involve satisfaction or pleasure, but it must also be the
case that what pleases, or what satisfies, be itself objectively good:
Robert Adams, for example, defines welfare as "a life
characterized by enjoyment of the excellent. " 7 Wherever we might
come down on these details, however, Sumner seems to have his
finger on something important: namely, that, however we go on
to amplify or qualify it, the core of our notion of well-being or
welfare (the state of things going well for the agent) is the agent's
satisfaction with his condition. For our purposes, if we can
convict Aquinas of recommending to the agent the pursuit of what
is good for him, the pursuit of his own welfare conceived in any
of a range of plausible ways, and conceived as his final end, then
the case for an egoistic interpretation will be made. The
arguments I shall consider will interpret Aquinas as recommending the pursuit, as the agent's final end, of what is in the agent's
interest, of the agent's own fulfillment, of complete satisfaction,
of the agent's own private good. The arguments characterize
6 See L. W. Sumner, Welfare, Happiness, and Ethics (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1996), 13.
7 See Robert Adams, Finite and Infinite Goods (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999),
93. Given Aquinas's Aristotelian notion of pleasure, according to which pleasure-which will
involve enjoyment of something and satisfaction with it, or repose in it-varies in quality and
desirability with the quality of the pleasing object, Adams's more objective account of welfare
seems initially much more compatible with Aquinas's outlook than does Sumner's. See, e.g.,
Aquinas, X Nie. Ethic., lect. 6 (In Decem Libras Ethicorum Aristotelis ad Nicomachum
Expositio, Raymundi Spiazzi, O.P. [Rome: Marietti, 1949], para. 2038; parenthetical numbers
in references to this text refer to paragraph numbers in the Marietti edition). (While I shall
refer to this text frequently, I shall not rest any controversial claim about Aquinas's doctrine
solely on it.) Yet, we shall see that in certain passages Aquinas does seem to lean toward
understanding beatitude in terms of the complete satisfaction of the will, simply.

582

CHRISTOPHER TONER

beatitudo, the agent's final end, to varying degrees of specificity,
but in each case as a plausible characterization of welfare, of what
is good for the agent-and therefore we can interpret these
arguments as allegations that Aquinas was an egoist.
We need to note one last distinction, made by Shelly Kagan
between normative factors and foundations. 8 We may call
normative factors those features of the moral environment that
help make actions have the moral status they do (right or wrong,
good or bad, virtuous or vicious). Factors are what moral agents
should see as salient to deliberation. Standard examples of
normative factors include special obligations, consequences, duties
such as nonmaleficence and promise-keeping. Most moral
theorists will agree that such and other factors are indeed salient
to moral deliberation, but they will disagree on why, and on how
they are to be ranked. To take up such questions is to move into
the realm of normative foundations, which provide the justification (and in some cases the motivation) for the agents' regard
for factors. Different ethical theories appeal to different foundations: overall consequences, the universalizability of maxims, a
social contract, individual welfare, or perfection.
Normative theories may variously combine foundations and
factors. Rule-utilitarianism, for example, gives priority to rulefollowing at the factoral level, while grounding the rules, at the
foundational level, in their expected consequences. Many other
combinations are possible, including a normative theory that
recommends the cultivation of certain traits and direct concern
for friends and civic duties at the factoral level while justifying
these, at the foundational level, on the grounds that according
deliberative weight to such factors is the best way to achieve one's
own welfare. The advocate of such a theory would certainly
escape any charge of "factoral egoism," but would still be a
"foundational egoist. " 9
Cf. Shelly Kagan, Nonnative Ethics (Boulder: Westview Press, 1998).
It would certainly be more difficult for a foundational egoist to acquire and exercise
other-regarding virtues than, say, to adopt and follow other-regarding rules. But not
impossible: we can imagine a father realizing that things are more pleasant for him when his
children are contented and that his children are more contented when he controls his temper,
8
9

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

583

At the factoral level, Aquinas is a pluralist, for although "the
force of the first intention, which is in view of the ultimate end,
remains in the desiring of anything," very often when one acts in
given situations "one is not actually considering the ultimate end,
just as when going somewhere we do not have to think of the end
at every step. " 10 Aquinas admits all sorts of factors as relevant to
concrete decisions: pleasure, relaxation, or knowledge (cf. STh III, q. 1, a. 6, ad 1 and 2), or the good of another (the aim of just
acts; cf., e.g., STh 1-11, q. 56, a. 6). The fact that among the
normative factors that, according to Aquinas, we take into account
are such things as the good of others and the common good
indicates that the charge of factoral egoism cannot even get off the
ground. Yet Aquinas is a eudaimonist at the foundational level.
This is so clear and so universally accepted that I shall simply
point to a few passages that illustrate this: "All things which man
desires he necessarily desires for an ultimate end" (STh 1-11, q. 1,
a. 6); "all desire their good to be complete" (STh 1-11, q. 1, a. 7);
and "Man's ultimate end is happiness" (STh 1-11, q. 1, a. 8, sc).
This helps us clarify our question, was Aquinas an egoist?
Whether he was or not depends upon whether beatitudo can be
fairly translated as "welfare." It is not enough to clear him simply
to point to things he says about friendship or justice because these
might obtain only at the factoral level. 11 Neither is it enough to
who therefore seeks to develop patience. We can, with difficulty and over time, work to
develop our own character with a view to enhancing our own welfare or, of course, our own
perfection. For different, not necessarily incompatible, accounts of this kind of foundational
reflection, see Macintyre, Dependent Rational Animals, 112-13 on the "theoretical level" of
reflection, and Hursthouse, On Virtue Ethics, 165-66 on the "Neurathian procedure."
10 Aquinas, STh I-II, q. 1, a. 6, ad3. The Latin text consulted is in Summa Theologica, editio
altera romana (Rome: ex Typographia Forzani et S., 1894). The principal translation
consulted is Summa Theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New
York: Benziger Brothers, 1947). I have also consulted John Oesterle's translation of 1-11, qq.
1-21 (Treatise on Happiness [Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983]). Unless
otherwise noted, I use Oesterle's translation when quoting from this "treatise."
11 Of the virtue ethicists mentioned, Macintyre is the most self-conscious about clearing
his Thomistic account of the charge of egoism (cf. Macintyre, Dependent Rational Animals,
160-61). But his remarks, I think, remain at the factoral level; for all he says there, his account
could still be foundationally egoistic (although I do not think it is in fact). (The same,
incidentally, can be said of Edmund Santurri's "Response to Langan," Journal of Philosophical
Research 16 [1991]: 427-30.)

584

CHRISTOPHER TONER

condemn him to point out that he construes the moral life as the
pursuit of happiness-"happiness" (beatitudo) is a place-holder
for the final end, whatever that is. We want to know the nature
of this end, and particularly whether it is perfection, welfare, or
any tertium quid.
II. GRACE AS PERFECTING NATURE
Before assessing the nature of the human end we must touch
on the relationship between nature and grace in Aquinas. In
asking whether he was an egoist, the evidence reviewed will
include things he says about the aims and actions of charitable
persons. Aquinas, relying on Scripture (2 Pet 1:4), insists that in
being reborn through grace we participate in and in some sense
receive a new (divine) nature (STh I-II, q. 110, a. 3). It is
important to make clear is that this "new nature" is not utterly
alien to the old, that grace does not destroy nature but perfects it.
Happily, Aquinas says just this in the very first question of the
Summa: "grace does not destroy nature, but perfects it [Cum
igitur gratia non tollat naturam, sed perficiat]" (STh I, q. 1, a. 8,
ad 2). Question 12 of the Prima Pars also speaks to this point. We
have a natural desire to know God as the first cause of things (STh
I, q. 12, a. 1); we know God better by grace than by natural
reason (STh I, q. 12, a. 13 ), but faith still falls short of the vision
and understanding we seek (ibid., ad 3); we know God as he is in
himself only when he himself directly actualizes our intellects
strengthened by "the light of glory" (STh I, q. 12, a. 5; ibid., ad
3). This nicely illustrates Aquinas's view of the tendency of human
development: from first to second nature (e.g., from the capacity
for and love of knowledge to the virtue of wisdom), from second
nature to grace (from natural wisdom to the gift of wisdom), and
from grace to glory (the beatific vision). Always the higher stage
elevates without eliminating the lower: "But the first must ever be
preserved in the second. Consequently nature must be preserved
in beatitude [natura salvetur in beatitudine]" (STh I, q. 62, a. 7).

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585

In the moral realm, Aquinas insists that we can achieve some
goodness without grace, but will always fall short of perfection
without grace (cf. STh 1-11, q. 109, a. 2). We see this too in
Aquinas's adoption of Macrobius's division of the four kinds of
virtues: exemplary, purified, purifying, and political (naturally
acquired). Political virtues such as justice "exist in man according
to the condition of his nature" (STh 1-11, q. 61, a. 5). Aquinas later
clarifies that while true, perfect moral virtue cannot be acquired
by human acts without grace, virtues "productive of good works
ordered to an end which does not surpass the natural capacity of
man, can be acquired by human actions. And acquired in this way
they can be without charity, as has happened with many pagans
fgentilibus]" (STh 1-11, q. 65, a. 2). 12 Grace need not start from
scratch; rather, it perfects the work nature is already attempting.
III. A PRELIMINARY STATEMENT OF THE CASES
AGAINST AND FOR AQUINAS

As I stated above, that Aquinas sees the moral life as the pursuit
of happiness is not enough to convict him of egoism. Yet, when
we find him saying things like, happiness "must so entirely satisfy
man's desire that there is nothing left for him to desire" (STh 1-11,
q. 1, a. 5) and "to desire happiness is simply to desire that one's
will be wholly satisfied" (STh 1-11, q. 5, a. 8), we may seem forced
in this direction, for this sounds very much as though Aquinas
does see happiness as welfare or overall satisfaction. The impetus
toward an egoistic interpretation is further strengthened by
consideration of his claim that man naturally wills his own good
but requires virtues such as justice or charity to will the good of
others or of God (cf. STh 1-11, q. 56, a. 6)-especially when we
combine this with his further contention that charity as love of
God follows upon our belief that God will enable us to attain
happiness (cf. STh 1-11, q. 62, a. 4), so that even charity can seem
motivated by self-interest.
12 Here I follow Brian Shanley, O.P., "Aquinas on Pagan Virtue," The Thomist 63 (1999):
553-77.

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I shall return to a fuller discussion of these passages, but right
away, given the description of the way grace perfects rather than
destroys nature, we should suspect that there is something wrong
here, at least with the egoistic interpretation of the latter pair of
passages. If charity is a love of God, in which God is loved as a
friend and for his own sake (see STh II-II, q. 23, a. 1; II-II, q. 26,
a. 3), and if grace in the form of charity perfects rather than
destroys the nature of the will, then surely it must be the case that
in orienting the will to the love of God for his own sake (and for
that matter to the love of neighbor for his or her own sake) the
virtue of charity is amplifying and perfecting an other-regarding
tendency that is already natural to the will. As Etienne Gilson puts
it:
[For Aquinas] man naturally loves God more than himself. This love which puts
God above all things is not yet charity, but the natural dilection to be perfected
and fulfilled by charity. To suppose the contrary, to admit that man naturally
loves himself more than God ... would be to admit that grace, in order to make
the love of God prevail over love of self in the soul, would have to destroy
nature instead of perfecting it. 13

It seems clear that the love under discussion here is the love of
friendship, as it is slated to be perfected by charity, the highest
form of the love of friendship. This suggests two points. First, we
seem not to need grace, although we may need virtues like justice,
to love others and to will their good; in other words, loving
others for their own sake is within our natural power. Second,
"natural dilection" prior to the advent of grace is not egoistic. To
love another for that other's sake-especially when one loves that
other more than one loves oneself-is inconsistent with egoism,
which insists that the agent's overriding goal be what is good for
himself. As Aquinas puts it, the agent "does not naturally love
God for his own good, but for God's sake." 14
13 Etienne Gilson, The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy (Notre Dame: University of Notre
Dame Press, 1991), 282. Gilson is commenting on STh I, q. 60, a. 5.
14 STh I, q. 60, a. 5, ad 2 (emphasis added). Aquinas is speaking here of an angel, but the
context makes it clear that he thinks the same holds for human beings: In the body of the
response, he had said "from natural love angel and man alike love God before themselves and

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Looking back to the pair of passages cited at the beginning of
this section which seem to imply that happiness, for Aquinas,
consists in satisfaction, we may note the profound inconsistency
of this (egoistic) interpretation with Aquinas's contention that
"fault [culpa] is a greater evil than pain [poena]" (STh I, q. 48, a.
6, sc). As he goes on to explain in the body of the article, "Fault
has the nature of evil more than pain has; not only more than
pain of sense ... but also more than any kind of pain, thus taking
pain in its most general meaning, so as to include privation of
grace or glory." Failing at "being good" seems worse than being
deprived of "well-being" or welfare (to return to the terms used
in distinguishing perfectionism from egoism in section I). Or, sin
and vice are worse than misery or even hell (if per impossibile one
could be there without sin). This would be an odd position for an
egoist to take!
That Aquinas was not an egoist may be shown by the following
argument. I shall first simply set it out, and then explain Aquinas's
view of human perfection, and in particular how it is not the same
as welfare in the sense required for an egoistic interpretation, but
does contain it as a proper part. 15
with a greater love."
15 Aquinas seems to use no concept just like our concept of "welfare" or "well-being." I
shall be making the case that some concepts that one might think would be equivalent to
"welfare" in fact are not: e.g., happiness (beatitudo), one's private good (bonum privatum),
or what is good for an agent (bonum sibi). If I am right about this, it helps undermine any case
for interpreting Aquinas as an egoist, for if he has no concept of welfare, it would be very
difficult to convict him of recommending its pursuit. But I shall not be resting my case on this,
for some of his concepts are close, and it is plausible to maintain that from them we could put
together a "Thomistic" concept of welfare. My case instead will rest on showing that welfare
thus understood is not the final end of the Thomistic agent. The concept of his that probably
comes closest to "welfare" is delectatio, and I have seen no serious case made out that Aquinas
was a hedonist. (Even Cornelius Williams's article "The Hedonism of Aquinas" [The Thomist
38 (1974): 257-90] does not actually argue that Aquinas was a hedonist!) It might be thought
"satisfaction of the will" is the same as "welfare" in our sense. I shall later discuss at length
passages in which he says things in the neighborhood, so to speak, of "satisfaction of the will,"
but to my knowledge the phrase itself does not appear in Aquinas's writings. He rather says
things like, "happiness must completely satisfy the will." Perhaps this is close enough to say
that he does have the concept, or perhaps one could argue that peace (pax) or repose
(quietatio) are equivalent to that concept. In any event, the point I shall be stressing is that
saying that happiness does satisfy the will is very different from saying that happiness is the
satisfaction of the will. Satisfaction of the will seems to be mentioned (or almost mentioned)

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

(1) A doctrine is egoistic if and only if it holds that agents are to
pursue their own welfare as their ultimate end (as discussed in section I
above).
(2) Aquinas's doctrine holds that agents are to pursue their own
perfection as their ultimate end. He writes, for example, that "all desire
their own perfection [omnia appetunt suam perfectionem]" (STh I, q. 5,
a. 1), where perfection consists in being in act, being fully what one is
(cf. STh I, q. 4, a. 1). He ratifies this in the human case: "happiness,"
which is man's ultimate end, "is man's ultimate perfection [Est enim
beatitudo ultima hominis perfectio]" (STh 1-11, q. 3, a. 2).
(3) But perfection as Aquinas understands it is not in essence the
same as welfare.
(4) Thus, Aquinas's doctrine does not hold that agents are to pursue
their own welfare as their ultimate end.
(5) Therefore Aquinas's doctrine is not egoistic.

The obvious question is, can this perfectionist interpretation
accommodate the welfarist elements of happiness that form the
basis of the egoistic interpretation sketched above (e.g., the
apparent concern for satisfaction), or is Aquinas's normative
theory not fully consistent? To answer this question we need to
look at some of the details of Aquinas's conception of human
perfection.
Aquinas tells us "the ultimate end of things is to become like
God," 16 and "each thing imitates the divine goodness according to
its measure" (ScG III, c. 20). Yet he also says that God is the
ultimate end of all things (ScG III, c. 17; cf. STh I-II, q. 1, a. 8),
and that "man's ultimate end is an extrinsic good [bonum
extrinsecum]-God" (STh I-II, q. 3, a. 5, ad 3). The ultimate end
seems to be both God and the imitation of God appropriate to
that particular imitator. And so it is. Aquinas draws a distinction
between the ultimate end as object (res, objectum)-call this
UE0 -and as the attainment of the object (or possession, use, or
enjoyment (adeptio, vel possessio, seu usus, aut fruitio ejus
rei)-call this UEA-(cf. STh I-II, q. 3, a. 1). Creatures, Aquinas is
only as an effect of the attainment of the final end.
16 ScG III, c. 19 (Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles, trans. Vernon Bourke [Notre
Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975]). Cf. also STh I-II, q. 3, a. 5, obj. 1 and ad1.

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

589

saying, attain their ultimate end of perfection (UEA) by imitating
God (UE0 ).
Each creature imitates God "according to its measure."
Nonrational creatures imitate him by participating in some
likeness of him, insofar as they exist, live and reproduce, and
know (by their senses). Human beings attain their ultimate end by
knowing and loving God (cf. STh I-II, q. 1, a. 8). Now the very
essence of human happiness is knowing God (I shall return to this
shortly); therefore, knowing God is also imitating him, in the way
appropriate to an intellectual creature such as man. Aquinas
considers (STh I-II, q. 3, a. 5, obj. 1) the claim that happiness
consists in activity of the practical intellect rather than the
speculative, on the grounds that our ultimate end is to become
like God, and the practical intellect is the cause of the things it
thinks, as is God. Here is his response in full:
The likening [similitudo] of the practical intellect to God, spoken of in the
objection, is according to proportionality, that is, the practical intellect is related
to what it knows as God to what He knows. But the likening [assimilatio] of the
speculative intellect to God is according to union or representation [unionem,
vel informationem ], which is a much greater likeness. In addition, we may
answer that with respect to the principal thing known, which is His essence, God
has only speculative knowledge, not practical.

It is by knowing God that we become like him according to our
measure, become perfect instances of ourselves.
Aquinas makes the point that our perfection lies in contemplation in another way too. He holds that our perfection lies
in knowing God because perfection "must be man's highest
activity [optima operatio ]; his highest activity is that of his highest
power in relation to its highest object 17 [optimae potentiae
respectu optimi objecti]"-and that is the speculative intellect
contemplating God (STh I-II, q. 3, a. 5).
How are delight and satisfaction, what I called the welfarist
elements, to be fitted into this rather intellectual conception of
beatitude? Happiness (as UEA) is essentially the contemplation of
17 This essentially relational nature of human perfection or beatitude is also central to
defending Aquinas against the broader charge of self-centeredness.

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

God (the UE0 ), which perfects the intellect (STh I-II, q. 3, a. 8).
The delight and satisfaction of the will follow upon the
intellectual attainment as a "per se accident" (STh I-II, q. 3, a. 4),
such that happiness "cannot be without a concomitant delight"
(STh I-II, q. 4, a. 1), for the will rests in the highest good when it
is attained, and this repose of the will is just what delight is (cf.
ibid., ad 1); peace also follows (STh I-II, q. 3, a. 4, ad 1). Let me
stress that, although delight is in some sense a consequence of
happiness, it is also a part of it (it is not simply an accident, but a
per se accident). The repose of the will in something good is itself
desired; the will does in fact seek to rest in the activity of
contemplation: "it seeks to be at rest in the activity because that
is its good" (STh I-II, q. 4, a. 2). We may say that the repose of
the will that is delight is also desired. 18 The welfarist elements of
happiness follow upon the essence of beatitude necessarily (per se
accidents as tightly bound to the essence as powers-a kind of
accident-of the soul are to its essence).
What of virtue? As we have noted, happiness for Aquinas is
virtuous activity, in essence intellectually virtuous activity (the
main virtue here being wisdom, not just natural but also the
wisdom granted by grace, the gift of wisdom). 19 Also, rectitude of
the will is required for happiness, not only concomitantly or as a
per se accident, but also antecedently (cf. STh I-II, q. 4, a. 4). Lack
of moral virtue, and the inappropriate desires or fears attendant
upon such a lack, would prevent an agent from fully dedicating
himself to the final end. (Notice that rectitude of will involves not
18 Cf. X Nie. Ethic., lect. 6 (2036 and 2038), where Aquinas insists that we do seek
pleasure as perfecting life, but also that the activity rather than the pleasure taken in it is
principal.
19 It is worth noting that the gift of wisdom is tied, not to any intellectual virtue, but to
charity, and the knowledge it imparts is not abstract intellectual knowledge, but knowledge
that flows from loving acquaintance with a friend (cf. STh 11-11, q. 45, a. 2). It is connatural
knowledge involving affection as well as apprehension. Aquinas's theory of beatitude might
be less intellectualist than it seems on its face. Indeed, Jacques Maritain goes so far as to
attribute to Aquinas the doctrine that contemplation is not its own end, but "the most
excellent of means and already united to the end," the end of a union of "loving attentiveness
to God," citing in support STh I-II, q. 68; II-II, q. 45, a. 2; and 11-11, q. 180, a. 1 (see Jacques
Maritain, The Degrees of Knowledge, trans. under Gerald Phelan [Notre Dame: University of
Notre Dame Press, 1995], 344 and 344 n. 35).

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591

just the virtues of the will-justice, hope, charity-but also
fortitude, temperance, and their associated virtues, since the
passions can influence the will.)
In sum, our ultimate end (taken as UEA) is perfection, which
for us as creatures is our highest activity in relation to the highest
object, God. Put differently, our end is to stand in the right
relation to God. It follows that our perfection involves the
virtuous integration and direction of the whole person toward
friendship with God; but also, or rather as a small but significant
part of this, our perfection includes our welfare. 20 It is good to be
at peace and satisfied with being good and acting well, and it is an
excellence to enjoy excellence. 21 Such feelings are consequent to,
not the ground for, the excellence of which they are the
enjoyment. We do not see the crucial reversal made by the egoist,
who does see such feelings as the ground for the value accorded
to being good and acting well.

