The Thomist 83 (2019): 1-29

“THE DIVINE GOODNESS COULD BE MANIFEST
THROUGH OTHER CREATURES AND ANOTHER
ORDER”: THE SOURCE OF AQUINAS’S CONVICTIONS
ABOUT DIVINE FREEDOM
JAMIE ANNE SPIERING
Benedictine College
Atchison, Kansas

W

ILLIAM ROWE’S 2004 book, Can God Be Free?,
revisits a classic argument in philosophical theology,
claiming that divine freedom (as it is traditionally
understood) contradicts divine perfection. Rowe cites Thomas
Aquinas as an author who holds that God’s free choice involves
the ability to create other creatures, or another universe, than
the one he does. However, Rowe argues, Aquinas also believes
that there is no “best world,” and in that case whichever world
God chooses to create is a lesser good. And for Rowe, a God
who creates less than he could is a contradiction: “If an
omniscient being creates a world when there is a better world it
could create, it would be possible for there to be a being
morally better than it.”1 God cannot be free—if we take “free”
to imply having options for acting—and perfect at the same
time.
Although it has been several years since Rowe’s book was
published, and although Aquinas is one of the major thinkers he
addresses, there has been little response to the book from
Thomists. Brian Leftow used Aquinas’s teachings to challenge
Rowe’s arguments with respect to what we might call the first,
or primary, divine freedom: the ability to create, or not create, a
1

William Rowe, Can God Be Free? (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 120.
1

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

world.2 But when Rowe responded, he demanded an answer to
the contradiction involved in the choice between worlds.3 This
second type of free choice is the one around which most of his
book centers. Leftow’s answer to this argument, and his later
writings on divine freedom, have not been based on Thomistic
premises.4 And although Rowe’s book continues to elicit responses from those working in the analytic tradition,5 historical
Thomists seem to have remained silent.
In some ways, this lack of response is understandable. The
topic of divine freedom is immensely difficult. An ex nihilo
creation is not, strictly speaking, a change,6 and so to discuss it
puts a strain on almost all of our categories. Moreover, it is of
course difficult—it might even be thought unproductive—for
those who follow Aquinas to engage with Rowe’s understanding
of terms like “possible world”7 and “good.”8 However, Rowe’s
2

Brian Leftow, “Rowe, Aquinas, and God’s Freedom,” Philosophical Books 48, no. 3
(July 2007), 195-206. Norman Kretzmann, in writings Rowe read with some care, also
denied the divine freedom to create or not create (see “A General Problem of Creation:
Why Would God Create Anything at All?” in Scott MacDonald, ed., Being and
Goodness (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1990), 208-28. For arguments against
Kretzmann, see John Wippel, “Norman Kretzmann on Aquinas’s Attribution of Will and
Freedom to Create to God,” Religious Studies 39 (2003): 287-98; and idem, “Thomas
Aquinas on God’s Freedom to Create or Not,” chap. 9 in Metaphysical Themes in
Thomas Aquinas II (Washington: D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press,
2011).
3
William Rowe, “Replies,” Philosophical Books 48, no. 3 (July 2007): 218.
4
See Brian Leftow, “No Best World: Creaturely Freedom,” Religious Studies 41
(2005): 269-85; “No Best World: Moral Luck,” Religious Studies 41 (2005): 165-81;
and “Two Pictures of Divine Choice,” in Hugh McCann, ed., Free Will and Classical
Theism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 152-72.
5
See, for instance, Peter Forrest, “On the Argument from Divine Arbitrariness,”
Sophia 51 (2012): 341-49; Michael Almeida, Freedom, God, and Worlds (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2012); Kevin Timpe, ed., Free Will in Philosophical Theology
(New York and London: Bloomsbury, 2014).
6
See Aquinas’s argument in De Pot., q. 3, a. 2. STh I, q. 45, a. 2, ad 2 offers a
slightly different version.
7
Rowe’s understanding of a world as a “maximal state of affairs W such that for any
state of affairs either it or its negation is included in W” (Can God Be Free?, 40) doesn’t
fit particularly well with the way Aquinas views a universe, which is not as a “state of
affairs” but as a set of creatures—all of which have natures and powers—ordered into a
whole (see, for instance, STh I, q. 47, aa. 1-3; q. 65, a. 2). The analytic term is static, the

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arguments (and those of Leibniz, which he revives) may be of
more positive service to Thomists than has often been realized,
and it is fruitful for those of us who are dedicated Thomists to
consider how to address Rowe in order to uncover the sources
of our teacher’s own convictions.
In this article I will sketch the argument against divine freedom that Rowe revives, which I will typically call “Leibniz’s
core argument.” Then, I will talk about two Thomistic answers
to this argument, suggested by Norman Kretzmann, and explain
why Rowe found them inadequate. I agree with Rowe that
neither establishing that there is no best world, nor reflecting on
the ways in which various creative orders are equivalent, is
sufficient to prove the possibility of divine freedom.
To understand why Aquinas is so sure that God has
alternatives, we need to look more deeply at the suppositions
about the nature of choice that underlie Leibniz’s core argument, and try to understand why Aquinas does not hold them.
The argument is based upon the premise that the goodness of a
choice can only be explained by the superiority of its object. I
argue that this premise rests on a mechanical understanding of
Thomistic understanding dynamic. The analytic term ignores substances, order, and
causality, and the Thomistic understanding is constituted by these things. Aquinas
certainly could not follow Rowe in the claim that a “world” includes God’s existing.
(Can God Be Free?, 40) However, I have come to think that Rowe’s very different
definition of “world” does not substantially alter the way his argument proceeds; he and
Aquinas can be brought into dialogue. Rowe, at least, believed this, as his chapter
addressing Aquinas (chap. 3) makes clear.
8
Though he never defines the term “good,” Rowe’s concept of it seems very closely
tied to pleasure, as his concept of evil is tied to suffering (Can God Be Free?, 125, 127).
He sees no intrinsic good in variety (45) and overall he refers to moral—rather than
ontological, natural, technical, or aesthetic—instances of goodness. However, Rowe
seems to want to operate with a concept of goodness that fits with common intuitions,
and thus I believe that he and Aquinas can be brought into dialogue despite differences
in emphasis. In his last article on the topic of divine freedom, Rowe puts even more
emphasis on moral goodness, including speaking of a “morally better world,” but he
continues to use Kretzmann as his lens for dialogue with Aquinas (“Divine Perfection
and Freedom” in Kelly James Clark and Raymond J. VanArragon, eds., Evidence and
Religious Belief [Oxford: Oxford University Press: 2011], 175-85).

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

the activity of choice. Aquinas’s certainty that God could create
different creatures is founded on his denial of mechanism and
his convictions about the primacy of final causes: the end is the
explanation for a choice in a way that the object and agent are
not. Once we see this, we can understand why Aquinas does not
view a God who chooses a lesser order of creatures as one who
is surpassable or imperfect.
I. THE CORE ARGUMENT AGAINST A GOD WITH OPTIONS
The following passage from Rowe provides a good example
of the standard argument against divine freedom:
God’s gracious love for each and every creature fails to provide a reason to
create one creature rather than another, or to create the creatures in one
possible world rather than those in another. So, if God is not reduced to
playing dice with respect to selecting a world to create, there must be some
basis for his selection over and beyond his gracious love for all creatures,
regardless of merit. And that basis, given God’s nature as an absolutely perfect
being, can only be, as Leibniz and Clarke maintained, to do always what is
“best and wisest” to be done. And surely the best and wisest for God to do is
to create the best world he can.9

Rowe adds precisions as he continues, but as it stands this
passage expresses a strong case against divine freedom, if such
freedom is taken to mean, as Aquinas took it to mean, that God
can create other things than he has. It is also, of course, as Rowe
acknowledges, a revival of Leibniz’s equally concise argument
from the Discourse on Metaphysics:
To believe that God does something without having any reason for his will—
overlooking the fact that this seems impossible—is an opinion that conforms
little to his glory. Let us assume, for example, that God chooses between A
and B and that he takes A without having any reason to prefer it to B. I say
that this action of God is at the very least not praiseworthy; for all praise must
be based on some reason, and by hypothesis there is none here. . . .
[Therefore] God has chosen the most perfect world.10

9

Rowe, Can God Be Free?, 85.
G. W. Leibniz, Discourse on Metaphysics, trans. Daniel Garber and Roger Ariew
(Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1991), 3.
10

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5

This argument is older than Leibniz; Peter Lombard summarizes
one like it in his Sentences,11 and a pair of objections in
Aquinas’s De potentia express it as well.12 Still, Leibniz made
this argument so much a part of his thought, and Rowe credits
it to him so often, that I will continue to refer to it by his name.
It is not hard to see its core: If God chooses between alternate
creatures, then God must have a reason for the selection he
makes, and since he is the best agent, the reason for his
selection can only be that the alternative chosen is the best
possible creation.

11
“[God] does, or leaves undone, nothing, except by the very best and reasonable of
causes . . . for there is a reason in him by which he does some things and leaves others
undone; this reason is eternal and everlasting . . . and so long as that reason remains, he
cannot leave undone what he does, nor do what he leaves undone” (Peter Lombard,
Sentences I, d. 43, c. 1 [trans Giulio Silano (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval
Studies, 2007), 235]); “Nihil facit aut dimittit nisi optima et rationabili causa, licet nobis
occulta sit, secundum quam oportet eum facere et dimittere, quae facit vel dimittit; quae
ratio aeterna est et semper manens, praeter quam non potest facere aliquid vel dimittere.
Illa ergo manente, non potest quod facit dimittere, nec quod dimittit facter, et ita non
potest facere, nisis quod facit” (Petri Lombardi Libri IV Sententiarum [2d ed.; Florence:
Collegii S. Bonaventurae ad Claras Aquas, 1916] p. 263, para. 393). Peter himself says
that God can, in accordance with his reason, do other things than he does.
12
De Pot., q. 1, a. 5, obj. 14: “Whatever God does or omits to do, he does or omits
for the best reason. Now God cannot do or omit to do save for the best reason.
Therefore he cannot do or omit to do save what he does or omits to do” (English
Dominican Fathers, trans., 28) (“Quidquid Deus facit aut dimittit, facit aut dimittit
optima ratione. Sed Deus non potest facere aliquid aut dimittere nisi optima ratione.
Ergo non potest facere nec dimittere, nisi quod facit aut dimittit” [Parma ed., 8:9]). All
English translations of De potentia are taken from On the Power of God, trans. English
Dominican Fathers (Eugene, Ore.: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2004). Latin quotations
are taken from Sancti Thomae Aquinatis doctoris angelici ordinis praedicaorum opera
omnia, secundum impressionem Petri Fiaccadori Parmae 1852-73, photolithographicae
reimpressa (New York: Musurgia Publishers, 1949).
Ibid., obj. 15: “According to Plato the best produces the best: and so God, who is
supremely good, does whatever is best. Now the best, being superlative, is only one.
Therefore God cannot do otherwise or other things than he has done” (English
Dominican Fathers, trans., 28) (“Optimi est optima adducere, secundum Platonem, et
sic Deus, cum sit optimus, optimum facit. Sed optimum cum sit superlativum, uno modo
est. Ergo Deus non potest facere alio modo vel alia quam quae fecit” [Parma ed., 8:9]).

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

II. TWO INSUFFICIENT ANSWERS
A) No World Is Best
Norman Kretzmann, in an essay titled “A Particular Problem
of Creation: Why Would God Create This World?”13 begins his
defense against the core argument by saying that for Aquinas
“there is no room for a concept as simple, or as simple-minded,
as the familiar notion of the best of all possible worlds.”14 To
support this, Kretzmann analyzes a text from Aquinas’s commentary on Lombard’s Sentences, in which Aquinas explains
how God could have made any universe better than it is, either
by creating better parts to order, or by giving more accidental
goodness to all the creatures in an order. 15 Once we realize that
no “best world” is possible, Kretzmann claims, we can see that
Aquinas’s view on divine freedom is consistent with divine
perfection: God cannot be judged imperfect for choosing “less
than the best” because there is no best. “[An] omniscient,
omnipotent God can no more choose the additively optimal set
of parts than he can pick out the largest fraction between zero
and one.”16 This would mean that his perfection does not limit
him to the “best world,” and therefore he can be said to be free
without prejudice to his perfect goodness.
Rowe seems to have assumed that a thinker of Kretzmann’s
caliber is presenting the best Thomistic answer to the core
argument that can be provided; at any rate, in his book he
addresses Aquinas entirely through the lens of Kretzmann’s
work. However, Rowe’s book does much to reveal why the “no
13

Norman Kretzmann, “A Particular Problem of Creation,” in Scott MacDonald,
ed., Being and Goodness (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1990), 229-49.
Kretzmann is responding to an early version of Rowe’s arguments, “The Problem of
Divine Perfection and Freedom,” in Eleonore Stump, ed., Reasoned Faith (Ithaca, N.Y.:
Cornell University Press, 1993). The argument Kretzmann makes here is also found in
his book The Metaphysics of Creation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 224-27.
14
Kretzmann, “A Particular Problem,” 231.
15
The text is I Sent., d. 44, q. 1, a. 2; Kretzmann includes a translation in
Metaphysics of Creation, 436-39. Some of Aquinas’s reasoning here is repeated in STh I,
q. 25, a. 6.
16
Kretzmann, “A Particular Problem,”237.

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7

best world” defense is a mistake. Leibniz’s core argument states
that God must have the best reason for acting, and that the best
reason for acting must be to make the best world. With these
premises in place, saying that there is no best world simply leads
to the conclusion that there is no best reason for acting, and
therefore, since God must have the best reason for acting, there
is no God:
If the actual world is not the best world that an omnipotent, omniscient being
could create, God does not exist . . . because were he to exist and create a
world when there is a better world he could have created instead, then he
would be a being than which a better being is possible.17

The “no best world” defense, as Kretzmann outlines it, does
nothing to address the fundamental premise of Leibniz’s core
argument: God needs a reason for his preferential choice and
we can find one only in the excellence of the thing chosen. If
there is no most perfect object, even those who are not led to
deny the existence of the most perfect agent will be baffled as to
whether choosing lesser objects is consistent with perfection.
B) No Creation Is Necessary
Dedicated Thomists who want to answer Rowe will add to
the “no best world” argument on the basis of a further look at
Aquinas’s texts, as Kretzmann himself attempted to do. Aquinas
always argued that no creation is the necessary object of God’s
will because no creation is “proportionate” to the end for which
it exists. His reasoning is not significantly different in the major
texts where he deals with the question.18 The argument proceeds in three steps. First, Aquinas establishes that God wills
himself necessarily; his will rests in his own perfect goodness,
and he is unable not to will his goodness. Second, Aquinas
17

Rowe, Can God Be Free?, 89.
These texts are I Sent., dd. 43-44; De Verit., q. 3, a. 4; ScG I, cc. 74-81; STh I,
q. 19, aa. 2-3; and De Pot., q. 1, a. 5.
18

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

establishes that just as God knows other things by knowing
himself, he wills other things by willing himself: creatures are
willed as manifestations of the divine goodness,19 directed
toward that goodness as an end.20 Aquinas always makes an
analogy to human will here: just as humans will happiness
necessarily, and choose other things as means to happiness, so
God wills himself necessarily, and chooses creatures as a way of
willing himself.21 The third step in the argument is for Aquinas
to point out that creatures (whether a single creature or an
entire ordered universe of creatures) are not proportionate, or
“adequate” to God’s end of manifesting his goodness. For
humans, some choices are necessary for achieving the end—if
one wants to live, one must choose to eat. However, God’s will
is already complete in willing himself. Nothing is necessary for
God to reach the goal of willing himself, and therefore, no
potential creation is good enough to necessitate the divine will.
Creations are not necessary for God any more than a bridge is
necessary to someone who is on both sides of the river
simultaneously.

19
Aquinas uses two slightly different formulations, sometimes together and
sometimes separately: he speaks of God’s “manifesting his goodness,” or of God’s
“communicating by likeness” (i.e., creating others to participate in his good as much as
possible) as his intention in creating.
20
See, for instance, ScG I, c. 75, “Because he wills himself to be, he likewise wills
other things, which are ordered to him as to the end” (On the Truth of the Catholic
Faith, trans. Anton Pegis [Garden City, N.Y.: Image Books, 1955], 246) (“Ex hoc igitur
quod vult se esse, etiam alia vult, quae in ipsum sicut in finem ordinantur” [Opera
Omnia, iussu impensaque Leonis XIII P.M. edita (Rome: Commissio Leonina, 1882-),
13:215, ll. 7-8]).
21
Aquinas is always very careful here: God is not the final cause of his own act of
creation. Nothing is the cause of itself, and there is no final cause of the divine will,
properly speaking. See STh I, q. 44, a. 4: “It does not belong to the first agent, who is
agent only, to act for the acquisition of some end” (“Sed primo agenti, qui est agens
tantum, non convenit agere propter acquisitionem alicuius finis” [Leonine ed., 4:461,
ll. 30-32]). But a means/end pattern still applies to creation; because creatures are
directed toward God as their end, God’s willing of them is a way of willing himself.
Creatures can be seen as a “means” directed toward the end of God, and thus as an
object of choice—which, properly speaking, is of means rather than of ends. Some
helpful clarification on this point is found in De Verit., q. 23, a. 1, ad 3.

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Aquinas says that this reasoning ought to answer those who
maintain that God cannot do otherwise. Yet, on its own, this
reasoning does not provide a sufficient answer to Rowe. When
Leftow pressed him on the question of whether God must
create to achieve a good he does not already have, Rowe
admitted that speaking this way does not make sense: “It is, I
believe, silly . . . to suggest that God, an omniscient being, could
be ignorant of the fact that his goodnesss is unsurpassable, and
somehow think he can become more good than he is.”22 Rowe
accepts that God cannot become more good by creating, and
thus he in principle accepts that no creation is “necessary” for
God to achieve the good he wills. But Rowe’s concern is not
about adding goodness to God but about subtracting goodness
from God. Just as to break a promise would conflict with God’s
perfect goodness, and so cannot really be willed by God, so
also, Rowe says, to create a lesser world would be a betrayal of
perfect goodness, and thus “his necessary perfections preclude
his being free to so will.”23
Kretzmann had already offered some response to this concern, on the basis of Aquinas’s arguments. He says that, since no
creature is necessary, a sort of rough equality comes to creatures
as a result of their “inadequacy.” There could be “more than
one world that is as good as possible considered as a
representation,” just as there could be several photocopies that
are as good as possible, though never as good as the original.24
Kretzmann points to an analogy Aquinas uses in the Summa
contra gentiles: God’s will is like “an art which can use diverse
instruments to perform the same work equally well.”25 God in
some sense is not choosing a lesser world, but one that is,
functionally, equal to any other—just as, if a mechanic chooses

22

Rowe, “Replies,” 218.
Ibid.
24
Kretzmann, “A Particular Problem,” 239.
25
ScG I, c. 82: “sicut ars, quae diversis instrumentis uti potest ad idem opus
aequaliter perficiendum” (Leonine ed., 13:228, ll. 33-35).
23

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

to loosen a bolt with a wrench instead of a ratchet, he is not
choosing a functionally lesser tool.26
Rowe was not satisfied by this account, however. No matter
how “functionally” equal various creations may be, Aquinas
himself thinks that the universe God had chosen could be better
in at least some respects. As long as this point stands, Rowe can
still demand an explanation: how are we to explain why God
chooses an order of creation that is less than another? There is
another concern: if Thomists present divine freedom as a choice
between goods that are roughly equivalent, Rowe can put forward the concern about choosing arbitrarily that he inherited
from Leibniz. If an excellent mechanic can use either a wrench
or a ratchet to loosen a bolt, and he chooses the wrench, but
not because he views it as superior to the ratchet in any meaningful way, isn’t the choice arbitrary rather than praiseworthy?27
In the end, neither the “no best world” defense nor the
“roughly equal” defense had much impact on Rowe, because
they do not address the engine that drives Leibniz’s reasoning:
the grounds for the divine choice must be the best object. It is
all very well for Aquinas to say that “even as the divine goodness is made manifest through these things that are and through
this order of things, so it could be made manifest through other
creatures and another order.”28 But why was Aquinas so sure
that God can choose a different—and even a lesser—
manifestation without thereby manifesting an imperfection?
III. IS THE BEST CHOICE, BY DEFINITION, THE CHOICE OF THE
BEST OBJECT?
In order to address Leibniz’s core argument, we must talk
about its claims regarding the grounds of a divine choice. There
26

Kretzmann, “A Particular Problem,” 239.
Much of what Rowe says on this issue is shaped as a response to Bruce Langtry,
who argued that God simply chose a world that is “good enough” (“God and the Best,”
Faith and Philosophy 13 [1996]: 311-28).
28
De Pot., q. 1, a. 5 (Parma ed., 8:10): “Sicut enim manifestatur divina bonitas per
has res quae nunc sunt et per hunc rerum ordinem; ita potest manifestari per alias
creaturas et alio modo ordinatas.”
27

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are three underlying suppositions that create the conflict
between a God who is perfect and a God who has options:
(1) God must have a reason for what he chooses to create; he cannot choose
arbitrarily or at random.
(2) The reason for what God chooses to create must be a good and perfect
reason.
(3) This good and perfect reason must be the superiority of what is willed.

Supposition (3) can also be expressed negatively, as both Rowe
and Leibniz do:
(4) If an inferior thing is willed, it cannot be willed for a good and perfect
reason.

We have already seen Rowe’s rejection of randomness and his
assertion that God must act for the best reason. Rowe likewise
accepts that “the goodness of the agent’s action is measured in
terms of the quality of its result”—as long as “the agent’s
motive for performing the good action is to bring about a good
state of affairs.”29 A text from Leibniz shows his understanding
of the fourth claim: “To act with less perfection than one could
have is to act imperfectly. To show that an architect could have
done better is to find fault with his work.”30 Rowe puts it this
way: for an agent “to create less than the best expresses its own
degree of goodness as less.”31
There are some authors who seem to have denied supposition (1), accepting that God could choose arbitrarily which
world to create.32 However, no Thomist would attribute
arbitrariness to God’s decisions. Will is defined by Aquinas as
29

Rowe, Can God Be Free?, 100.
Leibniz, Discourse on Metaphysics (Garber and Ariew, trans., 37).
31
Rowe, Can God Be Free?, 119.
32
Daniel and Frances Howard-Snyder argue that there is no contradiction in an
unsurpassably good God who uses a random number-generating device to select a world
to create: “How an Unsurpassable Being Can Create a Surpassable World,” Faith and
Philosophy 11 (1994): 260-61, 264.
30

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

rational desire, and he argues for the presence of will in God
primarily by pointing out that will follows upon intellect.33
There are also a number of texts in which Aquinas argues
explicitly that the will of God is for a reason, such as chapter 86
of book 1 of the Summa contra gentiles, “That a reason can be
assigned to the divine will.”34 Aquinas clarifies that having a
reason to will a thing does not cause God to will that thing,35
but there must, indeed, be a reason for his willing in general and
for his choosing in particular.
Similarly, no Thomist would deny (2). It seems quite safe to
say that God must have a good and perfect reason for his act of
creation. “God cannot make a thing from greater wisdom and
goodness,”36 Aquinas will say, or “The best reason for which
God does everything, is his goodness and wisdom.”37
But what about the third premise? Is it true that the good
and perfect reason for which God chooses must be the absolute
superiority of what is willed? Rowe and Leibniz assume that we
can judge the goodness of the choice (and therefore the goodness of the agent choosing) by the superiority of the object
chosen, provided that this superiority was both understood and
intended by the one choosing. This assumption, however, is
false.
On the face of it, far from looking false, the assumption
looks extremely plausible. It is easy to come up with examples
to illustrate it. Rowe uses an example of someone who could
donate one hundred dollars to charity and instead chooses to
33

I Sent., d. 45, q. 1, a. 1, arg. 1; STh I, q. 19, a. 1; De Verit., q. 23, a. 1.
See also STh I, q. 19, a. 4, where it is argued that God acts by intellect and will
and that “his inclination to put in act what his intellect has conceived appertains to the
will” (“inclinatio eius ad agendum quod intellectu conceptum est, pertinent ad
voluntatem” [Leonine ed., 4:237, ll. 31-33]). See also STh I, q. 25, a. 5, “It can indeed
be fittingly said that there is nothing in the divine power which is not in the order of
divine wisdom.” All English translations of the Summa theologiae are taken from the
English Dominican Fathers (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1948).
35
STh I, q. 19, a. 5; ScG I, c. 87; etc.
36
STh I, q. 25, a. 6, ad 1 (Leonine ed., 4:299, ll. 25-27): “Deus non potest facere
melius quam sicut facit: quia non potest facere ex maiori sapientia et bonitate.”
37
De Pot., q. 1, a. 5, ad 14 (Parma ed., 8:11): “Optima ratio, qua Deus omnia facit,
est sua bonitas et sua sapientia.”
34

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donate one dollar, clearly showing himself to be imperfectly
generous.38 In Scripture, we have the case of Esau, who chose a
mess of pottage over his birthright, a choice of a lesser good
revealing him to be a baser character. In everyday life, many
philosophy professors have students who devote themselves to
playing video games instead of studying philosophy—their
choice of the lesser good revealing their imperfections as
agents.39 In fact, the assumption that a good and perfect choice
is, by definition, a choice of a superior object is so plausible that
I will try to shed some doubt on it at the level of general
experience before giving a more textual, philosophical argument as to its falsity in the case of the divine choice.
A) General Reasons for Doubting the Claim That the Better
Agent Must Choose the Superior Object
While reflection on many everyday choices encourages us to
believe that the better agent always chooses the superior object,
some facets of our experience cast doubt on this claim,
especially if we consider creative activities. If Rowe is right
about the limitations on a perfect agent, then the best composer
could only write one symphony, the best chef could only make
a single meal, and the best architect could only design one
house. The more the maker would approach perfection, the
more limited his object would be. Yet this does not reflect our
experience of human excellence in making, because in creative
work perfection in an agent is the ability to do otherwise. To be
a great composer is to be able to write many songs, not to be a
one-hit wonder. Is it somehow a sign of inferiority for Renoir to

38

Rowe, Can God Be Free?, 126-27.
Assuming, of course, conditions that could be judged only by a prudent person,
such as that the students are capable of doing the homework, that playing the game was
not an effort to help a friend in crisis, that the students did not need relaxation for
urgent reasons of mental health, etc.
39

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

draw a little sketch of the neighbor girl, or for Bach to compose
a short motet?
There are additional reasons for doubting the superiority
claim. Our choices can be explained without any reference to
the superiority of the object chosen. Sometimes we simply refer
to the object of our choice as good, beautiful, or worthy. For
instance, I filled a vase with yellow tulips from my yard yesterday because they looked lovely. It simply is not true that I
subconsciously or very rapidly considered all the things I could
do at 9:33 a.m. and decided that putting tulips in the vase was
the best possible thing for me to be doing at that instant.
Sometimes we explain our choices simply by reference to their
ends: I have my students write papers because I want them to
think independently. Sometimes, too, we explain in terms of
character: my friends let a homeless man stay with them for six
weeks because they are kind people. We describe agents who
choose for reasons—good, excellent reasons—without referring
to the superiority of what they choose as the cause of their
choice. Superiority in the object chosen is not the only possible
grounds for making judgments either. I do not judge the student
who insults a classmate because her remark was inferior to some
other remark, but because what she said was hurtful. Similarly,
when I praise someone, I do not praise her because her choice is
the finest possible choice she could have made, for how would I
know that?
Many of us find it easier to reflect on the choices we make
when facing higher amounts of tension and indecision. This is
partly because we remember them better: a man can more easily
recall agonizing over a job offer that will require his family to
move than he can remember stepping outside with his baby
daughter on a nice day. In these high-intensity choices (which
may occur even in small matters when merits seem balanced),
we consciously attempt to choose only on the grounds of
absolute superiority. But to say that choices can only be guided,
or judged, by the superiority of what is chosen to all other
alternatives is to make a leap beyond experience.
Rowe might cast doubt on every analogy, however, by saying
that a perfect agent—an agent which cannot be better—is a