IV. OBJECTIONS AND REPLIES
In this section I shall present the strongest case I can for the
claim that Aquinas was an egoist of some sort. Now, the argument
of the previous section makes it clear that such an interpretation
cannot be vindicated. What could be maintained with much more
plausibility, though, is the claim that Aquinas was inconsistent,
that he waffled between perfectionism and egoism. If this claim
could be established, it would then be a matter for argument
which elements preponderate, how to clean up the mess, and so
forth. The case for Aquinas's egoism, or at least for the presence
in his moral theory of important egoistic elements, here takes the
form of five different arguments; perhaps it should be seen as
20 Or, perfection includes those things-peace, delight, well-judged satisfaction-that
we
would consider to be constitutive of welfare.
21 Of contemporary virtue ethicists, Philippa Foot is particularly strong on this point (see
e.g. Foot, Natural Goodness, 79, 98). See also Aristotle, Nie. Ethic. 1.8.1099a15-21 and
Aquinas's commentary on this passage (I Nie. Ethic., lect. 13 [157-58]). I discuss this further
in "Aristotelian Well-Being: A Response to L. W. Sumner's Critique," Utilitas 18 (September
2006): 218-31.

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

"five ways" of seeing him as an egoist. In each instance Aquinas
is interpreted as recommending that agents pursue what is good
for them, their own welfare. These five ways are compatible, with
some being more specific about the character of beatitudo
(interpreted as welfare) and how it is good for the agent (e.g., the
satisfaction argument) and others less so (e.g., the private good
argument). In each case, though, I believe we would intuitively
agree that an agent who followed Aquinas's (alleged) recommendation was egoistic.
The latter three of these "ways" are basically "anticipated
objections" to my interpretation of Aquinas as a perfectionist,
objections I have formulated based on a number of passages from
Aquinas's writings that do seem, or can seem, to support an
egoistic reading. The first two arguments are drawn from articles
by Scott MacDonald and John Langan. I am not concerned here
to offer a comprehensive assessment of MacDonald's and
Langan's larger projects, with some aspects of which I am in
sympathy. Instead, I draw on these articles simply to present
arguments, which have been made by contemporary commentators on Aquinas, in favor of interpreting him as an egoist. As
always in such cases, there is some danger that their use of certain
terms, and in particular of "egoism," will not line up exactly with
mine. There is some danger, then, that my dispute with these
authors may turn out to be largely verbal. I believe it will become
clear that Langan's use of "egoism" does line up quite closely
enough with mine for a substantive dispute; with MacDonald's
use there will be some question, and I shall address this issue
explicitly below. In the end, I am not primarily concerned with an
exegesis of Langan and MacDonald; the main function of my
reference to these articles is to help me construct the strongest
case I can for an egoistic interpretation of Aquinas. By responding
successfully to the strongest case for egoism I shall more
effectively support my own perfectionist interpretation. Following
the presentation of each "way," I shall defend an alternative
reading of the passages invoked that shows how they can fit quite

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snugly into a nonegoistic, perfectionist understanding of Aquinas's
moral theory.

A) MacDonald's Interest Argument
Scott MacDonald argues in "Egoistic Rationalism: Aquinas's
Basis for Christian Morality" that Aquinas's natural teleology
yields in human beings a kind of "psychological egoism."
MacDonald's chief goal in this essay is to advance, as a foundation
for Christian morality, an alternative to a divine command
metaethics, what he calls "egoistic rationalism," and he holds up
Aquinas as an exemplar of this approach. This approach is
"rationalist" in that, roughly, its content is determined by, and
accessible to, reason. It is "egoistic" in that it portrays human
beings as seeking their own perfection or complete actuality-he
calls this "Aquinas's metaethical egoism. "22 But why think this is
a form of egoism? Seeking one's own perfection sounds like
perfectionism. Indeed, some of MacDonald's remarks suggest that
my disagreement with him may be chiefly terminological (see
below). Yet others point toward a more substantive dispute; for
example:
Aquinas's natural teleology applied to human beings appears to yield a sort of
psychological egoism. According to Aquinas, a human being naturally pursues
(wills) its perfection or good (the human good) in virtue of the sort of soul
(psyche) it has .... it seems natural to assume that what perfects a human being
or what a human being's good consists in is what is in that human being's
interest. Hence, Aquinas's claim can be reformulated as the claim that human
beings always pursue their own interest as a matter of psychological necessity. 23

We naturally pursue our own good, which is what is in our
interest. Here our interest and what is in it are left undefined, but
other remarks MacDonald makes suggest how it might be
understood. He tells us that Aquinas thinks "the concept of the
good is the concept of what is desirable and the concept of the
complete human good, happiness, is the concept of what
22 MacDonald,
23 Ibid., 332.

"Egoistic Rationalism," 331.

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

completely satisfies human desires" ;24 elsewhere MacDonald
speaks of Thomistic practical rationality as allowing the agent "to
maximize satisfaction of her desires. " 25 Such passages could be
understood as interpreting Aquinas to be recommending the
pursuit of our own welfare, seen in terms of our complete
satisfaction. To the extent that this is right, MacDonald's
interpretation will link up with arguments discussed below
(subsections B and C). But we might also take phrases like "our
own interest" to be synonymous with what is good for us, or with
our private good simply (so that the exact character of that good,
or of our welfare, is left unspecified)-to the extent that this is so,
other passages treated below (subsections D and E) will provide
some further support for his view.
However fleshed out, the pursuit of one's own interests as an
overriding goal smacks of egoism. This interest argument,
seemingly grounded firmly in Aquinas's natural teleology,
promises to support a variety of egoistic interpretations. A closer
look at the argument, however, shows that it cannot keep such
promises. We can reformulate the argument thus:
Premise: All human beings naturally pursue their own perfection.
Premise: Their own perfection is what is in the interest of human
beings.
Conclusion: All human beings naturally pursue their own interest.

If we take "interest" here to be synonymous with "welfare" in our
sense, the conclusion means that Aquinas sees all human beings as
psychological egoists, as MacDonald said. But notice that this
argument is invalid. All that really follows from the premises is
that all human beings pursue what is in their interests. The loving
contemplation of God that is our perfection will completely
satisfy us, and is the only thing that will. In pursuing contemplation we therefore pursue what is in our interest. But this is
not egoistic unless we pursue perfection only because it is in our
Ibid., 335.
Scott MacDonald, "Ultimate Ends in Practical Reasoning: Aquinas's Aristotelian Moral
Psychology and Anscombe's Fallacy," The Philosophical Review 100 (1991): 31-66, at 56.
24

25

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595

interest (or in other words, for the sake of welfare). But, for
Aquinas, we do not: We pursue perfection for its own sake: "Nor
does the will seek good for the sake of repose" (STh I-II, q. 4, a.
2).
Three options are open to MacDonald. He could call our
attention back to his remarks about satisfaction and his citation of
passages like question 5, article 8 of the Prima Secundae. 26 He
could, second, move in the direction of the private good
argument. 27 These sorts of moves would make clear that the
allegation is that we pursue what is in our interest because it is in
out interest (they are addressed in the following sections). The
third option would be to insist that he is using the term "egoism"
differently than we are. Some passages certainly suggest this might
be the case. MacDonald holds that, for Aquinas, humans do seek
only their own interests, but that "their own interest is not
narrowly individualistic .... Hence, when human beings seek the
good of the family or the city they seek it as part of their own
good. " 28 MacDonald goes on to explain, this "does not mean that
one does not seek the good of others for its own sake but only for
the sake of one's own good. One can seek the constituents of
one's own good for their own sakes, and also for the sake of the
good of which they are constituents. " 29
Obviously, MacDonald is not trying to answer my questions in
my terms, but I do think he has left unresolved questions about
how to understand some of his claims. It could turn out that my
disagreement with MacDonald is essentially terminological. But
even if so, it is an important one as such disagreements go. If
nothing else, labeling Thomistic ethics a kind of "Egoistic
Rationalism" seems an unpromising way to make it inviting to
contemporary Christian philosophers (one goal of MacDonald's
paper)-"Rational
Perfectionism" or even "Agent-Relative
Perfectionism" strike me as more inviting and more accurate, both
26 MacDonald,

"Egoistic Rationalism," 335, 351 n. 20; MacDonald, "Ultimate Ends in
Practical Reasoning," 55 n. 45.
27 MacDonald, "Egoistic Rationalism," 331-32 could be read in this way.
28 Ibid., 339.
29 Ibid., 352 n. 35.

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on this third understanding of MacDonald and on what I think is
the right understanding of Aquinas.
B) Langan's Fulfillment Argument

In "Egoism and Morality in the Theological Teleology of
Thomas Aquinas," John Langan interprets Aquinas as "a longrange supernatural egoist" who "treats morality as a means to
attaining an ultimate good. " 30 Part of his brief is to show how
such an egoism can ground an approach to life that has
recognizably moral and even ascetic contours, and to suggest that
these contours, constituting Aquinas's normative ethics (which
occupies the "space between" its egoistic foundation and its
theological telos) 31 may be of interest even to those who reject
Aquinas's egoism and theology. My concern will be with his
argument for attributing the egoistic foundation to Aquinas's
ethics in the first place.
Langan bases this attribution on his interpretation of Aquinas's
notion of the final end. He quotes Aquinas's remark that "All
desire their complete fulfillment, which, as we have noted, is what
the final end means" (STh I-II, q. 1, a. 7), and goes on to speak of
"the condition of complete fulfillment or satisfaction of a person's
desires," 32 clearly taking fulfillment to be the same thing as
satisfaction. Key to his argument is his reading of Aquinas's
distinction between the ultimate end as object and as attainment:
"a) as a definite thing or condition or activity the attainment and
realization of which is completely satisfactory, b) as the complete
satisfaction of one's desires." 33
Along these lines, Langan says of Aquinas that "he shares
Hobbes's understanding of good as the object of appetite or
desire, " 34 and that "Hobbes and Aquinas both hold that all human
persons . . . desire the satisfaction of their desires and a life of
30 Langan, "Egoism and Morality,"
31 Ibid., 424-25.
32 Ibid., 413.
33 Ibid., 412-13.
34 Ibid., 4 21.

424.

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sure contentment. " 35 In my terminology, the ultimate end for both
is welfare. All that distinguishes them is the kind of natural
inclinations they attribute to human beings 36 and the fact that
Aquinas thinks that there is in fact an object (God) which can
satisfy our desires, and turns out to be such that we must rectify
our will (or, become morally good) in order to attain it. 37 As
important as these differences are metaphysically speaking, they
do not alter the basic goal of the agent, which is welfare in a
roughly Sumnerian sense of complete satisfaction. Thus does
Aquinas turn out to be some sort of foundational ("long-range")
egoist for whom moral concerns are ultimately instrumental.
Langan' s interpretation of Aquinas is in the end insupportable,
due to three related mistakes that he makes. 38 The most important
is his claim that Hobbes and Aquinas share an "understanding of
good as the object of appetite. " 39 Both agree that the good is the
object of appetite, but that is as far as their agreement goes.
Hobbes thinks that we call something good because we desire it,
not because it is inherently valuable. For Aquinas we desire
something because we think it good: "a thing is desirable only
insofar as it is perfect" (STh I, q. 5, a. 1; see also I Nie. Ethic.,
lect. 1 [9]). Aquinas is diametrically opposed to Hobbes on this
point. This sheds light on Langan' s other mistakes, for they too
tend to treat desire and its satisfaction as primary when they are
actually secondary to goodness.
The second mistake is the following. Langan writes, "Hobbes
and Aquinas both hold that all human persons . . . desire the
satisfaction of their desires and a life of sure contentment. " 40 Yes,
but not in the same way. For Hobbes, desire satisfaction and
contentment, and the quieting of the fear of death, are together
the essence of the felicity we seek (without real hope). This is not
35 Ibid., 420-21.
36 Ibid., 423.
37

Ibid., 421.

38 Langan himself admits "there

are moves available to Thomas and his defenders that
would open the way to a non-egoistic interpretation of his views" (ibid., 425).
39 Ibid., 4 21.
40 Ibid., 420-21.

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

the case for Aquinas, according to whom we do seek, to be sure,
the satisfaction of our desires and the resulting contentment, but
we do not seek these things exclusively or even primarily. Rather
we seek first perfection and then these things insofar as they are
part of our perfection (see above). We desire things, even our own
satisfaction and contentment, because they are good. There can be
no good argument from this superficial agreement with Hobbes
to the conclusion that Aquinas is an egoist.
Langan's third (closely related) mistake lies in his
interpretation of Aquinas's distinction between the ultimate end
as object and as attainment, in terms of "a) as a definite thing or
condition or activity the attainment and realization of which is
completely satisfactory, [and] b) as the complete satisfaction of
one's desires. "41 Langan is paraphrasing rather than quoting here,
and does not give a citation, so it is difficult to know just where
he thinks Aquinas says this. Aquinas draws a distinction between
two senses of the ultimate end (which we have called UE0 and
UEA) in a number of places in the Prima Secundae (e.g., q. 1, a. 7;
q. 1, a. 8; q. 3, a. 1; and q. 5, a. 8, with the last one coming
closest to Langan's formulation). Langan had been talking about
question 1, article 5, where the distinction is not drawn, but he
shortly afterward does cite question 1, article 7, where the
distinction is cast in terms of the notion (ratio) of the ultimate end
(UEA), and that in which the notion is realized (UE0 ). Langan
quotes Aquinas as saying there, with regard to the UEA: "All desire
their complete fulfillment, which, as we have noted, is what the
final end means (est ratio ultimi finis). "42 I believe the translation
is his own, but at any rate I should like to quarrel with it. The
word translated as "fulfillment" -which seemingly has the sort of
connotations needed by one who is trying to establish that
Aquinas understands the UEA as desire satisfaction (Langan goes
on to speak of "the condition of complete fulfillment or
satisfaction of a person's desires" as though the disjuncts were
equivalent) 43-is perfectio, which does not have these
41 Ibid., 412-13.
42 Ibid., 413.

43 Ibid.

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

599

connotations. Langan's argument is that in seeking the attainment
of the ultimate end the Thomistic agent seeks satisfaction, and
therefore is an egoist of some stripe. But the argument falls flat
because the UEA is not satisfaction, but is that perfect activity
which will, as a matter of fact, satisfy. 44
C) The Satisfaction Argument

These arguments drawn from Langan and MacDonald do not
successfully convict Aquinas of egoism. Still, it is possible to cite
texts supporting the idea that Thomistic agents pursue their own
satisfaction, and that can seem to call for an egoistic interpretation. Langan and MacDonald cite some, but I do not think
they exploit these and other passages to the fullest extent. Here
are some of the starkest. Our ultimate end, happiness, "must so
entirely satisfy man's desire that there is nothing left for him to
desire" (STh I-II, q. 1, a. 5). Again, "Each thing desires its own
fulfillment and therefore desires for its ultimate end a good that
perfects and completes it" (ibid.). Perhaps most damning, "Hence
to desire happiness is simply to desire that one's will be wholly
satisfied, and this everyone desires" (STh I-II, q. 5, a. 8).
Moreover, Aquinas indicates that the ultimate end understood as
object (money, or whatever object an agent takes as his ultimate
end) is ordered to the agent's possession and enjoyment of that
object; in this sense the agent uses even the ultimate end (cf. STh
I-II, q. 16, a. 3; and ibid., ad 1 and 2). Thus the ultimate end in
terms of attainment is the satisfying repose of the will in a fitting
object, and so morality is a means to the ultimate end of the
agent's own welfare (here again understood in terms of complete
satisfaction), a useful instrument for the enlightened egoist-so
Langan and {perhaps) MacDonald argue, and so many passages in
the Summa seem to indicate.
These are tough passages for the perfectionist. The gist of the
reply, however, should be clear from what I have said above:
44 I think that Langan gets the first horn of his distinction wrong too: his description of the
first horn includes both horns of Aquinas's distinction, object and activity. In STh 1-11, q. 3,
a. 1 and 1-11, q. 3, a. 2, we see that the UE0 is God, and the UEA an activity.

600

CHRISTOPHER TONER

perfection includes welfare within it, so of course it will satisfy,
delight, and so forth. Still, the passages cited demand individual
attention. The claim that happiness must completely satisfy man's
desire (STh I-II, q. 1, a. 5) looks to be giving an account of the
essence of happiness. But this would be odd, given that Aquinas
later (STh I-II, q. 3, a. 5) states explicitly that the essence of
happiness consists in an activity of the speculative intellect.
Indeed, close attention to the context of the former passage shows
that it is not so. Aquinas has just said that each desires a good that
perfects him; the passage cited in the objection is preceded by
"Oportet igitur" -it is therefore necessary that happiness completely satisfy man's desire and so forth. The satisfaction is
necessary for happiness because it is a consequence of it, as heat
is needed for fire (as Aquinas explicitly says of pleasure [STh I-II,
q. 4, a. 1]).45
The other passage quoted from question 1, article 5, in which
Aquinas says that each "desires its own fulfillment" and for this
reason desires a good that "perfects and completes" him is easily
dealt with, along the same lines as we dealt (in the previous
section) with another passage involving the term "fulfillment."
The objection is based on a misunderstanding of the term; what
Aquinas actually says is that each desires his own perfection (suam
perfectionem) and thus desires a good that will in fact perfect him.
What of the passage from question 16, article 3, suggesting
that the UE0 is ordered to the agent's use and enjoyment of it?
Aquinas points out that the end of the miser is not money simply,
but his possession of it. In the same way, we cannot speak of a
man aiming at God, full stop, as though he were a clay pigeon.
The man must be aiming at a certain relationship with
God-namely, the relationship that perfects the man, making him
to be as he should. God is willed in the willing of a certain
relationship with him, and so in a sense God is willed as "part" of
a whole (man in the right relation to God). But a part is for the
sake of the whole, a (constitutive) means to the whole, and thus
45 See also STh I-II, q. 3, a. 4, ad 1 where peace, which involves satisfaction, receives a
similar treatment: peace is consequent to happiness "inasmuch as man is at peace when he has
attained the ultimate end, all his desires being at rest."

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

601

the part is "applied to" the whole or "used" in the sense Aquinas
has in mind here. The language he employs in this article would
be unfortunate, and would have to be judged very poorly chosen,
had he been concerned here with fending off charges of egoism
(he speaks of possession and enjoyment of the UE0 , and so forth).
But this was not his concern. We-or at any rate the blessed-do
enjoy God, and do in some nonexclusive sense possess him, and
Aquinas has no desire to hide this. But we also serve, contemplate,
worship, and love him as a friend. Indeed, as we saw above, we
love God for his own sake, and more than we love ourselves. All
of this is part of the "right relationship to God" that perfects
rational creatures, but not all of this can be mentioned in every
article in which the last end is mentioned.
What of Aquinas's claim that "to desire happiness is simply to
desire that one's will be wholly satisfied"? Here is the context:
The common notion of happiness is that it is a perfect or complete good, as we
have said. Now since the object of the will is the good, the perfect good for a
man is that which wholly satisfies the will. 46 Hence to desire happiness is simply
to desire that one's will be wholly satisfied, and this everyone desires. (STh I-II,
q. 5, a. 8 [emphasis added]).

This is a different spin on the argument from that which we find
in question 1, article 7, where Aquinas argues that all desire
happiness from the premise that all desire their complete
perfection (omnes appetunt suam perfectionem adimpleri). The
argument here (STh I-II, q. 5, a. 8) is this. Good is the natural
object of the will and thus a perfect good perfectly satisfies the
will. Happiness or beatitude is a perfect good and thus will
perfectly satisfy the will. Therefore to desire happiness is at the
same time, per se accidentally, to desire the complete satisfaction
of one's will.
46 With the Dominican Fathers, I say "that which" where Oesterle has "whatever" (which
I find potentially misleading). The Latin reads: "Cum autem bonum sit objectum voluntatis,
perfectum bonum est alicujus, quad totaliter ejus voluntati satisfacit." Aquinas's point is that
the perfect good satisfies the will because it is the will's natural object, not that the perfect
good is the will's object because it satisfies-it is "that which" (quad) satisfies, not "whatever"
(quidquid) satisfies.

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

As we saw above, the repose of the will in something good is
itself desired; the will seeks to rest in good activity: "it seeks to be
at rest in the activity because that is its good" (STh I-II, q. 4, a. 2).
But in saying this Aquinas cannot mean what the objection
requires him to mean, namely, that this repose or satisfaction is all
that we desire at the ground-floor level. By saying that to desire
happiness is "simply," or better and more literally "nothing other
than" (nihil aliud est), to desire that the will be satisfied, he must
mean that the desire for happiness is not other than the desire that
the will be satisfied because the former contains the latter, and
satisfaction of the former entails satisfaction of the latter. He
cannot mean that the desire for happiness simply is the desire that
the will be satisfied, for this would blatantly contradict other
things he had already said. "It is impossible that the primary thing
desired, which is the end, be the act itself of willing" (STh I-II, q.
1, a. 1, ad 2); even more tellingly, "the will rests in something
only because of the goodness of that in which it rests .... Nor
does the will seek good for the sake of repose [Nee voluntas
quaerit bonum propter quietationem], for if this were the case the
very act of the will would be the end, which has already been
disproved" (STh I-II, q. 4, a. 2). So despite appearances, this
passage, like the others, provides no ammunition for the charge
of egoism.