DIVINE FREEDOM

15

special case. Perhaps the virtuous or excellent people we praise
everyday do not draw their excellence from the absolute
superiority of their objects, and thus need not be choosing
objects qua superior in order to achieve excellence. But in a
perfect agent, should perfection in the object chosen be linked
more closely to his choice of it? It will help if we put the case
against Rowe’s underlying assumption more formally.
B) Aquinas’s Formal Reasons for Rejecting the Principle “The
Best Agent Must Choose the Best Object”
How should a Thomist address the claim on which Rowe’s
argument fundamentally rests, the claim that the only reason for
a perfect agent to choose one alternative over another is the
superiority of the object chosen? We must begin by expanding
the model of choice to include an end, then discuss two possible
paradigms for a choice.
1. The “Best Reason” Is the Agent’s End, Not the Object
Chosen
Our first move must be to make explicit something that
happens as soon as the concept of the end is brought into the
description of choice. For Aquinas, if we are going to speak of
choice at all, we will be speaking of a scenario in which one
thing is willed for the sake of a final end. Aquinas would never
say that an agent makes a choice by considering A and B and
choosing B because it is a higher good. Instead, an agent looks
at C, the end which he desires of necessity, and then chooses A
or B as means to that end.40 This realization of the role of the

40
For Aquinas’s definition of choice, see STh I, q. 13, a. 3; and De Verit., q. 24, a. 6.
In identifying the object of choice as means in relation to an end, Aquinas is following
Aristotle, who wrote in the Nicomachean Ethics that “we deliberate not about ends but
about means” (3.3.1112b12) and that “the same thing is deliberated upon and is

16

JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

end in a choice makes it possible to offer a reason for choice
that is not identical to the object chosen. As Aquinas puts it, “In
things moved for the sake of the end, the whole reason for our
being moved is the end.”41 The end is why we choose. This is as
plausible and evident as any premise to which Rowe can point.
We simply do not choose, based on superiority, between all the
things we could be doing at any given moment: eating, drinking, sleeping, talking, reading, running, breaking things, and so
on. Instead, we have certain given desires that are rarely
examined and we choose means for meeting them. No choice is
explained by the superiority of the object: these cherries might
be the best possible fruit, but I am not going to eat them unless I
am hungry. Without the end, there is no choice; and with the
end, every choice has an explanation. It is from the end, more
than from the object chosen, that every choice draws its
meaning. As we have seen, Aquinas offers a good deal of
argument to show that this paradigm makes sense when applied
to the divine will, even though it cannot be said that God’s end
causes his choice in the same way our ends do. God desires his
own goodness necessarily, and he chooses the goodness of
creation as a means of reflecting that goodness. Aquinas always
make this claim as a preliminary to any discussion of whether
God could do otherwise or do better.42

chosen” (3.3.1113a3). For arguments that God can be said to choose, not just to will,
see STh I, q. 19, a. 10; De Verit., q. 24, a. 3; and ScG I, c. 88.
41
STh I, q. 19, a. 2, ad 2 (Leonine ed., 4:233, ll. 12-13): “In his quae volumus
propter finem, tota ratio movendi est finis.” See also De Verit., q. 24, a. 6: “The whole
formality of the appetibility of a means as such is the end” (Leonine ed., 22.3:695,
ll. 73-74: “Tota vero ratio appetibilitatis eius quod est ad finem in quantum huiusmodi
est finis”). All English translations of De veritate are taken from Truth, trans. Robert W.
Schmidt (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1994).
42
In the Sentences commentary, the question of I Sent., d. 44, q. 1, a. 1, “Whether
God is able to make some creature better than he does,” is preceded by the discussion in
I Sent., d. 43, q. 2, a. 1, “Whether God acts by the necessity of his nature,” the response
to which is centered entirely around the concept of acting for an end. In De Verit.,
q. 23, a. 4, Aquinas begins by discussing the difference between the act of willing the
end and the act of willing the means. In the Summa contra gentiles, Aquinas argues that
God wills other things by willing himself (ScG I., c. 75), long before he comes to deal
with divine freedom (ScG I, cc. 81, 82, and 88). In the Summa theologiae Aquinas

DIVINE FREEDOM

17

When applied to God, then, this theory of choice means that
God has a perfect reason for choosing that lies outside the
superiority of the object chosen; as Aquinas says in De veritate,
“The divine goodness serves his will as the reason for willing all
things.”43 Thus, for Aquinas, God chooses one creature instead
of another in a praiseworthy and perfect manner, despite its
lack of superiority as an object, because of his superiority as the
end to which that creature, or that world, is ordered. “What
God does is best in reference to his goodness: hence whatsoever
else can be referred to his goodness, according to the order of
his wisdom, is still the best.”44 Choices on this model become
immune to the charge of arbitrariness: there is always a reason
for the choice, but it lies in the end, not in the object.
Rowe was not entirely unexposed to this line of reasoning.
In an early response to Rowe’s ideas, Kretzmann wrote that “a
reason sufficient for choosing either Aleph or Alpha [names for
potential worlds] is a reason sufficient for choosing one of
them.”45 Both potential creations represent God’s goodness,
thus, there is a perfect reason for one of them to be chosen
despite its imperfection. Robert Adams likewise claimed that
God’s love was the reason behind his choices—his choices have

explains about the means/end relation in I, q. 19, a. 3, well before the question of
whether God can do better in I, q. 25, a. 6.
43
De Verit., q. 23, a. 4 (Leonine ed., 22.3:662, ll. 186-87): “Divina bonitas sit eius
voluntati ratio volendi omnia.” See also De Pot., q. 3, a. 15, ad 5, “The goodness of
God as willed and loved by him is the cause of things through his will” (Parma ed.,
8:62: “bonitas Dei, in quantum est ad ipso volita et amata, mediante voluntate est
creaturae causa”).
44
De Pot., q. 1, a. 5, ad 15: “quod illud quod facit, est optimum per ordinem ad Dei
bonitatem: et ideo quidquid aliud est ordinabile ad ejus bonitatem secundum ordinem
suae sapientiae, est optimum” (Parma ed., 8:11). See also De Verit., q. 23, a. 8: “the
goodness in the very act of the divine will is viewed from the standpoint of the reason
for willing, that is, the end to which God refers whatever he wills, his own goodness”
(Leonine ed., 22.3:674, ll. 104-7: “tamen bonitas in ipso actu voluntatis divinae
consideratur ex ratione volendi, id est ex fine ad quem ordinat quicquid vult, qui est
bonitas sua”).
45
Kretzmann, “A Particular Problem,” 240.

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

a perfect motive, but not a perfect object.46 However, Rowe was
totally unmoved by such claims, as his response to Adams in his
book makes clear. Like Leibniz, Rowe thinks that a choice is
unexplained unless a reason can be given for the preference
between A and B: why was one chosen instead of the other?
Unless this question is answered, Rowe believes he can still
speak of “playing dice,” “picking one out of a hat,” or other
metaphors for arbitrary choice.47
Rowe’s demand for a preferential reason makes some sense.
In many of our own choices we choose the means that is better
at achieving the end, and the choice could not be explained
without this preferential reason. For example, if I choose
between assigning my students a paper and giving them another
test, I will choose the paper because it is a better means for
achieving my end of encouraging them to think independently.
Aquinas often describes God as having preferential reasons for
his choices. For example, God created a diversity of creatures
because “the whole universe together participates the divine
goodness more perfectly, and represents it better than any single
creature.”48 God created creatures who are true causes because
“it is a greater perfection for a thing to be good in itself and also
the cause of goodness in others, than only to be good in
itself.”49 However, Aquinas also says that we cannot give a
preferential reason for the ordering of the whole world:
When we speak of the production of the whole universe, we cannot point to
any other creature as being the reason why the universe is such and such.
Wherefore, since neither on the part of the divine power which is infinite, nor
of the divine goodness which stands not in need of creatures, can a reason be
assigned for the particular disposition of the universe: this reason must be

46
Robert Adams, “Must God Create the Best?,” Philosophical Review 81 (1972):
317-32. Rowe’s discussion of love as God’s motive in Can God Be Free? is on pages
83-87.
47
Rowe, Can God Be Free?, 84-85.
48
STh I, q. 47, a. 1 (Leonine ed., 4:486, ll. 3-5): “perfectius participat divinam
bonitatem, et repraesentat eam, totum universum, quam alia quaecumque creatura.”
49
STh I, q. 103, a. 6 (Leonine ed., 5:459, ll. 20-23): “Maior autem perfectio est
quod aliquid in se sit bonum, et etiam sit aliis causa bonitatis, quam si esset solummodo
in se bonum.”

DIVINE FREEDOM

19

found in the mere will of the Creator: so that if it be asked why the heavens
are of such and such a size, no other reason can be given except that their
maker willed it so.50

Is Aquinas right, however, that a divine choice without a
preferential reason is possible, or should we, like Rowe and
Leibniz, demand such a reason to explain every divine choice,
including that between two very good orders of creation?
2. Two Paradigms for a Divine Choice of Means to an End
There are two suggested paradigms for a perfect choice.
Leibniz’s paradigm is that if a perfect being chooses A rather
than B, even though both are good, we require a preferential
reason for choice. This reason is found on the part of the
object: A must be better than B. Aquinas’s paradigm is that if a
perfect being chooses A rather than B, when both are very good,
we require only a final reason for the choice: A is a means of
achieving C.

50

De Pot., q. 3, a. 17 (Parma ed., 8:69): “Cum autem de toto universo loquimur
educendo in esse, non possumus ulterius aliquod creatum invenire ex quo possit sumi
ratio quare sit tale vel tale; unde, cum nec etiam ex parte divinae potentiae quae est
infinita, nec divinae bonitatis, quae rebus non indiget, ratio determinatae dispositionis
universi sumi possit, oportet quod eius ratio sumatur ex simplici voluntate producentis
ut si quaeratur, quare quantitas caeli sit tanta et non maior, non potest huius ratio reddi
nisi ex voluntate producentis.” Aquinas goes on to admit that God’s choice of a certain
nature might dictate certain quantities (e.g., if he chooses to make a star, it cannot be
one millimeter in diameter). However, the divine power is not confined to the choice of
a certain nature either. A very interesting parallel text is ScG III, c. 97: “If it be granted
that God wills to communicate, insofar as is possible, his goodness to creatures by way
of likeness, then one finds in this the reason why there are different creatures, but it
does not necessarily follow that they are differentiated on this or that measure of
perfection, or according to this or that number of things” (Leonine ed., 14:301, ll. 5-12:
“Supposito autem quod Deus creaturis suam bonitatem communicare, secundum quod
est possibile, velit per similitudinis modum: ex hoc rationem accipit quod sint creaturae
diversae. Non autem ex necessitate sequitur quod secundum hanc vel illam perfectionis
mensuram, aut secundum hunc vel illum numerum rerum”).

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

Almost everyone is uncomfortable with the notion of a
choice that lacks a preferential reason, and would prefer
Leibniz’s paradigm. A reason for choosing that applies to both
options does not seem quite enough (to us) to explain a choice,
which is, by definition, a preference for one option. We all have
a strong tendency think that if we faced a choice armed only
with a motive that applied to either alternative, we would either
hover in uncertainty forever or have to flip a coin to decide.
Should we accept this demand for a preferential reason as
intuitive, certain, and final?
To support Aquinas’s paradigm for an audience that
wholeheartedly prefers Leibniz’s, it is necessary to use a
distinction about certainty that Aquinas often made. The
distinction is this: some conclusions that we find intuitive and
obvious are simply the results of the human imagination
insisting on its own conditions, not the result of reasoning at all.
For example, many people believe space is infinite simply
because, when trying to think about “the edge of the universe”
we immediately imagine the other side of the edge. But, as
Aristotle pointed out, this is not reasoning about the
impossibility of finite space, but just the imagination insisting on
its own conditions.51 When we consider the statement “space is
infinite” to be intuitively true, we are mislabeling a certainty of
the imagination as an intellectual certainty. Aquinas, following
Augustine,52 applied the same argument to time. Many people
are certain that time is infinite because, when trying to
understand “the beginning of time” they immediately consider a
time before the beginning. But this is not a reasoned conclusion
that time is infinite: this is just a habitual twitch that is the result
of thinking with images.53 Time could have a beginning; space
51
The argument for the infinity of space is summarized in Physics 3.4,203b25:
“Numbers and mathematical magnitudes and what is outside of the heaven are
considered to be infinite because in thought they never come to an end.” Aristotle
responds, “To base our convictions on thinking is absurd, for excess and deficiency here
are not in the things but in thinking” (3.8.208a15-20).
52
See Augustine, Confessions 11.10-13.
53
See XII Metaphys., lect. 5: “If we suppose that at some moment time began to be,
it is not necessary to assume a prior moment except in imaginary time; just as when we

DIVINE FREEDOM

21

could have a limit; we should not allow our imagination to jerk
us into conclusions simply because it is stuck in certain spatial
or temporal patterns.54
This distinction between what is “imaginatively” certain and
what is “rationally” certain is relevant because the average
person today has the same tendency to use imagination to draw
conclusions about the movement of the will. If God has a
perfect reason to create one creature (it reflects his goodness)
and a perfect reason to create another creature (it also reflects
his goodness), many people will immediately conclude that he is
unable to decide until he finds out which one is superior. I
suggest that the intuitive feel of this conclusion is simply the
imagination insisting on the conditions for motion that apply in
the material world. If an old-fashioned balance scale moves
downward to A instead of to B, it must be because of the
presence of a heavier object. If my tire springs a leak at surface
point A instead of at point B, it is because the air inside was
acting on a thinner object.55 And, if we think about the divine
say that there is no body outside of the heavens, what we mean by ‘outside’ is merely an
imaginary substance” (Parma ed., 20:633: “si ponimus tempus quandoque incepisse,
oportet ponere prius nisi quid imaginatum. Sicut cum dicimus quod extra caelum non
est corpus, quod dicimus extra, non est nisi quid imaginatum”). The English translation
used here is Richard J. Blackwell, Richard J. Spath, and W. Edmund Thirlkel (Notre
Dame, Ind.: Dumb Ox Books, 1995).
54
Another place where Aquinas refers to the premise of an argument as a “false
imagination” is STh I, q. 45, a. 2, ad 4, where he is also speaking in the context of
creation.
55
Leibniz’s paradigm for choice was, specifically and intentionally, a mechanical
paradigm. One passage especially illustrates this: “One might, instead of the balance,
compare the soul with a force which puts forth effort on various sides simultaneously,
but which acts only at the spot where action is easiest or there is least resistance. For
instance, air if it is compressed too firmly in a glass vessel will break it in order to
escape. It puts forth effort at every part, but finally flings itself upon the weakest. Thus
do the inclinations of the soul extend over all the goods that present themselves: they
are antecedent acts of the will; but the consequent will, which is their result, is
determined in the direction of that which touches most closely” (Theodicy, no. 325
[trans. E. M. Huggard (Illinois: Open Court Publishing Company, 1985), 322]). To
Leibniz, mechanical paradigms were particularly desirable because, though he was not a

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

willing with the images we are accustomed to use for motion—
that is, if we envision it as a force like gravity or air pressure—
we will demand a difference in the object to explain why a
certain effect, not other potential ones, is realized. But this need
for superiority is created because the imagination insists on
material conditions. Leibniz and Rowe do not give a reason that
a choice without a preferential reason is impossible; if I am
right, their certainty rests only on the fact that they are unable
to imagine such a choice. But as long as we rationally acknowledge that the will is not a material force, and that a final
cause really does give meaning to an action, we cannot insist
that our inability to imagine a choice like this provides any kind
of evidence about its possibility. Aquinas’s paradigm for choice
is difficult to imagine. But we do not have to imagine it, we just
have to see that it is reasonable. And, in fact, it offers an end, a
form, and an agent for the divine choice—Aquinas uses all
sources of intelligibility that there are.
Thus, my claim is that the intuition that a divine choice must
be determined by its object is imaginary, not rational. The most
likely objection to this claim would be to return to our
experiences of human choice as evidence that the will as such
requires a preferential reason for choice. Very often our choices
do seem to absolutely require a preferential reason. We all have
experienced the frustration when two options seem to be

mechanist, he wanted the order of final causes to map perfectly onto a mechanistic
order of agent and material causes: this mapping of the two orders of causality, which
Leibniz called a “pre-established harmony” is a theme in many of his works. One clear
expression of it is in Monadology, sect. 79: “Souls act according to the laws of final
causes, through appetition, ends, and means. Bodies act according to the laws of
efficient causes or of motions. And these two kingdoms, that of efficient causes and that
of final causes, are in harmony with each other” (Philosophical Essays, ed. and trans.
Roger Ariew and Daniel Garber [Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1989],
223). It was important to Leibniz that every observable material phenomena have a
physical explanation; see On Body and Force: “I agree with Democritus and Descartes,
against the multitude of Scholastics, that the exercise of motive power and the
phenomena of bodies can always be explained mechanically” (ibid., 250). Thus, for
Leibniz, a cause in the order of final causes cannot be more explanatory than a cause in
the order of agent causes. If the two orders are to map onto each other, they will have
to be equally determinate.

DIVINE FREEDOM

23

equally good, and we search for some factor that will make
choosing possible by making one option preferential;56
otherwise, we have to give up and have two valedictorians.
Experience of human choice, however, seems to show
something else as well: the need for a preferential reason for
choice can be stronger or weaker. One factor that seems
especially important is a possibility of failing to meet some end
or the presence of a multiplicity of ends that cannot all be met.
An experienced hostess, for example, might say to herself, “I’ll
have the new faculty couple over for dinner, and I’ll make my
smoked pork-chops—they’re always delicious, and they’re on
sale this week.” Her decision is made quite simply, since
knowing that the pork-chops are a very good means of meeting
her end offers the hostess sufficient grounds for her choice. The
sense in which she considers her menu as the best possible
means of meeting her goal is rather weak, if it exists at all.
It is when one is less sure of meeting one’s goal, or more
baffled by a numerous ends, that the need for preferential
reasons is intensified. “What if pork chops aren’t sophisticated
enough?” a nervous young hostess wonders. “What if the new
couple comes late and they get dried out in the oven? What if
one of them is a vegetarian or on a diet?” When the deliberative
quest has more ramifications, the decision requires, not only a
means, but the best possible means, given all considerations.
When she finally decides on quinoa and chickpeas with fresh
cilantro sauce, the exhausted young hostess knows that she
could not have chosen had she not found the reasons why this
menu was superior. But her deliberation focused on superiority
largely because the possibility of failing to meet some end was
56

As Aquinas explained when discussing the Buridan’s-ass problem, “If two things be
proposed as equal under one aspect, nothing hinders us from considering in one of them
some particular point of superiority, so that the will has a bent towards that one rather
than towards the other” (STh I-II, q. 13, a. 6, ad 3 [Leonine ed., 6:103: “nihil prohibit,
si aliqua duo aequalia proponantur secundum unam considerationem, quin circa alterum
consideretur aliqua conditio per quam emineat, et magis flectatur voluntas in ipsum
quam in aliud”]).

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

such a meaningful factor for her. The more expert we become,
the more we know that the means we choose will meet the end,
whether we choose one means or the other. In other words,
preferential reasons become less necessary the surer we are of
the success of the alternative means. It is not true that experts
have no reason for their choices, but the best description of
what they do seems to involve a sense of “it will be excellent
done this way” and not so much a sense that “if I do otherwise I
will fail.”57 This suggests that a choice without a preferential
reason is not logically impossible to a perfect agent. It is, at
least, not such an impossibility as an arbitrary or irrational
choice, since rationality exists both in the end and in the
fittingness of the means for achieving it.
I conclude, then, that those who demand a preferential
explanation for every possible choice are either insisting on
material conditions for a change in applied force or they are
insisting on the conditions under which the human will operates
when we are aware of failure as a possibility. Aquinas was able
to assert divine freedom because his portrait of the divine will
removes the need for a preferential reason for choice; not only
is the divine will immaterial, but since God has achieved his
end,58 there is no possibility of failure, and he does not have
many ends which must somehow be balanced (such as the desire
to appear sophisticated, the desire to save money, etc.). The
Thomistic answer to Leibniz’s core reasoning is this: God has a
good and perfect reason to make one order of creatures, and
that reason is that they manifest his goodness. Whichever order
he chooses, the choice is explained and his perfection is secure
because he has a perfect reason for acting. Yet the choice is not
arbitrary, since a preferential reason for choice is not required
in a nonmaterial system in which achievement of the end is
guaranteed.
57

For some very interesting recent work on the rationality of decisions made by
people (such as musicians and athletes) with expertise, see Barbara Montero, Thought in
Action: Expertise and the Conscious Mind (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016).
58
Given Aquinas’s views on divine eternity, we should not think of God’s willing of
himself as an act that ended at some point in time prior to his decision to create. His
willing of himself is “achieved” in the sense that it is complete in the eternal now.

DIVINE FREEDOM

25

At this point, there is still one premise that supports Leibniz’s
standard argument that I have not examined, namely, premise
(4): “If any inferior thing is willed, it cannot be willed for a
good and perfect reason.” I have argued that a superior object is
not needed to explain or to give determination to a perfect
agent’s choice. But could the choice of a lesser object vitiate the
agent’s choice? In other words, even if God does not require a
“best world” in order to make a rational and perfect choice to
create, could he still be blamed for choosing an order of
creation that is less than some other, and equally possible,
order? And would this blameworthy choice mean, in fact, that
such an agent was not truly divine? Rowe emphasizes this idea
very heavily in the later chapters of his book, basing most of his
argument around the following claim: “If an omniscient being
creates a world when there is a better world that it could have
created, then it is possible that there exists a being morally
better than it.”59 Is there a Thomistic response to this challenge?
IV. CAN A PERFECT AGENT CHOOSE AN INFERIOR OBJECT?
If a human agent had a great end and perfect knowledge, we
would still think less of him if he did less good than he could
do, even if his end were the best possible and what he did was a
very good means of achieving that end. Our question here is
why this should not apply to God as well. In order to answer,
we must understand the causes behind our judgment that one
who does less is surpassable or imperfect. Why, to put it
formally, can we think of an agent better than one who does
less than he can?
We might judge those who do less than they can because we
are in the habit of thinking that the best agent can only act
when its force is directed toward the best object. I argued
against this point of view in the third section of this article; such

59

Rowe, Can God Be Free?, 120.

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JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

thinking is based on flawed ways of envisioning the will’s
action.
A second reason that we judge those who choose lesser
goods to be imperfect is that we realize that those who do less
than they can will not achieve their ends as well as they might.
This is why I would judge, for instance, a colleague who
assigned only tests to her students, instead of papers, even if her
tests were excellent: I believe that such a teacher will not
achieve her end (wisdom and ability in her students) as well as
she might. However, on a Thomistic means/end understanding
of divine choice, God makes choices having achieved his end,
and thus it is not possible for him to achieve it less well.
The third reason that we judge agents who do less than they
could is that this results in other people’s having less than they
might. This is how one of Rowe’s examples works: A man gives
one dollar, which is inferior to one hundred dollars, and this
results in the charity having only one dollar, something that is
decidedly inferior to the charity’s having one hundred dollars.60
This example has a fairly basic flaw in the current context: it is
about the effects of an act on already existing beings, who could
be better or worse off depending on how someone chooses.
Aquinas argued frequently that creation is not such a scenario,
since the nothingness of which creatures are made is not better
off or worse off as a result of the choices God makes. Here
again, it is imagination that creates our difficulties. We envision
humans pre-existing the world, who would be better off if only
the divine providence included fewer wars or more cures for
disease. But there are no such humans—no one exists to whom
God is giving less than he might when a certain order of created
things is chosen.61
60

Ibid., 126.
Aquinas’s argument for this is found in STh I, q. 47, a. 2, ad 2: “In the constitution
of things there is no inequality of parts through any preceding inequality, either of
merits or of the disposition of the matter; but inequality comes from the perfection of
the whole” (Leonine ed., 4:487: “In constitutione rerum non est inaequalitas partium
per quamcumque inaequalitatem praecedentem vel meritorum vel etiam dispositionis
materiae; sed propter perfectionem totius”). In answer to Origen’s claim that it would
be unjust for God to give greater perfections to some things than to others, Aquinas
61

DIVINE FREEDOM

27

There is a fourth reason—well known to those who attend
sporting events—for negatively judging someone who has done
less than he could. Such a person has not displayed, or fully
revealed, what he could do—even if he did a very good job, and
won the game. But on a Thomistic understanding of this issue,
God is not creating an ordered set of creatures to reveal himself
to a creature (after all, they do not yet exist) nor is he creating it
to reveal himself to himself, since he knows both his goodness
and his power perfectly well already. There is no audience to
whom God can “fail” to show forth all the good he can do.
So, if the following conditions were met, would we judge
someone who does less than he could to be surpassable?
(a) The agent has a perfect goal;
(b) The agent chooses a very good means of meeting the goal;
(c) There is no possibility for the agent to miss the goal or achieve it less
completely;
(d) The choice cannot result in any person’s getting less than he otherwise
would have received;
(e) The agent’s nature and character are already fully revealed and this
knowledge cannot be altered.

For myself, I think that once such conditions are met, all
grounds for a judgment of surpassability have been removed.
Rowe’s claim that we can always think of an agent better than
one who does less than he could is false if the agent has the
characteristics Aquinas lays out. On a Thomistic model, creation
points out that the things do not exist yet, and thus they do not merit any perfections at
all, whether equally or unequally. If you were making a house from nothing, you would
not feel sorry for the nothing that had to be a nail instead of being privileged to be a
steel beam. Similarly, it is not unjust to nothingness for God to make it be one created
order instead of a better one. See also STh I, q. 65, a. 2, ad 2, where the argument is
repeated with a slightly different example; and De Verit., q. 23, a. 6, ad 3, “Since it is in
no way due that creatures be brought into being, but purely voluntary, the first
operation does not have the note of justice, but it depends simply on the divine will”
(Leonine ed., 22.3:668, ll. 90-94: “cum ipsas creaturas institui non sit aliquo modo
debitum, sed pure voluntarium, prima operatio non habet rationem iustitiae, sed
dependet ex simplici voluntate divina”).

28

JAMIE ANNE SPIERING

is not a tense moral situation, in which God is trying to achieve
an end, help others, or prove himself. It is the act of an already
fulfilled agent. Imagine some musicians having a jam session.
They are already excellent artists; they are not practicing or
performing for others, just being what they are. Could the
music be better if they invited an additional friend? In a way,
yes—and in a similar way, Aquinas thinks creation could be
better if more parts were added to it. However, we do not view
the members as surpassable musicians because they did not text
one more friend and ask her to swing by. Their session is still a
perfect expression of their talent.
Rowe consistently assumes that there could be only one
paradigm for the divine choice: rejecting the worse and
choosing the better. Under this assumption, he is completely
correct in saying that, if God chooses a lesser created order,
there could be a better choice. The reason for Aquinas’s
cheerful belief that God could opt out of creating a better world
is that he can look at a divine choice in the light of the end, and
thus apply two different paradigms for choice, depending on
what is being chosen. A badly ordered world is rejected by God
because it is a poor reflection of his goodness—it is not a means
toward the end—and so a world with starving vegetarian tigers
is not an option. But a world with a lesser order is a means to
the end, and so a world that is lacking (for example) a beautiful
and powerful creature called a “liandor” is an option. On
Thomistic principles we look beyond created things to the end,
that from which the action takes its meaning—in this case, God
himself—and we see that this “better result” is both intended
and achieved even when a lesser order of creation is realized.
CONCLUSION
It is possible to make a strong Thomistic case that divine
freedom does not contradict divine perfection, but it is not
possible to make an easy case, and Kretzmann’s arguments were
only a beginning. Pointing out that there is no “best world” to
necessitate God’s choice does not address the claim that God’s
choice must be determined by a best object if it is to be perfect.

DIVINE FREEDOM

29

To support divine freedom in the face of those who revive the
standard Leibnizean argument as Rowe does, we must establish
that the end provides the fullest explanation of a choice, that
God’s choice of creatures can be described with a means/end
pattern, and that the end for which creatures exist is God
himself, a result that God already possesses. In addition, we
must establish that it makes sense to talk about a perfect agent
who does not have a perfect object of choice. But if these things
can be accepted, there is no reason to follow Rowe. His demand
for a best object to determine the divine choice is based on the
use of mechanical imagery to understand the will; his conviction
that one who does less is surpassable is derived from paradigms
in which failure is an option. The ultimate sources of Aquinas’s
views on divine freedom are his conviction that the end is the
primary source of meaning in any action, and his firm grasp of
the fact that the divine will is free from the limitations of
matter.

The Thomist 83 (2019): 31-55

AN ASSESSMENT OF THE BEING AND OPERATION OF
MARY’S MARRIAGE
CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO
Centro de Estudios Tomistas, Universidad Santo Tomás
Santiago, Chile
Proyecto Fondecyt 1180720

A

DRIANO OLIVA, O.P., President of the Leonine
Commission whose charge it is to produce a critical
edition of St. Thomas Aquinas’s works, has recently stated
that “sexual union is not part of the essence of marriage” and,
therefore, “the exercise of the sexual act between divorced and
[civilly] remarried spouses does not harm directly the pre-existent
bond.”1 Based on this claim, he has proposed that the Church
could allow divorced and remarried couples to have habitual
sexual intercourse and receive the sacraments. Further, he has
gone so far as to claim that an active homosexual couple may be
sanctified by grace, vivified by Christ’s charity, and nourished by
ecclesial communion, and that they may witness to the gospel of
mercy.2 Oliva has drawn these conclusions after arguing against
the conception of the ontological structure of marriage common
in Catholic circles. Paradoxically, he has done so precisely by
means of an interpretation of Aquinas’s texts on the marriage of
Joseph and Mary, an interpretation that we will argue here is
erroneous.
The main controversial thesis is set forth by Oliva in two
works: an article entitled “Essence et finalité du mariage selon
Thomas d’Aquin, pour le soin pastoral renouvelé” published in
1
See L’amicizia più grande: Un contributo teologico alle questioni sui divorziari
risposati e sulle coppie omosessuali (Nerbini Editions, 2015) 131; emphasis added.
2
Ibid., 130 and 135.

31

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

the Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques (2014); and
a book entitled L’amicizia più grande: Un contributo teologico
alle questioni sui divorziari risposati e sulle coppie omosessuali,
published by Nerbini Editions (2015).3 Oliva claims to understand the ontological structure of marriage in a way more faithful
to Aquinas’s thought than has hitherto been held and, further, to
contribute with this revolutionary interpretation to the pastoral
care of couples, especially homosexual couples and those divorced and civilly “remarried.”
The central Thomistic text from the Summa theologiae which
Oliva uses to propose his new understanding of marriage deals
precisely with the marriage of Mary and Joseph. The sacramental
and pastoral proposals which he bases upon this understanding
have provoked debate and responses. For example, already five
Dominicans have criticized this aspect of Oliva’s work in an
article published in First Things4 and republished in Angelicum.5
We will not examine these issues in detail in this article. Rather,
we will concentrate our efforts on two connected problems: the
nature of marriage and the fulfillment of all essential conditions
for the existence of marriage in the union between the Virgin
Mary and St. Joseph. This article will, first, explain Aquinas’s
position on these matters, and second, expand upon that position
in order better to explain the biblical facts and theological
realities.

3

There is also a French translation of this book: Amours: L’Église, les divorcés
remariés, les couples homosexuels (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2015). We have used the
Italian version.
4
“Aquinas and Homosexuality. Five Dominicans Respond to Adriano Oliva,” First
Things,
12.11.2015;
https://www.firstthings.com/web-exclusives/2015/12/aquinashomosexuality, accessed July 31, 2018.
5
“Aquinas and Homosexuality. Five Dominicans Respond to Adriano Oliva,”
Angelicum 92 (2015): 297-302. On this subject see also A. Andrzejuk, “Tomistyczna ‘La
révolution sexuelle’ O. Adriano Oliva OP,” Studia theologica varsaviensia 54, no. 1
(2016): 223-47.

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

33

I. AQUINAS’S CENTRAL TEXT ON THE ISSUES UNDER
EXAMINATION
Aquinas’s teachings on marriage are found in many passages.
We will focus, however, mostly on one passage drawn from the
Tertia pars. In question 29, article 2, Aquinas asks whether there
was a real marriage between Mary and Joseph. In the sed contra
Aquinas points out:
Augustine says (De Consensu Evang. ii): “It cannot be allowed that the evangelist thought
that Joseph ought to sever his union with Mary” (since he said that Joseph was Mary’s
husband) “on the ground that in giving birth to Christ, she had not conceived of him, but
remained a virgin. For by this example the faithful are taught that if after marriage they
remain continent by mutual consent, their union is still and is rightly called marriage, even
without intercourse of the sexes.”

Underlying this text, one finds a powerful objection to
considering the union of Joseph and Mary as a “marriage.” What
kind of marriage, indeed, is one that excludes the act which is of
its essence, if it be true that the institution has as its primary end
procreation and the raising and education of children? Thus we
have the first objection in this article:
It would seem that there was no true marriage between Mary and Joseph. For
Jerome says against Helvidius that Joseph “was Mary’s guardian rather than her
husband.” But if this was a true marriage, Joseph was truly her husband.
Therefore there was no true marriage between Mary and Joseph.

Aquinas’s answer begins as follows:
I answer that, marriage or wedlock is said to be true by reason of its attaining
its perfection. Now perfection of anything is twofold; first, and second. The
first perfection of a thing consists in its very form, from which it receives its
species; while the second perfection of a thing consists in its operation, by which
in some way a thing attains its end. Now the form of matrimony consists in a
certain inseparable union of souls, by which husband and wife are pledged by a
bond of mutual affection that cannot be sundered. And the end of matrimony
is the begetting and upbringing of children: the first of which is attained by
conjugal intercourse; the second by the other duties of husband and wife, by
which they help one another in rearing their offspring.

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

Thus we may say, as to the first perfection, that the marriage of the Virgin
Mother of God and Joseph was absolutely true: because both consented to the
nuptial bond, but not expressly to the bond of the flesh, save on the condition
that it was pleasing to God. . . .
But as to the second perfection which is attained by the marriage act, if this
be referred to carnal intercourse, by which children are begotten; thus this
marriage was not consummated. . . . Nevertheless, this marriage had the second
perfection, as to upbringing of the child. Thus Augustine says (De Nup. et
Concup. i): “All the nuptial blessings are fulfilled in the marriage of Christ’s
parents, offspring, faith and sacrament. The offspring we know to have been
the Lord Jesus; faith, for there was no adultery: sacrament, since there was no
divorce. Carnal intercourse alone there was none.”6

From this text, Oliva draws the conclusion that the first and
essential perfection of marriage consists in the indivisible union
of souls, while procreation and the rearing of children are merely
the secondary perfection, the end of which is the preservation of
the human race.7 He therefore concludes that the end of the
6
STh III, q. 29, a. 2. We follow the translation of the Fathers of the English Dominican
Province (https://dhspriory.org/thomas/summa/, accessed July 30, 2018), except for small
occasional corrections made in order to be truer to the original Latin text. Here is the
Latin original: “Respondeo dicendum quod matrimonium sive coniugium dicitur verum
ex hoc quod suam perfectionem attingit. Duplex est autem rei perfectio, prima et secunda.
Prima quidem perfectio in ipsa forma rei consistit, ex qua speciem sortitur, secunda vero
perfectio consistit in operatione rei, per quam res aliqualiter suum finem attingit. Forma
autem matrimonii consistit in quadam indivisibili coniunctione animorum, per quam unus
coniugum indivisibiliter alteri fidem servare tenetur. Finis autem matrimonii est proles
generanda et educanda, ad quorum primum pervenitur per concubitum coniugalem; ad
secundum, per alia opera viri et uxoris, quibus sibi invicem obsequuntur ad prolem
nutriendam. Sic igitur dicendum est quod, quantum ad primam perfectionem, omnino
verum fuit matrimonium virginis matris Dei et Ioseph: quia uterque consensit in copulam
coniugalem; non autem expresse in copulam carnalem, nisi sub conditione, si Deo
placeret. . . . Quantum vero ad secundam perfectionem, quae est per actum matrimonii,
si hoc referatur ad carnalem concubitum, per quem proles generatur, non fuit illud
matrimonium consummatum. . . . Habuit tamen illud matrimonium etiam secundam
perfectionem quantum ad prolis educationem. Unde Augustinus dicit, in libro de nuptiis
et concupiscentia: Omne nuptiarum bonum impletum est in illis parentibus Christi: proles,
fides et sacramentum” (Sancti Thomae Aquinatis Opera omnia, vol. 11, iussu impensaque
Leonis P. M. XIII edita, cura et studio Fratrum Praedicatorum [Rome: Typographia
Polyglotta, 1903]).
7
This is the outline used by Oliva, L’amicizia, 53 (we copy here the format of the
paragraphs):

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

35

essential perfection of marriage has nothing to do with procreation and/or sexual intercourse, as this latter would have to do
with the secondary perfection of marriage.8 He supports this
claim by citing Aquinas’s commentary on the Sentences of Peter
Lombard (IV Sent., d. 26, q. 1, a. 1; and other places) and adds
that, according to Aquinas, the essential end is superior to the
operative end, because the union of the souls is a properly human
perfection, while procreation is an animal or merely biological
perfection.9 In this way Oliva introduces some measure of
dualism into the Thomistic conception of conjugal morality: the
biological dimension would not be as important as the personal,
spiritual dimension.
According to Oliva, moreover, there is an evolution in
Aquinas’s doctrine on marriage, so that in the Tertia pars he no
longer speaks of the distinction between primary and secondary
ends of marriage.10 What remains constant, however, is that
First perfection of marriage, i.e., its essence (form): indivisible union of
souls, initiated and promised with consent
implies a proximate and proper end of marriage: conjugal love preserved
in fidelity, and mutual help of the spouses
Secondary perfection: the behavior of the spouses. It consists in
a remote principal end: the begetting and educating of children; the
propagation of the human race
a remote secondary end: the mutual help of the spouses in raising and
educating children.
(Perfezione primaria del matrimonio o essenza (forma): unione indivisible
degli animi, iniziata e promesa con el consenso
implica un fine prossimo e proprio del matrimonio: amore coniugale da
conservare nella fedeltà, e mutua assstenza dei coniugi
Perfezione secondaria: l´agire degli sposi. Consiste in
un fine remoto principale: generazione ed educazione della prole;
propagazione del genere umano
un fine remoto secondario: mutua assistenza dei coniugi nel crescere ed
educare la prole.)
8

See ibid., 46-54.
Oliva, “Essence et finalité du mariage,” 606-7.
10
See ibid., 609-10.
9

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

sexual intercourse is not of the essence of marriage. Oliva repeats
this in many ways. For example, the union of the spirits would
be the proximate object of marriage and of the act through which
marriage begins its existence, the act of consent. This proximate
object constitutes the essence of marriage and consent. Procreation and the raising and education of children, in turn, would
be the remote object of marriage, which does not constitute its
essence.11 Thanks to this distinction, claims Oliva, Aquinas is able
to hold that there was a real marriage between Mary and Joseph.
As is well known, the Church under Pope John Paul II allowed
divorced and civilly remarried people to receive the sacraments
while remaining under the same roof, provided that the new
couple commit themselves to living in perfect continence as
brother and sister. Using his novel conception of the essence and
the ends of marriage, Oliva wants to conclude that the reason for
this license regarding the sacraments is not that, due to the
cessation of sexual intercourse, the second marriage no longer
violates the previous and only valid one, but rather that the only
obstacle for these ostensibly remarried people to receiving the
sacraments was the use of sex outside a valid marriage. The
requirement of complete abstinence does not protect the only
valid marriage, but general morality.12
This claim is paradoxical when combined with Oliva’s whole
view on marriage, divorce, and remarriage. It seems that, at least
in some circumstances, a spouse has no way to violate the first
bond of marriage when living in a second marriage because
neither sexual intercourse nor the new bond of friendship violate
it. Indeed, according to Oliva, the effects of the first and only
valid marriage can be “frozen,” suspended, so that each of the
spouses may licitly establish a second marriage as a new greatest
friendship with a person different from the original spouse.13 If,
according to Oliva, the essence of marriage is only an indivisible
union of souls—the “greatest friendship”—with or without
carnal union, it seems that the second union of souls, the civil
11

See ibid., 612-13, 615.
Oliva, L’amicizia, 76-81.
13
Ibid., 88-89.
12

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

37

marriage, appearing at present as the greatest friendship and
replacing the old one, would constitute a violation of the first and
only valid bond. Thus, Oliva’s conclusion should have been that
John Paul II’s decision is necessarily a violation of Christ’s
teaching on the indissolubility of marriage. That is to say, in no
case should “remarried” people be allowed to receive the sacraments. Oliva tries to avoid drawing this conclusion by talking
about “freezing” the effects of the only valid marriage. However,
he never explains how this suspension of the effects of the first
and only valid marriage can be in agreement with Christ’s
teachings on the indissolubility of marriage.
Here we are not so much interested in demonstrating the
conflicts between Catholic dogma and Oliva’s interpretation of
the Summa theologiae. Rather, we are interested in showing the
shortcomings of the interpretation itself. Our purpose is not
solely to refute Oliva, but also to reflect with new depth on the
reality of Mary’s marriage to Joseph.
II. THE FUNDAMENTAL CONFUSION IN OLIVA’S INTERPRETATION
A careful analysis of the text quoted from the Summa shows
immediately the confusion that lies at the basis of Oliva’s
interpretation. Aquinas is not speaking there of two separate
dimensions of marriage, an essential one and a secondary or
operative one. He is not speaking of different ends of marriage,
one essential and another operative; much less is he separating a
“biological” from a “personal” dimension of marriage. He is
using the Aristotelian distinction between primary and secondary
perfection—between being and operating—mindful of the fact
that the immanent end of creatures consists precisely in their
good operation,14 which is the expression and actualization of
their being: operari sequitur esse. Even more, in creatures being
14

Seeing God (an operation) is the immanent end of man, but God himself (the object
of the operation) is the transcendent end. Aquinas does not use this vocabulary, but
teaches this doctrine, in STh I-II, q. 1, a. 8; and q. 2, a. 7.

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

and the form (which is the first act) exist for the sake of
operation or the second act:
It is evident that operation is the last act of the operator, wherefore the
Philosopher calls it “second act” (De Anima ii, 1): because that which has a form
can be potentially operating, just as he who knows is potentially considering.
And hence it is that in other things, too, each one is said to be “for its operation”
(De Coel. ii, 3).15

This is what Aquinas explicitly states here: “The second perfection of a thing consists in its operation, by which in some way
a thing attains its end.” Aquinas does not speak of two objects of
marriage, one essential and another operative, nor of one
proximate and another remote. It is true that marriage is
generated, and its form begins to exist, by the consent of the bride
and the bridegroom. But it is not true that the content of that
consent is just the spiritual union of man and woman.
According to Aquinas, in marriage, as in every substantial
created thing, the first perfection comes into existence through
generation and the second perfection through operation. In the
case of marriage, the cause and act of its coming to be is the
mutual consent. By this a spiritual union between man and
woman is formed (“a certain inseparable union of souls, by which
husband and wife are pledged by a bond of mutual affection that
cannot be sundered”). But the object of such consent must be
precisely a commitment to realize the proper operations of
marriage, of which the most essential one is the procreation and
education of children (“the end of matrimony is the begetting and
upbringing of children”). Note well that Aquinas writes here of
“the end,” in singular, of matrimony. In marriage, as in any other
created being, the operation (second perfection) is the
actualization of the powers or potencies contained in the first
perfection and, hence, at least in a sense, the end of such being.16
15

STh I-II, q. 3, a. 2.
On this double perfection, see STh I, q. 73, a. 1: “The perfection of a thing is
twofold, the first perfection and the second perfection. The ‘first’ perfection is that
according to which a thing is substantially perfect, and this perfection is the form of the
whole; which form results from the whole having its parts complete. But the ‘second’
perfection is the end, which is either an operation, as the end of the harpist is to play the
16

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

39

In the case of marriage, the end has different aspects, but they
should not be conceived as independent from each other. As Paul
Gondreau puts it:
The consortium of marriage is not parceled out into two types of ends, essential
and non essential, but is the ground of co-essential ends. The conjugal act has a
per se ordering both to procreation, its per se primary ordering, and to unitive
love, its per se secondary ordering. The ordination to unitive love, while
secondary, is not merely per accidens. As the moralists Ford and Kelly put it:
“the secondary, personalist ends while remaining essentially subordinate, are
nevertheless truly essential ends of marriage, just as the primary ends are.”17

A good example of the relationship between these essential ends
would be that of a soccer team. Its primary end is to score goals
and win the game, while its secondary end is to play in a
coordinated fashion, with good harmony, as a true team. The
secondary end is essential but subordinated to the first. If a team

harp; or something that is attained by an operation, as the end of the builder is the house
that he makes by building. But the first perfection is the cause of the second, because the
form is the principle of operation.” See also De Verit., q. 1, a. 10, ad s.c. 3: “There are
two kinds of perfection, first and second. First perfection is the form of each thing, and
that by which it has its act of existing. Nothing is without it while it continues in existence.
Second perfection is operation, which is the end of a thing or the means by which a thing
reaches its end; and a thing is sometimes deprived of this perfection” (Questions on Truth,
Questions 1-9, trans. Robert W. Mulligan, S.J. [Chicago: Henry Regnery Company,
1952]; https://dhspriory.org/thomas/QDdeVer.htm, accessed August 1, 2018).
At other places Aquinas speaks of a triple perfection. See STh I, q. 6, a. 3: “Now
perfection of a thing is threefold: first, according to the constitution of its own being;
secondly, in respect of any accidents being added as necessary for its perfect operation;
thirdly, perfection consists in the attaining to something else as the end. Thus, for
instance, the first perfection of fire consists in its existence, which it has through its own
substantial form; its secondary perfection consists in heat, lightness and dryness, and the
like; its third perfection is to rest in its own place. This triple perfection belongs to no
creature by its own essence; it belongs to God only, in Whom alone essence is existence.”
17
Paul Gondreau, “The ‘Inseparable Connection’ between Procreation and Unitive
Love (Humanae Vitae, §12) and Thomistic Hylemorphic Anthropology,” Nova et Vetera
(Eng. ed.) 6 (2008), 731-64, at 745. The quotation is from John C. Ford and Gerald
Kelly, Contemporary Moral Theology, vol. 2, Marriage Questions (Westminster, Md.:
Newman Press, 1963) 76.

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

does not try to score goals, if it tries to score runs instead, it is
not a soccer team at all, but a baseball team, even if it has to play
in coordinated fashion, with good harmony as a true team.
Moreover, when a soccer team scores goals, the fruit of the
common effort reinforces the coordination and harmony of the
team. In a similar way, “children seem to be a bond of union
(which is the reason why childless people part more easily); for
children are a good common to both [man and woman] and what
is common holds them together.”18
We could add with Gondreau a further consideration:
procreation alone is not the full characterization of the primary
end of marriage, but rather procreating, rearing, and educating
children. For the sake of rearing and educating, the loving union
of husband and wife is crucial.19 This is so much the case that
Aquinas states that the spouse who commits adultery “by accession to a woman who is not joined to him in marriage [offends]
the good of the upbringing of his own children.” And the man
who commits adultery “by accession to a woman who is united
to another in marriage . . . hinders the good of another’s children.
The same applies to the married woman who is corrupted by
adultery.”20
Thus, the mistake in Oliva’s interpretation is solved, but the
more compelling problem rises to full stature. How is Aquinas’s
understanding of marriage compatible with the testimony of
Scripture that there was real marriage between Joseph and Mary?
III. THE ESSENTIAL ELEMENTS OF THE MARRIAGE, BETROTHAL,
AND WEDDING OF MARY AND JOSEPH
We know through natural reason and through revelation that
marriage is the union between a man and a woman with the end
of procreating offspring and of educating them in virtue and for

18
Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, trans. D. Ross, J. L. Ackrill and J. O. Urmson
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 6.12.1162a27-29. Gondreau gives a similar
example, but not quite as clear, we think.
19
See Gondreau, “Inseparable Connection,” 762.
20
STh II-II, q. 154, a. 8.

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

41

the divine cult.21 For this reason, marriage is essentially
constituted by consent (with or without essential formalities) and
consummated by the conjugal act. Canon law had distinguished
clearly already at the time of Aquinas (with greater clarity than at
the time of Gratian and with a new vocabulary) between marriage
ratum and consummatum.
There cannot be marriage if the consent of the parties excludes
or cannot include the essential elements of marriage, such as the
openness to perform the procreating copula. This is the reason
why, in his commentary on the Sentences, Aquinas clearly states
that Mary did not condition her consent on the total abstinence
of Joseph: “that intention [of remaining virgin] was not added to
the consent as a condition, for such a condition, since it would
be against the good of matrimony, namely the procreation of
children, would invalidate the marriage.”22
Here is the root of the problem. According to Aquinas,
through Scripture we can infer that Mary, moved by God, had
offered her virginity to God. Indeed, the words she addresses to
the angel after she hears that she will conceive a son would make
no sense otherwise: “How shall this be, since I do not know
man?” (Luke 1:34).23 Aquinas points this out in the Catena aurea,
citing St. Gregory of Nyssa:
21

See ScG IV, c. 78. In this text Aquinas focuses on the most essential constitution of
marriage and leaves aside two aspects which accompany it: the spouses must be united in
love and friendship, and in such a way that they find a remedy to concupiscence.
22
IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 2, ad 2: “illud propositum non fuit conditionaliter
in consensu appositum: talis enim conditio cum sit contra matrimonii bonum, scilicet
prolem procreandam, matrimonium tolleret.” The translation used here comes from the
Aquinas Institute, https://aquinas.cc/25/26/~648 (accessed August 22, 2018), with small
corrections in light of the original Latin. See also Super Matt., c. 1, lect. 4.
23
Quotations from Scripture are taken from the New Revised Standard Version
(NRSV), The Harper-Collins Study Bible (New York: Harper-Collins and The Society of
Biblical Literature, 1989), with appeal to the original Greek or the LXX and the
Clementine Vulgate. However, in this instance the translation is that suggested by
Raymond Leo Cardinal Burke because it is truer to the original than the NRSV, which
reads, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?”, and adds in a footnote, “Gk I do not know
a man.” Burke demonstrates that both these translations would be inaccurate. See

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

These words of Mary are a token of what she was pondering in the secrets of
her heart; for if for the sake of the marriage union she had wished to be
espoused to Joseph, why was she seized with astonishment when the conception
was made known unto her? seeing in truth she might herself be expecting at the
time to become a mother according to the law of nature. But because it was
meet that her body being presented to God as an holy offering should be kept
inviolate, therefore she says, Seeing that I know not a man. As if she said,
Notwithstanding that thou who speakest art an Angel, yet that I should know a
man is plainly an impossible thing.24

Raymond Leo Cardinal Burke, “The Marriage of Saint Joseph and the Blessed Virgin
Mary: Sign of the Mystery of the Redemptive Incarnation,” Divinitas 48, no. 1 (n.s.)
(2015): 41-59, at 43.57. Burke follows this version: The New Testament of Our Lord and
Savior Jesus Christ, translated from the Latin Vulgate, a revision of the Challoner-Rheims
Version, edited by Catholic scholars under the patronage of the Episcopal Committee of
the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (Paterson, N.J.: St. Anthony Guild Press, 1941).
24
Catena aurea in Lucam, c. 1, lect. 11(Catena Aurea, Commentary on the Four
Gospels Collected out of the Works of the Fathers by S. Thomas Aquinas, trans. John Henry
Newman [London: St. Matthew Oxford, 1841; repr., London: Baronius Press, 2009]).
Among the early Fathers St. Athanasius is the first one to call Mary “the ever Virgin”: see
Ex commentariis sancti Athanasii in Lucam, in Patrologiae Graecae Tomus XXVII, ed. J.-P.
Migne (Paris, 1857), 1394C. Before him, the Ante-Nicene Fathers simply stressed against
the heretics that Mary conceived Jesus and gave birth to him while remaining virgin. But
they are silent concerning whether she always remained a virgin or not. See, for example,
St. Iraeneus, Adversus haereses III, cc. 21-22, in Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 1, ed. A. Roberts
and J. Donaldson (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1899), 451-55. There is a historical
problem here, posed by modern interpreters (e.g., R. E. Brown) who think that in the Old
Testament ambience it is “totally implausible” that Mary could have had the purpose of
remaining virgin. After sketching Brown’s position, Jean-Pierre Torrell answers that if we
pay closer attention to the reality of the time of Mary and Jesus, we discover that many
persons embraced the ideal of celibacy for God’s service and to attain wisdom. This was
the case of the Essenes, according to Josephus, and of the Therapeutai, according to Philo
of Alexandria. Torrell introduces a second problem. According to him, in Luke 1:34 Mary
articulates her question not because before the Annunciation she had the intention of
remaining virgin, but rather because in the Annunciation itself she is given a supernatural
light in response to which she is determined to remain virgin (Le Christ et ses mystères,
La vie et l’œuvre de Jésus selon saint Thomas d’Aquin [Paris: Desclée, 1999], 1:68-69). It
is not clear why the interpretation given by Torrell would be preferable to that given by
Aquinas, especially because Aquinas’s interpretation takes into account the patristic
tradition and appears better to solve the problem of the juridical status of Mary’s
marriage. If Mary’s doubts are entirely dispelled by a supernatural light and she had yet
to celebrate the solemn wedding, the problem could become worse, unless one then argues
either that the betrothal plus the posterior living together forms the perfect
(nonconsummated) marriage (without the need of a new act of explicit consent) or that
the knowledge that Mary gained is a prophetic knowledge concerning the future which

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

43

Raymond Cardinal Burke also teaches that such is the meaning
of Mary’s response to the archangel. He draws part of his
argumentation from the Greek present tense, which indicates the
continuation of the action.25
Since she was betrothed to Joseph when Gabriel was sent to
her, it seems that Joseph knew about this purpose.26 Otherwise,
either she would have concealed this openness to virginity which
essentially affects Joseph’s will and the consent would have
become invalid,27 or her words in Luke 1:34 would not make
sense.
The validity of Mary’s betrothal and wedding is the question
that has troubled the minds of pious Christians for centuries.
does not destroy the present conditional quality of her intention of remaining virgin. In
IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 2, ad 3, Aquinas appears to have a problem similar to the
one posed by Torrell’s interpretation, since according to this passage at the Annunciation
Mary would have been assured of her remaining virgin.
25
See Burke, “Marriage of Saint Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary,” 43 and 56.
Actually, Burke goes beyond Aquinas’s understanding of this phrase, since Aquinas thinks
that Mary had vowed virginity, but conditionally, while Burke seems to think she had
vowed virginity without condition. We think that on this point Aquinas must be right.
26
In IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 2, ad 2, Aquinas solves the problem differently:
“Before the Blessed Virgin contracted with Joseph, she was assured by divine inspiration
that Joseph had intended the same course of action, and therefore she did not expose
herself to danger by marrying him” (“beata virgo antequam contraheret cum Joseph, fuit
certificata divinitus quod Joseph in simili proposito erat; et ideo non se commisit periculo
nubens”). However, the solution we propose seems better because it takes into account
the problem of not hiding an essential quality of the consent to the other party. Torrell
thinks that in the Summa (III, q. 29, a. 1, ad 1) Aquinas gives a new solution which does
not collide with the juridical problem: “the Blessed Virgin, Mother of God, desired, from
an intimate inspiration of the Holy Ghost, to be espoused, being confident that by the
help of God she would never come to have carnal intercourse: yet she left this to God’s
discretion” (Torrell, Le Christ et ses mystères, 71). We wonder, however, if Torrell is
correct. In STh III, q. 29, a. 2, Aquinas states that “both consented to the nuptial bond,
but not expressly to the bond of the flesh, save on the condition that it was pleasing to
God.” This is to say that Joseph also, and not only Mary, needed to be open to abstain
from marital intercourse if such abstention was pleasing to God.
27
As a consequence, Joseph’s consent would be invalid, as canon law rightly teaches.
See canon 1098 of the current Code of Canon Law, which on this point merely develops
the principles of natural reason and of revelation.