D) The Private-Good Argument
If the case cannot be made out that Aquinas understands
beatitude in terms of satisfaction, another group of passages may
still seem to lend some support to MacDonald's more generic
description of the final end as whatever is in the agent's interest.
For example, Aquinas seemingly endorses Aristotle's claim in the
Ethics that even in leaving virtuous actions to friends, "the
virtuous person takes what is better for himself [accipit sibi id
quad est melius]" (IX Nie. Ethic., lect. 9 [1883]). Earlier Aquinas
had followed Aristotle by saying that "the lovable for each man is
that which is good for him [ita unicuique amabile est illud quad

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

603

est sibi bonum]" (VIII Nie. Ethic., lect. 2 [1554]). And as I noted
above, when speaking of the necessity of grace Aquinas writes of
"the appetite of his [man's] rational will, which, unless it is cured
by God's grace, follows its private good [bonum privatum]" (STh
I-II, q. 109, a. 3). Similarly, as also noted, he says the good of
another exceeds what is proportionate to the will, so that virtues
such as justice and charity are needed; but the will naturally
desires one's own good (bonum proprium) (see STh I-II, q. 56, a.
6; ibid., obj. 1 and ad 1). All of this sounds much in tune with the
initial, generic description of egoism as the agent's overriding
commitment to the attainment of what is good for him, his own
welfare, however we may go on to define that.
Now, it is undoubtedly true that, for Aquinas, the agent seeks
what is good for him (as he has it, "illud quad est sibi bonum").
But the question must be, "good for him" in egoistic fashion, or
"good for him" in a perfectionist fashion (i.e., being good in the
way appropriate to him given his unique situation in creation)?
Alternatively, is the emphasis on the sibi or the bonum? The
passage from the commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics cited in
question 3, article 4 gives us a clue, for there Aquinas goes on to
say that "every faculty tends to the object proportionate to itself.
Thus everyone's vision sees what is visible to it [sibi visibile]" (VIII
Nie. Ethic., lect. 3 [1554]). The same reflexive pronoun, sibi, is
used, and this helps make its meaning clear: the object sought is
one that is fitting for the seeker. We do not see what is visible for
us, as though we possess some exclusive vision; we see what is
visible, for us-the "for us" or sibi here indicating that our vision
is limited in some way. In the same way we seek what is good, for
us. 47 We are creatures located in a particular place and time, and
the good with which we can enter into the right relation (in this
life, at least) is circumscribed by our finitude. We find this ratified
in the Summa: arguing that the will wills only the good (as it is
known), Aquinas holds that the appetite tends toward something
only if it is "like or suitable to it [simile, et conveniens]" (STh I-II,
47 The same reading should be applied to IX Nie. Ethic., lect. 9: each agent takes what is
"better for himself"-i.e., what is "better, for himself."

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

q. 8, a. 1). The emphasis is on the bonum, as required by a
perfectionist interpretation.
What of the "private good" language? Aquinas's admission that
without grace the will tends to its private good seems to support
the egoistic interpretation. But again, his insistence that grace
perfects rather than destroys nature should raise our suspicions
about this interpretation. A careful reading of the cited passages
shows that they do not support it. We are more focused on
ourselves than we should be, certainly, but what sort of focus is
this? Even in this disordered case (which is now "natural" to us),
the goal remains perfection rather than (just) welfare. The
disorder lies in the way we now seek perfection, and the
disordered way most relevant to the present argument is that,
through ignorance and pride, we seek our perfection as
individuals, for example, at the expense of the family, or as family
members at the expense of the community. It is in this sense that
the will seeks "its own good" (STh I-II, q. 56, a. 6) or "follows its
private good" (STh I-II, q. 109, a. 3).
This is nicely illustrated by an example Aquinas gives (STh I-II,
q. 19, a. 10). A judge justly wills a certain criminal to be executed.
Meanwhile his wife and son will him not to be executed "because
it is an evil for the family"; Aquinas calls the criminal's survival a
"private domestic good [bonum privatum familiae]." The wife's
desire is private, relative to the good of the state, but it is not
selfish-she is worried about the family's good, not just her own
welfare. Indeed Aquinas actually calls her will good, provided
that, he goes on to qualify, she "refers it to the common good as
an end." However much she may lament the judge's ruling, she
must yield to it (and not, e.g., try to "spring" her husband). And,
the will must ultimately be ruled by the common good that God
wills for the universe. 48 This much is clear: The will can be
disordered in willing the private good, but the disorder need not
be one of selfishness. Indeed, the virtues of the will such as justice
and charity do not reorient the will from welfare to perfection (as
48 Cf. STh I, q. 49, a. 3, where Aquinas clarifies that "the goodness of anything" depends
upon "what it is in itself, and on its order to the whole universe, wherein every part has its
own perfectly ordered place."

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

605

the objection supposes), but from partial to full perfection-from
the person's perfection qua individual to his or her perfection qua
member of an ordered hierarchy of societies (family, local
community, state, universe). Virtues are in some sense the
forerunners of grace; 49 they too perfect nature, or at least tend
toward its perfection. Aquinas makes just this point at the outset
of the article from which the second passage cited in the objection
is drawn: "habits perfect powers" (STh I-II, q. 56, a. 6; see also
I-II, q. 55, a. 1). The point is ratified when Aquinas insists that we
have a natural inclination to live in society (cf. STh I-II, q. 94, a.
2); justice is simply the virtue that perfects this inclination. In
saying that the good of others exceeds what is proportionate to
the will, Aquinas must mean only that this natural inclination
stands in need of development. Thus, the private-good argument
fails to show that Aquinas's ethical theory is egoistic.

E) The Order-of-Virtues Argument
Aquinas's insistence that charity is the form and root of all true
virtues (e.g., in STh I-II, q. 62, a. 4) and that charity involves
loving God above all things and neighbor as self present a
stumbling block to any egoistic interpretation of Aquinas. Indeed
I have drawn on this consideration several times to suggest that,
since the life of grace is not egoistic, the life of nature is not
either. A final objection seeks to turn the tables, maintaining in
effect that the life of nature is egoistic, and so we should expect
to find that the life of grace is as well. Furthermore (it is
objected), we do find this when we attend to how human beings
reach the high plateau of charity. We begin by believing with faith
that God will enable us to attain happiness, then we come to hope
for this good from him, and only then do we come to love him
with charity (see STh I-II, q. 62, a. 4). Thus it seems that even
charity is motivated by self-interest. In this interpretation,
happiness is equated to welfare, which itself is left unspecified.

49

On this point see Shanley, "Aquinas on Pagan Virtue," 572-77.

606

CHRISTOPHER TONER

There are three points to be made in response. First, whatever
the motivation that leads us to become charitable, we do after all
become so. This is to say, in part, that we come to love God for
his own sake and more than we love ourselves (see STh II-II, q.
23, a. 1; II-II, q. 26, a. 3). So, even if we did start out as egoists,
we seem to end up otherwise. Given this, we can fall back on
Gilson's point that this would be odd, for grace would seem in
this case to destroy or replace nature, and also the earlier grace of
hope.
Happily, and second, this is not so. The objection misunderstands the character of hope, for "the proper and principal object
of hope is eternal happiness" (STh II-II, q. 17, a. 2). But as we
have seen, happiness or beatitude is, for Aquinas, not welfare but
perfection. We hope in God because he perfects us: "we derive
from God both knowledge of truth and the attainment of perfect
goodness [adeptio perfectae bonitatis]"; God is the principle of
perfect goodness in us (in nobis principium perfectae bonitatis)
(STh II-II, q. 17, a. 6).
Third, although hope leads to charity in part for the reason
stated in the objection (as Aquinas says, one who hopes for good
from God is set on fire with love for him (accenditur ad amandum
Deum [STh II-II, q. 17, a. 8]), it should be noted that charity is
itself part of the perfection hoped for (charity is first in the order
of perfection, and the most excellent of all the virtues; see STh
ibid.; II-II, q. 23, a. 6). Gratitude and love of friendship for a
benefactor, as well as the gracious acceptance of the gift, are part
of standing in the right relation to the benefactor-in this case
God. 50 Our perfection consists in standing, as creatures, in the
right relation to God: part of the grace we hope for just is to be
able, sincerely, wholeheartedly, to love God more than we love
ourselves. The progression in virtue from hope to charity, then,
in no way shows that Aquinas's ethical theory is egoistic.
We can get at this point another way. Aquinas notes that "the
movement of love has a twofold tendency": first, we love
50 Macintyre makes a similar point, on the natural level, in his discussion of the "virtues
of receiving;" (cf. Macintyre, Dependent Rational Animals, chap. 10, esp. 126-27).

WAS AQUINAS AN EGOIST?

607

someone with the love of friendship (amor amacitiae) and thus
wish good to him; second, we love some good thing with the love
of desire (amor concupiscentiae) for that person (STh I-II, q. 26,
a. 4). Although in this passage Aquinas indicates that the love of
friendship may be directed toward oneself or another, if we
combine this passage with the passage under consideration (STh
I-II, q. 62, a. 4), we face another version of the argument that we
begin loving only ourselves as friends and loving all other things
only for ourselves, and only later come to love others with a love
of friendship when they promise us good things (as hope begets
charity). But although Aquinas often speaks of concupiscence as
a principle of sin (see, e.g., STh I-II, q. 77, aa. 4 and 5), it is a
natural appetitive principle and is not disordered in itself. Aquinas
later says that "the concupiscible regards as proper to it the notion
of good, as something pleasant to the senses and suitable to nature
[delectabile secundum sensum, et conveniens naturae]." 51 And as
we saw above (section III), delight follows upon, is secondary to,
what perfects nature. Concupiscence tends not only to delight but
principally to perfection, in the sense of standing in a right or
fitting relation to some good. To bring this back around to hope
and charity, we might say that hope perfects the will in its
capacity as the seat of amor concupiscentiae, charity in its capacity
as seat of amor amacitiae. 52 This is perfectly consistent with the
argument of the foregoing paragraphs that what we hope for is
perfection because concupiscence is not limited to love of pleasure
(or even, more broadly, to what is good for the agent, to welfare).
The amor concupiscentiae is initially self-regarding, but it is
essentially perfectionist rather than merely egoistic, and it is of its
own nature apt to open up into other-regardingness (as we saw
Aquinas point out in STh I-II, q. 62, a. 4).
51 STh I, q. 82, a. 5 (emphasis added). Aquinas makes this remark about the sensitive
appetite, not because he thinks the will different in this respect, but because he thinks that
since the will regards the good under its common notion it is not diversified into distinct
concupiscible and irascible powers, as is the sense appetite, which is diversified by different
notions of particular goods.
52 See his discussion, at STh II-II, q. 17, a. 8, of charity and hope as, respectively, "perfect"
and "imperfect" forms of love.

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CHRISTOPHER TONER

V. CONCLUSION

In saying that "all desire their own perfection" Aquinas is
clearly a perfectionist, and none of the objections succeed in
showing otherwise. I spoke in the introductory section of fitting
the odd pieces into a coherent structure, and I hope I have
succeeded in doing this. But putting things this way is unfair to
Aquinas, whose Summa Theologiae is, after all, a coherent
structure already. It can look incoherent, or at least in need of
serious tidying up and clarification of the sort I have undertaken
here, because we make assumptions that he did not. After Hobbes,
Kant, and Sidgwick, we tend to see selfishness, the inordinate
desire for one's own welfare, as the root of all evil. But for
Aquinas, the first principle of sin is not selfishness but pride. 53
Some passages strike us as clearly perfectionist, others as
obviously egoistic (I chose many of the passages cited in sections
IV.C-IV.E because for a long time they struck me that way),
because we have largely lost sight of the old idea, almost
universally accepted by moralists from Plato through Aquinas, that
perfection includes welfare, or, being good includes well-being.
The story of how this changed is a fascinating one involving such
characters as Anselm and especially Duns Scotus, but it cannot be
told here. 54 For the moment, I can conclude that, for virtue
ethicists struggling today to put the two pieces back together,
Aquinas can be an invaluable help-and we need not be put off by
allegations of egoism. 55

53 See Paul Weithman, "Thomistic Pride and Liberal Vice," The Thomist 60 (1996): 24174, for a penetrating discussion of Aquinas's account of pride. It is revealing that Aquinas
identifies pride (which involves self-centeredness but not, essentially, selfishness) with both
the inordinate desire for excellence (that part of perfection which involves excelling others),
and with inordinate self-love. That is, he sees self-love not in terms of desire merely for one's
own welfare, but for one's own perfection (see e.g. STh II-II, q. 162, a. 1, ad2; I-II, q. 84, a.
2, ad3).
54 I try to tell an important part of this story in "Angelic Sin in Aquinas and Scotus and the
Genesis of Some Central Objections to Contemporary Virtue Ethics," The Thomist 69 (2005):
79-125.
55 I would like to thank an anonymous referee for helpful comments on an earlier draft.

The Thomist 71 (2007): 609-31

THE MORAL STATUS OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF
PRACTICAL REASON IN THOMAS'S NATURAL-LAW
THEORY
GIUSEPPE BUTERA
Providence College
Providence, Rhode Island

I

N QUESTION 94, ARTICLE 2 of the Prima Secundae, Thomas
Aquinas gives the following well-known formulation of the
first principle of practical reason: "Bonum est faciendum et
prosequendum, et malum vitandum" ("Good is to be done and
pursued, and evil is to be avoided"). 1 Though apparently to the
point, this statement is anything but straightforward. The crux of
the problem is what exactly Thomas means by bonum and malum.
Does he mean "moral good" and "moral evil," or does he mean
something more generic, "good" and "evil" taken in their widest
sense? If he means the former, then the first principle of practical
reason amounts to a moral imperative, a command to do and
pursue morally good things and to avoid morally bad things; if the
latter, then it means something else. 2
1 St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica: Complete English Edition in Five Volumes,
trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (Westminister, Md.: Christian Classics,
1981). All quotations of the Summa are from this edition.
2 One possible alternative, championed by the so-called new natural-law theorists, is that
the first principle of practical reason is a prescriptive principle of practical rationality having
nothing to do with morality so that practical rationality in itself is neutral with respect to ends.
"[T]he first principle of practical reason hardly can be understood in the first instance as an
imperative. As we have seen, it is a self-evident principle in which reason prescribes the first
condition of its own practical office" (Germain G. Grisez, "The First Principle of Practical
Reason: A Commentary on the Summa theologiae, 1-2, Question 94, Article 2," Natural Law
Forum 10 [1965]: 182). "Aquinas, Grisez argues, did not propose his first principle of
practical reason as a moral imperative. Rather,Aquinas supposed that such a principle controls

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The main purpose of this article will be to argue that bonum
and ma/um should be taken in their moral sense. For lack of a
better term, this view will be referred to as the imperativist
interpretation. The first section will be used to touch upon an
important criticism. Viewed against the backdrop of this criticism,
it will be easier to see the essential features of the imperativist
interpretation. In order to provide the philosophical setting for
Thomas's discussion of the first principle of practical reason, the
second section will be devoted to providing a general overview of
the teaching found in the body of question 94, article 2. In the
third section, an argument in favor of the imperativist interpretation will be presented. The last section will be taken up with
a defense of the imperativist interpretation against the criticism
laid out in the first section.
At stake in the dispute between the imperativist interpretation
and its critics is more than the moral status of the first principle
all coherent practical thinking-whether morally good or evil. 'Good,' as Grisez understands
Aquinas's formulation, refers not only to what is morally good, but to whatever within human
power can be understood as intelligibly worthwhile; 'evil' refers to any privation of intelligible
goods. Interpreted in this way, the principle neither presupposes a knowledge of right and
wrong nor, a fortiori, enjoins us to choose the morally upright course of action. The work
done by the first principle is more primitive. It states a condition of any coherent practical
thinking, viz., that one's reasoning be directed toward some end that is pursuable by human
action. Even morally wicked choices, to the extent that they are intelligible, meet this
condition (although, as we shall see not so well as morally upright choices). Consider, for
example, a choice that treats another person unfairly. To the extent that such a choice has an
intelligible point, it will be consistent with the first principle of practical reason, despite its
immorality. Understood as a directive, the first principle is weak: It requires only coherence,
not full moral rectitude" (Robert P. George, In Defense of Natural Law [New York: Oxford
University Press, 1999], 37). A controversial view, the new natural-law interpretation has been
much debated. For representative articles, see in addition to the works quoted above the
following: Ralph Mclnerny, "The Principles of Natural Law," American Journal of
Jurisprudence 25 (1980): 1-15; John Finnis and Germain Grisez, "The Basic Principles of
Natural Law: A Reply to Ralph Mclnerny," The American Journal ofJurisprudence 26 (1981):
21-31; Janice L. Schultz, "Is-Ought: Prescribing and a Present Controversy," The Thomist 49
(1985): 1-23; Brian V. Johnstone, "The Structures of Practical Reason: Traditional Theories
and Contemporary Questions," The Thomist 5 0 (198 6): 417-46; Russell Bittinger ,A Critique
of the New Natural Law Theory (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1987);
Germain Grisez, "A Critique of Russell Hittinger's Book, A Critique of the New Natural Law
Theory," NewScholasticism 62 (1988): 438-66; Germain Grisez, "The Structures of Practical
Reason: Some Comments and Clarifications," The Thomist 52 (1988): 269-91.

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611

of practical reason. It is the very horizon of human responsibility.
Do freedom and intelligence place every human action within the
horizon of the ethical or are there human actions that fall outside
it? Hanging in the balance is not only a proper understanding of
Thomas's natural-law theory but an adequate appreciation of the
fact that every choice is a hinge on which our lives may turn
radically for the better or the worse.
I. A CRITICISM OF THE IMPERATIVIST INTERPRETATION

Of all the criticisms that could be leveled against the
imperativist interpretation, perhaps the most compelling is based
on the observation that some, if not most, of our deliberations,
decisions, and choices are made without a thought being given to
their morality. Decisions about what to eat for breakfast, when to
schedule a meeting, or where to go for dinner would seem to have
nothing at all to do with morality. But if this is so, then the first
principle of practical reason cannot be a moral imperative.
This objection becomes even more pointed when applied to
choices of a patently immoral cast, since immoral choices would
appear to be impossible on the imperativist view. As a prominent
critic of the imperativist interpretation has argued, "if the first
principle of practical reason were Do morally good acts, then
morally bad acts would fall outside the order of practical reason. " 3
There could be no such thing as moral responsibility for wicked
deeds since these would fall outside the ambit of practical reason.
As such, they would be on the same level as the actions of a
madman, in no way freely chosen. But since Thomas considers
3 Grisez, "The First Principle of Practical Reason," 189. "Not only virtuous and selfrestrained rnen, but also vicious rnen and backsliders make practical judgments. Indeed, if
evildoers lacked practical judgment they could not engage in human action at all. It follows
that practical judgments made in evil action nevertheless fall under the scope of the first
principle of the natural law, and the word 'good' in this principle must refer somehow to
deceptive and inadequate human goods as well as to adequate and genuine ones" (ibid., 187).
"[I]f 'good' denoted only moral goods, either wrong practical judgments could in no way issue
from practical reason or the formula we are examining would not in reality express the first
principle of practical reason" (ibid.). For further discussion of Grisez's views on this matter
by an important new natural-law theorist, see George, In Defense of Natural Law, 36-42.

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human beings to be capable of sinning, of choosing freely and
intelligently to act wickedly, "the first principle must govern the
practical reasoning of people who do evil," 4 not just those who do
good. As such, the first principle of practical reason cannot be
limited to commanding us to make morally good choices and
avoid morally bad ones. If it were, no one could ever freely and
rationally choose or intend to do evil. Bonum and malum, the
objection concludes, must therefore be taken in a sense wider than
the moral.
In what follows, I hope to show that this criticism is mistaken,
not only because the imperativist reading corresponds exactly to
Thomas's understanding of the first principle of practical reason,
but because this criticism does not provide an adequate account
of deliberation and choice.
II. A GENERAL OVERVIEW OF
SUMMA THEOLOGIAE I-II, Q. 94, A. 2

Although the article in question contains Thomas's most
mature treatment of the first principle of practical reason, he
manages to say just enough there to establish the broad outlines
of an important doctrine without saying enough to avoid
controversy concerning some of its essential details. 5 In the
interest of clarity, I shall begin by stating what is more or less
clear and unambiguous about the teaching contained in the article
before taking a closer look at the passages that make it so difficult
to say exactly what bonum and malum mean in this context.
In this article, Thomas asks whether the natural law contains
several precepts or just one. The article comes in the only
question in the entire treatise on law (STh I-II, qq. 90-108)
devoted to natural law. The question posed in article 2 flows
logically from the answer given to the question posed in article 1
4 Finnis and Grisez, "The Basic Principles of Natural Law: A Reply to Ralph Mcinerny,"
27. In "The Principles of Natural Law," Mcinerny also challenges the new natural-law
interpretation of STh I-II, q. 94, a. 2. However, he argues along different lines to the
conclusion that the first principle of practical reason is a moral imperative.
5 See n. 2 above for more on the controversy.

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613

about natural law and its relation to habit. There, Thomas argues
that natural law, although not a habit in the strict sense of being
"that by which one acts," may be said to be a habit in an
analogous sense since it is by means of habit that the precepts of
the natural law are possessed by rational men when they are not
explicitly thinking of them. Granted this conclusion, one might
wonder just how many precepts the natural law contains, the
question posed in article 2.
Thomas begins his response in article 2 by saying that the first
precepts of the natural law are to practical reason as the first
principles of demonstration are to the speculative intellect since
both sets of principles are self-evident (per se nota). A proposition
may be said to be self-evident in two ways: in itself (secundum se)
and with respect to us (quoad nos). What makes a proposition
self-evident in itself is that the meaning or intelligibility (ratio) of
the predicate is contained in the meaning of the subject. If the
definition of the subject of a self-evident proposition is unknown
to us, we shall fail to apprehend its truth. Although the
proposition will be self-evident in itself, it will not be self-evident
to us. Propositions such as "Every whole is greater than its part"
and "Things equal to another are equal to each other" are selfevident in themselves and to all because everyone, educated or
not, can grasp the intelligibility of their terms and therefore their
truth. Other propositions, however, contain terms that are not
readily apprehended by all because they require much study to be
known. As an example, Thomas gives the proposition "An angel
is not circumscriptively in a place," which though self-evident in
itself (secundum se), is self-evident not to all but only to the
educated.
In the speculative intellect, the first self-evident proposition is
the principle of noncontradiction. This is so, Thomas explains,
because the first concept to enter the speculative intellect is the
concept of a thing precisely as that which has being (ens). In
apprehending this concept (and hence at least some of its
intelligibility), the speculative intellect naturally grasps the truth
that a thing cannot both be and not be at the same time and in the

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614

same respect. In the case of the practical intellect, the first selfevident proposition is the principle that good is to be done and
pursued, and evil avoided. This is because the first concept
apprehended by the practical intellect is the concept of the good
understood as that for which all things strive. In grasping this
concept, the intellect also grasps the self-evident truth of the first
principle of practical reason. It does so because the intelligibility
of that which is to be done and pursued is seen to belong to the
concept of goodness (bonum), and the intelligibility of that which
is to be avoided is seen to belong to the concept of evil (malum),
the contrary of goodness.
Reason is able to function in a practical capacity precisely
because it grasps the good under the formality of "that for which
all things strive." AB Thomas puts it:
Now as "being" is the first thing that falls under the apprehension simply, so
"good" is the first thing that falls under the apprehension of the practical reason,
which is directed to action: since every agent acts for an end under the aspect of
good. 6

It is because reason apprehends goods under the formality of ends
that it has a practical as well as a theoretical mode of operation.
This apprehension is the spark that gets the whole decisionmaking process going. It is also the root and stem of the natural
law, since from it we proceed directly to a judgment whose
product in addition to being the first principle of practical reason
is also the first precept of the natural law.
Having shown that practical reason is grounded in the first
principle of practical reason, Thomas is now in a position to argue
that the natural law comprises more than one precept, a
conclusion that follows from the fact that human beings naturally
apprehend more than one thing as good and therefore more than
one thing as an end, that is, as something to be done and pursued.
He begins the argument by distinguishing three kinds of
natural inclination. Each comprises a number of specific
inclinations which man experiences by nature, inclinations to
6

STh I-II, q. 94, a. 2.