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

Aquinas attempts a full explanation which we will sketch here.
Gratian attempted a slightly different one. Since we are not
entirely satisfied with either of them, we will propose a variation
of both and attempt to show its conformity with Scripture.
A) The Good of Virginity and the Good of Offspring in Old and
New Testament Times: Mary’s Puzzles
On this matter, Aquinas’s study (in IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1)
is so masterful and delicate that we need only to call the attention
of our readers to some of Aquinas’s conclusions and reasonings.
Since Mary is the “place” in which the New Testament started,
she is compared to the Dawn, the very boundary of night and
day, the line in which the Old and the New Testaments touch
each other. For this reason, she was subject to the expectation of
the Messiah, the Beloved Anointed One, the Blessed Seed,28 and
obliged to follow the path of marriage and fruitfulness (see Deut
7:14). At the same time, she opened the path to the evangelical
counsels. Thus, moved by the Holy Spirit, she vowed to be
virgin.29 But her vow was not unconditional, precisely because it
lay at that boundary between the two Testaments: she would be
virgin only if God did not want to make use of her in order to
prepare the coming of the Messiah. Her vow was given under
condition that God did not require something else. She did not
desire the carnal union, as one can perceive in her answer to
Gabriel, but she was open to anything God demanded from her.30
On this point Aquinas follows St. Augustine. Gratian in his

28

Aquinas states that in the Old Testament marriage was preferred to virginity because
of the “expectationem benedicti seminis” (IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 1). For the text
of the Sentences commentary we use the edition by Enrique Alarcón in Corpus Thomisticum (Pamplona: University of Navarra, 2000); http://www.corpusthomisticum.org/
snp4027.html.
29
That Mary had vowed to be virgin is stated by Aquinas in IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1,
qcla. 1. The reason he adduces is that Mary could not have lacked this perfection. We add
that she must have been moved to make this vow by the Holy Spirit, which is why she
was unable to understand the newly manifested divine will of conceiving a son. This
apparent conflict in God’s manifested will is not pointed out explicitly in IV Sent.
30
In this sense, see STh III, q. 29, a. 2. See also Super Matt., c. 1, lect 4.

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

45

Decree synthesizes Augustine’s doctrine with the following text,
introduced as a literal citation:
The Blessed Mary proposed that she would preserve a vow of virginity in her
heart, but she did not express that vow of virginity with her mouth. She
subjected herself to divine disposition when she proposed that she would
preserve virginity, unless God revealed to her otherwise. Therefore, committing
her virginity to divine disposition, she consented to carnal union, not by seeking
[desiring] it but by obeying divine inspiration in both the one case and the other.
But it was after she bore a son that she expressed with her lips what she had
conceived with her heart, together with her husband, and each remained in
virginity.31

31
Decretum Gratiani (causa 27, q. 2, p. 1, c. 3), in Corpus iuris canonici, Pars Prior,
ed. Æ. Friedberg (Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1879). We use the translation of
Augustine’s text in Conor McCarthy, Marriage in Medieval England: Law, Literature and
Practice (Woodbridge, Suffolk: The Boydell Press, 2004), 25. McCarthy suggests that the
consensual theory of marriage was adopted in the twelfth century by Pope Alexander
precisely to make room for holding that Mary and Joseph were married. But McCarthy
is clearly mistaken. Already in pagan Roman law it had been established that both
marriage and betrothal were made by consent. Thus, the Digest states: “Julian: Digest,
book XVI.- Betrothals and weddings are celebrated by the consent of the parties
[contrahentium]. For this reason, both in betrothals and weddings may the daughter of
family give her consent” (Digest 23.1.11). Moreover, the difference between fornication
and marriage lies precisely in this point: marriage is a meeting of the wills through which
is provided the proper setting for sexual intercourse and procreation, while fornication is
sexual intercourse without that proper setting. Gratian gives good arguments in favor of
the consensual view. He argues that if intercourse made marriage, then fornication would
be marriage (see Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 32, q. 1, p. 2, c. 11); he also states that
without previous consensual agreement intercourse would be adultery, promiscuity,
fornication rather than marriage (see Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 30, q. 5, p. 1, c. 1, § 1).
According to McCarthy, Gratian held that consent was not sufficient to establish
marriage, since in a betrothal consent did not produce marriage without sexual
intercourse or consummation (see Marriage in Medieval England, 22). But this is a
different matter. Gratian also held, citing Augustine, that Mary and Joseph were married
solo consensu (see Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 27, q. 2, p. 1, c. 3, § 1). Later on Gratian
states both that Mary was not yet Joseph’s wife, when the angel came to her, but that she
was going to be (see Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 27, q. 2, p. 3, cc. 39-40), and that
betrothal (sponsalia) is not marriage (coniugium), neither legitimate nor ratum (which in
his terminology means what Aquinas means by consummatum; see Decreti Pars Secunda,
causa 27, q. 2, p. 3, c. 45; causa 28, q. 1, p. 5, c. 17; causa 28, q. 5, p. 1, cc. 1 and 3).
The point is that betrothal is not the same as wedding or marriage, but the conjugal

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

In this way, Mary became simultaneously the Virgin who
opened the time of the evangelical counsels and the Mother who
bore the author of such counsels. She fulfilled the prophecy
contained in Isaiah 7:14, “Behold, the virgin is with child, and
shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”32 Because the
condition she had added to her vow originally was most beautiful
and honest [honestissima] (“unless God should will otherwise”33),
such a condition was no stain on her purity which, therefore,
remained as the highest after God’s. Something analogous may
be said about her consent to marriage: it was given under the
most beautiful condition, that is to say, the carnal union would
follow only if it were pleasing to God.34
One point remains open and probably admits of different
solutions. At the time of Gabriel’s embassy, Joseph and Mary
were only betrothed. One could think that Mary was already in
consent is presumed when, after the betrothal, the spouses have intercourse. This appears
in Alexander’s decisions, which McCarthy quotes (Marriage in Medieval England, 23-24):
a promise of marriage in the future tense becomes marriage by the conjugal act; but
consent in the present tense is actual marriage. We think that the origin of McCarthy’s
opinion is that at the time of Gratian the terminology was not established as in later times,
when marriage is called ratum if validly celebrated and consummated if the conjugal act
has been performed.
With respect to the point of the consensual theory of marriage, Irven Resnick
(“Marriage in Medieval Culture: Consent Theory and the Case of Joseph and Mary”
Church History 69 [2000]: 350-71) points in a direction similar to that of McCarthy’s
book, but without adding much in the way of evidence or argument to the discussion. It
seems to us that this author does not grant due weight to the distinction between valid
and consummated marriage, already present in Gratian with a different vocabulary.
Moreover, Resnick uses a structuralist perspective which is clearly inadequate to judge
the work of the Christian theologians and canonists of the Latin Christendom. He assumes
that they were not in search for the truth but were trying to secure their social status.
32
In the light of the Greek text, we correct the NRSV, which reads: “Look, the young
woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.” In a note, it
adds: “Gk the virgin.” There is disagreement about how this passage should be read in
Hebrew. But we cut the Gordian knot by showing that the rabbis of Alexandria are
witnesses to how it was read before the matter became a source of controversy between
Christians and Jews: according to them the text reads he parthénos, the virgin. Cf.
Septuaginta, ed. Alfred Rahlfs (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1979), 575 (Isaias
7:14).
33
IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 1.
34
See IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 2, arg. 3; and qcla. 1.

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

47

Joseph’s house, as John Chrysostom does.35 Usually, the betrothed woman lived with her betrothed, because a betrothal was
not like an engagement of our time. For legal purposes it was in
many ways equivalent to marriage.36 If Mary was in Joseph’s
house, one could understand the phrase “before they lived
together” (Matt 1:18) as “before they had intercourse.” And one
could understand that Joseph “received her” in obedience to the
angel because he solemnly celebrated the nuptials.37 But others

35

Gratian is of the same opinion, and he cites John Chrysostom (Hom. IV ad Matth.
1.18.5) and Scripture in support of this hypothesis. This is based on the ancient practice
among the Israelites and their ancestors of taking the betrothed under the roof of the
man. See Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 27, q. 2, p. 3, c. 42.
36
See, for example, Deut 22:23-25.
37
See STh III, q. 29, a. 2, ad 3. In the Old Testament one can see that after the
constitution of Israel the betrothal and solemn pact of matrimony were distinct. The
existence of such solemn pact is mentioned explicitly in Tobit 7:13-15 and Prov 2:17.
The solemn pact was marked by a long celebration which could last up to seven days (see,
e.g., Judg 14:10-18; Tobit 7:13-15; 8:19-21; 1 Macc. 9:37-39). In Cana such a solemn
wedding (gámos) was being celebrated (John 2:1ff.). Gordon P. Hugenberger has shown
persuasively that Mal 2:10-16 presents marriage as a covenant based on Gen 2:23-24;
this is not unprecedented, since the idea appears as well in Prov 2:17; Ezek 16; and Hos
2:18-22. But Hugenberger clarifies that the solemn pact does not necessarily imply a
verbal oath: “a covenant is ‘an elected, as opposed to natural, relationship of obligation
established under divine sanction.’ In terms of this understanding, it was agreed with
Milgrom and Greenberg that a ratifying oath is the sine qua non of covenant because it
invokes the deity to act against any subsequent breach of the covenant. Against Milgrom
and Greenberg, however, it was emphasized that such oaths are not all overtly selfmaledictory, nor are they exclusively verbal. In particular, many oaths function by a
solemn positive declaration (i.e., verba solemnia) or symbolic depiction of the
commitment being undertaken (such as the ‘oath-signs’ of a shared meal or handshake)”
(Gordon P. Hugenberger, Marriage As a Covenant: A Study of Biblical Law and Ethics
Governing Marriage Developed from the Perspective of Malachi, thesis submitted in partial
fulfilment of the requirements of the Council for National Academic Awards for the
degree of Doctor of Philosophy [Sponsoring establishment: Cheltenham & Gloucester
College of Higher Education (The College of St. Paul & St. Mary); Collaborating
establishment: Oxford Centre for Postgraduate Hebrew Studies (May 1991)], 357;
http://eprints.glos.ac.uk/3339/1/292355.pdf [accessed May 6, 2019]). In this context,
according to the same author, “it was deemed likely that sexual union was understood as
a complementary covenant-ratifying oath-sign, at least by some biblical authors. . . . [The]

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

think that she began to live with him later. According to the
Fathers, the canonical tradition, and Aquinas’s reading of the
gospel at least, it seems that their wedding needed an explicit
celebration after the betrothal, perhaps precisely because there
was no carnal union.38 This would mean, perhaps, that even after
the Incarnation Joseph and Mary had to celebrate their nuptials
and give their consent without the explicit condition of excluding
carnal union. However, contemporary scholarship on Jewish
marriage at the time of the Annunciation holds that the marriage
contract and consent were celebrated at the time at the betrothal
and that the nuptials were just the solemn taking possession of
the woman by the man, so that the man becomes “wifed” and the
woman “husbanded.”39
Since there is theological consensus on the reality of their
married condition, there are four possible explanations to solve
the problem:
(A) Legally they were married since they had given their consent and Joseph
had only solemnly to receive Mary.
(B) They celebrated their wedding and spoke the formal words of their consent
without interposing the condition of remaining virgin, although they had
interiorly the purpose of remaining virgin. In this case, legally they would be
married, as in the previous case.
(C) They celebrated their nuptials with an act of consent but because of a special
divine intervention they could exclude the carnal union from their pledge. This
possibility does not seem plausible to us, among other reasons because all the
sexual union is the indispensable means for the consummation of marriage both in the
Old Testament and elsewhere in the ancient Near East” (ibid., 358).
38
Canon law used to state that the betrothal becomes marriage if there is carnal union.
See Decretales Gregorii IX, Sexti Decretalium lib. 4, tit. 1, c. 15 (Corpus iuris canonici
[Graz: Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt, 1959]; electronic reproduction, vol 2 [New
York: Columbia University Libraries, 2007]).
39
See Burke, “Marriage of St. Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary,” 47-56. It should
be noted that in this view the consent of the bride was given at the betrothal, so that what
we have said in note 38 about the need of such consent remains untouched. Burke quotes,
among others, Benedict XVI, Jesus von Nazareth. Prolog: Die Kindheitsgeschichten
(Freiburg: Herder, 2012), 38 and 48; John Paul II, apostolic exhortation Redemptoris
custos, “De persona sancti Ioseph et opera in Christi Iesu Ecclesiaque vita,” August 15,
1989 (Acta apostolicae sedis 82 [1990], 22); Angelo Tosato, Il matrimonio Israelitico:
Una teoria generale (Rome: Biblical Study Press, 1982); René Laurentin, Marie, source
direct de l’evangile de l’enfance (Paris: Éditions Francois-Xavier de Guibert, 2012), 64-65.

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

49

Fathers except perhaps Jerome40 take pains to show that the consent was indeed
valid.
(D) They celebrated their nuptials with an act of consent after the Incarnation
while leaving open the possibility of future carnal union if God willed it.41 This
could be the full explanation of the passage “but had no marital relations with
her until she had borne a son”42 (Matt 1:25). Thus, perhaps it was after Jesus’
birth that it was revealed to them definitely that they should remain virgin. At
that time, they uttered together their vows of remaining virgin. This is possible
because Joseph and Mary could not be sure of what God’s plan was until he
revealed it to them. And, certainly, it fits better in God’s plan that the consent
could be given with no external or internal restraint. However, a more plausible
explanation of the latter gospel expression is grammatical, since the Greek verb
“does not exclude the continuation of the action beyond the time indicated.”43

Jean-Pierre Torrell considers Aquinas’s solution fragile (but
neither arbitrary nor impossible) in the light of historical and
exegetical problems which Aquinas was unable to consider
sufficiently, due to the state of these disciplines in his time.44 We

40
Aquinas interprets Jerome as accepting that Joseph and Mary were married although
their marriage was not consummated. Aquinas states that Jerome understood by nuptiae
(marriage, wedding) not the celebration of the wedding but the consummation of
marriage in the conjugal act. This confusion comes from Jerome’s opposition to
Helvidius, who held that Joseph and Mary did not remain virgin. See STh III, q. 29, a. 2,
obj. 1-2, and ad 1-2.
41
However, Aquinas states in the Sentences commentary that Mary was already
internally assured that she would remain virgin (see IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 2,
ad 3). This is perhaps problematic because the conditional “we will remain virgin if it
pleases God” would then seem to lose its conditionality, if the solemn wedding entailed a
new act of consent. Yet the two ideas could perhaps be synthesized with a consideration
of prophetic knowledge which then would take nothing from the validity of the
conditional.
42
This is the NRSV. But King James reads, “And knew her not till she had brought
forth her first-born son,” which is a much more precise rendering of the original Greek
and much closer to the Vulgate.
43
Burke, “Marriage of St. Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary,” 44. He quotes
M. Zerwich and M. Grosvenor, A Grammatical Analysis of the Greek New Testament,
5th ed. (Rome: Gregorian and Biblical Press, 2016), 2. Aquinas also attempts a
grammatical explanation in various places: IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 3, ad 1-2; Super Matt.,
c. 1, lect. 6; Catena aurea in Mattheum, c. 1, lect. 14.
44
See Torrell, Le Christ et ses mystères, 69 and 71.

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

think, however, that the fragility of the solution is disputable. A
solution like that of Aquinas is needed to solve the theological
and canonical problems posed by the truths we know with
certainty through the biblical text and the patristic tradition. Of
course, much of what Aquinas states has no direct support in
historical sources. However, things must have happened more or
less as he imagines them because only in such a way it is possible
to conciliate the purpose of virginity with the betrothal and the
later wedding of Mary and Joseph.
B) The Second Perfection of Marriage Is Not Reduced to the
Conjugal Act, but to a Life for the Common Good of the Conjugal
Community
According to what has been said, the second perfection of
marriage lies precisely in actuating what had been promised by
the spouses at the wedding celebration. But what was promised
was by no means only a “union of the souls.” It was everything
that marriage entails. This is why the second perfection is the
procreation and education of children and the loving union
which constitutes the proper setting for that. Since sexual intercourse is the natural way of procreating children, the performance of such an act is what turns a marriage into a
consummatum marriage, indissoluble except by death when the
parties are Christian.45
It makes no sense to separate the loving union of the spouses
from the common good of the particular type of community
which they constitute due to the intrinsic ordination of marriage
to procreating and educating. It is certainly most un-Thomistic,
since Aquinas follows Aristotle in stating that the friendship of
husband and wife creates a particular kind of community whose
most solid bond is normally and naturally the greatest common

45
See, for example, Decretum Gratiani, Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 27, q. 2, p. 3,
intro., c. 39; causa 28, q. 1, p. 5, c. 17; causa 28, q. 2, c. 2. When the parties are Christian,
the carnal union is the symbol of the union of Christ and the Church. When the parties
are not Christian, marriage can be dissolved also when one of the two becomes Christian
and makes use of the Pauline privilege.

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

51

good of the spouses, that is to say, the children.46 Among human
beings, moreover, the biological dimension is assumed by the
spiritual dimension, so that in the community of procreation and
education both are inextricably joined together, except through
a very exceptional divine intervention. For this reason, man is a
domestic animal before being a political animal, for the community of marriage and family is more necessary than the
political community and prior to it.47
Aquinas maintains this position when he explains that Mary
and Joseph possessed the second perfection of marriage. They did
not consummate their marriage,48 but as we have already seen,
they fulfilled in a supernatural and miraculous way its end:
Nevertheless, this marriage had the second perfection, as to upbringing of the
child. Thus Augustine says (De Nup. Et Concup. I): “All the nuptial blessings
are fulfilled in the marriage of Christ’s parents, offspring, faith and sacrament.
The offspring we know to have been the Lord Jesus; faith, for there was no
adultery; sacrament, since there was no divorce. Carnal intercourse alone there
was none.”49

The most admirable friendship existed between Joseph and
Mary, a community whose common good was nothing less than
Christ himself, the Son of God become man in Mary’s womb
through the action of the Holy Spirit and entrusted to Joseph’s
legal and spiritual paternity.50 Joseph, Mary, and Jesus are

46

See VIII Ethic., lect. 12; Aristotle, Nic. Ethic. 8.12.1162a27-29.
See VIII Ethic., lect. 12; Aristotle, Nic. Ethic. 8.12.1162a16-22.
48
STh III, q. 30, q. 2, a. 3 is dedicated to this point.
49
STh III, q. 29, a. 2. Gratian also quotes this passage from Augustine in his Decreti
Pars Secunda, causa 27, q. 2, p. 1, c. 10.
50
Jesus’ genealogy is given through Joseph, who was a son of David. Either, then,
Mary was also a descendant of David or Jesus is son of David according to the spirit and
not according to the flesh, as Jacob is the first born according to the spirit and Isaac is the
son of the promise, not only of the flesh. In this light one can see that Joseph’s paternity
is deeper than has sometimes been acknowledged. Aquinas thinks that Mary is also a
descendant of David, because the Jews tended to marry within their tribe and among their
relatives and because Mary went to Bethlehem with Joseph at the time of the census (Luke
47

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

together the Holy Family, “the prototype and example for all
Christian families.”51
C) Joseph As an Example of a Christian Husband
The Holy Family is the prototype for all families. Christ
himself, however, when he calls us to achieve the full perfection
of marital love, directs us to return to “the beginning,”52 to the
time in which man and woman did not see each other as objects
of desires but as persons of immeasurable value. Man and woman
at that time wanted to procreate not because of the desire for
pleasure53 but because procreation was God’s will and the
fulfillment of their giving and receiving each other as God’s gift.
This state was lost by sin yet in a sense it is proposed to us as a
model of conjugal love.54 We can now see that both models, the
Holy Family and “the beginning,” are complementary. And they
are so not only because Mary is the prototype of purity and love,
but also because Joseph is the prototype for all fathers and
husbands.
Joseph demonstrates the path of the deepest respect for his
beloved’s vocation. He knew that Mary had received a call to
virginity and also an impulse to marry. As Aquinas states:
We must believe that the Blessed Virgin, Mother of God, willed, from an
intimate inspiration of the Holy Ghost, to be espoused, being confident that by

2:4). See Super Matt., c. 1, lect. 4. In a similar sense and based on Augustine, see Catena
aurea in Mattheum, c. 1, lect. 7.
51
John Paul II, apostolic exhortation Familiaris Consortio, 86 (Acta apostolicae sedis
74 [1982], 81-191; http://w2.vatican.va/content/john-paul-ii/en/apost_exhortations/
documents/hf_jp-ii_exh_19811122_familiaris-consortio.html (accessed May 7, 2019).
52
Matt 19:8.
53
Decretum Gratiani, Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 32, q. 2, p. 2, c. 2. This does not
mean that before the fall seeking pleasure in procreation would be sinful. It would even
be holy if subordinated to the main end intended by nature and willed by God.
54
See also John Paul II, Man and Woman He Created Them: A Theology of the Body
(Boston: Pauline Books and Media, 2006), 218-22; 194-98; and 203-4 (General Audience
April 2, 1980, 1-5; General Audience February 6, 1980, 1-6; General Audience February
13, 1980, 5-6).

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

53

the help of God she would never come to have carnal intercourse: yet she left
this to God’s discretion.55

Without knowing what the future would bring, Joseph agreed to
marry her and/or to receive her into his house under such
openness to God’s will. His love, his chastity, and his obedience
are unsurpassed by any human person, except by the Blessed
Virgin. He was chosen to fill a very important role in God’s
redemptive plan. It was best that the Son took his body from a
woman, a virgin, as Isaiah had prophesied. But the good name of
that mother required that she be married when the child was
born.56
Now, at the time of conception she was recently betrothed.
Besides, she had already been received under Joseph’s roof, as a
protection of her good name. Therefore, the Annunciation
occurred before they “lived together,” that is to say, before they
celebrated the solemn wedding and before they had intercourse.57
When Joseph realized that she had conceived, he did not want to
denounce her, but decided to repudiate her in secret.58 This
“repudiation,” however, only meant that he would live with her
but not as her husband. Mary would be kept under his roof
because otherwise the repudiation would not be secret.59
Yet, why did Joseph want to “repudiate” Mary? Citing Remigius (in line with Origen and Jerome), Aquinas explains that
Joseph “beheld her to be with child, whom he knew to be chaste;
and because he had read, ‘There shall come a Rod out of the stem
of Jesse,’ (Is. 11:1.) of which he knew that Mary was come, and
had also read, ‘Behold, a virgin shall conceive,’ (Is. 7:14.) he did
not doubt that this prophecy should be fulfilled in her.”60 Thus,
55

STh III, q. 29, a. 1, ad 1.
See IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 3. Also, Catena aurea in Mattheum, c. 1, lect. 9.
57
See STh III, q. 29, a. 2, ad 3. There he cites Chrysostom.
58
The NRSV has “Dismiss her quietly.”
59
See STh III, q. 29, a. 2, ad 3.
60
Catena aurea in Mattheum, c. 1, lect. 10. Newman’s translation has Rabanus as the
author of the text, but Enrique Alarcón reads “Remigius.”
56

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CARLOS A. CASANOVA and IGNACIO SERRANO DEL POZO

Joseph did not want to repudiate Mary in order to marry another,
nor because of any suspicion; rather, he feared living with such
holiness. That is to say, he desired to repudiate her out of
reverence. This follows from the words of the angel to Joseph:
“Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your
wife” (Matt 1:20).61 And what does “taking” mean here, according to Aquinas? It means to celebrate the solemn wedding.62 On
this, he follows Rabanus.63
Joseph is the model of husband, father, and family love. In
him (along with the presence of some of the consequences of
Adam’s sin), grace and virtue not only restored original justice,
but elevated it to an unimaginable height, so that for him
marriage was not a remedy of concupiscence at all. His was the
fullest and purest joy born from conjugal love, and his was the
most fruitful love that ever any man (who is not also God) had
or will have. We will not examine the rest of the texts which
speak of his care for Mary and Jesus and of his readiness to fulfill
God’s will. We simply wanted to note that it is essential for his
role as archetype that he was really a husband. And we have seen
that he was truly Mary’s husband because his consent was valid,
and it was so for the reasons given above.64
61

See IV Sent., d. 30, q. 2, a. 2, ad 5. This interpretation seems to be original with
Aquinas because it does not appear in the Catena aurea in Mattheum.
62
See STh III, q. 29, a. 2, ad 3.
63
See Catena aurea in Mattheum, c. 1, lect. 11: “do not fear to receive her in marriage
union and continual converse.”
64
A note of clarification is called for. The vast majority of spouses do not receive the
extraordinary graces of the Holy Family. For this reason, despite the reality of
redemption, original and personal sin still live in our souls. Hence, marriage exists for the
remedy of concupiscence and not in the same innocence and integrity and impassibility
as in paradise. Here we can recall Gratian’s wise words, based on Paul’s Epistles and
Augustine’s De bono coniugali: “The first institution of marriage in paradise was made an
immaculate thalamus and honorable wedding from which children would be conceived
without burning passion and be born without pain. The second one out of paradise was
made in order to eliminate the illicit movement so that the weakness inclined to ruin in
baseness could be drawn out by the beauty of marriage. Hence, the Apostle, in writing to
the Corinthians, says: ‘to avoid fornication, each man should have his own wife, and each
woman her own husband’ (1 Cor. 7:2). And thus, for this cause, it happens that spouses
owe themselves to each other and may not deny themselves to each other. For this reason,
the Apostle says: ‘Do not defraud each other, except perhaps by agreement for a set time,

THE BEING AND OPERATION OF MARY’S MARRIAGE

55

CONCLUSION
Oliva’s interpretation of question 29, article 2 of the Tertia
pars of the Summa theologiae cannot withstand critical
examination. He takes “first perfection” to be a state separated
from and hierarchically superior to “second perfection,” and he
postulates that each of these states has its own proper end or
ends. In fact, in marriage, as in substantial created things, there is
an essential perfection and an operative perfection, and the
second is in an immanent sense the end of the first, since it is its
act. Thus, the order to the begetting and upbringing of children
is of the essence of marriage and of the act by which the bond is
formed, consent.
However, Mary and Joseph were truly and validly married,
precisely because they did not exclude from their consent the
ordination to the begetting and rearing of children, even if
afterward they did not consummate their marriage. They were
open to anything God willed for them. They were ready to be
virgin or to have children according to God’s indications. In this
way they were admirably suited instruments for God’s plan
concerning the Incarnation and the passage from the Old to the
New Testament. Along with Jesus, they established an archetype
of familial love.65

to devote yourselves to prayer; and then come back to the same, so that Satan may not
tempt you. I say this for your incontinence’ (1 Cor. 7:5). Those who are advised to return
to the natural use to prevent incontinence, it is clear that are not commanded to come
together just for the procreation of children. . . . This is done for the good of marriage
which is trifold: faith, offspring and sacrament” (Decreti Pars Secunda, causa 32, q. 2,
p. 2, intro.). Thus, Joseph’s state, due to his extraordinary virtue and to extraordinary
graces, was superior to the state of common spouses after original sin, in the sense that
for him marriage was not for the remedy of concupiscence. See Aquinas’s commentary in
In I Cor., c. 7, lect. 1; his explanation is similar to that of Gratian.
65
We would like to thank the two anonymous referees for The Thomist for their very
helpful comments on this paper.