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615

pursue human goods. 7 To the first ("first" because common to all
things) belong natural inclinations for goods that belong to man
merely by virtue of his being a substance. Corresponding to these
inclinations are precepts concerning all those things that are
necessary for preserving and defending life, such as the precept
commanding us to care for our bodily health and to defend
ourselves against disease and violent force. To the second kind
belong natural inclinations for goods that belong to man by virtue
of his having an animal nature. Corresponding to these
inclinations are precepts concerning things nature teaches all
animals to do, such as to propagate their species and to educate
their offspring. To the third kind belong natural inclinations for
goods that belong to man by virtue of his having a rational nature,
such as living in society with others and the knowledge of the
truth about God. Corresponding to these inclinations are such
precepts as to avoid offending those with whom we must live and
to shun ignorance.
The moral status of these multiple precepts appears to be
bound up with the moral status of the first precept of the natural
law. 8 If that precept is a moral imperative, then each of the
natural inclinations experienced by man will result in the
apprehension of a self-evident moral precept. If it is not, however,
we shall have to look elsewhere for the moral law. In the
following section, I shall attempt to show that the first precept of
the natural law, and therefore the first principle of practical
reason, is a moral imperative commanding us to do and pursue
only goods that are compatible with moral uprightness as well as
to avoid every evil that is not.
7 "Natural law precepts relating to such goods must envisage them as human goods: the
precept is a directive of reason as to how we should pursue such goods. Thus goods which are
not peculiar to men come to be constituents of the human good insofar as they come under
the sway of the distinctive mark of human agent, reason. Sex is a human good not just as such,
but as engaged in consciously and purposively and responsibly. That is how it becomes a
human evil too; there is no way in which humans can engage in sexual activity other than
consciously which is why the 'animal' part of our nature is always a layer and never
autonomous" (Mcinerny, "The Principles of Natural Law," 4-5).
8 See ITh I-II, q. 94, a. 2, ad 1: "All these precepts of the law of nature have the character
of one natural law, inasmuch as they flow from one first precept."

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III. AN ARGUMENT FOR THE IMPERATIVIST INTERPRETATION
I propose to argue for the imperativist interpretation in the
following way. First, I shall argue that, on Thomas's view, the
natural law directs and guides every human being to beatitude.
Second, I shall argue that in directing us towards beatitude, the
natural law is thought by Thomas to direct us both to our moral
perfection as to our last end, and to morally good actions, the
only means by which our last end may be attained. By far the
longer and more difficult of these two steps will be the second.
In order to show that the natural law directs and guides every
human being to beatitude, we must start by looking at question
91, article 2 of the Prima Secundae, where Thomas argues that the
natural law is the rational creature's participation in the eternal
law. There we are told that the natural law is that part of the
eternal law-God's providential plan for all creation-which is
expressed in rational creatures not merely as a set of natural
inclinations, as in brute animals, but as commands of practical
reason arising from rational deliberation and free choice. This is
not to say that we are subject only to that part of the eternal law
which we can know and choose freely to obey. Digestion,
breathing, and growth, to mention only a few examples, obey the
eternal law naturally, the powers with which we perform these
actions having the eternal law impressed upon them as biological
instincts and urges. But not all our powers are similarly governed.
Reason and will working together enable us to move ourselves
freely and knowingly without compulsion, giving us the ability to
participate freely in God's governance of the world. 9
In question 93, article 1 of the Prima Secundae, Thomas argues
that the eternal law directs all things to their last end. God
governs the world according to his wisdom, commanding each
creature to do those things that are good not only for itself but for
creation as a whole. These commands have the character of law,
for as Thomas maintains (STh I-II, q. 90, a. 4), a law is nothing
For an excellent discussion of the role played by providence in Thomas's natural-law
theory, see Russell Hittinger, The First Grace: Rediscovering the Natural Law in a PostChristian World (Wilmington, Del.: ISI Books, 2003), esp. chaps. 1and2.
9

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617

other than a command of reason for the common good
promulgated by one who has care of the community. Hence, since
the commands by which God directs each thing to its last end are
in fact precepts of the eternal law, it follows that the eternal law
directs all things to their last end.
Much earlier (in STh I-II, q. 1, a. 7), we find Thomas arguing
that all human beings by nature have one and the same last end.
Although he does not name it explicitly in this article, it is clear
from the prologue to the question, as well as from his discussion
of happiness in the following question and other places, that the
last end is beatitude. 10 Some might object that the wide divergence
of opinion that exists among people about the nature of the good
life gives the lie to this idea. Aware of this objection, Thomas
bolsters his position by using it to account for the very divergence
of opinion which is thought to tell against it. He begins by
distinguishing two ways that we may speak of the last end: "first,
considering only the aspect of last end; secondly, considering the
thing in which the aspect of last end is realized." 11 Everyone
agrees that the aspect of the last end is happiness since, as Thomas
explains, "all desire the fulfillment of their perfection, and it is
precisely this fulfillment in which the last end consists." 12 Yet to
someone who does not know that in which the last end is actually
realized, a thing might appear falsely to have the aspect of the last
end. So, while one person might devote his life to the pursuit of
wisdom, another fame, and yet another wealth, each will do so for
the sake of happiness.
It follows that the natural law directs and guides every human
being to beatitude. That is to say, the purpose of the natural law
is to direct human beings to the perfect happiness of complete
fulfillment and to instruct them on how to attain it. As Thomas
says in the prologue to his treatise on law, the external means by
which God moves man to the good is law. 13 Moreover, since man
wills everything for the sake of the last end, as Thomas argues
10 "There is but one last end of human wills, viz., happiness" (STh I-II, q. 12, a. 2).

STh I-II, q. 1, a. 7. See also STh I, q. 26, a. 3.
STh I-II, q. 1, a. 7.
13 STh I-II, q. 90, proe.
11

12

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GIUSEPPEBUTERA

(STh I-II, q. 1, a. 6), it follows that the natural law is intended to

guide and direct every one of our choices. We must not suppose
him to mean that in every choice a person expressly intends
beatitude. Nearly always his intention of beatitude will be merely
habitual, in much the same way that a student's intention to
graduate or a traveler's intention to arrive safely at his destination
is habitual, only occasionally expressly articulated but always
present behind the scenes, guiding and motivating all of his
choices in the pursuit of a degree or his arrival at his destination. 14
And since the only philosophically satisfactory explanation for any
of our choices, even the most mundane, turns out to be our
ultimate willing of beatitude through intention, this intention
must be operative in every one of our choices, if only habitually. 15
No one can choose to cast his net on the waters or break bread
with his friends without at least habitually intending beatitude.
So far, I have shown that the natural law on Thomas's own
reckoning directs us towards beatitude, our true good and last
end. What remains to be shown is that in directing us towards our
last end, the natural law directs us both to our moral perfection,
as to our last end, and to morally good actions, by means of which
we must attain our last end.
Regarding the first point, Thomas tells us quite plainly, in
response to the question whether an effect of law is to make men
14 See STh I-II, q. 50, a. 5, ad 1 and 3.
15 We find the basis of this doctrine

in STh I-II, q. 12, a. 4, where Thomas argues that
every choice includes the intention of some end. For example, we choose to drive to the
theater because we intend to see a performance of Henry V. Now if someone were to ask why
we intend to see the play, we might say that it is because earlier in the day we chose to spend
the evening in some form of entertainment. And if the questioning were to be taken a step
further, we might say that we chose to spend the evening in some form of entertainment
because we had decided that going out was preferable to staying in. If continued, the
questioning would eventually have to reveal the intention of some end which was not itself
the result of a prior choice. It would have to, for in the absence of an intention that was not
the product of a prior choice, it would be impossible to make any choices at all. Since choice
is always for some intended end, every choice is dependent on some intention. And in a chain
of choices, the first is the cause of all the others. But in any causal chain, the removal of the
first results in the removal of all the rest. Hence, without a first intention there can be no first
choice. Consequently, the first act of the will must be the intention of some good taken as the
ultimate end of all our striving, namely, beatitude, "the vision of the divine essence" (STh I-II,
q. 3, a. 8) and man's last end.

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619

good, that God's purpose in making law is to make men good
simply (bonum simpliciter). 16 The argument he employs to arrive
at this conclusion is illuminating. He begins by noting that law is
a dictate of the ruler's reason by which his subjects are governed.
In order for his subjects to be governed by the law, however, they
must be obedient to the ruler's reason. The virtue of a subject qua
subject, therefore, is to be well subjected to one's ruler. Thomas
then observes that every law aims at being obeyed by those who
are subject to it. For this reason, "the proper effect of law is to
lead its subjects to their proper virtue." 17 Therefore, "since virtue
is that which makes its subject good, it follows that the proper
effect of law is to make those to whom it is given, good, either
simply or in some particular respect." 18 Man's simple good is the
effect of law when the intention of the lawgiver is directed
towards the true good, which Thomas says is "the common good
regulated according to Divine justice." 19 The effect of law is
something other than his simple good when the intention of the
lawgiver is directed towards something that is "useful or
pleasurable to himself, or in opposition to Divine justice. "20 But
man is simply good only when he is virtuous qua man, that is,
when he is perfectly obedient to the law and hence morally
perfect. 21 Therefore, the good or last end towards which man is
16 STh I-II, q. 92, a. 1. Earlier, in STh I-II, q. 91, a. 5, Thomas says that, among other
things, it belongs to law "to be directed to the common good as to its end," as well as "to
direct human acts according to the order of righteousness."
17 STh I-II, q. 92, a. 1.
18 Ibid.
19 Ibid.
20 Ibid.
21 In STh I-II, q. 94, a. 3, where Thomas asks "whether all acts of virtue are prescribed by
the natural law," we read the following: "ad legem naturae pertinet omne illud ad quod homo
inclinatur secundum suam naturam. Inclinatur autem unumquodque naturaliter ad
operationem sibi convenientem secundum suam formam, sicut ignis ad calefaciendum. Uncle
cum anima rationalis sit propria forma hominis, naturalis inclinatio inest cuilibet homini ad
hoc quod agat secundum rationem. Et hoc est agere secundum virtutem. Uncle secundum hoc,
omnes actus virtutum sunt de lege naturali: dictat enim hoc naturaliter unicuique propria ratio,
ut virtuose agat." Clearly, then, the natural law directs man to the moral good, not just any
good, where "good" is understood as an intelligible end. Or, rather, we might say that
"intelligible end" when it is understood, that is, when it is grasped by the intellect, is anything
compatible with the simple good of the agent whose intellect it is. For a comprehensive

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directed by natural law is moral goodness and perfection, his
bonum simpliciter.
Regarding the second point, namely, that the natural law
directs us to morally good actions without which we cannot attain
our last end, we should start by noting a very important
distinction that appears at the beginning of the Prima Secundae.
In question 1, article 1, where Thomas shows that every one of
our actions is done for some end, he distinguishes between actions
that are freely chosen, such as winking and eating, and actions
that are not, such as blinking and digesting. The former he calls
human actions (actus humanus) since they proceed from reason
and will, the powers which distinguish man from all other
animals; the latter he calls actions of a human being (actus
hominis). This is not to say that a human action does not count as
an action of a human being; rather, human action is a species of
the more generic action of a human being. 22 Every action
performed by a human being is an action of a human being; only
those actions proceeding from a deliberate will are human actions.
Therefore, an action is truly human only to the extent that it
proceeds from reason and will.
Granted that all human actions, properly speaking, proceed
from reason and will, it might seem ridiculous to suppose that
humdrum actions like picking up straw or walking through a field
(Thomas's examples) are moral actions. This sentiment was
mentioned in section I when we looked briefly at an important
criticism of the imperativist interpretation. Thomas himself shows
sympathy with it when he argues that some actions are morally
indifferent in their species, the aforementioned being but two
examples (STh 1-11, q. 18, a. 8). They are indifferent in their
species because, considered abstractly, they include in themselves
nothing that is either in harmony with reason or opposed to it.
Keeping in mind that every moral act involves an object, an
treatment of the notion of moral goodness and its different analogous senses in Thomas, see
David M. Gallagher, "Goodness and Moral Goodness," in Thomas Aquinas and His Legacy,
ed. David M. Gallagher (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1994),
37-59.
22 See STh I-II, q. 1, a. 1, ad 2.

THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF PRACTICAL REASON

621

intention, and the circumstances (of the act), 23 we might say that
an indifferent act is one that, when taken simply in terms of its
object, contributes nothing to the moral status of the act.
The fact that some acts are morally indifferent in their species,
however, does not entail that there can exist morally indifferent,
concrete human actions. Thomas is quick to point this out in the
very next article (STh I-II, q. 18, a. 9) where he argues that
individual actions cannot be morally indifferent. Following a line
of reasoning found also (in greater detail) in De Malo (q. 2, a. 5),
Thomas maintains that every individual action must be morally
good or bad. Since every individual action is necessarily
performed under a particular set of circumstances with a
particular intention in mind, and either of these must render the
action good or bad, it is impossible to have morally indifferent
concrete actions. So although picking up straw abstractly
considered in its species is morally indifferent, every concrete
instance of straw picking must be either morally good or bad since
it is always performed by a person under a particular set of
circumstances with a particular intention in mind. No doubt, this
will strike some as a "hard teaching." It is therefore worth quoting
Thomas at length on this point:
And they have spoken rightly about this who have divided acts in a threefold
way, affirming that some are good, some evil, some indifferent. But if we speak
about the moral act as an individual act, in this way every particular moral act
is necessarily good or bad by reason of some circumstance. For no singular act
can be performed without circumstances which make it right or wrong, for if any
act whatsoever be done when it ought and where it ought and as it ought and so
on in respect to the other circumstances, such an act is well-ordered and good;
but if any of these circumstances be not as it ought, the act is disordered and evil.
And this can be noticed especially in the circumstance of the end: for what is
done on account of just need or on account of pious usefulness is done laudably
and is a good act; but what is done without just need or pious usefulness is
considered idle, as Gregory says. And even an idle word is a sin and much more
so an idle deed: for it is said in Matthew (12, 36) "... of every idle word men
speak, they shall give an account." So accordingly, a good act and an evil act by
reason of their genus [i.e., by reason of their belonging to the genus of moral
acts], are opposites that admit of an intermediate, and there is an act which
23 See STh 1-11,

q. 18. See also De Malo, q. 2, a. 5.

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considered in its species is indifferent; but good and evil from the circumstances
do not admit of an intermediate because they are distinguished according to the
opposition of affirmation and negation, namely, from this that the act is as it
ought to be, and it is not as it ought to be according to all the circumstances. But
this good and evil is proper to the singular act; and therefore no singular human
act is indifferent. 24

Having said this, it is important to avoid putting too sharp a point
on it. Not everything we do falls within the moral ambit. Thomas
is well aware that we sometimes do things unthinkingly, as when
we tap our fingers or scratch our nose. These he considers to be
indifferent, not because they are inconsequential but because they
do not proceed from a deliberate will, making them merely
actions of a human (actus hominis). Every properly human action
(actus humanus), however, proceeding as it does from a deliberate
will, is a moral action. 25
The above conclusions are brought together very nicely in
another text (STh I-II, q. 21, a. 2, ad 2), where Thomas shows
that reason in its relation to moral action differs from reason in
its relation to the productions of art by being directed to man's
general (communis) end, which, as we have already seen, is
beatitude, rather than some lesser good, such as bodily health or
the product of some craft. Art, being concerned with particular
goods and not the general end or good of man, is therefore
subordinate to morals. Since everything is done for the sake of the
ultimate end, it follows that man cannot reason about particular
acts without also considering (at least habitually) the general end
of a human life taken as a whole. 26 Consequently, reason cannot
arrive at a conclusion about some concrete action in the realm of
24 De Malo, q. 2, a. 5 (St. Thomas Aquinas, On Evil, trans. John A. Oesterle and Jean T.
Oesterle [Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1995], 67). Parenthetical note in
translation.
25 Thomas makes this point explicitly in STh I-II, q. 1, a. 3: "And since, as Ambrose says
(Prolog. Super Luc.) 'morality is said properly of man,' moral acts properly speaking receive
their species from the end, for moral acts are the same as human acts [actus humani]."
26 STh I-II, q. 21, a. 2, ad 2: "Reason stands in different relations to the productions of art,
and to moral actions. In matters of art, reason is directed to a particular end, which is
something devised by reason: whereas in moral matters, it is directed to the general end of all
human life." Emphasis added.

THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF PRACTICAL REASON

623

art without also taking its moral dimensions into consideration. In
the sphere of human action (actus humanus), there can be no such
thing as a morally indifferent human action. Contrary to what has
been said by some critics of the imperativist interpretation, 27
prudence is wider than art. 28
Further confirmation of this reading is found in Thomas's later
treatise on virtue, where he explains the sense in which the
intellect may be the subject of virtue. Granted that "virtue is a
habit by which we work well," 29 Thomas distinguishes two ways
that a habit may dispose a person to act well. It may simply cause
a person to have an aptness for certain kinds of action but not
necessarily the morally correct use of that aptness. Marksmanship
is such a habit, one that a person may choose to employ in the
defense of his country or in the commission of a crime. Other
habits not only confer a certain aptness but also the tendency to
use them rightly. "For instance, justice not only gives man the
prompt will to do just actions, but also makes him act justly. "30 Of
the two, only the latter make men good simply, for as Thomas
explains, "since good, and, in like manner, being, is said of a thing
simply, in respect, not of what it is potentially, but of what it is
actually: therefore from having habits of the latter sort, man is
said simply to do good, and to be good." 31 To be good at
something, such as metaphysical speculation or playing the lute,
is to be good in a qualified way, only. Art, therefore, does not
concern the unqualified good (bonum simpliciter) of man but only
the qualified good (bonum secundum quid) of the things he is able
to cause or make. Only prudence concerns man's proper good,
and that good is the good of virtue or, as we have been calling it,
moral goodness. 32
If the terms of the first principle of practical reason did not
refer to man's simple and unqualified good, it would be possible
See n. 2 above.
I am indebted to Lawrence Dewan, O.P for this important insight.
29 STh I-II, q. 56, a. 3.
30 Ibid.
31 Ibid.
32 See also STh 1-11, q. 57, a. 3, ad 2.
27
28

624

GIUSEPPE BUTERA

to give a complete description of the reasons for a person's choice
without any reference to his final end. On this view, the purpose
of the first principle of practical reason would be to direct man to
do and pursue what is good secundum quid, rather than what is
good simpliciter. This would amount to saying that one end is as
good as another, since the only purpose of the first principle of
practical reason would be to direct man to act for some intelligible
end, regardless of its suitability or unsuitability to his ultimate
end.
This, as we have seen, is impossible on Thomas's understanding of human nature and the nature of the human act.
Humans choose to act as they do not only because they judge
their actions to be good in a qualified sense, useful for attaining
this or that intermediate end, but also (and ultimately) because
they judge them to be useful for attaining moral perfection and
happiness. In order to avoid misunderstanding, it is worth noting
that nothing more than a habitual intention of the final end is
demanded by this doctrine. There is no question of a person
consciously intending his final end in every one of his choices. But
intend it he must. For this reason, it is impossible for a person to
intend some lesser good, the production of some art, for example,
without also intending his ultimate end, his bonum simpliciter. A
person's every deliberation, be it ever so mundane, must in the
final analysis be about the means to his final end, 33 the perfection
of his nature, which consists in moral goodness.
The good at which the first principle of practical reason
commands us to aim must and can only be the good simpliciter of
a life well-lived, not merely the good secundum quid of a wellexecuted act, much less the good secundum quid of an action
directed towards an intelligible end, good or bad. If Thomas is
correct on this point, it would explain why those who commit evil
acts either repent or seek to justify themselves. There is no neutral
ground for them to stand on because such a thing cannot be
conceived; from the first they knew themselves to be under an

33

Seen. 17.

THE FIRST PRINCIPLEOF PRACTICALREASON

625

obligation to do and pursue moral good and to avoid moral evil.
Rationalization is the lie vice tells itself.
In conclusion, since a moral precept is for Thomas simply a
law directing man to his last end-which, as we have seen,
consists in a fullness of being that is for man one and the same
with his moral perfection-and each of the precepts of the natural
law is derived from the first precept of natural law, it follows that
none of the precepts could be moral precepts unless the first
precept were itself a moral precept. The bonum of the first
precept of natural law and the first principle of practical reason,
therefore, must signify the bonum simpliciter of man, and as such
direct him to do and pursue what is morally good and to avoid the
contrary. The first principle of practical reason is, therefore,
nothing other than a moral imperative.

IV. RESPONSE TO A CRITICISM
In section I, I asserted that of all the criticisms that could be
leveled against the imperativist interpretation perhaps the most
compelling is the one based on the observation that some, if not
most, of our deliberations, decisions, and choices are made
without a thought being given to their morality. Decisions about
what to eat for breakfast, when to schedule a meeting, or where
to go for dinner seem to have nothing at all to do with morality.
For this reason alone, the objection went, it would seem that the
first principle is not a moral imperative. As a criticism of the
imperativist interpretation, it attempts to distinguish Thomas from
a supposedly discreditable moral doctrine. But having argued in
favor of the imperativist interpretation in section III, I must take
the criticism as having far great significance than that; it strikes at
the very root of Thomas's natural-law theory. What follows,
therefore, is a defense not only of the imperativist interpretation,
but of Thomas's natural-law theory construed along imperativist
lines.
In arguing for the imperativist interpretation, I have already
touched on the response to this criticism. Simply put, and in

626

GIUSEPPE BUTERA

partial agreement with the criticism itself, there is no need to
suggest that all our choices are explicitly concerned with morality.
The contention that people often make choices with no explicit
concern for morality is perfectly compatible with the imperativist
interpretation. All that is needed for a choice to be concerned
with morality is that it be habitually directed towards it. And that
is precisely what Thomas teaches. A person does not have to
intend moral perfection explicitly in every one of his choices; it
is enough that he do so habitually.
But what are we to make of the person who sins, whose
choices seem directed towards wickedness rather than
righteousness? How can he be said to will his own moral
perfection, even habitually, in such choices? Or, to ask the
question as it was formulated in section I, how can the first
principle of practical reason be a moral imperative given the fact
that it may be used to arrive at immoral decisions?
The challenge posed by this objection is to explain how a
person may arrive at a sinful choice notwithstanding the fact that
the first principle of practical reason is a moral imperative. In
order to do just that, we must turn to Thomas' s treatment of the
causes of sin (STh 1-11, qq. 75-81).
Fallowing a longstanding tradition, Thomas takes sin at bottom
to be an inordinate act originating in an inordinate choice of the
will, 34 one that runs counter to the rule of reason or the divine
law. 35 Now, on Thomas's view, choice follows necessarily upon
judgment, and only upon judgment. 36 Hence, the only way a
person can make a sinful choice is by first arriving at a judgment
that contradicts the rule of reason or the divine law. But that will
happen only if he fails to apply one of these rules in his
deliberations, or fails to give them their due weight. 37 If a person
sins, it is because he fails in some respect (i.e., totally or partially)
to apply the rule of reason or the divine law in his deliberations.

STh I-II, q. 78, a. 4.
STh I-II, q. 75, a. 1.
36 See STh I-II, q. 13, a. 1, ad 2.
37 See STh I-II, q. 75, a. 1.

34 See

35 See

THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF PRACTICAL REASON

627

Thomas gives a number of different reasons why this might
happen. 38 Ignorance of a fact might result in a failure to apply the
moral principle necessary to arrive at a correct judgment. 39
Passion might blind one temporarily to a moral precept. 40 One
might elect to lose a spiritual good in order not to lose a temporal
one. 41 In any case, the precept forbidding the choice fails to enter
into one's deliberations, leading to a judgment which in turn
results in a sinful choice. Given the limited scope of this article,
I must limit my discussion to only one of these causes-the one
that, I believe it is fair to say, is the cause of a great number, if not
most, of the sins we commit, namely, passion. A demonstration
that the imperativist interpretation is able to yield a coherent
account of sin with respect to even one of its causes will be sufficient to overcome the objection that the first principle of
practical reason could not be used to arrive at immoral choices if
it were a moral imperative.
Thomas considers the role of passion in sin in question 77 of
the Prima Secundae. Most interesting for our purposes is the
second article, where he shows that although sin involves some
sort of ignorance or error, such things usually cannot excuse
culpability for sin altogether, since "experience ... shows that
many act contrary to the knowledge that they have. "42 Thomas
begins his reply by noting that Socrates was somewhat correct in
holding that sin is a kind of ignorance because "since the object of
the will is a good or an apparent good, it is never moved to an
evil, unless that which is not good appear good in some respect to
the reason; so that the will would never tend to evil, unless there
were ignorance or error in the reason. "43 Since the judgment that
leads to action includes both universal and particular knowledge,
Thomas concludes that a defect in either will prevent the will
See STh I-II, q. 75, a. 2; I-II, q. 76, a. 1; I-II, q. 77, a. 4; I-II, q. 78, a. 3.
See STh I-II, q. 76.
40 See STh I-II, q. 77, esp. a. 2 where Thomas explains the ways "reason can be overcome
by a passion, against its knowledge."
41 See STh I-II, q. 78.
42 STh I-II, q. 77, a. 2.
43 Ibid.
38

39

628

GIUSEPPE BUTERA

from being rightly ordered. However, in his reply to the first
objection, Thomas says that particular knowledge, not universal,
"hold[s] the foremost place in action," since, as he puts it,
"actions are about singulars. "44 Under the influence of a passion,
a person may fail to apply a universal to a particular if his
attention is drawn away from those elements of the particular to
which the universal is applicable.
To use one of Thomas's examples, a person might have knowledge of the universal truth that no fornication is lawful, but lack
the knowledge that this particular act is one of fornication,
resulting in a failure to follow the universal dictate. He might
make a choice that is contrary to reason only because some
hindrance prevents him from calling to mind and considering
something he knows habitually. This might come about for a
number of reasons, including passion. Passion, Thomas maintains,
is able to hinder the consideration of a habitually known universal
truth, so that what should be seen as a clear instance of sin might
not appear to be one under the influence of passion. This might
happen because a passion suggests another universal proposition.
For example, a strong desire for a woman with whom it would be
illicit to have sexual relations might suggest that pleasure is to be
pursued, and if it manages to tie up reason, it will hinder it "from
arguing and concluding under the [proposition that no fornication
is lawful]; so that while the passion lasts, the reason argues and
concludes under the [proposition that pleasure is to be
pursued]. "45
Notwithstanding passion's influence, however, it is rarely so
great as to remove all culpability. The influence of passion,
though strong, is usually not so strong that it causes reason to
arrive at judgments that are opposed to known universal
principles; rather, Thomas maintains that passion "draws"
(trahere) reason to do so. Difficult though it may be to counteract
the effects of passion, a person, provided that he has not lost the
44 Ibid., ad 1: "Universal knowledge, which is most certain, does not hold the foremost
place in action, but rather particular knowledge, since actions are about singulars .. "
45 Ibid., ad 4.

THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF PRACTICAL REASON

629

use of reason, may do so by turning his mind to something else.
This is the fact that is assumed when, for example, in a gloomy
mood, we are admonished to count our blessings. Thomas says as
much in article 7 of this same question where, in explaining under
what conditions sin is altogether excused on account of passion,
he says that "[s]ometimes ... the passion is not such as to take
away the use of reason altogether; and then reason can drive the
passion away, by turning to other thoughts, or it can prevent it
from having its full effect; since the members are not put to work,
except by the consent of reason. "46 As long as a person has the use
of reason and is aware of the influence of passion, he can do
something to mitigate its effects and thus guard against making
choices he will later regret.
As long as a man retains the use of reason, therefore, he will
know that he should only do and pursue goods consonant with his
true good. Yet passion might hinder him from giving due
consideration to one or another precept of the natural law,
making it possible for him to judge something to be good which,
once passion has subsided, he will realize was not consonant with
his true good, after all. At the level of the particular, his action
will therefore be somewhat irrational, at least insofar as it goes
against a dictate of reason and his true good. Nevertheless,
because he will have arrived at the judgment through the
employment of at least the first principle of practical reason
(otherwise he would have no reason to arrive at a judgment about
what to do rather than no judgment at all), his subsequent choice
will be rational, or at least sufficiently rational to render his action
one for which he may be held responsible. When a person chooses
to sin under the influence of a passion, he chooses an action that

46 SI'h I-II, q. 77, a. 7. Cf. STh I, q. 81, a. 3: "Therefore it is clear thatthe universal reason
directs the sensitive appetite, which is divided into concupiscible and irascible; and this
appetite obeys it. But because to draw particular conclusions from universal principles is not
the work of the intellect, as such, but of the reason: hence it is that the irascible and
concupiscible are said to obey the reason rather than to obey the intellect. Anyone can
experience this in himself: for by applying certain universal considerations, anger or fear or the
like may be modified or excited" (emphasis added).

GIUSEPPEBUTERA

630

appears to him to be morally good or, at the very least, not
morally evil.
Far from necessitating the moral neutrality of the first principle
of practical reason, the rational origin of sin requires that it be
charged with moral significance. Paradoxically, sin is possible only
because it is possible for one and the same choice to be rational in
certain respects and irrational in others. Under the influence of a
passion, an evil action might appear to be good or, at least, not
bad, and hence agree with the first principle of practical reason,
all the while being "against the order of reason," as Thomas puts
it, 47 and hence morally bad.
CONCLUSION

The only way the first principle of practical reason could be
anything other than a moral imperative is if there could be human
actions that were not morally significant; or, to hearken back to
an earlier discussion, if art were wider than prudence. But as we
have seen, it is impossible even to deliberate about concrete,
individual actions, actions to be performed by a person-an I who
is by nature concerned with his own well-being-without at least
habitually intending beatitude and moral excellence. As we have
seen, a central tenet of Thomas's philosophical psychology is that
every decision to act, be it ever so mundane, must be directed
towards man's ultimate end. Not only is moral neutrality a fiction,
it is an impossibility. Every choice is a hinge on which our lives
may turn radically for the better or the worse. For the moment
one begins to deliberate about anything to be done or pursued,
the principle of practical reason comes into play, setting the bar
of practical rationality at the level of moral excellence, one's good
simpliciter. This fact alone is sufficient to compel the conclusion

47

ITh I-II, q. 71, a. 2, ad 3.

THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF PRACTICAL REASON

631

that the first principle of practical reason is and must be a moral
imperative. 48

48 This paper could not have been written without the generous support of The Pontifical
Institute of Mediaeval Studies in Toronto, where as the Gilson Postdoctoral Fellow I received
invaluable guidance and patient mentoring from Rev. Lawrence Dewan, O.P. To him and to
all the faculty and fellows of the institute, I am deeply indebted. I am also indebted to a
number of my colleagues in the department of philosophy at Providence College for helpful
comments made on an earlier draft of this paper. Special thanks go to Dr. Andrew Peach for
his careful reading and insightful criticism. Finally, I would like to thank the anonymous
reader for The Thomist whose comments helped me to fully articulate the significance of the
thesis defended in these pages.

BOOK REVIEWS
Praeambula Fidei: Thomism and the God of the Philosophers. By RALPH
MCINERNY.Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press,
2007. Pp. 313. $34.95 (paper). ISBN: 978-0-8132-1458-0.
Ralph Mclnerny's Gifford Lectures, Characters in Search of their Author
(1999-2000) examined criticisms of natural theology posed by various practitioners of modern philosophy. Praeambula Fidei is a more technical, broad, and
ambitious attempt to analyze the internal structure of Thomistic natural theological reasoning. It also seeks to respond to thinkers who (according to Mclnerny)
sought to marginalize the place of this doctrine in modern Catholic theology.
The book is polemical in that it takes issue with interpretations of Aquinas
developed by such influential figures as Etienne Gilson, Henri de Lubac, and
Marie-Dominique Chenu. Simultaneously, however, the presentation is expository, offering a counterproposal based upon the Aristotelianism of Aquinas.
Mclnerny's defense of a distinctly philosophical theology in Aquinas, and of the
profound strands of continuity between Aquinas's metaphysics and that of
Aristotle, will leave no Thomist indifferent. For contemporary theologians, the
book offers interesting arguments about fundamental theology, stressing oftforgotten truths worthy of serious (re)consideration.
The book proceeds in three parts. In the first section the author exposes the
doctrine of the praeambula fidei, those truths revealed by God that are also
accessible to human reason. Such truths denote even to the philosophical
intellect the potential truth of the Catholic faith: truths such as the existence of
the soul, the rationality of the natural law, and, in particular, the philosophical
demonstrability of the existence of God. Here Mclnerny articulates eloquently
the Thomistic distinction between knowing by reason and believing by faith. His
attentiveness to Aquinas's philosophy of first principles, self-evident propositions, and demonstrative reasoning toward non-self-evident rational truths (717) allows him to identify clearly the character of philosophical knowledge of
God he wishes to defend. God may be known a posteriori, indirectly, as a cause
is known from its effects, even while his existence is not self-evident to us a
priori. This genuine form of rational knowledge is absolutely distinct from the
revealed truths of divine revelation, which in turn have their own "principles"
and (eventual) propositional articulation (20-23 ). The latter are accepted in love
by an act of the will, based upon the authority of God revealing himself. These

633

634

BOOK REVIEWS

two ways of knowing God are not alien to one another, however, since "the bulk
of things we hold as true is based on trust" (16) and, consequently, trust in the
word of another is a necessary dimension of human reason. The study of the
praeambula fidei guarantees a sense of the potential harmony between faith and
reason, since it demonstrates that there exists for natural reason a final term
(knowledge of the existence of God) which revelation both complements and
completes. In the twentieth century, however, the pursuit of this harmony has
been attenuated by "flawed understandings of the nature of Christian
philosophy, a tendency to disparage the natural in favor of the supernatural,
[and] the suggestion that the philosophy of St. Thomas is to be found only in his
theological works, and cannot be separated from them" (32).
In the second section of the book, the author goes on to analyze critically the
interpretations of Aquinas offered by Gilson, De Lubac, and Chenu. It is their
works in particular that contributed to the above-mentioned problematic tendencies. Mclnerny sees particular evidence of this in their respective treatments
of Cardinal Cajetan, and the Dominican commentary tradition more generally.
What follows in the second section, then, is an extended defense of Cajetan's
reading of Aquinas concerning the metaphysics of esse, the final end of man, and
the integrity of philosophical theology as distinct from sacra doctrina. This
defense is conducted in dialogue with the writings of Gilson, De Lubac, and
Chenu, sequentially.
Mclnerny first studies Gilson's claim that Aquinas' doctrine of esse (as
existence "beyond" essence) was deemphasized or forgotten by the Thomistic
school, and principally by Cajetan (39-68). Examining in particular Gilson's
"Cajetan et !'existence" (Tijdschriff voor Philosophie 15 [1953]: 267-86),
Mclnerny shows multiple ways in which Gilson misinterpreted the sixteenthcentury commentator. For example, in his criticism of Cajetan's treatment of esse
as perfection (in his commentary on STh I, q. 4, a. 1, ad 3), Gilson ignores the
Dominican's earlier statement (on STh I, q. 3, a. 4) that "existence is the actuality
of every form and that no nature is signified in ultimate act except insofar as it
is signified as actually exercising existence" (51). In contrast to Gilson's
genealogy of the forgetfulness of esse in Western metaphysics, Mclnerny argues
that Cajetan's understanding of Aquinas insists quite plausibly on the
compatibility between Aquinas's Aristotelianism and his metaphysics of
existence. Despite the appropriateness of these criticisms, Mclnerny's treatment
of Gilson is not always magnanimous in tone (e.g., "The effect of this scorched
earth policy [of Gilson toward other commentators] is to turn our attention
more and more toward the one operating the flame thrower" [68]).
Mclnerny then examines De Lubac's conception of the final end of man in
Surnaturel and Le mystere du surnaturel. At issue is De Lubac's criticism of
Cajetan's theory of nature and grace as a two-storied, extrinsicist model. Here
(69-76, 80-90) Mclnerny's tone is at time excessively shrill. He makes scant
reference to actual texts of De Lubac and his presentation is too dependent upon
secondary scholarship. Nevertheless, as he goes on to defend Cajetan's own
views of the final natural end of man as distinct from the supernatural end

BOOK REVIEWS

635

designated by grace (76-90), he makes several substantive points. First, clearly
there is in Aquinas a notion of the obediential potentiality of human nature,
capable of the supernatural in the moral domain and not only in the miraculous
(contra De Lubac's interpretation, and as Cajetan rightly notes). This suggests
that human nature can have a certain kind of autonomous teleological structure,
according to Aquinas. Second, Cajetan's interpretation of Aquinas in no way
implies that man is a being "closed in on himself"; that is, there is in Cajetan no
pure nature/grace extrinsicism. On the contrary, Cajetan (commenting on STh
I-II, q. 3, a. 8) argues explicitly that the human person has a natural desire to
know God's essence immediately. This stems not from a response to supernatural
revelation, but from the fact that created intellect has a natural desire to know
the first cause of created effects, God (85). Mcinerny argues that this
interpretation has a basis in Aquinas's own texts that is more historically
defensible than the views of De Lubac. Third, Aquinas has an unambiguous
doctrine of a twofold final end of man, one natural and imperfect (with reference
to Aristotle) and the latter supernatural and perfect (see STh I, q. 62, a. 1). Such
texts suggest that for Aquinas the natural end of the human intellect is realized
in philosophy, exemplified by the praeambula fidei.
Mcinerny notes the emergence of Chenu's critique of neo-Scholastic
Thomism as a "rationalizing, propositional, essentialist system" in his Le
Sau/choir: Une ecole de theologie (1937). When philosophy is co-opted for the
purposes of the praeambula fidei it becomes, according to Chenu, "a series of
propositions, premises, or conclusions, which function as the least common
denominator of philosophical [thought]" (116). Along with Gilson, Chenu
portrayed Cajetan as an interpreter guilty of the "forgetfulness of being." NeoScholasticism denatures philosophy by instrumentalizing the latter systematically
toward a merely apologetical end. In response, Mcinerny notes tendencies in
Chenu's own thought toward an anti-essentialist historicism that cannot easily
sustain any form of transhistorical doctrinal truth (118-19). Here more inquiry
into Chenu's writing would have aided Mclnerny's argument. For example, an
examination of Chenu's doctrinal writings in the postconciliar period could have
provided yet more evidence of antimetaphysical, historicist tendencies, and
allowed Mclnerny's defense of legitimate concerns in Humani Generis (120) to
be presented more poignantly.
The third part of the book is an impressive depiction of "Aristotelian
Thomistic" reasoning, attempting to show how Aquinas presents a way of
progressive philosophical argumentation that passes from basic human
experience to the eventual affirmation of the existence of God. This constructive
presentation forms the heart of the book. Here Mcinerny focuses in particular
upon Aquinas's interpretation of Aristotle's philosophical theology. "The
assumption of this study is that the native habitat of the praeambula fidei is the
Metaphysics of Aristotle, and that its recovery can only be accomplished in that
setting" (167-68). The book goes on (169-87) to examine Aquinas's treatment
of major Aristotelian themes: the nature of a science, the mind's commensurate
object (beings undergoing change), the principles of form and matter, analogical

636

BOOK REVIEWS

predication, and substantial change. The goal is to introduce terms that are
propaedeutic to the science of metaphysics. Mclnerny then goes on to propose
(like Charles De Konnick and Benedict Ashley) the controversial idea that
metaphysics as a science is possible only once one has demonstrated the existence
of immaterial substances. This is achieved by the first-mover argument, as the
culmination of a philosophical investigation of nature (188-96). "The predicable
range of 'being' is maximal; it can be said of whatever is. But until and unless it
is known that there is immaterial being, the predicable range of 'being' will be
material things" (190). The perspective contrasts, of course, with the Thomistic
interpretations of scholars such as Owens, Wippel, Dewan, and Aersten, as the
author is well aware. He defends his interpretation by recourse to numerous
statements from Aquinas's commentary on the Metaphysics. After a somewhat
extended discussion (196-209) of Aquinas's doctrine of separatio, (that judgment
whereby one may affirm that there exist separate substances, distinct from
material being), Mclnerny affirms that "the aim of metaphysics as the
culminating science of philosophy is knowledge of the divine. This aim is the key
to understanding everything that is undertaken in the science of being as being"
(210). In studying the ultimate causes of being, one is engaged in a divine science
and a natural theology that perfects philosophy.
After an extended defense of the unity of the Metaphysics as a text (against
Jaegar and by appeal to Reale and Aquinas), Mclnerny offers a helpful exposition
of Aquinas's interpretation of book 12 of the Metaphysics (245-82). Of particular
interest is the treatment of the universality of causal principles of all material
substances (Metaphys. 12.5). All substances imply "matter, form, privation, and
the moving cause" (253-54) and these principles are "proportionally the same"
in each existent. This analogically "universal" perspective on interdependent,
physical beings allows one to develop a further argument. The existence of
moving beings requires a primary, universal cause that is beyond all movement
and temporality, a pure actuality that is the ultimate source of all changing beings
(25 8-63 ). Mclnerny does an excellent job of showing how, according to Aquinas,
Aristotle's understanding of the composition of act and potency in secondary
substances, and the ontological primacy of actuality, permits in turn a
demonstration of God's existence and a study of divine attributes. The God of
book 12 of the Metaphysics is pure actuality, immobile, immaterial, eternal,
sovereignly good, perfect life, and self-knowledge (263-82). "That is, the God
of Aristotle, knowledge of whom is derived from knowledge of things around us
and who is magnificently described in his perfection and operation by an
examination of human intellection, is the same God Thomas worships as a
Christian and who, through revelation, has made known to us things about
himself undreamt of in philosophy. It is because those mysteries of faith involve
praeambula that Christian theology, however formally different from
philosophy, cannot flourish independently of it" (282).
Mclnerny's book is a powerful and controversial restatement of a classical
Thomistic doctrine concerning the relations between faith and reason,
philosophy and theology. In the hands of generous readers, it will lead to fruitful

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debate about the place of Aristotle in the interpretation of Aquinas (and vice
versa), the perennial importance of Vatican I, and the strengths and weaknesses
of la nouvelle theologie. Thomists of vibrantly Aristotelian provenance will find
it refreshing (with inevitable partial reservations). In our metaphysically tonedeaf age, the book reopens important discussions on the topic of fundamental
theology, and ought to be read by all those seriously interested in the renewal of
genuine ontological reflection within Christian theology.
THOMAS JOSEPH WHITE, 0.P.

Dominican House of Studies
Washington, D.C.

Norms of Liberty: A Perfectionist Basis for Non-Perfectionist Politics. By
DOUGLASB. RASMUSSENand DOUGLASJ. DENUYL. University Park, Penn.:
Penn State Press, 2005. Pp. 358. $25.00 (paper). ISBN 0-271-02701-0.
Douglas Rasmussen and Douglas Den Uyl's Norms of Liberty: A Perfectionist
Basis for Non-Perfectionist Politics provides a seminal contribution to liberal
political thought that will be of significant interest to Thomists as well as other
classically trained Aristotelians and natural law theorists. The book's argument,
although occasionally repetitive, is characterized by uncommon rigor and clarity.
It suggests a unique approach to the defense of political liberalism that draws
upon Aristotelian virtue ethics. The authors contend that contemporary liberal
theorists who embrace conventionalism and relativism do so because they misuse
the principle of the primacy of political liberty as the basis for a comprehensive
ethical doctrine. Rasmussen and Den Uyl agree with critics of liberalism, such as
Alasdair Macintyre, who insist that procedural political theory without a more
substantive deep ethical structure is untenable. Contrary to these critics, however, the authors hold that Aristotelian virtue can provide liberalism the defense
that it requires. Furthermore, they assert that Aristotelian principles properly
applied to the heterogeneity of modern life entail a version of political liberalism.
Three key premises ground this conclusion: (1) there are many different forms
of human excellence and as a consequence excellence is radically individualized,
(2) liberty or "self-direction" is an essential constitutive feature of human
flourishing, but (3) flourishing is "profoundly social." From these premises the
authors infer that the protection of certain natural rights is grounded in
"metanormative" political principles, rather than ethical norms. Governments
and political communities should neither coerce nor encourage the pursuit of
human excellence, since doing so would be contrary to the requirements of selfdirection. The problem of constructing a political system that permits the pursuit
of diverse forms of flourishing that do not conflict with each other the authors
call "liberalism's problem."