The Thomist 83 (2019): 57-89

THOMAS AQUINAS’S PRESENTATION OF CHRIST AS
TEACHER
MICHAEL S. HAHN
Mount Saint Mary’s Seminary
Emmitsburg, Maryland

T

HE PRESENT STUDY examines Thomas Aquinas’s
presentation of Christ as teacher, as outlined in his
treatise on Christ in the Tertia pars of the Summa
theologiae. In comparison with other aspects of his theology,
this theme could appear to be of negligible significance. Thomas
himself devotes only a handful of articles to its consideration,1
and insofar as none of these has proven controversial, they have
garnered scant attention in Aquinas scholarship.2 The topic has
been profitably explored in a recent monograph by Paweł
1

Specifically, STh III, q. 39, a. 3; and q. 42, aa. 1-4.
A notable exception to this general trend is J. Mark Armitage, “Why Didn’t Jesus
Write a Book? Aquinas on the Teaching of Christ,” New Blackfriars 89 (2008): 337-53,
which focuses on the final article of STh III, q. 42, so as to call attention to the
unwritten element of Christ’s teaching that Thomas links with the Old Law-fulfilling
grace of the Holy Spirit. (This particular aspect of Thomas’s account of Christ as teacher
is treated in greater detail below.) The Summa’s articles on Christ as teacher are also
examined by Michael Dauphinais, “Christ the Teacher: The Pedagogy of the
Incarnation According to Saint Thomas Aquinas,” Ph.D. diss. (University of Notre
Dame, 2000), who takes a still broader approach to the doctrina Christi, connecting it
not only with the New Law of grace but also with sacra doctrina. Far more
representative of the limited attention paid to this topic are the brief summaries of the
pertinent material from the Summa found in Matthew Levering, Christ’s Fulfillment of
Torah and Temple: Salvation according to Thomas Aquinas (Notre Dame, Ind.:
University of Notre Dame Press, 2002), 43-49; and Michael J. Dodds, “The Teaching of
Thomas Aquinas on the Mysteries of the Life of Christ,” in Aquinas on Doctrine: A
Critical Introduction, ed. Thomas Weinandy et al. (New York: T&T Clark, 2004),
91-115, especially at 100-105.
2

57

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

Klimczak, but there the Summa’s treatment is largely set aside in
favor of the commentary lectures on Matthew and John.3 There
is much to recommend about Klimczak’s approach, as Thomas’s
com-mentaries are indeed rich and insightful, closely engaging
with and illuminating the biblical text. Nonetheless, there is
validity to the concern, implicit in the observation of Richard
Schenk, that the questions devoted to the mysteries of Christ’s
life in the Tertia pars—and by extension, certain doctrinal
considerations that underlie these questions—have been too
long passed over by commentators and Aquinas scholars alike.4
The situation has improved in the past few decades, led in part
by Schenk and his fellow Dominicans, especially Jean-Pierre
Torrell;5 yet on the subject of the Summa’s treatment of the
doctrina Christi, there remains a clear need for further focused
scholarly attention.
From the outset, acknowledgment must be made of the
relative unremarkability of this material, if taken in isolation
from its surrounding context. It does provide a concise
3

Paweł Klimczak, Christus magister: Le Christ maître dans les commentaires
évangeliques de saint Thomas d’Aquin (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2013). The lectures on
John are also mined for their insights into the moral education of Christian discipleship
in Michael Sherwin, “Christ the Teacher in St. Thomas’s Commentary on the Gospel of
John,” in Reading John with St. Thomas: Theological Exegesis and Speculative Theology,
ed. Michael Dauphinais and Matthew Levering (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic
University of America Press, 2005), 173-93.
4
Richard Schenk, “Omnis Christi actio nostra est instructio: The Deeds and Sayings
of Jesus as Revelation in the view of Thomas Aquinas,” in La doctrine de la révélation
divine de saint Thomas d’Aquin, ed. Leo J. Elders (Vatican City: Libreria editrice
vaticana, 1990), 104-31, especially at 104-5.
5
Jean-Pierre Torrell, Le Christ en ses mysteres: La vie et l’oeuvre de Jésus selon saint
Thomas d’Aquin, 2 vols. (Paris: Desclée, 1999). For Torrell’s handling of Thomas’s
presentation of Christ as teacher, see ibid., 1:242-55; and idem, “Le semeur est sorti
pour semer: L’image du Christ prêcheur chez frère Thomas d’Aquin,” La vie spirituelle
147 (1993): 657-70. Torrell has also written extensively on Thomas’s treatment of
Christ’s knowledge, a topic that directly bears on his presentation of Christ as teacher;
see, e.g., idem, “S. Thomas d’Aquin et la science du Christ: Une relecture des questions
9-12 de la ‘Tertia Pars’ de la Somme de Théologie,” in Saint Thomas au XXe siècle:
Colloque du centenaire de la “Revue thomiste” (1893-1992); Toulouse, 25-28 mars
1993, ed. Serge-Thomas Bonino (Paris: Éditions Saint-Paul, 1994), 394-409.

CHRIST AS TEACHER

59

overview of an important office exercised by Christ, as teacher
or rabbi, against the broader background of the Old Testament
prophetic heritage. And, in doing so, it shows a profound
attentiveness to the witness of Scripture concerning Christ’s
preaching activity, and its relation to his larger mission as the
savior, God incarnate. However, the chief value of these
reflections ultimately lies in their embeddedness within
Thomas’s broader Christology, which they reprise and refract,
capturing his distinctive emphases on the person and work of
Christ, while at the same time advancing them according to a
particular trajectory. Indeed, what holds for this material holds
for the treatise on Christ at large. One finds Thomas closely
engaging with Scripture, especially the Gospels; one finds him
focused on soteriological concerns, based on the conviction that
Christ’s teaching and his work of salvation are inextricably
linked; one finds him attending to the wisdom of what God has
done in Christ; finally, one finds him honing an incarnational
grammar that elucidates the importance of who and what Christ
is, as God, as Word, as human, and as savior. In light of these
features, Thomas’s presentation of Christ as teacher serves as a
useful vantage for his reflections in the Summa on the person
and work of Christ, which is the broader compass of this study.
Before addressing the details of Thomas’s presentation of
Christ as teacher, there is need for some clarification about the
scope and focus of this inquiry, which is, at least initially, fairly
specific. Beyond this, there is need for contextualization of this
presentation, with regard both to Thomas’s larger treatise on
Christ, and to some earlier material in the Summa that it presupposes and builds upon, pertaining to the prerequisites for
Christ’s success as teacher. With this broader foundation in
place, a more focused analysis of Thomas’s presentation of
Christ’s teaching can proceed, leading finally to a consideration
of several salient ways in which this presentation serves to
illuminate the interests and goals of Thomas’s Christology, and
of his theology more broadly.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

I. WHAT “CHRIST AS TEACHER” COULD BE,
AND WHAT IT IS FOR THOMAS
Within medieval theology, the theme of Christ as teacher is
most often associated with Thomas’s contemporary Bonaventure6 and, in turn, with the early Augustine,7 both of whom
were concerned to provide an account of human knowing that
is centered on Christ, as God and as Truth and Wisdom. Given
Thomas’s own emphasis on Christ as Word and Wisdom of
God,8 one might expect him to articulate a similarly comprehensive Christ-centered epistemology. Yet this is not
Thomas’s objective in addressing the topic of Christ as teacher.
Indeed, his project differs from that of Bonaventure or
Augustine, both in the modesty of its scope and in the
sophistication of its execution. Rather than approaching Christ
the teacher as God or as Word, who is involved in all
knowledge of truth, Thomas concentrates on the specific
advances of the incarnation, on how Christ, precisely as human,
is said to impart truths necessary for salvation. Why should
saving truth be taught by one who shares human nature? And
what is required, for one who is human, to teach this truth
successfully? These are the sorts of concerns underlying
Thomas’s inquiry.
A second clarification involves specifying what, for Thomas,
falls under the rubric of Christ’s teaching activity. Thomas
regards the life of Christ, as related in the Gospels, to be of
significant value for informing Christian discipleship. Paraphrasing a common Scholastic axiom, he explicitly maintains

6

See especially Bonaventure, Christus unus omnium magister, in Doctoris seraphici S.
Bonaventurae, Opera Omnia, 10 vols. (Quaracchi: Collegium S. Bonaventurae,
1882-1902), 5:567-74.
7
See Augustine, De magistro, ed. Klaus-Detlef Daur, Corpus Christianorum Series
Latina 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1970), 157-203.
8
See Joseph Wawrykow, “Wisdom in the Christology of Thomas Aquinas,” in Christ
among the Medieval Dominicans, ed. Kent Emery, Jr., and Joseph Wawrykow (Notre
Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1998), 175-96.

CHRIST AS TEACHER

61

that “every action of Christ is for our instruction.”9 Because he
is human, and is indeed the true human, Christ is upheld by
Thomas as the preeminent model for imitation, as one who
manifested God in his life on earth and acted on the basis of
God’s grace, in accord with God’s plan for human life and
conduct. Although he understands the life of Christ to be
instructive in this broader sense (and mines it accordingly),
Thomas nonetheless restricts his examination of Christ as
teacher to his explicit verbal doctrine—his teaching with
words—either in his public preaching ministry or in his more
intimate instruction of his disciples.10
A third clarification concerns the kind of questions that he
poses regarding this verbal teaching. Notably, he does not ask,
What did Christ teach? but rather, When and whom did Christ
teach? How did he teach? And, Why did he teach in that way?
In treating Christ as teacher, then, Thomas directs his readers’
attention to the formal features of this teaching far more than to
its material content. In the few instances where he does allude
to the content of Christ’s teaching, Thomas speaks in general
terms, and then primarily to note the saving purpose of his
teaching activity—namely, that whatever belongs to Christ’s
doctrine is ordered to leading human beings to God. The
essential content of this teaching is in fact presupposed by
Thomas: Christ proclaims God as the rational creature’s
beginning and end, and himself, as true human, as the way to
God (cf. John 17:3). This twofold proclamation of God and
Christ corresponds to the two major categories of the articles of
faith that Thomas identifies in the opening question of the

9
STh III, q. 40, a. 1, ad 3: “Actio Christi fuit nostra instructio.” For an in-depth
study of what Thomas takes this phrase to mean, and not to mean, see Schenk, “Omnis
Christi actio nostra est instructio.”
10
Notwithstanding this delimitation of Christ’s teaching activity on the part of
Thomas, the broader divine pedagogy of Christ’s actions that emerges in the treatise on
Christ in the Tertia pars is profitably explored under the rubric of “the excellence of
Christ’s teaching” by Armitage, “Why Didn’t Jesus Write a Book?”, 344-49.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

Secunda secundae11—as well as inspiring the very structure of
the Summa theologiae.12
Finally, notwithstanding the suggestive parallels that Thomas
develops elsewhere between Christ’s mixed manner of life and
that of the mendicant preacher,13 his consideration of Christ as
teacher is not aimed at providing practical guidelines for his
confreres. No doubt, Christ is for Thomas an exemplary
teacher, yet his manner of teaching is here examined for its own
sake, as grist for contemplating the mystery of the incarnation
and God’s revelation in Christ. It is, in short, an inquiry focused
on the formal aspects of, and prerequisites for, Christ’s human
task of teaching about God and himself through the use of
words and images, which task has as its end the bringing of
other human beings to salvation.

11

STh II-II, q. 1, a. 8.
Thomas structures the Summa in accord with his reflections in STh I, q. 1, on the
subject of the theology that is part of sacra doctrina, which is God primarily, and
creatures insofar as they are related to God as their beginning and end; see a. 3, ad 1,
and a. 7. In the Prima pars, Thomas concentrates on God and the created order; in the
Secunda pars, he treats the movement of rational creatures toward God, considering in
the Prima secundae their final end and means of attaining this end in general, and in the
Secunda secundae moral action in its specifics; finally, in the Tertia pars, he considers
the means by which rational creatures return to God—namely, Christ and the
sacraments that he instituted. On the central importance of Christ for Thomas’s
theological method in the Summa, see Robert Barron, “Thomas Aquinas’ Theological
Method and the Icon of Christ,” Doctor Communis 49 (1996): 103-25. A more recent
and further-reaching book-length study that presents the Summa as a project directing
its readers to the attainment of “Christoform wisdom” is Gilles Mongeau, Embracing
Wisdom: The “Summa theologiae” as Spiritual Pedagogy (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of
Medieval Studies, 2015).
13
Compare, for example, Thomas’s comments in STh III, q. 40, aa. 1-3, on Christ’s
manner of life, with those in STh II-II, q. 188, a. 6, on the merits of active,
contemplative, and preaching orders. For a broader examination of how Thomas’s
treatment of Christ’s public ministry and manner of life fits with his understanding of
the vocation of the Dominican order, see Ulrich Horst, “Christ, exemplar ordinis
fratrum praedicantium, according to Saint Thomas Aquinas,” in Emery and Wawrykow,
eds., Christ among the Medieval Dominicans, 256-70.
12

CHRIST AS TEACHER

63

II. THE CONTEXT OF “CHRIST AS TEACHER” IN THE TERTIA PARS
In order to appreciate how Thomas’s presentation of Christ
as teacher reflects and illuminates the concerns of his treatise on
Christ, it is necessary to consider this presentation in relation to
the larger whole. The treatise itself occupies the first fifty-nine
questions of the Tertia pars, and is divided by Thomas into two
main parts. In the first part, comprising questions 1 to 26,
Thomas offers a more systematic analysis of the incarnation,
which establishes a grammar for speaking about Christ—who he
is and what he does. In the second part, comprising questions
27 to 59, there is a shift of focus to a more linear, chronological
consideration of the earthly life of Christ, as this is reported in
the Gospels.
Though perhaps an obvious organization after the fact,
Thomas’s twofold structuring represents an innovation in
Scholastic theology, which up to this point had struggled to
integrate narrative considerations of the gospel accounts within
a more systematic framework.14 The benefits of this innovation
are manifold. In the first place, Thomas’s attentiveness to the
gospel narratives in the second section of the treatise amplifies
his larger indebtedness to the biblical witness about Christ, even
in the earlier, more systematic section. Likewise, it affords him
the opportunity to establish the scriptural basis for foregrounding the soteriological purpose of the incarnation—that
the Word has become human for the sake of salvation—which
is an abiding concern throughout. Most important, this twofold

14
See John F. Boyle, “The Twofold Division of St. Thomas’s Christology in the
Tertia pars,” The Thomist 60 (1996): 439-47. Unmentioned by Boyle, though certainly
pertinent to this innovation, are Thomas’s previous works on the Gospels, both those
making up the Catena aurea and the commentaries on Matthew and John. At numerous
points in the more narrative-focused qq. 27-59, Thomas will rely on material present in
these earlier writings, including their arguments and particular auctoritates; see LouisJacques Bataillon, “Saint Thomas et les pères: De la Catena à la Tertia pars,” in Ordo
sapientiae et amoris: Image et message de saint Thomas d’Aquin à travers les récentes
études historiques, herméneutiques et doctrinales, ed. Carlos-Josaphat Pinto de Oliveira
(Fribourg: Éditions universitaires Fribourg Suisse, 1993), 15-36.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

structure permits Thomas to demonstrate the utility of his
systematic reflections and incarnational grammar, as ultimately
aiding a meditative re-reading of the gospel narratives in light of
what the Catholic Church confesses about Christ.
Thomas’s understanding of this Christian confession, and the
Christology that he develops from it, is best characterized as
incarnational.15 Thomas aims at providing an account of how
God the Word, without loss to his divine nature, has taken up
human nature and come to express it as his own, thereafter
subsisting as both fully divine and fully human. It is the Word
who is the subject of this act of incarnation, and, as incarnate,
he is a truly human agent. All that could be said of the Word
before the incarnation remains affirmed by Thomas: he is truly
divine, equal to yet distinct from the Father and the Holy Spirit,
and he possesses all that is proper to divinity. Yet with his act of
incarnation, something new is affirmed of the Word—namely,
his possession of human nature and of whatever belongs to it. In
speaking of Christ, then, Thomas is committed to maintaining
both the unity of this single subject of the Word, as well as a
double account of his divine and human natures, and he is
therefore sensitive to how different things can be said of Christ
in different ways, as Word, as God, or as human.
With any incarnational Christology, there is a risk of
overemphasizing the agency of Christ as God, such that his
“successes” are ultimately a function of his divinity alone, with
his humanity—and, by extension, his assumption of that
humanity—serving little discernable purpose. Thomas is careful
to avoid falling prey to such a danger. By the time of his treatise
on Christ in the Summa, Thomas has already given ample
attention, in the Prima pars, to considerations of both divine
nature and the person of the Word,16 and he is thus able to
15
For a helpful overview of Thomas’s incarnational Christology, see Joseph
Wawrykow, “The Christology of Thomas Aquinas in Its Scholastic Context,” in The
Oxford Handbook of Christology, ed. Francesca Aran Murphy (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2015), 233-49.
16
For Thomas’s considerations of these points, see STh I, qq. 2-26 and 27-43,
especially qq. 34-35.

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65

focus his energies on the gains of the incarnation—on Christ as
human—even as he also regularly affirms him as God and as
Word.17
This general rule for the treatise holds true for Thomas’s
reflections on Christ as teacher, where he especially regards
how the incarnate Word, precisely as human, may be said to
impart saving truth. In addition to a single article from question
39, the principal text for Thomas’s reflections on Christ as
teacher is question 42, on Christ’s doctrine, located in the
second part of the treatise, among his considerations of Christ’s
earthly life. Although much of what Thomas has established in
the preceding questions lies in the background here, it is
possible to identify several specific points in the first part of the
treatise where he has laid essential groundwork for this
particular topic. These include two articles from question 7, on
Christ’s personal grace, as well as a single article from question
11, on Christ’s infused knowledge. In these earlier questions,
Thomas is not considering Christ’s teaching as such, but rather
the sort of perfections that are required for him to be successful
as a human teacher of divine truths.
III. THE PREREQUISITES FOR CHRIST’S SUCCESS
AS HUMAN TEACHER
The pertinent questions devoted to Christ’s grace and
knowledge are located right after Thomas’s treatment of
Christ’s person and natures, among what he terms the “coassumed.”18 The co-assumed are various perfections and defects
that accord with human capacities but are not proper to human
nature as such. They include, for example, the perfection of
Christ’s fullness of grace, as well as the defects of passibility of
body and soul. These co-assumed are proposed by Thomas as
17

References to Christ as God and Word appear throughout Thomas’s treatise on
Christ, yet there is special saliency to these references in his reflections in STh III, q. 1,
on the fittingness of God becoming incarnate, and in STh III, q. 3, a. 8, on the
fittingness of God the Word becoming incarnate.
18
For Thomas’s treatment of the “co-assumed,” see STh III, qq. 7-15.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

having been taken up by the Word in his human nature, insofar
as they contribute to his accomplishment of the saving work for
which he became incarnate. Thus, in addressing the co-assumed,
Thomas will speak of their fittingness for the incarnate Word
not only as Word, as God, and as human, but also as this
human, that is, with respect to the soteriological purpose of the
incarnation.19
Thomas first considers the requirements for Christ’s success
as human teacher in articles 7 and 8 of question 7, which
concern Christ’s possession of, respectively, the gratuitous
graces in general and the specific gratuitous grace of prophecy.
In addressing the topic of Christ’s gratuitous grace, Thomas
draws on the contributions of two earlier discussions: one from
his treatise on grace in the Prima secundae, where he first
introduces the gratuitous graces;20 and the other in the Secunda
secundae, where he examines these graces, and especially
prophecy, in further detail.21
In the first of these discussions, Thomas had been concerned
to distinguish the gratuitous graces from what he terms
sanctifying or habitual grace. For Thomas, sanctifying grace is
19
Arguments for fittingness (convenientia) are a consistent feature of Thomas’s
theology, especially in his treatment of Christological and soteriological matters. Such
arguments are most typically employed in order to make sense of a discrete divinely
revealed truth (e.g., the fact of incarnation) in view of other things that God has
revealed (e.g., the divine calling and directing of human beings to God as supernatural
beatifying end; the reality and effects of human sin, which is an impediment to attaining
this end; etc.), particularly as the former stands as a possible but not strictly necessary
means of achieving a divinely established and revealed end. An in-depth study of the
function, presuppositions, and payoff of arguments for fittingness in Thomas’s theology
is Gilbert Narcisse, Les raisons de Dieu: Argument de convenance et esthétique
théologique selon saint Thomas d’Aquin et Hans Urs von Balthasar (Fribourg: Éditions
universitaires Fribourg Suisse, 1997). Thomas’s treatment in the Tertia pars of the
fittingness of the incarnation and of various aspects of Christ’s earthly life is
appropriately foregrounded by Narcisse, especially at 63-83 and 359-453, and this is
likewise profitably explored by Mongeau, Embracing Wisdom, esp. 155-70.
20
Thomas’s treatise on grace is found in STh I-II, qq. 109-14; for his initial
considerations of the gratuitous graces, see STh I-II, q. 111, aa. 1 and 4-5.
21
STh II-II, qq. 171-78; qq. 171-75 are devoted entirely to the gratuitous grace of
prophecy.

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67

what heals rational creatures from sin and renders them
pleasing to God.22 The gratuitous graces, on the other hand, do
not sanctify their recipients, but are given for the purpose of
enabling them to cooperate instrumentally in the sanctification
of their fellow human beings, by helping to lead them to God.
These graces are ordained for the upbuilding and edification of
others, specifically with respect to the conveyance of truths
necessary for salvation, and thus they embrace whatever is
required for a human being to instruct another in divine things
that surpass reason.23
Thomas has identified three such requirements: knowledge
of what is to be taught; speech, as the means of teaching what is
known; and confirmation that what has been taught comes
ultimately from God.24 His enumeration of the gratuitous graces
follows from Paul’s list of the manifestations of the Holy Spirit
in 1 Corinthians 12 (“to one is given . . . the utterance of
wisdom, and to another the utterance of knowledge,” etc.), and
he has identified each of these graces as aiding in the fulfillment
of one or another of the three required areas. For example, the
gratuitous graces of faith, discernment of spirits, and especially
prophecy are said to pertain to knowledge of what is to be
taught; the graces of tongues and of utterances of wisdom and
knowledge pertain to speech; and the graces of healing and
especially miracles pertain to confirmation of what is taught.25
Thomas’s interest in Christ’s gratuitous grace stems, at least
in part, from this connection between these graces and the
effective teaching of divine things. Anticipating his later
discussion in question 42, he asserts in article 7 of question 7
that “Christ is the first and principal teacher of spiritual
doctrine and of faith”;26 for this reason, it befits him as this
human to possess all these graces, which are necessary for his
22

STh I-II, q. 111, a. 1, corp. and ad 3.
STh I-II, q. 111, a. 4.
24
Ibid.
25
Ibid.
26
STh III, q. 7, a. 7: “Spiritualis autem doctrinae et fidei primus et principalis Doctor
est Christus.”
23

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

teaching, as the means by which he manifests his doctrine. That
is, for Thomas, it is not due simply to his divinity that Christ’s
words are effective at turning others to God and to himself;
rather, insofar as his verbal instruction is a properly human
operation, its effectiveness is tied to Christ’s possession and
exercise of the gratuitous graces pertaining to speech. The same
holds true for the miracles that Christ performs in confirmation
of his teaching (which Thomas also addresses later in the
treatise):27 these are assuredly actions of divine origin, and yet
their performance by this human demands that he be suitably
equipped to carry them out, again by means of the gratuitous
graces pertaining to confirmation.
With respect to the gratuitous graces pertaining to
knowledge, Thomas limits his explicit comments to the grace of
prophecy, which is the topic of the eighth article of question 7.
In his second, more detailed consideration of gratuitous grace in
the Secunda secundae, Thomas had reduced the various graces
pertaining to knowledge to the grace of prophecy, which he
foregrounded as having a certain priority and dignity in relation
to the other gratuitous graces.28 There, the grace of prophecy is
said to embrace not only knowledge, but also proclamation and
confirmation of distant truths, although he explains that,
properly speaking, it pertains most to knowledge.29 Thomas
asserts that this knowledge is of some truth impressed by God
upon the prophet’s mind, such that the “same knowledge”
(eadem cognitio) is found in both the mind of God and that of
the prophet.30 For this reason, he maintains both that prophecy
encompasses all that God might specially reveal for the
instruction of others in this life, and that nothing false can come
under prophecy.31
27

STh III, q. 43.
Note, for instance, both the placement and the space accorded to the questions on
prophecy in STh II-II, as well as Thomas’s comparative comments in STh II-II, q. 176,
a. 2, vis-à-vis the gift of tongues.
29
STh II-II, q. 171, a. 1.
30
STh II-II, q. 171, a. 6.
31
STh II-II, q. 171, a. 3; q. 171, a. 6.
28

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69

In light of the important function of the grace of prophecy
for receiving revealed knowledge of divine things, it is perhaps
unsurprising that Thomas would affirm Christ’s possession of it;
since one can only teach what one knows, it seems fitting for
Christ as teacher of saving truth to have the gratuitous graces
pertaining to knowledge, encompassed in the grace of
prophecy. However, in weighing whether Christ had this grace,
Thomas has complicated matters by his assertion elsewhere that
Christ possessed the beatific vision from the first instant of his
conception.32 This unveiled knowledge of God, the first
32
STh III, q. 34, a. 4, which is referenced, among other places, in Thomas’s
reflection on Christ’s prophetic grace (q. 7, a. 8) and infused knowledge (q. 11; cf. q. 9,
a. 3). Thomas’s position on Christ’s beatific knowledge is a matter of controversy in
Aquinas scholarship, both as to what it entails and as to whether it should be rejected.
For an example of disagreement concerning the former point, see the exchange between
Thomas G. Weinandy and Thomas Joseph White in The Thomist and Pro Ecclesia:
Thomas G. Weinandy, “Jesus’ Filial Vision of the Father,” Pro Ecclesia 13 (2004):
189-201; idem, “The Beatific Vision and the Incarnate Son: Furthering the Discussion,”
The Thomist 70 (2006): 605-15; and Thomas Joseph White, “The Voluntary Action of
the Earthly Christ and the Necessity of the Beatific Vision,” The Thomist 69 (2005):
497-534; idem, “Dyotheletism and the Instrumental Human Consciousness of Jesus,”
Pro Ecclesia 17 (2008): 396-422. On the latter point, it is well known that Thomas’s
ascription of beatific knowledge to Christ has largely fallen out of favor within
contemporary theology, as if this somehow gives Christ too much, too soon. For their
part, Aquinas scholars, too, have registered discomfort with Thomas’s claim, preferring
instead to stress Christ’s infused prophetic knowledge—or a souped-up variant of this—
as the source of both his self-awareness as Lord and Christ, and his teaching of saving
truth. For instance, Torrell, perhaps the most notable Aquinas scholar to reject Christ’s
beatific knowledge, proposes in its stead his possession of an infused lumière christique,
a sort of “prophetic knowledge 2.0,” which he thinks better accounts for what the
Gospels report of Jesus’ actions and undergoings (“Thomas d’Aquin et la science du
Christ,” 404-9). Conversely, in what is the most recent book-length attempt to
rehabilitate and defend Thomas’s teaching on Christ’s beatific knowledge, Simon
Francis Gaine expresses the judgment that it is rather Christ’s infused prophetic
knowledge that is redundant and both easily and fittingly discarded (Did the Saviour See
the Father? Christ, Salvation, and the Vision of God [London: Bloomsbury, 2015],
151-56). On this score both Torrell and Gaine would appear to illustrate precisely the
sort of competition or tension between these two sorts of knowledge—beatific and
prophetic—that is implied in q. 7, a. 8, obj. 1, which Thomas himself rejects. The zerosum game played by these disputants is regrettable, not least for the fact it overlooks
Thomas’s own efforts to affirm and harmonize both sorts of knowledge, in addition to

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

objection alleges, is opposed to the obscure, distant knowledge
of divine things that is entailed in prophecy.33 In fact, earlier in
his writing career Thomas had espoused a similar position,
denying the grace of prophecy to Christ on account of its
perceived derogation of Christ’s perfect knowledge.34 Yet in the
Summa, he has modified his stance. While acknowledging some
significant differences between how Christ and others are said
to be prophets, Thomas here affirms that Christ did have the
grace of prophecy; that this was neither at odds with his having
beatific knowledge nor repugnant to his perfection, simply
speaking; and that, like the other gratuitous graces, this grace
was fitting for Christ, as this human, with respect to his
teaching activity.35
It should be noted briefly that this shift in the Summa does
not necessarily represent a change in the substance of Thomas’s
thought, but only in his way of articulating it. That is, even in
this mature affirmation of Christ’s prophetic grace, there remain
in Thomas’s account sufficient differences between how the
term “prophet” may be applied to Christ and to others that it
could be denied of Christ in certain respects. Moreover, on the
basis of the way Thomas argues for the application of the title
“prophet” to Christ—whether in the Summa or in other of his
mature writings36—his inclination to give a qualified affirmation
of Christ as prophet appears to reflect a desire to explain
Christ’s self-application of this title in the Gospels (see, e.g.,
Matt 13:57; John 4:44), or, relatedly, to explain how he fulfills
Christ’s divine knowledge and that which he naturally acquires as human (see STh III,
q. 9).
33
STh III, q. 7, a. 8, obj. 1.
34
See, e.g., his treatment of this issue in De Verit., q. 20, a. 6 (Leonine ed., 22:588).
On the dating of this text, which comes from the first years of Thomas’s first Parisian
regency (1256-59), see Jean-Pierre Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1: The Person
and His Work, rev. ed., trans. Robert Royal (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University
of America Press, 2005), 334.
35
STh III, q. 7, a. 8, corp. and ad 1-2.
36
See, e.g., Super Matt., c. 13, lect. 4 (Marietti ed., no. 1212); and Super Ioan., c. 4,
lect. 6 (Marietti ed., no. 667), both of which employ an argument similar to that in STh
III, q. 7, a. 8.