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Aristotelians and Thomists will find the book's central arguments agreeable
in some respects and problematic in others. On the one hand, Rasmussen and
Den Uy! grant that the natural right to political liberty must be grounded in an
ethical account of the human good. They also endorse metaphysical realism and
maintain that human nature has objective significance for ethics. They place
principled as opposed to merely pragmatic limits upon the role of state authority,
a point they rightly insist is found in Aquinas's distinction between moral and
legal obligations. On the other hand, they propose a form of radical individualism that appears deficient as an account of human nature and the moral
preconditions for the exercise of liberty in a free society. While some Aristotelian
critics of liberalism fall into the utopian tendency of yearning for the
homogeneity of the ancient polis, the authors' rejection of concrete political
norms besides liberty tends to the opposite extreme. They draw a sharp
dichotomy between private morality and political authority. This diminishes the
significance of intermediate social and political institutions, such as the Church,
which can shield individual liberty from the absolute power of the state and
foster the common good. To their credit, Rasmussen and Den Uy! are not
unaware of these types of criticisms of their position and treat them thoughtfully
and extensively.
The key to the book's unique defense of liberalism, and a principal strength,
is the distinction that is made between certain necessary and unnecessary features
of the theory. The authors accept that contemporary liberalism is in crisis for the
very reasons stipulated by many of its critics, but they maintain its fundamental
soundness as a political approach. In particular, they observe that many liberals
erroneously embrace an Enlightenment conception of rationality, which requires
them to reject the traditional teleological account of human nature. In so doing
they place the right before the good and maintain this view as the basis for a
comprehensive set of ethical norms. Paradoxically, by making Enlightenment
skepticism and relativism the deep ethical structure for liberalism, liberalism's
most ardent proponents become its worst enemies.
Rasmussen and Den Uy! challenge the notions that liberalism requires the
rejection of Aristotelian teleology, and that contemporary Aristotelians can
endorse a political approach other than liberalism. Aristotelians such as MacIntyre, for instance, have argued that procedural liberalism is untenable because
it lacks a substantive theory of the good. Because the authors think that Enlightenment rationality is merely incidental to the core of liberal political theory,
they can grant Maclntyre's objection and embrace Aristotelianism, while simultaneously maintaining the superiority of liberalism and natural rights doctrine.
Whereas Macintyre insists that liberalism's official neutrality with respect to
competing views of the human good renders it shallow, the authors contend that
their commitment to Aristotelian ethics allows them to make a morally relevant
distinction between the neutrality of politics and the emphatic non-neutrality of
ethical principles. This leads to what they describe as a "structural paradox."
Liberalism has no ethical foundations of its own, because it is strictly a political
theory. It must borrow its ethical foundations from outside. Once liberals

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recognize this structural feature of their theory they need not embrace ethical
minimalism. Central to this notion of the distinction between politics and ethical
reflection is the idea that political principles are "metanormative." They guide
community choices and standards, but they are not a sufficient basis for the
guidance of individual conduct. Rasmussen and Den Uyl point out that this
unique proposal is characteristic of neither contemporary left nor right-wing
political ideology, and that in fact it undermines both programs. Contemporary
left-wing liberals fail to recognize liberalism's dependence upon Aristotelian
ethical perfectionism. Some conservatives on the right fail to make the necessary
distinction between politics and ethics, insisting falsely that the political sphere
ought to be governed by more substantive moral principles. Both groups fail
because they assume in Platonic fashion that politics is "ethics writ large."
Perhaps the most insightful and compelling part of the book's argument is the
careful analysis of the historical relationship between liberalism and normative
ethics, and the prescriptive recommendations
made concerning the
reconceptualization of that relationship. The authors observe that there is
significant historical ambivalence in liberal thought about this relationship, from
which an apparent paradox concerning the individual emerges. On the one hand,
liberals have tended to reject classical ethical perfectionism, not only because
they believe it depends upon a questionable teleological conception of human
nature, but also because they think it expects too much. The gap between reality
and the attainment of moral virtue is deemed to be too wide. Liberals want
"workable principles" that acknowledge human beings' limitations. In addition,
moral exhortations seem to be of limited usefulness in effecting transformations
of character as compared to political and economic institutions. On the other
hand, liberals have been committed to the doctrine of human rights and the
protection of individual liberty. They see this stance as evidence of the moral
superiority of their position. There appears to be an incongruity between the
liberal commitment to rights and ethical minimalism.
Rasmussen and Den Uyl enumerate several unsuccessful approaches to
explaining this incongruity within the liberal tradition. State-of-nature theories
attempt to derive liberalism's focus upon the right and rights from a minimalist
conception of the good (self-interest). This effort has encountered many
difficulties. The perceived lack of success in social-contract theory has led other
liberal theorists to focus more exclusively upon the centrality of the notion of the
right, and to minimize the problematic role of the good by privatizing it. Thus,
many liberals have treated the right as rational and universal, and the good as
particular "interested, and hence amoral" (23). Since the good has to do with the
interests of particular individuals, and rights apply universally to no one in
particular as such, the shift in emphasis from the good to the right leads to the
apparently paradoxical conclusion that liberal theory is not really concerned with
individuals.
Remarkably, the authors endorse this aspect of liberal theory as both factual
and appropriate, with one important qualification. Liberals ought to "ignore the
individual and be universalistic in [their] outlook," but only if they recognize that

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liberalism is not an ethical philosophy (27). Historically, proponents of liberalism
have neglected the importance of prudence and attempted to reduce ethics to
justice and the social virtues. The authors cite several examples, including:
Hobbes, Hume, and Kant. The problem with this reduction is that it leads to
minimalism in moral theory because it fails to recognize the "metanormative"
relationship between liberty and other ethical principles. Claiming that liberal
principles are political metanorms entails that we cannot derive ethical norms
directly from them although they may limit or rule out certain ethical norms that
are incompatible with those principles.
According to Rasmussen and Den Uyl, we can recognize the dividing line
between ethical norms and political metanorms by considering the purpose of a
norm. If a norm concerns personal conduct relating to self-perfection it is a
moral norm. Norms that do not directly concern self-perfection, including in
particular those norms that deal with our duties to others, are not moral norms
but political "metanorms." As the authors conclude, "ethical flourishing and
ethical conduct are to be found elsewhere than in politics" (40).
This assessment of the relationship between liberalism and ethics is
informative and insightful. The "metanormative solution" to the apparent
incongruity between liberalism's universalism and ethical concern for the
individual offers a novel and intriguing approach. There are several points in this
analysis that may be challenged, however. First, the claim that only norms
concerning self-perfection are properly moral seems deeply problematic. It rests
upon the assumption that liberals correctly privatize the good and that the good
must be reduced to self-perfection. Just because the good is always a good for
persons and not an impersonal abstraction, does this entail that all goods are
private goods or can some goods be genuinely common or communal? As
Macintyre and Henry Veatch have argued, there appear to be goods for persons
that cannot be reduced to the good of any one person or a mere aggregation of
private goods. Second, the authors assert that liberalism does not imply an ethics,
but it does exclude any ethical system that identifies the good with a particular
form of life and is incompatible with openness in principle to all forms of
flourishing. This principled commitment to unlimited openness excludes many
forms of community, especially many traditional communities, and we must
wonder whether it engages in a kind of false universalism and abstraction that
is contrary to the limited openness that is required for ariy real community.
These issues will be given further consideration below.
Having considered how most liberals historically characterized the
relationship between liberalism and ethics, Rasmussen and Den Uyl also point
out that, despite its uniqueness, their defense of liberalism has various historical
precedents. The thinker whose approach most resembles theirs is Spinoza, who
claimed that the purpose of politics is to insure "secure and comfortable living"
(42) and that "politics is not suited to the production of virtue" (45). Rasmussen
and Den Uyl, following the lead of Spinoza, characterize themselves as ethical
but not political perfectionists.

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Most liberals, by contrast, either neglect moral virtue and excellence or define
it down by reducing the good to the right. The authors cite Kant and Rawls as
examples. The Kantian view resembles their own insofar as Kant thinks politics
can promote peace but not moral perfection. Kant's position, however, depends
upon his fundamentally pessimistic view of human nature's perfectibility. The
authors share Kant's conclusions about the limits of politics, but do so on
account of the premises of moral pluralism and individualism. They do not share
Kant's pessimism about human nature and his legalism. In his later work John
Rawls rejected Liberalism's claim to be a comprehensive ethical doctrine and
insisted that political norms must be neutral among all theoretical accounts of the
good. The authors assert that, contrary to Rawls, they are comprehensive
liberals, because their view is "clearly not neutral between theories .... If there
is neutralism in our approach at all, it does not come because the theory
transcends the good, but rather from an understanding of the nature of the good
in practice" (56).
One must wonder how significant these differences are in the final analysis.
Kant, for instance, regards the legislative realm of morality to be strictly
universal, agent-neutral, and largely interpersonal. The realm of self-interest and
desire is transmoral, and is not governed by the legislative approach. Rasmussen
and Den Uyl hold moral norms to be primarily about self-interest and selfperfection, whereas political metanorms are universal and concern interpersonal
relations. They do certainly disagree about the terrain covered by "morality," but
not about the fundamentally limited and legislative character of the realm of
interpersonal relations. Similarly, John Rawls' position is neutral between
theoretical conceptions of the good because he thinks political theory transcends
particular conceptions, while the authors are neutral because they hold that
goods themselves are irreducibly plural. This appears to be a theoretical
distinction without a practical difference. Both views require political neutrality
in principle with respect to particular substantive conceptions of the good,
except any substantive conception of the good that is incompatible with such
principled neutrality. Such incompatible views include most traditional
substantive moral and political theories.
A case in point is natural-law theory, in both its traditional and its more
recent forms. The authors discuss the work of Heinrich Rommen, Henry Veatch,
and John Finnis, as well as Brian Tierney's analysis of Christian Wolff's early
rights theory. They concede that proponents of modern natural-rights theories,
due to the influence of Enlightenment rationalism, have neglected the
teleological dimension of human nature. In other respects, however, they insist
that natural-rights theory is superior to all versions of natural-law theory because
it recognizes the plural and individual nature of human goods and the irreducible
character of natural rights. With respect to the former point, natural-law
theorists postulate certain generic basic goods. In the case of so-called "new
natural-law theory" a single predetermined hierarchy of goods is rejected. The
authors contend that even these contemporary natural-law theorists fail to
recognize the need for openness to the essentially diverse, individual, and

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prudential ordering of goods that is required for human flourishing. Whether a
realistic account of the plurality of forms of the good life is incompatible with
the substantive moral and political norms these theories propose can certainly be
contested. The authors' more fundamental argument against natural-law
theories, however, is that in predicating natural rights upon prior moral
obligations they fail to recognize the fact that the necessity of self-direction
entails that rights are irreducible.
Finnis, for instance, argues that the language of rights adds an important
dimension to the natural law because it brings the requirements of justice into
sharper focus than the traditional language of moral duties. The authors prefer
what they regard as the even stronger position of Veatch, who maintains that the
distinctive role of natural rights is founded upon the duty to self-perfection.
Veatch asserts that this duty entails a correlative right to noninterference in the
pursuit of that perfection. The authors admire Veatch's attempt to ground rights
language upon self-perfection, but they insist that he and Finnis ultimately fail
to avoid reducing rights to duties. In doing so they commit the "moralist fallacy,"
which involves failing to distinguish "having a right from doing what is right"
(66). Natural-law theory in the authors' view fails to protect the right to moral
failure and even self abuse. Natural-law theorists like Veatch and Finnis can of
course counter that there is no absolute moral right to failure. Traditional
presentations of natural-law theory, such as that of Thomas Aquinas, concur with
this view, arguing that human law has the authority to prohibit and even to
restrain the commission of some vicious and self-destructive acts. There is only
a right to the room for failure that is conditionally required by the freedom
needed for moral excellence, and such freedom is not absolute or unlimited.
This, however, is precisely the disputed point, according to the authors. They
concede that Christian Wolff probably came closest to an acceptable form of the
natural-law position when he argued that the pursuit of self-perfection
necessitates a certain domain of freedom, which is an indispensable means to the
pursuit of the end of human flourishing. Wolff conceptualized this distinct means
as an inherent capacity possessed by the agent. The authors remain unconvinced,
insisting that Wolff's moral capacity is ultimately reducible to the concept of
moral obligation and that it "does not truly give an independent role to the
realm of natural rights" (70).
What appears to be driving the authors' view is a radical conception of the
"self-direction" required for human flourishing. Negative natural rights trump
every other moral requirement. This includes not only a right not to be coerced
into acting virtuously, but also the right not to be compelled to fulfill one's
moral duties, and even the right not be restrained from committing moral evil
(77). This radical defense of liberty rights is necessitated as a solution to
"liberalism's problem." Because human sociality must be open in principle to any
human being and any form of flourishing, public norms of conduct cannot guide
individual choice or prefer any particular form of flourishing. They may only set
the context in which moral action can take place. The protection of individual
liberty turns out to be the only primary "metanorm" according to the authors,

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because only it is consistent with the irreducible plurality of forms of human
flourishing (88).
Several concerns can be raised about this line of argument. First, it may just
be false that human flourishing concretely requires openness to a limitless range
of possibilities for human social relationships. Indeed, it is quite possibly the case
that genuine sociality and flourishing in real political communities is
incompatible with such abstract theoretical neutrality. Actual political
communities are not abstract forms, but societies with histories that establish
substantive goods and a limited range of compatible forms of life. Claiming this
is not the same as asserting naively that modern political communities need to
be characterized by the homogeneity of ancient societies. Furthermore, the
inability to experience the self-limiting pull of these social forms may be contrary
to the moral development that is required for full moral agency. That is, the
exercise of moral freedom may require the experience of the priority of certain
moral and social obligations. The authors concede the importance of this
objection, but it merits further scrutiny.
Another question worth asking is, what is the authors' normative basis for the
prescription that we must find a solution to liberalism's problem as it is
formulated? While any concrete individual's self-perfection may require
openness to a range of potential forms of flourishing, it may not require
openness that is unlimited in principle. Metanorms are not self-justifying, but are
justified as necessary conditions for the pursuit and attainment of self-perfection.
We may not be able to choose a finite range of forms of flourishing from an
abstract and agent-neutral point of view. From the agent-relative and selfinterested point of view, however, one does not have an interest in making
flourishing possible for every other human being unless failing to do so makes
flourishing impossible for oneself, which seems unlikely. It would appear that an
agent-neutral principle such as the Golden Rule is functioning as a suppressed
premise in the argument. But that would be inconsistent with the authors'
rejection of deontological justification in favor of individualistic perfectionist
teleology.
A more general concern with the authors' modified approach to liberalism is
that they acknowledge very little if any public significance, not to mention
sanction, for the fostering of virtue and the political relevance of moral norms
concerning human flourishing. While they rightly claim that political life cannot
produce virtue directly, they insist upon the opposite extreme that it should be
limited exclusively to the protection of liberty. Is there not the possibility of a
sensible middle ground that acknowledges that we cannot mandate every virtue
and prohibit every vice, but that some things are concretely forbidden and
promoted by moral norms? Actual political communities may require the
existence of plural but limited forms of human flourishing arising from a set of
substantive shared conceptions of the good. The genuine interests of concrete
individuals for self-perfection and the common good of political communities
may not coincide with the abstract theoretical requirements of the authors'
position.

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A case for this argument can be found in the work of political theorists such
as Pierre Manent. In his recent book A World beyond Politics? A Defense of the
Nation State (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), Manent offers a
trenchant criticism of liberal democracy's tendency towards individualism and
the "empire of consent" (ibid., 116) He observes that individualism is a "system
of separations" (ibid., 13) that threatens as Tocqueville says "to confine [man]
solely in the solitude of his heart" (ibid., 113). Paradoxically, individualism
deprives human beings of the full exercise of their freedom through genuinely
political commitments and activities. The retreat to the private sphere eventually
leaves no room for the citizen's public agency and responsibility. Manent
observes that modern democracies find it hard to justify compulsory military
service, for example, because it is contrary to the principle of consent. Despite
Rasmussen and Den Uyl's rejection of "state-of-nature" theories, Manent argues
that the individualistic premise of consent ultimately reduces all political
arrangements to an imaginary and impossible state of nature because it requires
continuous individual consent.
While contemporary liberal democracies aim to reduce all social and political
bonds to constructions of human choice, premodern societies accepted that
certain prior obligations conditioned the exercise of human freedom. The
individual was a debtor to the political community and to intermediate
institutions such as the family and the Church. These institutions shaped
character, but they also made possible individual agency within the public
sphere. Could it be that individualism makes individual flourishing impossible
because it lacks the necessary priority of certain political and social
commitments, and it corrodes the respect for objective moral truths that protect
the individual's freedom of action? Critics of Rasmussen and Den Uy! may
contend that individualistic perfectionism fails to account for the common goods
that must be prior to individual freedom for the wellbeing of the community in
which human flourishing must be situated.
Rasmussen and Den Uy! do reasonably urge against the premodern view that,
whereas ancient political communities were more homogeneous, modern life is
characterized by greater diversity and a real plurality of viable conceptions of the
good life. Manent's criticism of liberal individualism, however, does not rest
upon a nostalgic desire for the return to the homogeneity of the ancient polis.
Such nostalgia is equally as impossible as the dream of a political community
constructed entirely by continuous consent. What Manent recommends is that
we must elevate liberal democracy's more fractious tendencies by appealing to
resources within democracy itself, and in order to do so we must avoid the
excesses of radical individualism. None of this is inconsistent with recognizing
real but finite as opposed to theoretically unlimited and abstract plurality.
Alexis de Tocqueville worried that the acid of democratic individualism
would corrode public-spiritedness and the cultivation of civic virtues. Manent
suggests that we can counter this tendency by defending democratic institutions
that require individuals to be engaged politically and socially in their
communities at the local level (ibid., 113). Participation in democracy is the key

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to avoiding the isolation and solitude that the democratic "system of separations"
enforces upon modern life. Such participation, however, requires that one be
able to give consent that is durable over time. The problem is not that
premodern societies entirely lacked a notion of consent, but that our
contemporary view makes very little room for the durability of permanent or
quasi-permanent promises. We are political existentialists according to Manent,
who see consent as a continuous act of sustaining a choice that can be withdrawn
at any moment. Hence, Rasmussen and Den Uy! insist upon principles of
radically free entry to and exit from social and political ties.
Manent asserts, on the other hand, that consent is transformative: "The
person who gives consent is different from what he was before giving consent.
In the social and political context, he has become part of a whole" (ibid., 119).
The transformative capacity of consent is what makes genuine political liberty
and civic or social engagement possible. Paradoxically, it is only in appearing to
lose some of our freedom through a durable promise that we gain the capacity
to be real participants in the public sphere. In this way, the notion of the
common good, which has a normative priority over our choices, can be defended
even within a conception of liberal democracy that depends upon the principle
of consent. This criticism of liberal individualism raises serious concerns for a
theory of individualistic perfectionism like that of Rasmussen and Den Uy!. The
deep structural defense of their political proceduralism rests upon a teleological
conception of human nature. They concede that liberalism cannot be sustained
without such a new deep structure. If individualism stands in the way of the
attainment of human flourishing, because it neglects the necessary priority of
certain civic commitments to individual choice, then their defense of political
principles as "metanorms" and the absolute priority of political liberty must be
questioned as well.
Notwithstanding the foregoing concerns, natural-law theorists and classically
trained Aristotelians would do well to pay careful attention to the exceptionally
thoughtful and detailed argument of this important book. Rasmussen and Den
Uyl's command of and respect for a wide range of traditions in political theory,
including Aristotelian virtue ethics and the Thomistic natural-law tradition, is
evident. Their defense of liberalism provides a seminal argument that attempts
to embrace and yet answer the objections of Aristotelians critics of liberalism
such as Macintyre. This argument cannot easily be dismissed. The authors also
defend moral and metaphysical realism, including the objective significance of
human nature for ethics. While readers should question whether Aristotelian
ethics requires radical individualism, the authors offer us a salutary reminder that
traditional morality must account for the pluralism of modern life and the
centrality of human freedom to human excellence.
GAVINT. COLVERT

Assumption College
Worcester, Massachusetts

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The Early Heidegger and Medieval Philosophy: Phenomenology for the
Godforsaken. By S. ]. MCGRATH. Washington, D.C.: The Catholic
University of America Press, 2006. Pp. 268. $69.95 (cloth). ISBN 0-81321471-8.
S. ]. McGrath's insightful new study of the early Heidegger begins with the
observation that Heidegger (much like Wittgenstein) "silenced any philosophy
that presumed to speak of God" (ix), only to conclude with the judgment that
Sein und Zeit belongs to the history of Jewish-Christian literature (albeit
"unwittingly and under protest" [255]). In the pages that intervene, McGrath
explores the young Heidegger's relationship to medieval thought, both to the
Scholasticism and to the mysticism of the middle ages. The burden of McGrath's
argument is to show that the early Heidegger's philosophy was anything but
theologically neutral. Indeed, while dramatic shifts did occur in his thinking
between 1916 and 1919, these do not mark the secularization of his thought;
rather, it is during this period of time that "he became Luther's silent partner"
(208). It is a Lutheran theology of "Godforsakeness" that Heidegger comes to
embrace in preference to the Scholastic theology on which he had been steadily
nurtured as a young man. On McGrath's account, this early shift in Heidegger's
thought is not so much a matter of his forsaking God as it is of his coming to
portray our human condition as "Godforsaken." This shift is from a Roman
Catholic to a Lutheran theological perspective and not, despite appearances,
from a religious to a nonreligious one. Having already "situated himself within
a certain form of Christian faith," McGrath contends, the question for Heidegger
(which only appears to have been "left open") of "Dasein's relation to God ...
has been decided in advance" (12).
It is no simple task to explicate Heidegger's philosophy-early, middle, or
late-in terms that will render it somewhat accessible to readers while also
supplying the backdrop to an argument about how that philosophy ought to be
evaluated. McGrath succeeds admirably in this regard; his book is one of the
most clearly written, lucid treatments of Heidegger to have been published in
recent years. He begins by supplying a sketch of the "medieval theological
paradigm," the worldview that Heidegger abandons as he sheds his early
Catholicism. McGrath's argument, at least in part, takes the form of a defense
of that worldview, even as it shows how Heidegger's rejection of it was
problematic.
Interestingly, that medieval paradigm is portrayed here as being essentially
Thomistic, despite the fact that McGrath perceives the diversity of philosophical
perspectives in the middle ages as being so great that "there is some question
whether there is any sense in speaking of Scholasticism as a unity" (4 ). It is Duns
Scotus, after all, who preoccupied Heidegger as the subject of his
Habilitationsschrift, his first book-length philosophical treatise. Yet it is
Thomism, organized around the doctrine of the analogia entis, that is taken by
McGrath to represent the kind of Scholasticism most clearly rejected by
Heidegger (see 22-23). Despite having an entire chapter (chap. 4) devoted to the