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71

the divine promise of a “prophet like Moses” (Deut 18:18), per
Peter’s interpretation of this in Acts 3:22-23.
Regardless of how much weight should be placed on
Thomas’s novel affirmation of Christ as prophet, it is not solely
in his comments on prophecy as gratuitous grace that he
addresses how Christ is said to know humanly the divine things
that he teaches. As noted above, this point is accounted for later
on, in question 11, by what Thomas terms Christ’s infused
knowledge, which includes full knowledge not only of what is
potentially knowable by nature, but also of all things potentially
knowable by prophecy or revelation.37 In contrast to other
prophets, who receive divine illumination and revelation in a
transitory way, Christ is said to have this knowledge habitually,
in an abiding manner, and it is chiefly from this knowledge that
Christ as human exercises his earthly teaching ministry,
instructing others by means of human speech.38 This infused
knowledge, though perfect, differs from his beatific knowledge,
which is a simple knowledge of God and of things in God.39
Because of its simplicity (among other reasons), Christ’s beatific
knowledge is verbally incommunicable, and thus would appear
to have no immediate import for his teaching activity.40 His
infused knowledge, on the other hand, is said to be proportioned to the natural, composite manner of human

37

STh III, q. 11, a. 1.
See ibid., q. 11, a. 5; cf. q. 11, a. 1. For all other prophets, the grace of prophecy
is received not as a habit, but as a transitory passion; see STh II-II, q. 171, a. 2. For an
overview of diversity in Scholastic teaching on this point, as well as of the distinct
Dominican adherence to the position that the grace of prophecy is not a habit, see JeanPierre Torrell, “Hugues de Saint-Cher et Thomas d’Aquin: Contribution à l’histoire du
traité de la prophétie,” Revue Thomist 74 (1974): 5-22.
39
STh III, q. 10, a. 2; cf. q. 11, a. 5, ad 1.
40
See Philippe-Marie Margelidon, “La science infuse du Christ selon saint Thomas
d’Aquin,” Revue thomiste 114 (2014): 379-416, especially at 389. This interpretation of
Thomas’s view of the utility of infused knowledge vis-à-vis beatific knowledge is not
uncontested, and it has been most recently opposed by Simon Francis Gaine, “Is There
Still a Place for Christ’s Infused Knowledge in Catholic Theology and Exegesis,” Nova
et vetera (Eng. ed.) 16 (2018): 601-15.
38

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

knowing,41 which reinforces both the fittingness of this knowledge for Christ as human and its suitability for his teaching
enterprise, as being communicable to others via language.
Thomas knows that the effectiveness of any teacher depends
not only on his or her own aptitude, but also on the aptness, for
the student, of what is taught. In considering the requirements
for Christ’s teaching success in these questions, Thomas has
been guided by the conviction that Christ offers truths about
God and himself that are necessary for human salvation and yet
beyond reason’s ken.42 Accordingly, he has sought to render a
plausible account of how Christ as human might own and
communicate these truths, and likewise, how those others who
stand in need of saving truth might receive it in a way
accommodated to their capacities as knowers. What Christ
knows and proclaims as human, he knows and proclaims on the
basis of God’s revealing action, by means of the gratuitous grace
and infused knowledge that he has received. Because of this
special help, ordained to this end, there is nothing false that
could come under Christ’s teaching, nor anything that would
exceed his intention, as human, in proclaiming it. For Thomas,
Christ is thus an eminently credible teacher: as God, he is the
author of faith and is himself the first truth who is to be
believed; and as human, Christ testifies to this truth, signifying
through words proportioned to human knowing what is to be
confessed.43
IV. CHRIST’S MANNER OF TEACHING
Thomas spreads his subsequent consideration of Christ’s
teaching activity across five articles—one in question 39, and all
four articles of question 42—in which he addresses the
circumstances and manner of this teaching. Without neglecting
the article from question 39, there is cause to focus especially
41

STh III, q. 11, a. 5, ad 1; cf. q. 11, a 3; as well as q. 9, a. 3, ad 3.
STh III, q. 7, a. 7; cf. STh I, q. 1, a. 1; as well as STh II-II, q. 2, a. 3.
43
STh III, q. 11, a. 6, ad 2; cf. q. 7, a. 7, corp. and ad 2.
42

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on question 42, since Thomas has arranged it as a cohesive unit,
with a discernable structure and goal. The question appears just
after those on Christ’s manner of life and temptations, and
immediately prior to that on Christ’s miracles. The juxtaposition of teaching and miracles recalls their connection vis-àvis the gratuitous graces, and serves as a reminder of Thomas’s
earlier remarks, in question 7, on Christ’s possession of these
graces.
Question 42 regards Christ’s doctrine, and more specifically,
his manner of teaching, that is, whom and how he teaches.
Broadly speaking, the immediate payoff of this inquiry concerns
Thomas’s claim that Christ, through his teaching activity,
imparts truth and salvation in a well-ordered way. There are
several layers to this claim, which, as will be seen, develops
incrementally over the course of the question’s four articles.
This leads, then, to a consideration of Thomas’s pedagogy—that
is, how he has structured the question in support and clarification of this claim.
Thomas notes in the prologue to question 42 that he has
already considered one aspect of Christ’s doctrine in question
39—namely, the time when Christ began to teach.44 As this
particular topic is located in a separate discussion, on Christ’s
baptism, it includes several elements that are not germane to the
task of question 42. However, two pertinent points can be
observed. The first concerns the truth of Christ’s humanity,
which Thomas says could have been obscured had Christ begun
to teach before reaching full adult age. It was fitting that he
began his teaching ministry at about the age of thirty, since by
that time he had shown progress in age and wisdom, which in
turn lent him credibility as a human teacher.45 The second point
regards what might be termed the situatedness of Christ’s
teaching ministry within the biblical narrative of salvation
history. In addressing the matter of Christ’s age, Thomas offers
a parallel with the Old Testament figures of Joseph, David, and
44
45

STh III, q. 39, a. 3, referenced in q. 42, prol.
STh III, q. 39, a. 3, ad 2.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

Ezekiel, each of whom is reported in Scripture as having
assumed an office of government or prophecy at the age of
thirty. This biblical precedent provides additional warrant for
Thomas to affirm the fittingness of Christ’s age at the
commencement of his teaching ministry, as being in accord with
a standard from Israel’s history.46
Christ’s situatedness in biblical history again comes to the
fore in the opening article of question 42, where Thomas
addresses the matter of his audience, asking whether Christ
should have directed his teaching activity to all nations, rather
than restricting it to his fellow Jews. At the outset of the article,
Thomas states that, through his teaching, Christ gives light and
salvation. Yet as the first objection observes, it seems that it
would have been better for Christ to have offered this to all,
instead of to the Jews alone.47 In his reply, Thomas attends
especially to the right order of Christ’s teaching, relative to
Israelite election and prior divine revelation. For Thomas, it was
fitting for Christ to focus in his teaching ministry on his fellow
Jews, both since they were the ones who had received the
promises of his coming and because their faithful belief and
worship of God rendered them nearer to God than were other
nations.48 Thomas is clear that Christ’s teaching is ultimately
intended for the salvation of all nations, but he indicates that
the right order of Christ’s doctrine called for it to be imparted
to them not directly but in a mediated fashion by his disciples,
so as to respect God’s unique relationship to the Jewish
people.49 Far from detracting from his power as teacher,
Christ’s delegation of this task to his disciples is said by Thomas
to verify it, since they in turn taught by his authority.50
The link between Christ’s teaching and his working of
salvation receives further attention in the second article of
question 42, which asks whether it would have been more
46

STh III, q. 39, a. 3.
STh III, q. 42, a. 1, obj. 1.
48
STh III, q. 42, a. 1.
49
STh III, q. 42, a. 1, ad 3.
50
STh III, q. 42, a. 1, ad 2.
47

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75

advantageous for Christ to have avoided giving offense to his
listeners and, in particular, to the leaders of the people. Thomas
reiterates that Christ’s teaching was, for his hearers, “the sole
means of salvation,”51 and was ordained as a cause to this
effect.52 To the extent that those among his audience who
opposed his teaching were an obstacle to the attainment of this
end, Thomas concludes that Christ’s opposition to them was
not only fitting but necessary.53
From this initial acknowledgement of variation in the
receptivity of Christ’s audience, Thomas proceeds, in the third
article of question 42, to ask whether Christ should have taught
publicly, or instead kept his doctrine secret, to keep it from the
unworthy. On the one hand, Thomas insists that, as true light,
Christ’s doctrine was meant to shine forth rather than to be
hidden away.54 Indeed, Christ’s purpose was to effect human
salvation, which is in principle on offer to all. At the same time,
Thomas recognizes three respects in which Christ’s doctrine can
be called hidden. The first concerns the depths of Christ’s
wisdom, which Thomas says was expressed but not exhausted
by his doctrine.55 In his teaching, Christ imparted to others all
that is necessary and beneficial for attaining the end that is God,
yet there remained far more that Christ was capable of revealing, especially in the next life. A second aspect of hiddenness concerns Christ’s more intimate instruction of his disciples.
Since Christ taught his disciples in common, Thomas denies that
this instruction was secret, strictly speaking, yet he admits that
what Christ imparted to them was qualitatively different from
what was offered publicly to the crowds: it was open, and
expressed in plain language.56 This leads to the third aspect of
hiddenness, which concerns Christ’s manner of teaching in

51

STh III, q. 42, a. 2: “Christi doctrinae per quam solam poterat esse salus.”
Ibid., ad 2.
53
STh III, q. 42, a. 2.
54
STh III, q. 42, a. 3, referencing Mark 4:21.
55
STh III, q. 42, a. 3, ad 2.
56
STh III, q. 42, a. 3; ibid., ad 2.
52

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

public—that is, his custom of speaking to the crowds in
parables.
Thomas confirms that, in his parables, Christ’s use of figural
language served to veil the spiritual mysteries that he had been
given to proclaim.57 The need for such veiling is attributed by
Thomas to the incapacity of Christ’s hearers to receive his
teaching fully. It was better, he suggests, for the crowds to
receive Christ’s doctrine in an obscure way, accommodated to
their weakness, than not to receive it at all.58 Thomas offers no
further elaboration of this benefit, but he indicates that Christ’s
open teaching of the disciples was designed to supplement and
clarify this more obscure teaching.59 Echoing his claim from
article 1, Thomas states that Christ’s ultimate aim was for his
teaching to be proclaimed openly and to many, but that he
wanted to accomplish this through the further efforts of his
disciples.60 Thus, Christ instructed the disciples openly, precisely so that they could disseminate his teaching in a wellordered way to others who were able to receive it.
The fourth and final article of question 42 extends Thomas’s
consideration of the transmission of Christ’s doctrine, and
brings his larger inquiry into Christ as teacher to its climax.
Here, Thomas asks whether Christ should have committed his
teaching to writing, rather than entrust it orally to his disciples.
Thomas knows, of course, that Christ’s teaching is reported in
the Gospels and has thus received a written form. Yet this
report is given by others, not by Christ himself. Thomas will
admit, following Augustine, that what the apostolic writers have
committed to writing can, in a sense, be credited to Christ, who,
insofar as he is head of the Church, has made fitting use of these
members as his instruments.61 However, as the corpus of the
article makes clear, this is not the sort of authorship that
Thomas has in mind.
57

STh III, q. 42, a. 3.
Ibid.
59
STh III, q. 42, a. 3; ibid., ad 2.
60
STh III, q. 42, a. 3.
61
STh III, q. 42, a. 4, ad 1.
58

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77

What is at stake for Thomas is twofold, concerning both the
truth and salvation that Christ is said to impart through his
teaching and the ordered way that this is to be accomplished.
Although up to this point Thomas has treated Christ’s teaching
chiefly in terms of words, here he turns his attention to what
these words are intended to achieve—namely, salvation through
faith in God and Christ. Thomas elsewhere explains this as
Christ’s “interior” instruction, which consists of the illumination of the intellect and the enkindling of the will with the fire
of charity.62 While Christ makes appropriate use of words in his
teaching activity, this teaching in its fullest interior sense
ultimately exceeds what these words can express. Were it
regarded as consisting only in words able to be written in ink,
Thomas believes that no further thought would be given to
Christ’s teaching beyond the bare letter.63 In fact, the unique
and predominant feature of Christ’s teaching is the salvation
that it imparts, and to that extent this doctrine is identified by
Thomas as the “law of the Spirit of life,” written by the Spirit
not in books or stone tablets but on the spiritual tablets of the
heart.64 Drawing from Thomas’s comments earlier in the
Summa about the New Law instituted by Christ, it can be
concluded that Thomas regards the primary content of the
doctrina Christi as the interior instruction wrought by the grace
of the Holy Spirit.65 This interior instruction stands as the
foundation and end of Christ’s external teaching with words,
which is, in comparison, secondary though still essential, since it
both disposes to this grace and pertains to its use.66
62
See, e.g., Super Ioan., c. 1, lect. 16 (Marietti ed., no. 313); this theme of interior
instruction is addressed in detail by Klimczak, Christus magister, 175-209.
63
STh III, q. 42, a. 4.
64
Ibid., ad 2; cf. STh I-II, q. 106, a. 1, on whether the New Law of Christ is a
written law.
65
STh I-II, q.106, a.1, c. Both Armitage, “Why Didn’t Jesus Write a Book?”, 341-44,
and Dauphinais, “Christ the Teacher,” 52-112, stress Thomas’s linking of the doctrina
Christi with the primary element of the New Law that is the grace of the Holy Spirit,
rightly positing that the material treated in STh III, q. 42, and in STh I-II, qq. 106-8, is
intended by Thomas to be mutually informing.
66
STh I-II, q. 106, a. 1.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

With respect to the ordering of this teaching, and, in
particular, to its extension to Christ’s disciples, Thomas is now
able to specify the precise sort of contribution that others are
able to make in the communication of saving truth. Here he
reiterates that the right ordering of Christ’s doctrine sees it
fittingly passed on to the disciples and to the entire Church,
who in turn receive from Christ the requisite gratuitous graces
to proclaim truths necessary for salvation, and thus to dispose
others to faith in God and Christ.67 In affirming this ecclesial
dimension of Christ’s teaching activity, Thomas underscores his
commitment to the capacity of human beings to serve as fitting
instruments for the mediation of divine truth, a position that is
surely of a piece with the incarnational logic that has directed
his Christological considerations up to this point.
V. THE SALVIFIC DOCTRINA OF THE INCARNATE DIVINE WORD
Having addressed the background of Thomas’s presentation
of Christ as teacher, as well at the immediate gains of its
content, we can deepen this study by considering the broader
payoff with respect to Thomas’s Christology. As indicated
above, the structure of the Summa affords Thomas the opportunity to pay particular attention, in the treatise on Christ, to
the incarnation and its ramifications: Thomas here gives
considerable focus to Christ as human and as this human—that
is, as savior—even as he also affirms his divinity and distinct
personhood as Word. In treating Christ as teacher, Thomas
attaches special emphasis to Christ as human teacher, and as this
human teacher, who imparts saving truth. Yet comparatively
little is directly said concerning how this befits Christ as God or
as Word. It would be a mistake to conclude from this that
Thomas views Christ’s teaching activity as somehow disconnected from who he is and what he does as God and as
Word. In fact, for Thomas, the teaching of Christ, even as
human, is reflective and expressive of his divinity and person,
67

STh III, q. 42, a. 4.

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79

and it is thus in the “theandric” unity of his divine and human
operation that the fuller scope of his account of Christ’s
teaching emerges. Thomas’s confirmation of this is subtle, and
can only be gestured at here, yet it is illuminative with respect
to how he seeks to integrate his treatment of Christ in the
Summa.
First to be considered is how Thomas presents Christ’s
teaching as befitting him as God. Several elements of Thomas’s
treatment of Christ’s doctrine in question 42 invite comparison
with the only other question in the Summa dedicated to
doctrine, that is, the opening question of the Prima pars, on
sacred doctrine.68 Although much of what Thomas has to say in
this question concerns what might be termed the discipline of
theology, he locates this within the broader category of sacra
doctrina, which is chiefly taught by God, and has as its end
human salvation in knowing and loving God.69 God is the
primary teacher of this doctrine, but Thomas explains that God
has chosen to make use of human instruments in proclaiming
it—foremost among whom are the human authors of
Scripture.70 As this question makes clear, Scripture is, for
Thomas, the privileged locus of God’s teaching, and in it, God
has seen fit to reveal truths exceeding the natural grasp of
reason, using both figural and plain language.71 The parallels
between this opening question of the Summa and that on
Christ’s doctrine in the Tertia pars are numerous and far from
accidental. These include their saving purpose, relaying truths
68

STh I, q. 1. This question of the Summa has prompted much commentary and
scholarly consideration, from the centuries following Thomas’s death up to the present
time. Helpful orientation to the text of question 1 and to the extensive literature that it
has spawned—both medieval and contemporary—is given by James Weisheipl, “The
Meaning of sacra doctrina in Summa theologiae I, q. 1,” The Thomist 38 (1974): 49-80;
and Jean-Pierre Torrell, “Le savoir théologique chez saint Thomas,” Revue thomiste 96
(1996): 355-96. An exploration of the connection and distinction between the sacra
doctrina considered in STh I, q. 1, and the doctrina Christi considered in STh III, q. 42,
is provided in Dauphinais, “Christ the Teacher,” 33-51.
69
STh I, q. 1, a. 1.
70
STh I, q. 1, a. 8, ad 2.
71
STh I, q. 1, aa. 9-10.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

necessary for salvation;72 their employment of both figural and
plain language, and the rationale for this;73 the relationship
between the figural and plain language employed, with the
latter clarifying the former;74 and finally, their fitting use of
human agents as secondary causes.75 Though perhaps not as
obvious as other aspects of his presentation of Christ as teacher,
these parallels suggest that, for Thomas, the teaching of Christ
as human indeed befits him also as God, as it is deliberately
likened in purpose, content, and manner to God’s own
teaching.76
With regard to how Christ’s teaching befits him as Word or
Wisdom, Thomas has given his readers considerably more hints.
First, one finds explicit use of wisdom language throughout
question 42, including the specific application of this language
to Christ, who here speaks in the person of divine wisdom.77
Further, the recurring emphasis in this question on the “right
ordering” of Christ’s teaching is itself linked to wisdom, since,
for Thomas, it belongs to one who is wise to order things
rightly.78 Finally, the category of fittingness, which is so
prevalent in this material, is likewise regarded by Thomas as
having a sapiential orientation. Although Thomas knows how to
use arguments from fittingness to consider God’s absolute
72

Cf. STh I, q. 1, a. 1; and III, q. 42, a. 2.
Cf. STh I, q. 1, a. 9, corp. and ad 2-3; and III, q. 42, a. 3.
74
Cf. STh I, q. 1, a. 10, ad 1; and III, q. 42, a. 3, ad 3.
75
Cf. STh I, q. 1, a. 8, ad 2; and III, q. 42, a. 1, ad 2; q. 42, a. 4.
76
Certainly, insofar as he is God, Christ is, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, the
one divine teacher of all sacra doctrina, and his divinity also establishes that the doctrina
Christi is God’s own. If such reference to Christ as God supplies the basis for discerning
a deeper identity, for Thomas, between sacra doctrina and the doctrina Christi (as
opposed to their being two separate realities), reference to Christ as human likewise
serves to supply the basis for discerning the distinct modes of teaching that permit such
parallels to be drawn.
77
For example, in STh III, q. 42, a. 2, obj. 2; q. 42, a. 3, obj. 2 and corp. and ad 2;
q. 42, a. 4, obj. 3 and corp.
78
STh I, q. 1, a. 6, obj. 1: “Sapientis est ordinare.” This notion of the wise one,
drawn from Aristotle’s Metaphysics I, takes on an even more programmatic role in the
Summa contra gentiles; see Mark D. Jordan, “The Protreptic Structure of the Summa
contra gentiles,” The Thomist 50 (1986): 173-209.
73

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81

versus ordained power—what God could have done but did not
do—he will most often introduce considerations of fittingness
in order to discern and affirm the meaning and wisdom of what
God has done, as this is recounted in Scripture.79 This practice
is based on his conviction that what God does is expressive of
who God is, and in turn is reflective of divine wisdom. For
Thomas, this wisdom is appropriated to none other than God
the Word, who has become incarnate for the sake of human
salvation, and who has taught, as human, what is in keeping
with himself as Word and wisdom.80
As a further area of consideration, it is necessary to reflect on
what might otherwise seem to be some categorical slippage in
the final article of question 42, where Thomas unexpectedly
moves from his more focused examination of Christ’s external
teaching to a more sweeping claim about interior instruction by
grace. Upon arriving at this article—and especially the response
to its second objection—the reader finds, on the one hand,
explicit confirmation of what has been implied all along: that
Christ’s teaching, his doctrina, is not simply a matter of
information that can be communicated by using the right words
or word-pictures, but rather involves something more, a giving
of himself, as Word, and of his Spirit, resulting in the indwelling
of the Trinity in the soul by sanctifying grace.81 On the other
hand, whatever relief may arise from the confirmation of this
suspicion about this essential point is clouded by the recognition
that Thomas is here glossing over two important, connected
issues: the first is how precisely the external teaching of Christ
that he has been emphasizing relates to this deeper, interior
teaching; and the second is the extent to which he is still in the
realm of the specific gains of the incarnation—that is, whether
Thomas is continuing to consider Christ as teacher in his human
nature.

79

See Joseph Wawrykow, The Westminster Handbook to Thomas Aquinas
(Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995), 57-60.
80
STh I, q. 39, a. 8; III, q. 3, a. 8.
81
STh I, q. 43, aa. 3-5.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

With regard to the first of these issues, on the relationship
between Christ’s external and interior teaching, a helpful
vantage (noted above) is provided by Thomas’s careful
reflections on the New Law of Christ at the end of the Prima
secundae, which his use of the term “law” in characterizing this
teaching as a whole seems intended to evoke and recall. In
question 106, Thomas asks whether the New Law is a written
law, and he replies by saying that it is primarily an interior,
infused law, identified with the grace of the Holy Spirit, but
that, secondarily, it includes certain external, “written”
elements that either dispose toward grace or pertain to its use.82
These secondary, external elements are treated two questions
later, in question 108, and are said to comprise points of
doctrine which dispose to faith: the moral precepts and counsels
of perfection, which direct human action within the life of
grace; and the sacraments, which not only dispose to grace but
are themselves said to be instrumental causes of grace, establishing contact between the recipient and Christ.83 On the
one hand, then, Thomas clearly distinguishes each of these
external elements from the primary, interior element of grace,
so that they might not be confused; yet on the other hand, he
equally indicates the relationship of each sort of external
element to grace, as being variously dispositive, directive, or
instrumentally causative. These external elements are secondary,
because they are established and valued in relation to grace, but
they are nonetheless essential to the New Law as such, due to
their necessary connection to grace.
82
STh I-II, q. 106, a. 1. In distinguishing between these interior and external
elements of the New Law, Thomas is considering whether or not the prompt or
principle directing human action is intrinsic to the human agent (i.e., arising from
within the agent as a stable inclination toward right action, rather than simply being
proposed from without), and not whether a given element addresses an interior or
external human action (e.g., lustful desire versus the act of adultery). Accordingly,
Thomas identifies in question 108 how Christ’s teaching in the Sermon on the Mount
(Matt 5-7) addresses both interior and external human actions, encompassing everything
that the New Law prescribes, albeit proposing this in an external manner (i.e., as taught
from without, via sensible human language).
83
STh I-II, q. 108, a. 1; cf. q. 106, a. 1, ad 1.