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assessment of Duns Scotus's influence on the young Heidegger, this book is very
much about the relationship between Heidegger and Aquinas.
This is not to suggest that Scotus and Scotism are insignificant in McGrath's
account; indeed he explains that Scotus actually may have helped to supply some
of the impetus for Heidegger's rejection of certain basic Thomistic ideas. As early
as 1909, for example, Heidegger encountered a modified form of Scotism in the
teaching of Carl Braig, one of his instructors at the University of Freiburg. Like
Scotus, Braig rejected the doctrine of analogia entis on essentially epistemological
grounds-he was convinced that such a doctrine undermines the possibility of
any real knowledge of God (31). Of course, the Scotist alternative of the
univocatio entis was hardly embraced by Heidegger, as he repudiated it in the
opening pages of his Sein und Zeit (35). Nevertheless, his perspective is closer to
this latter doctrine than it is to Thomism. As McGrath concludes, "Heidegger
wants a Scotus whose univocatio entis has no infinite mode" (117). Had
Heidegger not decisively broken with Scholasticism, McGrath speculates, "he
would have been a Scotist" (119).
Of course, the Modernist crisis, the sterile nature of much of the neoScholasticism to which the young Heidegger was exposed, his reading of
Augustine and of Luther, are all factors that helped to facilitate his break with
the medieval Catholic tradition. But the early study of Duns Scotus was an
important catalyst for this change. Although the author of that study understood
himself to be engaged in the task of appropriating the resources of medieval
philosophy for contemporary purposes, this work marks a point of turning away
from Scholastic metaphysics and towards the development of the outlines of an
existential phenomenology (with Husserl also supplying insights that were
crucial for this transformation). In McGrath's view, "Heidegger reorients the
whole of Scotus's metaphysics away from infinite being toward finite being"
(102), with the latter conceived as essentially individuated (Scotus's haecceitas)
and thoroughly historical. For Scotus, God as infinite being and the finite self
determined in its haecceity are the "two extreme poles of the universe of being"
(100). Heidegger rejects the former and dramatically accentuates the significance
of the latter. Consequently, his "hermeneutics of facticity began as an
exploration of ontology grounded in a univocatio entis but restricted to the
finite" (116).
Heidegger's encounter with medieval mysticism, most especially as it was
mediated in the writings of Meister Eckhart, was equally important a factor as
was his wrestling with Scholastic philosophy for the development of his early
thought. Having begun his study of mysticism as early as 1910, Heidegger
characterized it, in his Habilitationsschrift on Scotus, as "the living heart of
medieval Scholasticism" (120). At that point in time, Heidegger was still able to
conceive of the relationship between medieval metaphysics and mysticism as
being complementary. But while the significance of Scholastic philosophy
gradually diminished for Heidegger with the passing years, mysticism remained
for him a lifelong preoccupation. Mystical theology came to supply a paradigm
of "meditative thinking" in contrast to the "calculative thinking" exemplified by

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Scholastic metaphysics (121, 135). The mystic is orientated to the nothingness
of the Gottheit in a way comparable to Dasein's orientation toward the
indeterminate nothingness that is the horizon for all human experience. The
focus on interiority and subjectivity in mystical theology prefigures a similar
emphasis in Heidegger's mature existential phenomenology. Certain fundamental
intentional acts explored in that theology-such as Gelassenheit (letting be),
Abgeschiedenheit (detachment), andHingabe (devotion)-become key elements
in Heidegger's later thought (134).
All of these insights gleaned from the study of medieval mysticism between
1910 and 1919 bear fruit in Heidegger's later writings, albeit significantly
transformed. The cultivation of detachment through spiritual exercise, for
example, is replaced in his phenomenology by an attentiveness to what is
disclosed by certain basic human moods, such as anxiety or boredom (134-38).
A profound boredom, not a boredom with this or that particular thing but rather
a mood in which we ourselves are bored, is disclosive of nothingness for
Heidegger, reveals being itself precisely because particular "beings no longer
speak to us" (138). Similarly, he elaborates the mystical concept of devotion
(Hingabe) in phenomenological terms by correlating it with Husserl's turning
"back to the things themselves" (139).
Despite the importance both of Duns Scotus and the medieval mystics, it is
Martin Luther who is the key figure in McGrath's account and the book's sixth
chapter is devoted to an assessment of his influence on the young Heidegger. By
1919 Heidegger was thoroughly immersed in the study of Luther's theology, to
which he had been introduced at least a decade earlier. In McGrath's view,
Heidegger's phenomenological attack on the ontological tradition parallels and
was inspired by Luther's earlier critique of the Aristotelian-Scholastic elements
in theology (151). Luther's return to Christian sources is mirrored in Heidegger's
recovery of historical life. Heidegger "conceives the hermeneutics of facticity as
an atheological complement to Luther's theologia crucis" (153); philosophy
ought to be preoccupied with our human condition as "Godforsaken." For
Luther, this fallen, Godforsaken creature, completely incapable of any natural
knowledge of God, must patiently wait for the hidden God to appear. So, too,
Heidegger's philosophy becomes a philosophy of waiting, a "being-toward-thefuture that recapitulates the past" (160).
This is a philosophy that Heidegger presumes to be divorced from theology,
to remain silent on theological questions, but it is this presumption that McGrath
evaluates as problematic. Indeed, "a hidden theological agenda appears all the
more likely the louder Heidegger denies it" (169). Sein und Zeit is "mired,"
according to McGrath, "in the theological tradition it seeks to overcome" (173 ).
Yet that is not quite accurate, because the argument here is that Heidegger
employs freshly acquired Lutheran insights in order to undermine a Scholastic
philosophical theology. Luther's original sin becomes transmuted as Heidegger's
inauthenticity, while Luther's conscience becomes Dasein's choice of authenticity. Both thinkers conceive of human existence as a being-unto-death. The
resulting ontology is only masked as being theologically neutral. Rather, echoing

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earlier critiques of Heidegger (Scheler, Arendt, Derrida), McGrath sees ethical
and religious ideas as permeating Sein und Zeit.
McGrath turns from his discussion of Heidegger's Lutheranism to a consideration of his treatment of early Christianity (including both the New Testament
and Augustine), a process facilitated by Heidegger's relationship with Rudolf
Bultmann. Then, in the final two chapters, McGrath offers a reconsideration of
the Scholastic worldview that Heidegger has rejected, a retrieval and defense of
that tradition. These chapters are intrinsically fascinating but bear a somewhat
odd relationship to the rest of the book. I share McGrath's deep appreciation of
medieval thought (although I probably find more of value in Scotus and Scotism
than he would be inclined to do). I also embrace the Scholastic view in which
"living is understood as being-held-in-being by a Creator God, whose glory
shines through creation," a perspective "censured by Heidegger's ontology"
(177). I agree that the experience of boredom can be a potential sign of
"religiousness" (which motivated me to write a book about this topic) and not
merely a symptom of the emptiness of human existence (251). And I find more
that is theologically compelling in Karl Rahner's use of Heidegger than in Heidegger himself. McGrath characterizes the contrast between these two thinkers
succinctly when he states that: "For Heidegger, transcendence is at root an
experience of nothingness; for Rahner, transcendence is an experience of God"
(237). Finally, I share McGrath's suspicion of certain postmodern philosophers
who interpret the later Heidegger as a negative theologian incognito.
But this is just to say that I am still not inclined, McGrath's analysis notwithstanding, to think of Heidegger as a theologian at all or of his philosophical
arguments as being religiously motivated (which is different, I agree, from claiming that they are religiously neutral, but that seems like a rather stringent requirement). It is just as possible for Heidegger to have gleaned insights from Scotus,
Eckhart, and Luther for specific philosophical purposes as it was for Rahner to
employ Heidegger's ideas for the purposes of his theology. Heideggerians are
typically annoyed by Rahner's project in the same way that Heidegger bothers
McGrath. Such an observation, however, does not support the claim that we
should be suspicious of Heidegger when he frames his project as "atheological";
it certainly does not warrant the labeling of Heidegger as a "theological terrorist"
(177). And it is probably unfair to Luther for Lutheranism to be regarded as the
primary catalyst for the changes that produced such alleged acts of terror.
This is an interesting reading of Heidegger and an important study for
philosophers or theologians who care about the contemporary relevance of "the
medieval theological paradigm." I just wish that McGrath had portrayed
Heidegger as being a bit less disingenuous, the differences between them as being
a little more straightforward.
MICHAEL L. RAPOSA

Lehigh University
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

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The Specification of Human Actions in St. Thomas Aquinas. By JOSEPH PILSNER.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Pp. xi + 273. £55.00 (cloth).
ISBN 0-19-928605-1.
In Aquinas's ethics, the moral character of an action depends above all on
what kind of action it is. "Specific kinds of human actions must be pursued to
achieve certain specific ends in the moral life" (29). This fundamental
characteristic of Aquinas's teaching distinguishes his ethics from any
consequentialist or utilitarian ethics and from an ethics of intention: if the action
is evil in kind, it does not become good if it has good consequences or if it is
done with a good intention.
Aquinas's account of the specification of human, that is, moral actions is one
of the most ingenious and difficult aspects of his moral writings. The locus
classicus, questions 18-21 of the Prima Secundae, frequently leaves the reader
puzzled. The difficulty of interpretation is due to Aquinas's nonuniform
terminology, his elliptical writing style, and his parsimonious use of examples.
The best way to achieve clarity is to read this key text in the context of the entire
corpus of Aquinas's writings, above all the Secunda Secundae, where he discusses
his moral principles in connection with concrete situations or specific virtues and
vices. Just this sort of study is what Pilsner has provided: his discussions are
never kept within the narrow bounds of a specific text, but take all of Aquinas's
works into account. Pilsner intends to show that Aquinas's account of
specification, despite contrary appearances, is fundamentally coherent (6).
Before summarizing parts of this fine book, I will briefly mention a few points
of minor criticism. Regretfully, Pilsner does not pay sufficient attention to
previous medieval debates, in light of which Aquinas's personal achievement
would appear more clearly. A further complaint regards a certain lack of
attention to using the latest critical text. The Latin texts Pilsner uses are taken
from Roberto Busa's CD-ROM, which provides the best texts that were available
during the course of the creation of this database, yet are not always the best
texts today. Also, when citing Aristotle's Ethica Nicomachea in Latin translation,
Pilsner does not recur to the critical editions by Rene Gauthier, but simply cites
it from a nineteenth-century edition and refers to it as "old Latin translation"
(179, 225). This label obscures the fact that Aquinas used not only the complete
translation by Robert Grosseteste, but also the earlier, partial translations called
Ethica vetus and Ethica nova. These minor issues do not diminish the value of
Pilsner's book.
The study is divided into ten chapters, including an introduction and a
conclusion. In addition to the introduction, chapters 2 and 3 have introductory
value, providing a summary of Aquinas's ethics (ch. 2) and discussing
specification generally in natural things and natural motions (ch. 3 ). Six chapters
examine the five specifying factors of human actions: end, object, matter,
circumstance, motive (chs. 4-9). In what follows I will concentrate on chapters
4-6 and 9, where Pilsner discusses the most important specifying factors: end,
object, and matter.

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What Aquinas refers to as end (finis) is either "what one wants" or "why one
wants something." Only when a thing is willed for its own sake do these two
coincide. Otherwise, proximate and remote end are distinct. If I want money to
buy a house, then "what I want" are both the house and money, and the remote
end, the house, is "why I want" the proximate end, money. Pilsner explores the
relationship between proximate and remote end in chapter 9.
In chapter 4, Pilsner examines the role of the end apart from the distinction
of proximate and remote end. The end is what constitutes a human action: if one
does not pursue an end, one does not act at all (51). An analogy illustrates the
fundamental specifying role of the end for human action: what the substantial
form is with regard to a corporeal substance, giving it its being and determining
its species, is what the end is to a human action (48-51; cf. 30-37). The
specifying role of ends can also be seen when human actions are considered as
a special kind of motion. Motions receive their species from their term; therefore
acts of will, which are a kind of motion, receive their species from their term,
which is their end (52; cf. 39-44). (As Pilsner points out, Thomas is using the
word "motion" here in the broad sense of change or action.) The most important
argument for the specifying role of the end focuses on the fact that ends are
freely and consciously pursued by the will and are in this way the principle of
human acts (55-60). It is because of this preeminent role of the end in human
action that Aquinas innovatively holds that the primary division of human
actions is into good and evil: good and evil ends divide human actions primarily
into good and evil actions (61-66). An end is evil, and hence a human action is
evil, if it lacks due order to an appropriate end (68). How appropriate ends are
distinguished from inappropriate ones is part of the discussion of chapter 5.
In chapter 9, Pilsner presents and solves a puzzle of interpretation: when
something is done as a proximate end in order to achieve a remote end, which
one specifies the action? Seemingly contradictory statements can be found in
Aquinas. On occasion, he holds that the proximate end specifies, while at other
times he argues that the remote end specifies. Yet as Pilsner shows, the answer
to this problem depends on whether Aquinas considers human actions according
to their kind or as individual actions. In the first perspective, the remote end is
incidental to the species of action; in the second, the remote end is the crucial
factor. When one commits adultery in order to steal, then the further end of
stealing does not alter the nature of adultery when considered as a kind of
action. Conversely, when considered from the perspective of the acting person,
the focus is on the remote end as the object of his will, and his action is to be
described as theft (by means of adultery). Said in another way, the external act
is specified by the proximate end, whereas the internal act, that is, the act of the
will, is specified by the remote end (234-38).
Chapter 5, which accounts for almost a third of the entire book, investigates
the role of the object in specifying human actions. Pilsner distinguishes three
meanings that the term "object" takes on in Aquinas's writings: (1) that to which
an action relates; (2) a formal aspect which is crucial in determining an action's
species, such as taking one's own or another's thing; (3) the proximate end, that

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is, when something is done for the sake of something else, as when someone
steals in order to commit adultery (72). The first meaning of object, that to
which an action relates, is the most difficult to interpret. When someone sets out
to buy bread, which one of these three is the object of his action: the bread (the
thing related to an external action), buying bread (the external action), or the
effect accomplished by buying bread (the action's effect)? According to Pilsner,
depending on the context and the viewpoint, Aquinas can be found to interpret
"object" in any of these three ways (77-91).
The key question is what accounts for an object's function in specification?
This is not a physical aspect, but rather a "formal aspect" of the object at hand.
The way the formal aspect (or formal ratio) of an object accounts for the
specification of human actions is analogous to the formal aspect of an object that
specifies the powers of the soul. For example, what specifies an action as either
legitimate intercourse or adultery is a formal ratio of the object, that is, whether
the woman is one's own wife or another's. "In a way analogous to what happens
when 'coloured' or 'sensually attractive' identifies a distinct object for a human
power, 'one's own' or 'not one's own' is a ratio which gives formal completion
to this object of human action" (105). Since it is the formal ratio and not the
material thing that specifies human actions, a single thing considered materially
can be the object of two different species of actions or habits when considered
formally; vice versa, two different things, materially speaking, can be considered
as the same species of human action. An example of the first is when money is
either the object of liberality or justice, depending on whether the money is given
out of generosity or on account of obligation. An example of the second is pride,
which can take as its foundation many different things (knowledge, possessions,
etc.) (106-7). How is the formal aspect of an object identified, so that an action
can be specified and hence morally evaluated? It is a comparison of the object to
right reason that allows for this to happen. It is the standard of right reason that
determines that the essential condition of adultery is the formal aspect that the
woman is another's wife, rather than her height, etc. (118-21). The standard of
right reason, that is, the rule for human actions, is discovered either by reason
itself (natural law) or by revelation (divine law) (126-33).
The third meaning of object found in Aquinas is the proximate end. This
meaning of "object" is usually found in contexts where he discusses means-end
relationships. For example "fighting well" ( = object or proximate end) is related
to "victory"(= remote end) (133-34). This use of "object" is to be distinguished
from the object as what is constituted by a formal ratio. For example, the virtue
of religion is about offering things to God. "What is offered" is the object in the
sense of proximate end, whereas the fact that it is offered to God constitutes the
formal ratio (137-40).
A term that Thomas at times uses interchangeably with the term "object," to
which however in many contexts he gives a specific meaning, is "matter." Matter
as a specifying element in human action is either "matter about which" (materia
circa quam) or "due I undue matter." According to Pilsner, '"matter about which'
is what the action or habit is particularly engaged with or specially related to

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during its operation, especially what is the direct recipient of the motion or
activity" (148). For example, the "matter about which" for a carpenter is certain
types of wood; for a clergyman, sacred things; for fortitude, dangers of death,
etc. (149). "Matter about which" specifies when it is taken in the sense of the
"end" (166). The other sense of "matter" that Thomas uses at times as an
equivalent of "object" is "due I undue matter" (151). For example, the due
matter of buying or selling is one's own thing, whereas undue matter is, for
example, a spiritual thing; the due matter of intercourse is one's own wife as
opposed to another's wife, etc. (152).
Although Pilsner discusses key issues of Thomistic casuistry, he avoids
engaging himself in applied ethics. Important topics for such an enterprise, such
as the notion of unintended side-effects and the doctrine of the double effect, are
not discussed in his study. He also steers clear from recent debates regarding the
moral object. Yet by offering a detailed and insightful study of the specification
of human actions, Pilsner provides not only a very useful resource for the
advancement of current debates, but also a book that is well suited to
nonspecialists who are interested in Thomas's ethics.
TOBIAS HOFFMANN

The Catholic University of America
Washington, D.C.

Divine Likeness: Toward a Trinitarian Anthropology of the Family. By MARC
CARDINAL OUELLET. Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2006. Pp. 242.
$26.00 {paper). ISBN 0-8028-2833-7.
Anthropology ("what it means to be human") is becoming the first area of
Christian concern. It has always been true that 'growth in Christ" requires
growth in humanity, of which Christ, perfectus homo, is the exemplar. In our
contemporary world not only personal spiritual growth but the whole work of
evangelization requires a new understanding of "what it means to be human."
That brings us to Christ and indeed, through him, back "to the beginning" {the
anthropological point of reference to which Pope John Paul II gave such
importance). If, as we read in Genesis, man is made in the "divine likeness" ("ad
imaginem Dei" [Gen 1:27]), the more his life develops in a truly human way the
more "visible" or identifiable God becomes through that life; conversely, the less
human that life, the less it leads him (and others) to God.
If the dehumanization of modern life is a powerful obstacle to evangelization,
it follows that evangelization depends on the rehumanization of the lives of the
evangelizers. Only if contemporary man, in some way inevitably aware of his
tottering humanity, meets men and women who are strongly human precisely
because they are Christian, can he be led by them to the God whom they truly
(however imperfectly) image.

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The contemporary and growing loss of awareness of the nature and dignity
of human realities is nowhere more evident than in the devaluation of marriage
and the family. Forty years of conciliar and postconciliar magisterium have
repeatedly issued the challenge posed by all of this, a challenge summed up in
Familiaris Consortia (para. 17): "Family, become what you are." The present
book by Marc Cardinal Ouellet seeks to deepen the theoretical-theological basis
to this pastoral challenge, while centering its analysis (as the subtitle implies) on
"a Trinitarian anthropology."
"Let us make man in our image, after our likeness" (Gen 1:26); "So God
created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and
female he created them" (Gen 1:27). These verses are the basis for the JudaeoChristian belief that "man" (male-female), alone in visible creation, uniquely
"images" God, and that our first understanding of God should arise from the
contemplation of man. Again, only when rooted in this concept of man's being
an imago Dei can natural anthropology establish man's nature and dignity as a
thinking-willing being.
In the words of Genesis 1:26 ("ad imaginem ... nostram") Christian thought
has also discerned an underlying Trinitarian reference. From this, one might
think, does it not follow that "man" is also an "image of the Trinity"? Theology
however has not made much progress toward any precise analysis of what this
could imply. It has at times been suggested that an imago Trinitatis could be
found in the family. This suggestion seems initially tempting, since the triad of
"father-mother-child" does indeed appear as a trinity where love is ideally the
creative and unitive factor. But endeavors to establish a meaningful analogy
between the family and the Trinity have never prospered.
A first impression from Ouellet's book is that he wishes to re-proposes the
"family as imago Trinitatis." While he acknowledges the difficulties of applying
a "fully trinitarian logic" to the human reality of the family (18), he nevertheless
sets out initially to follow a perspective which "invites us to study the
relationship between Trinity and family from a theological point of view" (5).
Practically speaking, however, he touches on this only in his second chapter, and
one fails to find there any real development of the thesis.
Chapter 2 is entitled, "The Family, Image of the Trinity." It opens by
invoking the "bold words" of John Paul II in his 1994 Letter to Families: "The
original model of the family must be sought in God himself, in the Trinitarian
mystery of his life" (LF 6). Ouellet appeals to the pope's idea of the Trinity as
model of the family as if it lent support to the thesis of the family as image of the
Trinity. While he acknowledges that this latter thesis is "still far from being
unanimously welcomed," he does suggest that John Paul's words may hint at a
radical departure from traditional views rooted in St. Augustine. "Has John Paul
II taken the risk of rehabilitating an analogy set aside as inadequate for so long?"
We should "[n]ote the pope's extreme prudence in affirming what he knows to
be in contrast with a predominant tradition .... Has personalist philosophy,
which nourished John Paul's thought.. finally overcome the objections of the
great African master ... ?" (20-21).