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83

How might the Prima secundae’s breakdown of the elements
of the New Law be applied to Thomas’s presentation of the
doctrina Christi in the Tertia pars? An initial takeaway concerns
the nonidentity of Christ’s external and interior instruction.
Whatever else might be said about the interrelation of these two
elements of Christ’s teaching, they remain distinct from each
other and unconfused, as Christ’s human words are not
themselves the grace of the Holy Spirit. Moreover, of the three
categories of secondary, external elements of the New Law that
Thomas identifies, Christ’s external teaching neatly corresponds
to the first two, pertaining to instruction in faith and in morals,
though seemingly not the third. That is, as a properly human
operation, Christ’s external teaching is dispositive and directive
with regard to his interior teaching, and although the former is
indeed the fruit of gratuitous grace, on its own it can hardly be
said to contain, as it were, the power of the divine operation
that instructs interiorly by the giving of sanctifying grace,
despite its connections to this.
Without losing sight of the correspondence between Christ’s
external teaching and the two secondary, external categories of
instruction in doctrine and morals, one may nonetheless wonder
whether a further, causative parallel might be drawn between
this external teaching and the sacraments of the New Law, since
in the sacraments, too, one finds human words and deeds being
put to a particular use to confer divine grace.84 To be sure,
certain dissimilarities between Christ’s external teaching and the
sacraments are readily apparent. With regard to their efficacy,
the sacraments are said to confer grace ex opere operato,
something not affirmed of Christ’s teaching (which in the
Gospels is in fact dismissed or opposed by many of his hearers);
moreover, they differ in the nature of their communication,
with the sacraments being offered to those who desire to

84

For an overview of Thomas’s teaching on the sacraments in the Summa, see Liam
G. Walsh, “Sacraments,” in The Theology of Thomas Aquinas, ed. Rik van Nieuwenhove
and Joseph Wawrykow (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005),
326-64.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

approach and receive them, and Christ’s teaching being more
indiscriminately spread abroad like seed across disparate kinds
of soil (cf. Matt 13:1-23). Yet still deeper similarities can be
discerned. Not only are the sacraments and Christ’s external
teaching both ordained toward the same effect of divine grace,
as means to the end of human salvation, but they also involve
the human activity of Christ, the incarnate Word, who is at
work in both.85 Further, both are said to serve as fitting means
to this end, communicating grace and truth in a manner
proportioned to the natural human capacity of coming to know
through sensible things that signify.86 More to the point, when
Thomas accounts for their respective “successes,” he adverts to
a comparable dynamic of instrumental causality, entailing a
special divine elevation and utilization of the proper operation
of created things for the purpose of conferring grace through
them.
It is with regard to their divine use as instrumental causes of
grace that the parallel between the sacraments and Christ’s
external teaching is most profitably considered. Thomas consistently stresses that because grace itself is a participation in the
divine nature, it belongs to God alone to be the authoritative
and principal cause of grace.87 At the same time, because this
grace is to be conferred by God upon rational creatures
composed of body and soul, God fittingly wills to confer it by
means of sensible created things, rendering them instrumental
causes in this conferral of grace.88 In the case of the sacraments,
the proper operation of the material element (e.g., water) and
85
For Thomas, Christ’s work in the sacraments includes not only their past
institution, but also their present efficacy, and this with regard both to the bestowal of
sacramental effects and to the passive or active power involved in their reception and
administration (i.e., sacramental character, which entails a sharing in Christ’s
priesthood); see, respectively, STh I-II, q. 108, a. 2, ad 2; III, q. 62, a. 4; q. 64, a. 3; and
q. 63, aa. 2-3. The role of Christ’s human operation in his bestowal of grace in the
sacraments is explained by Thomas with reference to the instrumentality of his assumed
human nature, addressed below.
86
STh III, q. 60, a. 4.
87
STh I-II, q. 112, a. 1.
88
STh III, q. 61, a. 1.

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85

that of the sacramental minister are said to be used by God in
precisely this way, as separate instruments in producing the
interior sacramental effect of sanctification.89 On their own, and
independently of the divine operation that uses them in this
way, the proper operations of these created things are not able
to confer grace, yet God is able to take up and employ them to
this end, such that grace is not from them simply, but from God
through them.90
The hinge that serves to connect the instrumental causality of
the sacraments and that of Christ’s external teaching lies in
Thomas’s construal of the humanity of Christ as an “instrument
of his divinity,”91 a point of emphasis that establishes the
incarnation as a paradigm for God’s mediated conferral of grace
and truth to human beings.92 Indeed, for Thomas, the divinely
willed order of authoritative and instrumental causality in the
sacraments is found also in the activity of Christ, who is said to
sanctify in the sacraments, as in all else whereby he confers
grace, both as God and as human—that is, authoritatively and
instrumentally93—such that sanctification flows from his
divinity through his humanity. This sanctifying action is Christ’s
own, and while it is not, properly speaking, an action whose
sanctifying power originates from his human operation, his

89

For Thomas’s explicit distinction between the proper and instrumental operations
of the material element and of the minister, see STh III, q. 62, a. 1, ad 2; and q. 64, a. 1.
Thomas’s account of the instrumental causality of the sacraments is especially developed
across qq. 62 and 64, which concern, respectively, grace as the principal effect of the
sacraments, and the causes of the sacraments. A recent study of this account is Reginald
M. Lynch, The Cleansing of the Heart: The Sacraments as Instrumental Causes in the
Thomistic Tradition (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press,
2017), especially at 111-53.
90
STh III, q. 62, a. 1.
91
See, e.g., STh III, q. 2, a. 6, ad 4; q. 7, a. 1, ad 3; q. 8, a. 1, ad 1; q. 18, a. 1, ad 2;
q. 19, a. 1, corp. and ad2. An invaluable study of this notion of the instrumentality of
Christ’s human nature is Theophil Tschipke, L’humanité du Christ comme instrument
de salut de la divinité, trans. Philibert Secrétan (Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg,
2003).
92
STh I-II, q. 108, a. 1; cf. q. 112, a. 1, ad 1 and 2.
93
STh III, q. 64, a. 3; cf. q. 8, a. 1, ad 1.

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

divine operation nonetheless makes use, so to speak, of his
human nature as instrument: an animate instrument, with its
own proper operation, conjoined to divine nature in the person
of the Word.94 This notion of the instrumentality of Christ’s
human nature is most valued by Thomas for foregrounding the
importance of Christ’s humanity, and thus of the incarnation,
with regard to his saving work. While the notion is most pertinent to his treatment in the Tertia pars of the salvific efficacy
of Christ’s passion (whence its connection to the sacraments),95
it also factors into his handling of Christ’s miracles,96 and seems
applicable to that of Christ’s teaching as well.
How, then, might Christ’s external teaching play out
“sacramentally,” as instrumentally causative of grace? Taking
the doctrina Christi as a unified whole, encompassing both
external and interior instruction, which Thomas does at the
conclusion of question 42, one is presented with the following
picture. There is, first, a divine willing of the end of conversion
and sanctification by grace for a particular human being.
Further, in willing this end, God has willed as well the means to
this end, which are not indeterminate, but are instead—and
precisely—a specific instrumental means of preaching or
speaking, a human operation that properly involves the
communication of truth through words that signify to and
impress upon another what is in the mind of the speaker.
Further still, in keeping with the truth that is to be
communicated, this second, properly human operation has been
elevated by God, so far as it can be, by gratuitous grace, in
order to serve as an appropriate means to this end. And finally,
because of this elevation by gratuitous grace, the human
operation can be said truly to cooperate supernaturally, as an
instrument, in effecting this end of interior instruction. In his
94
Thomas’s distinction between how Christ sanctifies both authoritatively as God
and instrumentally as human is supplemented by a further distinction between the
power of Christ’s human soul considered either in its own proper nature as aided by
grace or as conjoined instrument of the Word; see STh III, q. 13, a. 2; q. 13, a. 3.
95
STh III, q. 48, a. 6.
96
STh III, q. 43, a. 2, which refers to the distinctions drawn in q. 13, aa.2-3.

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teaching, Christ proclaims himself, both as God and as the way
to God, and he is able, both as God and as way, to impart to his
listeners the full, interiorly transformative truth of what the
human language of this external proclamation signifies.
This assessment leads, finally, to the second issue identified
above, concerning whether Thomas is here still speaking solely
about Christ’s graced human operation. The short answer is
obviously no, at least not in precision from his divine operation.
Yet this is ultimately not a bug but a feature of Thomas’s
Christology. In considering Christ as teacher, or indeed any
other dimension of his earthly life, Thomas’s analysis of Christ’s
graced human activity is intended, on the one hand, to give way
to a broader reflection on the more complex “theandric”
operation of the incarnate Word.97 Who is it that the Gospels
report as teaching—fittingly and effectively—in a truly human
manner, using words? It is God the Word incarnate, the one in
whom all things were made and by whom they are remade. It is
he who speaks and he who is, in turn, heard and encountered
by his listeners. On the other hand, even as Thomas looks to
expand the scope of what he is considering in Christ, he does
not simply jettison his earlier reflections on graced human
activity; rather, these are given a slight but significant
reorientation to the ecclesial context in which such graced
human activity continues to occur, and this in closest union and
cooperation with Christ. Indeed, Christ is said by Thomas to
possess the fullness of grace—both sanctifying and gratuitous—
not solely for the sake of his own successful operation as human
(though this does require such grace), but also—and just as
importantly—because he is the principle of such grace in all
who are united to him.98 Thomas’s Christology, already so
97

STh III, q. 19, a. 1, ad 1.
STh III, q. 8, a. 5; cf. q. 7, aa. 1 and 9; q. 8, aa. 1 and 6. Thomas’s stress on the
essential identity of Christ’s personal and capital grace provides an especially promising
basis for reflection on the interconnectedness of Christology, soteriology, and
ecclesiology, as well as theological anthropology, moral and sacramental theology, and
eschatology. Indeed, in light of the instrumental importance of the “mysteries
accomplished in Christ’s flesh” (STh III, q. 62, a. 5, ad 1), all aspects of the graced
98

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MICHAEL S. HAHN

attuned to soteriology, thus opens up to an ecclesiology. It
offers a vision of the Church—including its Fathers and
Doctors, and indeed all the faithful—tasked with receiving,
responding to, preserving, and proclaiming the sacra doctrina
Christi, the full instruction of the one teacher, God the Word
incarnate, who alone has the words of eternal life (John 6:68).
CONCLUSION
Despite its initially modest scope and surface simplicity,
Thomas’s presentation of Christ as teacher in the Tertia pars can
be seen both to capture and to advance the broader dynamics of
his incarnational Christology, emerging as an especially illuminative instance of his theological reflection on the person
and work of Christ. As is the case for the treatise on Christ as a
whole, the predominant focus of this presentation is trained on
the salvific gains of the incarnation—on how Christ, precisely as
human, proclaims God and himself as the way to God, and so
conveys saving truth to human beings in a manner suited to
their transformative reception of it. It is on account of this
incarnational emphasis, on Christ as human and as this human,
that Thomas seeks earlier in the treatise to establish Christ’s
possession of infused knowledge and the gratuitous graces, the
latter of which are indeed required for the successful human
teaching of divine things. Bearing in mind Christ’s possession of
these particular “co-assumed,” he is able to detail in question 39
and throughout question 42 the fittingness, salvific import, and
orderliness of Christ’s external teaching with words, and to
connect this teaching, in the final article of question 42, to the
interior instruction or “law” that is the sanctifying grace of the
Holy Spirit. The concluding climax of this presentation,
wherein Thomas indicates the full depth and breadth of the

human action (and undergoing) of Christ considered in qq. 27-59 have potentially
fecund resonance not only for an approach to the sacraments and sacramental action,
but also to that of the exercise, in the Christian life, of the virtues, gifts, and fruits of the
Spirit that flow from this grace, both in via and in patria.

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doctrina Christi as a teaching both divine and human,
underscores his abiding commitment to considering the mystery
of the incarnation in an integrated and holistic way, attending
to the Christian confession that the one who has become
human, and this human, for the sake of human salvation is none
other than the second divine person, God the Word. Even prior
to this crescendo of the final article of question 42, the details
of Thomas’s presentation of Christ’s human manner of teaching
demonstrate how this teaching befits him both as God and as
Word or wisdom, for it directly parallels how God is said to
teach in sacra doctrina and is replete with references to
sapiential themes. Thus, far from threatening to overturn the
initial focus on Christ’s external, human teaching, the integrated
perspective highlighted in the final article invites Thomas’s
readers to recognize and recall the dynamics of the union of
divine and human natures in the person of the Word, and of his
consequent theandric activity, and in turn, to reflect on how the
graced human operation involved in this external teaching is
itself employed by his divine nature as an appropriate
instrumental means of interiorly instructing human beings by
grace.

The Thomist 83 (2019): 91-109

BETWEEN WISDOM AND SLUGGISHNESS:
THOMAS AQUINAS ON THE ELDERLY
PIOTR ROSZAK
Nicolaus Copernicus University
Torun, Poland

T

HOMAS AQUINAS DID NOT live long enough to
experience old age himself. He died when he was
approximately forty-nine years old, “on his way,”
literally, as he was traveling to Lyon to participate in a
council, busily penning his works (he averaged twelve standard A4 pages at the last stage of his life, according to the
calculations of Jean-Pierre Torrell, O.P.),1 his Summa theologiae still incomplete. Whenever he speaks of old age he
reads it, as if by default, through the works of St. Paul, who
approached the Old and New Covenant dialectically and
reminded that a Christian puts on a new man even if his or
her calendar age is advanced. This reference to the spiritual
aspect of old age defines Thomas’s thought, with particular
emphasis on the concept of new creation. At the same time,
he asks himself the serious question of whether church
offices should be held by elders or juniors.2
Thomas’s theological method with respect to this point is
characteristic of him: he does not speculate in a vacuum but
instead engages in a dialogue with the broad intellectual
tradition—and not only the Christian tradition. He was
1
Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1, The Person and His Work, trans. Robert Royal,
rev. ed. (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005),
240-41.
2
See In Matt., c. 3, lect.1, where Aquinas ponders why the baptism of Jesus
took place when Jesus was thirty years old, the same age when King David
ascended to the throne of Israel and Joseph the patriarch became the bailiff of
Egypt. He finally states that “no one ought to be elevated to any office before the
perfect age” (“ad nullum officium debet aliquis assumi ante perfectam aetatem”).

91

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familiar with the classic treatises on old age, including those
of Cicero, whom Thomas frequently cites in his reflections
on morality. He was also greatly influenced by Aristotle and
his fundamentally naturalistic description of old age.
Thomas associated the term senex with the notion of
maiores, a legacy still present in many modern languages.
For instance, Spanish refers to an elderly person as mayor de
edad, even though mayor is ambiguous, as it describes
someone who is either “older” or “greater.” In what sense,
therefore, is an elderly person maior?
The respect due to old age, regarded as the fruitio of life
experience, opens up a theological reflection on the meaning
of the passage of time in our life. What is the meaning of
each passing moment? Did not the Creator determine
everything? Are we not determined by our genes to become
whatever they make us to be? For what purpose did God
need this delay in creation? He could have created the world
and saved it immediately afterwards. He chose not to.
Following the creation of the world, a whole history opened
up and became deeply meaningful to all Christians. Therefore, it would seem reasonable to place old age on the axis
of the passing time and emphasize the importance of
experience, decisive in attaining the heights of moral life. A
theologian identifies this dynamic as a “grace of time” given
to each human being so that he or she can experience
becoming a cause of good in the world. For Thomas, “being
good” is but one form of perfection, while a far greater form
of perfection is “being a cause,” even if instrumental, of
good in another person.3
This article will present the spiritual ethos of the elderly
person in the light of Thomas’s thought. I will explore, in
addition to Thomas’s more familiar works such as the
Summa theologiae, a few lesser-known works, such as his
biblical commentaries, in which Thomas, the medieval professor, expresses himself most eloquently. The Bible speaks

3
STh I, q. 103, a. 6: “It is a greater perfection for a thing to be good in itself
and also the cause of goodness in others, than only to be good in itself” (“Maior
autem perfectio est quod aliquid in se sit bonum, et etiam sit aliis causa bonitatis,
quam si esset solummodo in se bonum”). Unless otherwise noted, quotations from
the Summa are taken from the translation of the Fathers of the English Dominican
Province (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1948).

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at length about old age and its significance; Thomas’s
biblical commentaries provide direct access to his understanding of these passages. Furthermore, the Summa theologiae was intended to develop a better understanding of the
Bible, as we read in the Summa’s prologue.4
We will see that Thomas praises the doctrine of the
elders while warning against certain tendencies of old age
that could lead elderly persons astray and cripple them spiritually. Of course this does not mean that God’s idea of old
age is a failure, that the elderly are not to cooperate as
higher causes in God’s plan for creation. Thomas simply
recognizes that there are dangers that accompany the
potentialities. In my analysis, I shall focus on questions of
wisdom, prudence, and hope.
I. THE PARABLE OF THE VINEYARD WORKERS:
“OLD AGE IS ENTIRELY IMMERSED IN MEMORY”
A) The Guardian of Memory
In Jesus’ parable of the vineyard workers, the vineyard
owner sets out to look for potential workers, passes by the
village square several times, hires all the workers there each
time, and then pays everyone the same wages (Matt
20:1-16). Although a great number of interpreters of this
parable focus on the question of whether it is fair to
remunerate the workers with the same wages in spite of the
unequal number of hours worked, Thomas emphasizes an
entirely different aspect of the parable. He does not wonder
why all the workers received the same wage, but he asks,
“Where were the other workers?”—that is, those who
pretended to be looking for employment all day, and whom
the employer had not found? Amid the many answers to this
question (which Thomas cites in his characteristic exegetic
style), one finds the explanation that the “day” of the
parable equals the entire lifespan of a person. Thomas thus

4

See Piotr Roszak and Jörgen Vijgen, eds., Reading Sacred Scripture with
Thomas Aquinas: Hermeneutical Tools, Theological Questions and New
Perspectives (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015).

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identifies the first group hired to work in the morning with
youth (adolescentes). The advancing day is regarded as the
increasingly powerful sun of intelligence—in other words, a
developed judgment, characteristic of mature age. This is
why, argues Thomas, the landowner sent the first group to
the vineyard, while those in the second group set out for the
vineyard on their own. The late-hour group are the elderly
(senes).5
In his interpretation of this passage, Thomas draws on
the distinction between the young and the old introduced by
Aristotle. The young are full of hope, which does not
characterize the old; the latter are entirely immersed in
memory. Hence, those whom the vineyard owner encounters at the square first are the ones who want to learn, while
the others (the old) are found standing, as if unwilling to
learn, preferring to observe things around them instead.6
An elderly person is immersed in memory, in
“remembering” things. Thomas describes this kind of attitude briefly as a lack of desire to learn and a lack of hope, in
contrast to the hopeful attitude of the young, whose virtue is
oriented towards a future good, difficult but feasible.7 It is

5
Thomas offers the standard contemporary division of human life into stages:
“For the ages in man are differentiated according to different notable changes in
his states. For this reason, the first age is called infancy, up until the seventh year;
the second, childhood, is up to the fourteenth year; the third, adolescence, to the
twentieth year; which three ages are sometimes counted as one; the fourth is youth
up to fifty years; the fifth age is mature age, to seventy years; the sixth is old age,
until the end.” (“Prima aetas dicitur infantia usque ad septimum annum; secunda
pueritia usque ad quartumdecimum; tertia adolescentia usque ad vigesimum
quintum; quae tres aetates computantur quandoque pro una; quarta est juventus
usque ad quinquaginta annos; quinta vero aetas est senectus usque ad septuaginta;
sexta senium usque in finem.”) (IV Sent., d. 40, q. 1, a. 4)
6
In Matt., c. 20, lect. 1: “He found the others in the marketplace, but not these.
The reason, in accordance with the Philosopher, is that there is a difference
between adolescents and old men, for adolescents are entirely in hope, old men in
memories. Hence those in the marketplace are found first, as though wanting to
obtain; but these are found standing about, as though not wanting to obtain, but to
observe what has been obtained.” (“Alios invenit in foro, istos non. Ratio est,
secundum philosophum, quia differentia est inter adolescentes et senes, quia
adolescentes toti sunt in spe, senes non in spe, sed in memoriis. Unde illi in foro
inveniuntur primi quasi volentes acquirere; isti autem inveniuntur stantes, quasi
non volentes acquirere, sed acquisitum observare.”)
7
Piotr Roszak, Credibilidad e identidad. En torno a la Teología de la Fe en
Santo Tomás de Aquino (Pamplona: Eunsa, 2014).

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not obvious why memory (remembering) replaces hope; it
might result from the limited future prospects of the elderly,
or the lost opportunities they had experienced throughout
life, experiences that gave the lie to earlier hopes. In the
latter case, memory drives hope away by creating an
impression of impossibility: it reminds one of earlier
frustrations.
However, Thomas’s reflection on the parable contains a
positive message, as it turns out that the most essential
characteristic of old age is becoming the guardian of
memory, that is, someone who is actively engaged with the
past in view of the common good of the present and the
future. It is not about being a “slave” to memory, although a
form of slavery could affect the life of an elderly person.
Such slavery is manifest in being enclosed in one’s own
reflection on past events and brooding on what happened in
the past, which gradually become the person’s only topic of
conversation. By contrast, Thomas perceives memory not
merely as a process of recording and ordering data but a
“matter” of wisdom and prudence, the two virtues that
correlate with age.8 In his theological analysis of the parable
of the vineyard workers, Thomas criticizes those who are
enslaved to memory and simply observe without committing
themselves to anything. They have stopped on their way to
wisdom and do not want to make further progress.
Yet another positive dimension of old age echoes
throughout Thomas’s interpretation of the parable. Everyone receives an invitation to gain something; there is no true
cognitive exhaustion. The call to work in the vineyard
means that each age has some work to do.
B) From Memory to Prudence
Thomas’s memoria is, above all, the act of remembering
facts and data indispensable for the development of the

8
Nicholas Austin, Aquinas on Virtue: A Causal Reading (Washington, D.C.:
Georgtown University Press, 2017), 130-49.

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virtue of prudence, which in turn perfects the intellect.9 He
explains this in the Summa theologiae:
Prudence regards contingent matters of action, as stated above (Question
[47], Article [5]). Now in such like matters a man can be directed, not by
those things that are simply and necessarily true, but by those which occur
in the majority of cases: because principles must be proportionate to their
conclusions, and “like must be concluded from like.” But we need
experience to discover what is true in the majority of cases: wherefore the
Philosopher says that “intellectual virtue is engendered and fostered by
experience and time.” Now experience is the result of many memories as
stated in Metaph. i, 1, and therefore prudence requires the memory of
many things. Hence memory is fittingly accounted a part of prudence.10

Why does one need memory for prudence, over other
traits such as docility, intelligence, foresight, circumspection,
caution, and reason—all enumerated by Thomas as parts of
prudence? It is because in order to achieve prudence one
needs to have mastered the same things that elderly people
acquire in the course of their lifetime. Thomas points out
that “in order to be prudent, our sensual side needs to be
well-developed.”11 Without prudence, we cannot identify
the heart of the matter in the midst of details. If we were to
examine particular cases, we would spend an entire lifetime
doing so and would still fail to reach a conclusion and to
leave this “tyranny of isolated cases” behind. This is why
in these things, a person must learn from others, especially from the
elderly who, through their experience, acquired a healthy and clear view
on the outcomes of particular actions. The Philosopher put it rather
accurately, “we need to value not only the proven truths but even the
convictions of old, experienced, and prudent people, for they see the
principles clearly through their experience.”12

Such a “clear” vision of things is noteworthy. The young
may regard this as arbitrary or self-willed. In fact, however,
it is the ability that allows a person to distinguish amid

9

As justice perfects the will, fortitude perfects the irascible power, and
temperance perfects the concupiscible power; see Nicholas Emerson Lombardo,
Logic of Desire: Aquinas on Emotion (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University
of America Press, 2011), 172.
10
STh II-II, q. 49, a. 1.
11
Ibid., ad 1; my translation.
12
STh II-II, q. 49, a. 3; my translation.