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As Ouellet himself recognizes (20), St. Augustine is in "total opposition" to
the proposed thesis. It might have been helpful to the reader if Augustine's
objections had been recalled-that is, that the implications of the thesis wreak
havoc with Trinitarian dogma, inevitably presenting the Holy Spirit as in some
way the spouse of the Father, or the Son as the offspring of the love between the
Father and the Spirit (cf. De Trinitate 12.5-7).
Returning to the "image-model" question, we can say that the model the
Trinity gives to the family is that of a communion of persons and of the creative
nature of love. The image the family presents it is indeed one of creative love,
but one in which the communion of two persons becomes a community of four,
five, six, or more persons-so many separate expressions of the spouses' union
and love.
This important distinction between communion and community is clearly
expressed in John Paul's Letter to Families. "I have spoken of two closely related
yet not identical concepts: the concept of 'communion' and that of community.
'Communion' has to do with the personal relationship between the 'I' and the
'thou.' 'Community' on the other hand transcends this framework and moves
toward a society, a we .... The communion of the spouses gives rise to the
community of the family" (LF 7). Ouellet does not bear these distinctions
sufficiently in mind. Therefore a first assessment of his work must be that in
what appears as its key chapter, the theme proposed in its title is not
convincingly expounded.
That said, one could suggest that the fault in fact lies with the title, which
does not do justice to the book. Properly speaking, apart from the 18 pages of
chapter 2 (out of a total of 234 pages), the rest of the work, rather than treating
of the title thesis, develops a series of rich and suggestive reflections on marriage
itself, on its sacramental nature, on marital spirituality, and on the ecclesial
mission that the family-spouses and children-has in the contemporary world.
Chapter 5 gives a splendid summary of salvation history as "a spousal drama
of Trinitarian revelation: A God who is Bridegroom seeks after his unfaithful
bride, he regenerates her in the suffering of humbled love and lifts her up in his
glory. The Father sends his Son as the Bridegroom, accompanied by the Holy
Spirit, who prepares the bride for the encounter with the Bridegroom and the
fulfillment of the eschatological wedding" (80-81).
A very precious contribution of the work is the study of the role of the Holy
Spirit within the conjugal covenant. Chapter 5, "The Holy Spirit: Seal of the
Conjugal Covenant'', sums this up: "The Holy Spirit, 'seal' of Trinitarian love,
is given to the spouses as the 'seal' of their conjugal covenant, in prolongation
of his spousal gift as the 'seal' of the covenant between God and humanity in
Christ" (79).
Ouellet defends and develops the notion of marriage as a "permanent"
sacrament (and hence a constant source of grace), and not a merely transient
ceremony (cf. 127, 167, 200, 212). I thoroughly agree, though I would have
liked to see more precise ascetical and pastoral conclusions drawn from
theological statements such as, "Matrimonial grace primarily consists in

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participating in the spousal love of Christ and the Church" (91). An effective
catechesis on marriage needs to help the spouses be aware that the sacrament
they have received entitles them to everyday aid for their practical task of loving
each other and their children.
Ouellet gives a deep theological analysis of the sacramental basis for the
spouses' ecclesial mission, very perceptively showing that the mutual love of
husband and wife must be open to a third. In giving themselves, they go beyond
themselves. From this he develops the further necessary openness of conjugal
love to others beyond the family. Hence the social and evangelizing mission of
the family. "openness to the 'third' ... therefore includes not only an openness
to the child but also the missionary openness to society" (70).
Combining Pauline doctrine on the nuptial mystery of Christ and the Church
(151) and modern personalist reflections on the theology of the gift, Ouellet
shows how the mutual self-giving of the spouses should be seen as intimately
connected with the Eucharist, the gift "par excellence." This is finely brought
out, though there is perhaps an over-insistence on the importance of the
liturgical setting for the celebration of marriage, suggesting that the celebration
is only fully meaningful and effective when accompanied by a sense of ecclesial
mission and participation given by the Eucharist (222-23). No doubt this is valid
for specially well-disposed or formed groups. Yet one can wonder if it is equally
valid for "those who are not yet initiated into this ideal" (222). It is debatable
whether the ecclesial significance of marriage-the mission of the spouses-is
driven home more by a liturgical ceremony (in a moment when most couples are
in a highly emotional state), or should rather be the consequence of thorough
premarital catechesis given over a period when the couple are more likely to
weigh the deeper sacramental and ecclesial significance of their marriage.
Ouellet takes the undoubted sacramentality of marriage to suggest an
analogous "sacramentality of the family" (51-54; 233 ). The sacramentality of
marriage is unquestioned and fruitfully developed here. The idea of the
sacramentality of the family, proposed in a tentative and undeveloped way, may
be useful for broad pastoral work but its theological meaning is not clear.
A particular spirituality generally derives from a consciousness of a particular
vocation. It is clear that one can speak of, analyze, and develop a conjugal
spirituality derived from the sacrament of marriage (always with care not to
submerge the individual life of each spouse into an abstract "couple." One
spouse can live a deep conjugal spirituality even if the other does not.) It is not
so easy to spell out the content of family spirituality, and even less so to give it
a specific sacramental origin. So while Ouellet's comments on marital spirituality
are profound, one finds a weakness in his attempts to develop the idea of familial
spirituality based on the family as a "sacrament of the Trinity." "[T]he whole life
of the couple and the family becomes, in Christ and in the Church, a
sacramentum Trinitatis that lets the gift of divine unity and fecundity pass
through the life of the world" (172). Insofar as one wishes to use the term
sacramentum Trinitatis to describe the role of the family, one would have to

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extend it equally to the ecclesial mission of the priesthood, religious life, and
indeed each of the faithful.
Ouellet insists as a main point on "the sacramental grace of marriage as it
grounds the ecclesiality of the couple and the family" (168). No doubt one can
relate the ecclesial mission of the spouses to the sacrament of matrimony they
have received, though it is perhaps more clearly grounded in their baptism. One
undoubtedly can and should speak of the ecclesial mission of the family; but in
this case the sacramental ground for this mission would seem to lie in baptism,
common to all the family members, rather than in matrimony, peculiar to the
spouses.
It would not be right to end without drawing attention to what may be a
typographical oversight but is nevertheless regrettable: the fact that a translation
(198) from the Supplementum to Aquinas's Summa Theologiae identifies the
bona of marriage and its ends. This is not consistent with the mind of St.
Augustine or St. Thomas. The bona refer to the distinctive characteristics of the
conjugal covenant (exclusiveness, permanence, openness to life). To confuse
them with its ends (the good of the spouses and the procreation/education of
children) makes any logical analysis of marriage impossible. This is all the more
important in that no small amount of confusion has been created over recent
years, in both theological and canonical writing, by a failure to distinguish
properties and ends.
CORMAC BURKE

Strathmore University
Nairobi, Kenya

Human Embryo Adoption: Biotechnology, Marriage, and the Right to Life. Edited
by THOMASV. BERG, L.C., and EDWARDJ. FURTON. Foreword by ROBERT
P. GEORGE. Philadelphia: The National Catholic Bioethics Center;
Thornwood, N.Y.: The Westchester Institute for Ethics & The Human
Person, 2006. Pp. 347. $24.95 (paper). ISBN 978-0-935372-50-2.
Such an extraordinary book cannot easily be laid down. It contains a wealth
of bioethical thinking on a question that the Magisterium of the Church has not
yet pronounced upon (as of the writing of this review): namely, whether it is licit
for a woman, married or not, to rescue by a medical transfer into her womb an
abandoned embryo that has been frozen by a process of cryopreservation after
in-vitro fertilization. Written by sixteen scholars, this brilliant work takes into
account both sides of the question and seemingly exhausts all possible arguments.
Each of the authors attempt to think with the Church, and argue politely for or
against each others' positions. Perhaps the best book review is found in the

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BOOK REVIEWS

preface and the afterword of the book, crafted as much intelligence as the essays
themselves.
With different nuances, six authors defend the liceity of heterologous embryo
transfer (hereafter HET) and six others attempt to show that HET is intrinsically
evil. It is taken for granted that this embryo is a human person by both sides,
based upon both science and philosophy. The "Afterword" attempts to show
why a theologian or counselor cannot impose his view of the question on women
considering this procedure but must give both views as objectively as possible
and let the women (with their husbands' consent, if they are married, or even
single women) make the decision themselves. The theologian is not the
Magisterium and lacks the authority to advise in its name when the Church's
official teacher remains silent.
Summarizing both positions of this book, pro and con, is difficult because
each author adds some distinctions which are not always commented upon by
others. Notwithstanding, these subtleties in turn make the text very rich reading
indeed. Hence, I will attempt to give the major viewpoints of both sides of the
debate, even at the risk of oversimplification.
Those authors in favor of the process of adopting embryos (May, Brugger,
Ryan, et al.) begin with the notion that the object of the act is bringing a person
into the womb of the mother as a home, and its intent is to save the life of a
human being. These persons who are frozen have been placed unjustly in a
canister filled with nitrogen, and if someone has the courage and generosity to
save them, the moral object is merely to transfer them to a hospitable womb
where they can be nurtured, and thereby saved from death and hopefully be
born. The opposing side would naturally say this is begging the question by
merely describing what happens and claiming to have a moral species. Many of
the authors in favor of this procedure base this overarching idea on the teaching
of Pope John Paul II, as contained in Veritatis Splendor (78):
The morality of the human act depends primarily and fundamentally
on the "object" rationally chosen by the deliberate will, as is borne
out by the insightful analysis, still valid today, made by Saint
Thomas. In order to be able to grasp the object of an act which
specifies that act morally, it is therefore necessary to place oneself in
the perspective of the acting person. The object of the act of willing
is in fact a freely chosen kind of behaviour. To the extent that it is in
conformity with the order of reason, it is the cause of the goodness
of the will; it perfects us morally, and disposes us to recognize our
ultimate end in the perfect good, primordial love. By the object of a
given moral act, then, one cannot mean a process or an event of the
merely physical order, to be assessed on the basis of its ability to
bring about a given state of affairs in the outside world. Rather, that
object is the proximate end of a deliberate decision which determines
the act of willing on the part of the acting person.

The evil of procreating a human being without authentic conjugal intercourse
but by technology has already occurred. Further, the second evil of freezing these

BOOK REVIEWS

659

tiny human persons also exists. Since the possibility of transferring embryos to
a mother's womb outside of the marriage act is relatively new, Church teaching
has not historically addressed the morality of this transfer. However, the Church
has spoken about generation and procreation as the sexual act of parents
together with God who creates and infuses the soul. Likewise, if the child exists
for one minute, the couple are parents. Paradoxically, if no conjugal or sexual
act occurs, the child has no parents, strictly speaking, because he has been the
product of science not of a loving act. Therefore, nothing prohibits the liceity of
this transfer, since the act of procreation has already happened. That this transfer
is a new way of gestation, namely, that someone can become pregnant without
conjugal intercourse, means it is an act which is indifferent per se, and linked
with a desire for saving a life, an act of generous love.
Whether or not the woman who chooses to bring an embryo into her womb
to save it has the resources to do this must also be taken into account for this act
to be virtuous. Other due circumstances must be considered as well, including
possibility of scandal since one has to go to IFV clinics to make arrangements for
the act of embryo adoption. All things considered, May, Brugger, and Ryan
argue persuasively that the moral species of the embryo transfer is objectively
good, given the correct motives, intentions, and due circumstances included.
On the other hand, the opponents (Pacholczyk, Tonti-Fillipini, Austriaco, et
al) claim that the act of transfer is intrinsically evil because it violates the
inseparability principle of the conjugal act. Husband and wife together must
generate or procreate. Implanting an embryo into a woman without the act of
conjugal intercourse objectively impales, in the order of abstraction, the wouldbe self-donation that should take place in the one-flesh union of marriage. So,
even if a couple chooses this act with the husband's consent, it violates the
principle of inseparability of the conjugal act, which is to be unitive and
procreative in principle.
Further, normally after fertilization gestation takes place in the woman. These
authors maintain that this period of nine months in the womb is intrinsically
linked to procreation or generation of a human being as a necessary property
flowing from procreation which is successful in terms of producing an embryo.
In other words, conception, pregnancy, and giving birth is the only way someone
should morally be a mother. The opponents of this position would claim that
this view is physicalism because it claims that what seems to happen in the
physical order is morally normative. Yet while Veritatis Splendor teaches that the
moral object or species depends "primarily" and "fundamentally" on the acting
person, this does not preclude secondary reasons, based upon science, to
discover what is the "right" reason for the morality of an act either.
Austriaco further asserts that the future father renders his wife
immunologically ready to accept a child by an authentic conjugal act, which is
another segment of the father's contribution to procreation that science has only
recently discovered. Moreover, HET renders the father/husband useless and
isolates him because the child has no direct relationship with him coming from
a sexual act. For Pacholczyk, Tonti-Fillipini, Austriaco, and others, HETwillfully

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BOOK REVIEWS

breaks the one-flesh union of husband and wife. These authors essentially base
their arguments on Donum Vitae which says:
For human procreation has specific characteristics by virtue of the
personal dignity of the parents and of the children: the procreation
of a new person, whereby the man and the woman collaborate with
the power of the Creator, must be the fruit and the sign of the mutual
self-giving of the spouses, of their love and of their fidelity [Footnote
34. GS 50]. The fidelity of the spouses in the unity of marriage
involves reciprocal respect of their right to become a father and a
mother only through each other. (A. lb)

Germain Grisez, in his third volume of The Way of the Lord Jesus, gave certain
key reasons for the liceity of adopting embryos, thereby bringing to debate this
new problem to the Tradition and challenging moralists to come up with
arguments either in favor or against the process. In the present volume, those in
favor of the liceity of HET would assert that their opponents have redefined
procreation to include gestation, a position not be found in the Tradition. The
pro-HET school of thought would also argue that while the attempt to save some
embryos is not the best solution to the problem, it at least potentially would save
some human lives, the value of which are immeasurable. The best solution, of
course, would be to bring these embryos into the womb of the original mother,
provided she repents of the whole NF process (the position of both sides with
some exceptions). Finally, these scholars and theologians seem to assume that
since there is no clear prohibition of this procedure by the Magisterium, HET is
morally indifferent rather than a grave evil. This last assertion, of course, begs
the question. Apparent built-in purposes, at least, hinting at the teleology of an
action are also part of an analysis to discover "right reason" or the morality of
a human action. They may not be primary, but they are for Thomists (being
moderate realists) at least part of the equation-in addition to the immediate
intention of the acting person-to discover moral species.
Underlying the main arguments of all authors are side-line considerations
about the morality of adoption in general, the consent of a husband to the procedure, the wet-nursing analogy, the issue of surrogacy, possible use of artificial
wombs if they ever become available, and whether or not even a religious group
of sisters could be founded, which would do the work of gestating the lives of
the embryos and then letting other people adopt these babies.
The intensity of the debate makes the reading of this book exceedingly
interesting. If one takes a side on the question, it does not mean that the
opposing position is void of all merit. Now, we wait for the Church to give its
guidance for the individual Catholic conscience.
BASIL COLE, 0.P.

Dominican House of Studies
Washington, D.C.

GENERAL INDEX TO THE THOMIST
VOLUME 71 (2007)
ARTICLES
Brown, Christopher M., "Artifacts, Substances, and Transubstantiation:
Solving a Puzzle for Aquinas's Views" .....................
89
Butera, Giuseppe, "The Moral Status of the First Principle of Practical Reason
in Thomas's Natural-Law Theory" ......................
609
Coolman, Boyd Taylor, "The Salvific Affectivity of Christ according to
Alexander of Hales" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Goudreau, Paul, "The Passions and the Moral Life: Appreciating the
419
Originality of Aquinas" ...............................
Jaramillo, Alicia, "The Necessity of Raising the Question of God: Aquinas and
Lonergan on the Quest after Complete Intelligibility" ........ 221
Keck, John W., "The Natural Motion of Matter in Newtonian and PostNewtonian Physics" .................................
529
Larson, Thomas, "Natural Motion in Inanimate Bodies" .............
555
Levering, Matthew, "Christ the Priest: An Exploration of Summa Theologiae
379
III, Question 22" ....................................
Macdonald, Paul A., Jr., "Direct Realism and Aquinas's Account of Sensory
Cognition" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343
Malloy, Christopher J., "Thomas on the Order of Love and Desire: A
Development of Doctrine" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Mansini, Guy, O.S.B., "A Contemporary Understanding of St. Thomas on
Sacerdotal Character" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
Maurer, Armand, "Etienne Gilson, Critic of Positivism" .............
199
O'Callaghan, John P., "Thomism and Analytic Philosophy: A Discussion" 269
Osborne, Thomas M., Jr. "Perfect and Imperfect Virtues in Aquinas" .... 39
Peach, Andrew J., "Late- vs. Early-Term Abortion: A Thomistic Analysis" 113
Reichmann, James B., S.J., "Aquinas, Scotus, and the Christological Mystery:
Why Christ Is Not a Human Person" ....................
451
Toner, Christopher, "Was Aquinas an Egoist?" ....................
577
White, Kevin, "Aquinas on Oral Teaching" .......................
505

REVIEWS
Ashley, Benedict M., O.P., Jean deBlois, C.S.J., and Kevin D. O'Rourke, 0.P.,
Health Care Ethics: A Catholic Theological Analysis, 5th edition (Basil
161
Cole, 0.P.) ........................................
Barrera, Albino, Economic Compulsion and Christian Ethics (Kenneth R. Himes,
O.F.M.) ...........................................
482
___ , God and the Evil of Scarcity: Moral Foundations of Economic Agency
(Kenneth R. Himes, O.F.M.) ...........................
482
Berg, Thomas V. , L. C., and Edward T. Furton, eds., Human Embryo Adoption:
Biotechnology, Marriage, and the Right to Life (Basil Cole, O.P.) 657
Burnell, Peter, The Augustinian Person (Marianne Djuth) .............
338
Dauphinais, Michael, and Matthew Levering, eds., Reading John with St. Thomas
Aquinas: Theological Exegesis and Speculative Theology (Thomas F.
Ryan) ............................................
330
De Blois, Jean, C.S.J., Benedict M. Ashley, 0.P., and Kevin D. O'Rourke, O.P.,
Health Care Ethics: A Catholic Theological Analysis, 5th edition (Basil
Cole, O.P.) ........................................
161
Den Uyl, Douglas J., and Douglas B. Rasmussen, Norms of Liberty: A
Perfectionist Basis for Non-Perfectionist Politics (Gavin T. Colvert)
.................................................
637
Dewan, Lawrence, O.P., Form and Being: Studies in Thomistic Metaphysics
(Michael]. Dodds, 0.P.) ..............................
323
Di Blasi, Fulvio, God and the Natural Law: A Rereading of Thomas Aquinas
Gohn Goyette) .....................................
497
Falcon, Andrea, Aristotle and the Science of Nature: Unity without Uniformity
(Christopher A. Decaen) ..............................
478
Flynn, Gabriel, ed., Yves Congar, Theologian of the Church (Mark E. Ginter)
.................................................
493
Furton, Edward T., and Thomas V. Berg, L.C., eds., Human Embryo Adoption:
Biotechnology, Marriage, and the Right to Life (Basil Cole, O.P.) 657
Gavin, John, S.J., and John McDermott, S.J., eds., Pope John Paul II on the
Body: Human, Eucharistic, Ecclesial (Francis Cardinal George, O.M.I.)
.................................................
475
Levering, Matthew, and Michael Dauphinais, eds., ReadingJohn with St. Thomas
Aquinas: Theological Exegesis and Speculative Theology (Thomas F.
Ryan) ............................................
330
Lopez, Antonio, F.S.C.B., Spirit's Gift: The Metaphysical Insight of Claude
154
Bruaire (William Desmond) ............................

REVIEWS (con.)

Malloy, Christopher J., Engrafted into Christ: A Critique of the joint Declaration
500
(Charles Morerod, O.P.) ..............................
McDermott, John, S.J., and John Gavin, S.J., eds., Pope john Paul II on the
Body: Human, Eucharistic, Ecclesial (Francis Cardinal George, O.M.I.)
.................................................
475
McGrath, Francis ]., F.S.M., ed., The Letters and Diaries of John Henry
Newman, vol. 9, Littlemore and the Parting of Friends, May
1842-0ctober 1843 (EdwardJeremyMiller)
..............
147
McGrath, S. J., The Early Heidegger and Medieval Philosophy: Phenomenology
for the Godforsaken (Michael L. Raposa) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 646
Mclnerny, Ralph, Praeambula Fidei: Thomism and the God of the Philosophers
633
(Thomas Joseph White, 0.P.) ..........................
Min, Anselm K., Paths to the Triune God: Encounters between Aquinas and
Recent Theologies (Earl Muller, S.J.) .....................
333
O'Rourke, Kevin D., 0.P., Benedict M. Ashley, O.P., and Jean deBlois, C.S.J.,
Health Care Ethics: A Catholic Theological Analysis, 5th edition (Basil
161
Cole, O.P.) ........................................
Osborne, Thomas M., Jr., Love of Self and Love of God in Thirteenth-Century
326
Ethics (Mary Beth Ingham, C.S.J.) .......................
Ouellet, Marc Cardinal, Divine Likeness: Toward a Trinitarian Anthropology of
the Family (Cormac Burke) ............................
653
Pilsner, Joseph, The Specification of Human Actions in St. Thomas Aquinas
650
(Tobias Hoffmann) ..................................
Rasmussen, Douglas B., and Douglas ]. Den Uy!, Norms of Liberty: A
Perfectionist Basis for Non-Perfectionist Politics (Gavin T. Colvert)
.................................................
637
Reimers, Adrian J., The Soul of the Person: A Contemporary Philosophical
Psychology (Philip Blosser) ............................
143
Ruddy, Christopher, The Local Church: Tillard and the Future of Catholic
Ecclesiology Games Massa) ............................
490
Ruse, Michael, The Creation-Evolution Struggle (Michael G. Loudin and
486
Nicanor Austriaco, O.P.) ..............................
Russell, Jeffrey Burton, Paradise Mislaid: How We Lost Heaven and How We
Can Regain It (Catherine Brown Tkacz) ..................
167
Shanley, Brian, O.P., trans., The Treatise on the Divine Nature: Summa
Theologiae I, 1-13 (David Burrell, C.S.C.) .................
159
Sweeney, Eileen, Logic, Theology, and Poetry in Boethius, Abelard, and Alan of
Lille: Words in the Absence of Things (Willemien Otten) ...... 319