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various matters what is most important. Collecting data is
different from understanding the processes that express
themselves through data. Interpreting data according to a
particular key is a sign of wisdom, which is frequently
described as the ability to put things in order (sapientis est
ordinare). Using a metaphor from music, older people—due
to their experience and memory, which are sources of
practical wisdom—are able to identify the leading melody
structuring the entire work of music, no matter what
prominence is give to various notes. Young people, who
absorb the “high” and the “low”—that is the extreme tones
of life—are not always able to find the main thread that
organizes human existence.
Thomas tends to name prudence the first virtue, as he
considers it to entail “the knowledge of things to desire or
reject.” It does not define the ultimate purpose of man but
has to do with the means needed to attain the end. It is not,
however, merely intellectual; it involves the will and human
desires by managing them appropriately and by putting them
in order. The Latin term ordo, just like its English
equivalent, refers both to order (the opposite of chaos) and
to a command. It evokes the image of an architect who
knows the plan of an entire edifice and is able to pass orders
to those who are working on particular elements of the
building.
For this reason, “prudence is rather in the old, not only
because their natural disposition calms the movement of the
sensitive passions, but also because of their long experience.”13 As we can see, Thomas calls attention to two
characteristics acquired by older people. On the one hand,
they experience a moderation of emotion (quietatis motibus
passionum sensibilium), which allows for the orientation of
the emotions towards the good, as in hope. On the other
hand, in Thomas’s view, experience is not simply born of
the memory of the past, but derives from the habit of
making appropriate decisions.14 The repetition of good

13

STh II-II, q. 47, a. 15, ad 2.
STh II-II, q. 47, a. 16, ad 2: “The experience required by prudence results not
from memory alone, but also from the practice of commanding aright.”
14

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decisions develops into a habitus, which constitutes one of
the most essential categories for Thomas. Through the
repetition of good decisions, good demeanor, or morally
good actions, the “habit” (habitus) useful for future
performance develops in man, and thus further good actions
can be done more easily and without a tedious process of
analysis. Therefore, habit entails a creative dynamic within a
person who orients himself towards a goal. Man does not
lose freedom, does not become a machine, but operates in a
new perspective where his activity is informed by rational
cognition. It entails not rigor mortis, but flexibility. A good
example of this is the study of foreign languages. Learning a
language requires some rudiments, which could be used later
or not; they do not limit one’s freedom in either case. The
learning of a foreign language shapes in us a certain habit of
speaking which offers new, hitherto nonexistent skills. We
are not limited to repeating sentences we have memorized,
but find ourselves able to use the language more and more.
We do not always make use of this habit, but it broadens our
means of expression.
Interestingly, in the context of old age, Thomas indicates
that this type of habit can increase or decrease in man. For
Thomas, it is clear that old age is the age of prudence. He
states this clearly in his commentary on the Letter of Saint
Paul to Titus, as the letter contains a series of instructions on
how to teach the elderly.
First, Thomas notices that amid the goods typical of old
age are a decreased interest in sensual pleasures (literally,
“contempt”: contemptus delectationum) and the perfection
of wisdom and prudence. The pursuit of sensual pleasures
(food, drink, and sexuality) tends to be associated with
youth, so why would one wish to instruct the elderly on
these matters? Thomas believes that the experience of youth
can have a significant impact on later years. A young person
does a number of things dominated by “emotional instincts,”
while an older person can pursue the very same things
intentionally. This happens for two reasons,
for no one wishes to live deprived of some pleasure, and this desire
becomes even greater when one is more afflicted, for an elderly person
endures inconvenience and natural disintegration of the body. For this
reason, if he is not given spiritual pleasures, he sets out to look for
pleasures of the body. On the other hand, a young person tends to

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prevent himself from such things because he feels shame. The older, as
Philosopher explains, have no shame, as they have experienced everything
and know everything.15

Old age could be viewed as a good, natural way to attain
prudence through the experience of many years, but sometimes the elderly fail to attain this virtue. This could be
because they did not devote their earlier years to doing
good, which is an activity perfected through experience (per
exercitium). Second, Thomas argues that, due to gluttony,
the young experience a condition of “drying up of the
brain” (desiccatur eorum cerebrum).16
However, what is most surprising in this context is
Thomas’s discussion of the challenges of old age, which are
threefold. First, old age makes faith, love, and patience more
difficult to practice. It might seem that the elderly tend
toward the faith more naturally, yet Thomas regards their
abundance of life experience and their unwavering trust in
their own wisdom as challenges, often preventing them from
listening to a different counsel, especially if it is new.17 They
feel like experts and become people of little faith. The
natural disadvantage of old age, as Thomas puts it, is the
mistrust that accompanies it, for elderly people have experienced disappointment many times. Thomas says, “They
always use such words as ‘perhaps’ or ‘maybe’ and adverbs
that are temperate and suggestive of doubt.” The second
exhortation of the Apostle addressed to the elderly is to “be
strong in charity”:
The elderly have little room for friendship, for friendship is fostered
through being-together. No one wants to be with a sorrowful person for
long; such are the elderly and hence it is difficult to be their friends. The
second reason is that they love only for their own benefit.18

The third exhortation pertains to the virtue of patience. This
virtue is frequently lost by the elderly, yet it is needed when

15

In Tit., c. 2, lect. 1.
See Saša Horvat, “Neuroscientific Findings in the Light of Aquinas’
Understanding of the Human Being,” Scientia et fides 2 (2017): 127-53.
17
In Tit., c. 2, lect. 1.
18
Ibid.
16

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PIOTR ROSZAK

trials of illness and disability, turbationes (as Thomas put it),
come their way. Sometimes this lack of patience is associated
with the immersion in memory that characterizes the
elderly. They often repeat old stories, while the young live
on their hope of great adventures. The elderly tend to be
impatient if they experience a shortage of goods they had
previously owned, or irreverence or even contempt from
those who used to be their inferiors.19 As their life draws to
and end, they try more and more to lengthen it. And as they
notice their strength beginning to fail, they are filled with
sorrow. Old age does not weaken the natural instinct of selfpreservation, for the soul never wants to be separated from
the body; only grace can decrease this instinct, as Thomas
points out, inspired clearly by Philippians 1:23 and 2
Corinthians 5:8, in lines that reflect the paradoxical state of
Paul’s soul.20
II. THE PASSAGE OF TIME IS MEANINGFUL
Frequently, man perceives the passage of time as “loss”
or “defect,”21 but for Thomas everything great takes time. A
gradual process of ordering one’s desires over time, which
builds prudence, tends to be attributed to older people.
What is, however, the meaning of the time in between? Why
does the passage of time have meaning? The theologian’s
response must embrace the whole world, for we all
constitute creation in fieri.22 We need to grow into our
ultimate selves by our free decision and the model we

19
Respect for the elderly is related to the perception of old age as a “sign of
virtue,” although this sign can fail (Wis 4:8); cf. STh II-II, q. 63, a. 3.
20
In Ioan., c. 20, lect. 4.
21
II Sent., d. 20, q. 2, a. 1: “The life of man resembles a circular movement
because it starts with a defect, reaches its state of appropriate perfection after
which it terminates once again in a defect. For this reason certain defects follow
from the beginnings of man through childhood and likewise from the end of man
through old age.” (“Respondeo dicendum, quod in hominis vita est quaedam
circulatio, eo quod a defectu incipit, in statum debitae perfectionis deveniens, ex
quo iterum in defectum terminatur; unde et principium hominis quidam defectus
consequuntur in pueritia, et similiter finem in senectute.”
22
Piotr Roszak, “The Earnest of Our Inheritance (Eph 1:5): The Biblical
Foundations of Thomas Aquinas’ Soteriology,” Przegląd tomistyczny 23 (2017):
213-33.

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received in Christ. The experience of time in the Christian
perspective is expressed in the logic of passing from
inchoatio to consummatio, and thus it is not a process of
“aging” but essentially of perfection, of complementarity,
bringing to the heights what had begun earlier.23 Therefore,
not everything ages in the sense of “losing”: old age can gain
a fuller outlook on the world. It could be compared to a
collection of impressionist paintings which, with their absence of clear shapes, seem sketched, as if awaiting a final
form. If man indeed is imago Dei, and receives the imprint
of imago Christi through baptism, then life may be seen as a
clarification of this image. Likewise, Thomas, in his analyses
of the seemingly unimportant terminological debate over the
question “down payment or collateral” (arra or pignus),
demonstrates that this question is fundamental to Christian
mentality: how is the Christian life now a down payment of
our heavenly inheritance (Eph 1:14)?24 Eternal life begins on
earth through faith, and is completed in eternity. This is
why, from the theological perspective, salvation is not
tantamount to an escape from history; instead, it produces a
transformation of history. It is salvation in history, as Max
Seckler demonstrated.25
A) Experience, Maturity and the Wisdom of Old Age
Old age is defined by Thomas through the lens of the
wealth of experience collected in one’s lifetime in a process
of internal enrichment. The etymology of the Latin word is
revealing, as ex-per-ientia seems to indicate “extraction,”
“going through,” “experience of a long journey,” “composing the right taste.” At the same time, it indicates a
synthesis of times past, produced at many stages of life—an
establishment of a certain ordo and construction of relationships and ties to what seems most important. It is not a

23
This is also how Thomas perceives the Church in his commentary on the
Letter to the Ephesians, where he describes the Church in the context of what is
“fulfilled.”
24
In Eph., c. 1, lect. 5.
25
Max Seckler, Das Heil in der Geschichte: Geschichtstheologisches Denken bei
Thomas von Aquin (Munich: Kosel, 1964).

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simple accumulation of impressions, although an older
person is more likely to develop such an integrated vision
than a young person is. Thomas’s ethos of virtue entails the
flourishing of man whose nature is rendered more functional in the process.
A fine example of the above occurs in Thomas’s
commentary on the Book of Job, in which he attempts to
justify the silence of one of the interlocutors, a younger man
who joins in the discussion noticeably later than Job’s other,
older friends. Thomas sees here the embodiment of the
principle distinguishing the young from the old:
Now it seems probable that old men speak more wisely for two reasons:
first, of course, since young men, from the heat of the spirit, frequently
and inordinately make many proposals, whereas old men, because of the
gravity of age, speak more maturely. Hence, he adds For I was hoping that
the more advanced age would speak, namely, more gravely and more
effectively. Second, old men speak more wisely because old men have
been able to find out many things through the experience of a long
lifetime, and consequently are able to speak more wisely. Hence follows
and the multitude of years, because of which, namely, experience can be
received, would teach wisdom, namely, received from experience.26

However, further into his argument Thomas emphasizes that
maturity cannot be measured by years or age alone but by
man’s openness to inspiratio divina—in other words, openness to often-unpredictable solutions and a willingness to go
beyond familiar schemes. This is a path leading to true
wisdom based on the truth as principle (principium), and the
chosen means include the ability to experience life in an
attitude of openness to receiving truth and contemplation
or—to use Thomas’s terminology—speculatio. It is embedded in the desire to look beyond the mere surface and
the ability to delve deeper into reality. The image of the
journey, evoked by Thomas at virtually every step of his
reasoning, appears frequently in the context of old age. One
contemporary author notices that
the mysterious process of aging is not tantamount to a descent into a dark
valley; it is more like an ascent to the final summit, prior to which all
redundant luggage must be abandoned. Surely, the ascent is tiring, yet the
summit promises some advantages: a broad view, unique to that place; a

26

In Iob, c. 32.

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different perspective on the trodden path; distance to things left behind; a
new vision; freedom from everything that weighs us down; perhaps even
a new approach to everyday existence.27

Thomas conveys a similar vision of old age in his commentary on the Gospel of Saint John, regarding the passage
in which Jesus talks about St. Peter’s old age (John 21:18).
As is Thomas’s custom, he distinguishes the human notion
of old age from the divine perspective. In human
understanding, only the toil of youth has value, whereas the
effort made by older people has not. In the divine order, on
the other hand, “old age does not strip one of strength; on
the contrary, it increases it.”28 The scriptural affirmation of
this phenomenon can be found in Psalm 92:11 and
Deuteronomy 33:25. A more detailed analysis in this vein
was also conducted by Cicero, who admitted the theological
power of old age on one condition: old age will be fruitful
unless man was idle in his youth (inertia).
B) Wisdom: A Virtue for the Elderly?
Thomas states clearly that respect (reverentia) for the
elderly ought to be based not on pity for their bodily weakness but rather on “their souls’ wisdom.” He ventures to say
that respect for the old shall remain in heaven, although the
defects of old age resulting from the process of aging will no
longer be present.29
The tradition, following Aristotle, defines wisdom as
“cognition in the light of ultimate causes.” This is not
merely detailed knowledge of all beings, but some sort of
familiarity with common things, through which man can
orient himself in the basic structure of reality. An elderly
person can judge a particular thing because he knows the

27
Theresia Hauser, Zeit inneren Wachstum: Die späteren Jahre (Munich: Kösel,
2000).
28
In Ioan. cap. 21, lect. 4 (Marietti ed., 2630).
29
IV Sent., d. 44, q. 1, a. 3, qcla. 1, ad 1: “Ad primum ergo dicendum, quod
aetas senectutis habet reverentiam non propter conditionem corporis, quod in
defectu est, sed propter sapientiam animae, quae ibi esse praesumitur ex temporis
antiquitate; unde in electis manebit reverentia senectutis propter plenitudinem
divinae sapientiae, quae in eis erit; sed non manebit senectutis defectus.”

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general rule, and thus has the capacity to respond to the
positivist question “How?” and, more importantly, to the
most philosophical “Why?” This is reflected in such a
person’s approach to the world: he does not favor encyclopedic knowledge, but focuses on perceiving links and
discovering real causes of the events that unfold before his
eyes.
In his commentary on the Letter to the Ephesians,
Thomas introduces a distinction between partial and
common wisdom. Prudence is of the first kind, as it orients
some of man’s actions, but not all of them, towards an
integrated whole. In contrast, “a wise man is the one who is
able to order all things.”30 This is a pragmatic approach to
life that keeps a person from being caught up in admiration
of things devoid of real value or whose popularity is but
ephemeral.
Inspired by Aristotle, Thomas singles out several
properties of wisdom, emphasizing the ability to focus on
what is common.31 Wisdom does not aim at becoming
familiar with all existing beings in their particularity. On the
contrary, a wise man can penetrate into the common
mechanics orchestrating reality. In this sense, there could be
a person who knows more than the wise one, but that
person is not wise because of what he knows. Wisdom must
be more general, grasping patterns and common things,
through which the wise person in a way “knows”
everything. In order to acquire this type of common
knowledge, which, in Thomas’s eyes, is essentially directed
towards God (since Thomas also considers wisdom to be the
knowledge of God), obstacles such as sensual cognition need
to be overcome. Sensuality applies to particular things, and
consequently, wisdom must constantly go beyond this
dimension. This yields the fruit of certitude, another trait of
wisdom, which derives from wisdom’s being embedded in
the common cause of things. Its light spreads onto other
beings, and thus wisdom is sought for its own sake. Among

30

In Eph., c. 5, lect. 6: “Sapiens enim simpliciter dicitur, qui habet de omnibus
ordinare.”
31
Michael Lamb, “Wisdom Eschatology in Augustine and Aquinas,” in Michael
Dauphinais, Barry David, and Matthew Levering, eds., Aquinas the Augustinian
(Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2007), 258-79.

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the traits of wisdom presented above, the ability to put
things in order is most frequently emphasized. According to
Aristotle’s adage, the task of a wise man consists in ordering
things. This order is not, however, of an aesthetic kind. Nor
is it some sort of stock-taking in the cognitive sphere. Order,
here, is a command, an imperative oriented towards the
ultimate, without any halfway halts.
On the other hand, Thomas affirms old age as the
opportunity to share wisdom accumulated over the years
through having lived through various situations. One type of
wisdom, that is, practical wisdom, seems to be particularily
valuable. Aristotle in his Nicomachean Ethics (6.12) observes
that virtue makes things healthy and sound, while practical
wisdom makes everything move in this direction. If we want
to act, it is important not only to know what is just but also
what a given action will mean in the concrete circumstances
of life. This is a very important skill when making a decision
in which, apart from deliberatio, there is a moment of
determination. From the perspective of time, old age
perceives how the ideal “becomes flesh” and does not
remain only an abstract or theoretical concept. This is what
forms the essence of prudence, which is the virtue of
preserving good in many situations on the basis not of
mechanical repetition but of application to particular
circumstances. It is also a challenge for the pastoral care of
elderly people to strengthen their hope, which might be
expressed in their commitment until the end. Matthew
Levering observes the practical expression of hope in
creating eschatological imagination, which discovers a
Christian sense of death based on entering the kingdom of
Christ, already inaugurated in our earthly communion with
Christ.32 This is, at the same time, the way of concretizing
hope and giving meaning to it, to which a God-centered life
leads us.
In his discussion of Church governance (praelati
Ecclesiae), Thomas draws attention not to physical age but,
rather, to a fruit of old age: prudence. Superiors are

32
Matthew Levering, Dying and the Virtues (Grand Rapids, Mich.: William B.
Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2018), 163.

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frequently called elders (presbyters), as they should be
characterized by prudence.33 Origen, whom Thomas quotes
in his commentary to the Gospel of Saint John, had emphasized that only a few finest shepherds of the Church
lived short lives, for few youngsters can appropriately fulfill
such duties. More often than not, they have to mature to be
of great service to the Church.34
III. THE PITFALLS OF OLD AGE?
The realistic tone of Thomas’s statements is helpful in
identifying several challenges faced by the elderly. The
wealth of experience accumulated throughout one’s lifetime
does not necessarily foster the growth of wisdom and
prudence. Thomas emphasizes the need to cleanse one’s
memory, and warns against arrogance, discouragement, and
intellectual paralysis. Contemporary literature speaks of
“ostrich syndrome”: in avoiding problems, the figurative
ostrich spends a great deal of time searching for its
alternative reality—its safe space—and once it is mentally
settled there, there is no room for change.35 Two dangers
are particularly noteworthy and Thomas associates them
with old age: suspiciousness and sluggishness. If not
quarantined by virtues, these defects can lead to atrophy in
the moral life.
A) Suspiciousness
One of the questions of the Summa theologiae pertaining
to judging other things and people in a spirit of suspicion
shows clearly that Thomas blames old age for such an
attitude. Drawing on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, he warns that the
elderly tend to be most suspicious (maxime suscipiosi), for
they have come across imperfection in other people many
times. Life experience, therefore, has left a permanent mark

33
In I Tim., c. 5, lect. 3: ”Dicit ergo qui bene praesunt presbyteri. Presbyter
idem est quod senior, et sicut senes aetate consueverunt habere prudentiam.”
34
In Ioan., c. 20, lect. 4.
35
Thomas L. Webb, Betty P. Chang, Yael Benn, “‘The Ostrich Problem’:
Motivated Avoidance or Rejection of Information about Goal Progress,” Social and
Personality Psychology Compass 7 (2013): 794-807.

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107

on them, and for this reason they look for some kind of
hidden agenda in all things. Following in Cicero’s footsteps,
Thomas defines suspiciousness as “presuming some evil on
the basis of worthless clues.”36 This attitude can arise in
man’s heart for three reasons. First, because the evil one
always evaluates another with his own measure. Second,
because the evil one feels resentment towards another. Both
of these reasons are expressions of spiritual perversity. The
third reason, on the other hand, is related to old age and the
variable value of experience. Thomas does not evaluate it
with equal harshness. The fact that someone wants to assess
reality on the basis of his experience is good and sensible in
itself, but the onset of suspiciousness derives from one’s lack
of ability to evaluate the life’s experiences aright. It is an
attitude that needs to be corrected, not eliminated
altogether.
B) Sluggishness
As we have already noted, the parable of the vineyard
workers reveals the association of old age with sluggishness
or idleness. Thomas points out that the characters from the
parable are blamed for not doing anything good rather than
for doing something wrong. In consequence, the otiosi
(idle), a category which includes the elderly who have given
in to this attitude, do not attain the end, which is eternal life
for man.37 Therefore, in Thomas’s eyes, sluggishness consists
in a lack of purpose, a weakly motivated pursuit of the end,
or idleness that turns into excessive concern with the here
and now. Thomas, in his characteristic exegetical style,
quotes a passage from another scriptural book, the Book of
Sirach (33:28), to develop his reflection: “Idleness teaches
every kind of mischief.” The idle are those who in the
parable are exhorted, “You go to my vineyard too.” While
the first men called to work are not to blame, for they are
young, and therefore weak and carried away by emotions,
the elders are rebuked for their idleness. Interestingly, the

36
37

STh II-II, q. 60, a. 3.
In Matt., c. 20, lect. 1.

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PIOTR ROSZAK

awakening of the sluggish occurs through a word of
encouragement and an invitation to join in the task in a way
appropriate to their strength (in the parable, their “hours”).
In his commentary on Dionysius’s On the Divine Names
Thomas lists three spiritual areas of darkness that dominate
man whenever he is ignorant in the matters of goodness, and
idleness is one of them. The cure that dissipates this darkness is intellectual light shed onto the lives of those affected,
or learning the truth about the good. If they remain
ignorant, they are not moved to action.38
Thomas evaluates the problem of otiosum in many of his
works, the first being the commentary on the Sentences. He
insists that this particular sin pertains to some kind of
outside reference or a lack thereof; a man commits this sin
when he does not refer to anything, in spite of the fact that
each deliberate act of the will (voluntas deliberante) could be
oriented towards something. In general, Thomas emphasizes
the importance of usefulness, and concern with doing or
experiencing something for one’s own sake as well as for
others.39 Hence, the absence of reference of one’s activity to
God is, ultimately, a manifestation of vanity. This is why he
is very harsh in his evaluation of beggars who ask for
assistance in order to remain idle. In his reflection on this
phenomenon he asks whether the religious ought to beg for
a living.40 Moreover, he advises against offering assistance to

38
Thomas says that material darkness produces three effects in the body. First,
the body is not cleaned well because of the darkness; second, it renders animals
immobile and for this reason many animals rest during the night; third, darkness
imprisons because one is not prepared to act and this naturally result in a certain
laziness. These three effects are also the result of spiritual darkness, that is to say
the ignorance of the truth. First the intellect but also the passions and actions are
not ‘clean’ but full of errors and disordered. Second, darkness renders man lazy
because they ignore their telos and the way to arrive at their telos. Third, darkness
renders persons enclosed in themselves because, not knowing the good, their hearts
(affectus) are unable to open themselves and to receive. See In De divin. nom., c. 4,
lect. 4: “Et haec tria facit etiam spiritualis tenebra, idest ignorantia veritatis . . .;
secundo, tenebra reddit homines otiosos, qui, dum habent ignorantiam boni quod
est finis et viae qua ad ipsum pervenitur, non se movent ad finem consequendum;
tertio, reddit eos conclusos. . . . Sed haec tria removet intelligibile lumen, idest
cognitio veritatis.”
39
In I Tim., c. 5, lect. 1: “animus otiosi non occupatur utilibus.”
40
See STh II-II, q. 187, a. 5, ad 2: “On the other hand, he lives not idly who in
any way lives usefully” (“Non autem otiose vivit qui qualitercumque utiliter vivit”).

AQUINAS ON THE ELDERLY

109

others if this might prevent them from taking up work. Such
had been the consequences of the Thessalonians’ generous
attitude: their assistance to the poor had made them idle.
This prompted St. Paul to encourage everyone to earn his
own bread (2 Thess 3:12).41
CONCLUSION
Thomas was conscious that old age, along with the
inconvenience it brings, is one of the consequences of
original sin and, as such, can be considered one defect
among many,42 something that does not follow the course
intended for the human person at the beginning. This is not
a naturalistic description à la Aristotle, but an insightful one,
conscious of the potential of this particular period of human
life. Experience, whose superior outcome is prudence, as
well as the ability to “read” the world with its causes, are
both paths to wisdom. The key for experiencing old age
fruitfully is, in Thomas’s view, referring it or living it in full
awareness of the ultimate things which are the end of human
life. All problems in this area, such as intellectual paralysis,
result from the lack of this particular reference and excessive
focus on oneself. Therefore, the cure will consist in awakening man to the ultimate reality, expressed in Jesus’ calling
from the parable, “You go to my vineyard too” (Matt
20:7).43

41

In I Thess., c. 4, lect. 1.
STh I, q. 41, a. 2, ad 1: “sicut nos multa naturali necessitate contra
voluntatem patimur, ut mortem, senectutem, et huiusmodi defectus.” See Jörgen
Vijgen, “The Corruption of the Good of Nature and Moral Action: The Realism of
St. Thomas Aquinas,” Espiritu 155 (2018): 127-52.
43
This article uses information gathered through the grant “Identity and
Tradition. The Patristic Sources of Thomas Aquinas’ Thought” (2017–20) funded
from the resources of the National Science Center (NCN) in Poland, allotted
following the decision no. DEC-2016/23/B/HS1/0267.
42

BOOK REVIEWS
God’s Own Ethics: Norms of Divine Agency and the Argument from Evil. By
MARK C. MURPHY. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Pp. x + 210.
$70.00 (cloth). ISBN: 978-0-19-879691-6.
By “the argument from evil” Mark Murphy has in mind two views: (1) Evil
in the world proves that God does not exist, and (2) Evil in the world shows
that God’s existence is unlikely. Murphy rejects both of these views. He argues
that, given certain understandings of the word “God,” there is no reason to take
evil as counting against God’s existence in any way. While working toward this
conclusion, Murphy focuses on three understandings of “God”: (1) God as an
absolutely perfect “Anselmian” being, (2) God as that being who is supremely
worthy of worship by us, and (3) God as that being who is wholly worthy of
allegiance from us. With these understandings in mind, Murphy maintains that
God’s ethics survives the argument from evil in both of its forms. Murphy is not
offering a theodicy. He is not attempting to show that God is morally justified
for allowing the evils that we find in the world. Nor is he suggesting that the
argument from evil fails because we are in no position to fathom what God’s
reasons for allowing evil might be. Murphy is not even trying to argue that an
Anselmian being exists. He aims to explain how attacks on theism that appeal
to certain evils in the world can be sensibly rebutted in light of what an
Anselmian being would be if it existed. He also tries to explain how an
Anselmian being could be worthy of worship and allegiance, as Christians take
God to be.
By an agent’s “ethics” Murphy understands “that agent’s dispositions to treat
various considerations as reasons, and as reasons of certain types.” For Murphy,
“an agent’s ethics fixes how various matters play a role in that agent’s practical
life, shaping and guiding that agent’s deliberation and action” (1). With these
thoughts in mind, Murphy divides his book into two parts. Part 1 (chaps. 1-6)
considers what the ethics of an Anselmian being would be and whether the
argument from evil succeeds in calling into question the existence of God given
that God is an Anselmian being. In part 2 (chaps. 7-9) Murphy considers
whether an Anselmian being could be worthy of worship and allegiance.
Murphy divides his book into two parts because he recognizes that part 1’s claim
concerning the ethics of an Anselmian being needs to be supplemented by an
account of how an Anselmian being could be God, considered as worthy of
worship and allegiance. So, part 2 builds on part 1 in order to press forward to

111

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the conclusion that an Anselmian being can indeed be thought of as worthy of
worship and allegiance.
When telling his readers what the ethics of an Anselmian being would be,
Murphy chiefly emphasizes that it would not be “our” ethics — meaning that it
would not be an ethics of “familiar welfare-oriented moral goodness” according
to which “the welfare of rational and perhaps sentient beings generally” is one
of the values to which morally good agency responds (24). A morally good agent
is good in this familiar sense, says Murphy, “only if that being treats setbacks to
the well-being of rational and other sentient beings as to-be-prevented and so
fails to prevent them only when there are other values that bear on the choice
that make it appropriate to fail to act for the sake of well-being on that
occasion” (ibid.). Murphy then goes on to argue that an Anselmian being would
not be a morally good agent in this sense.
The main steps of the argument here are as follows. (1) A “pure perfection”
is one that does not presuppose any limitation or weakness, and an Anselmian
being must exhibit every pure perfection to the utmost (it could not, for
example, be omnipotent but less than omniscient, or omniscient but less than
omnipotent). (2) An Anselmian being would not be motivated by “familiar
welfare-oriented moral goodness” just because it necessarily loves creatures. An
Anselmian being’s love for creatures does not entail that it always deals with
creatures in a familiar welfare-oriented way according to human standards of
good moral behavior. Such standards might compel us to be morally good in a
welfare-oriented way, but they would not compel an Anselmian being. An
Anselmian being can be thought of as bound to love (i.e., always to will or desire
what is absolutely good without reservation). Yet creatures are not intrinsically
and absolutely good since they derive their goodness from an Anselmian being,
should there be one. So, an Anselmian being, while having “justifying” reasons
for dealing with creatures in a welfare-oriented way, would lack “requiring”
reasons for doing so. Unlike us, an Anselmian being does not have decisive
reasons for constantly dealing with creatures (willing what is good for them) in
accordance with what we might take to be morally compelling reasons that
focus on welfare-oriented concerns. (3) An Anselmian being creates all that is
other than it. An Anselmian being is also perfect as an agent; it acts perfectly on
its reasons for acting and does not act pointlessly. So, the well-being of creatures
gives an Anselmian being a justifying reason for promoting human well-being
(a reason that makes the performance of an action rational). But it does not
follow that an Anselmian being has requiring reasons for promoting human wellbeing (reasons that make the nonperformance of an action irrational, all things
being equal). (4) However, an Anselmian being could never directly intend evils
to creatures; an evil can be thought of as “the absence of due perfection or due
well-being” (86), and an Anselmian being therefore has decisive reason not to
will evil as an end in itself.
When it comes to the Anselmian being as something worthy of worship and
allegiance Murphy develops the following line of thought. (1) Since the

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Anselmian being is fantastically superior to us in value, it is worthy of worship,
though it does not follow from this that there might not be circumstances in
which it would be wrong to engage in worship of the Anselmian being. (2) But
being worthy of worship does not entail that the Anselmian being is worthy of
our allegiance. The allegiance of X to Y amounts to alliance between X and Y
and obedience to Y on X’s part, alliance and obedience grounded in common
ends that X and Y have or ought to have. The ends of an Anselmian being might
differ radically from ours. (3) However, an Anselmian being might by selfimposed imposition take on a “contingent ethics” which brings its goals and
ours into alignment. It could “perform some act of will that subjects the
Anselmian being to standards of non-defectiveness in action that go beyond
those that hold necessarily of the Anselmian being” (173). (4) It could, for
example, give us commands that conform with what we truly ought or ought
not to do as rational human agents. Another possibility is that the Anselmian
being might promise that, regardless of the suffering they endure in this life,
everyone’s overall good will be secured if they align themselves with the will of
the Anselmian being.
In this review I have spent a lot of time trying to make clear (accurately, I
hope) what God’s Own Ethics is arguing. I have done so while aiming to offer
a preview of the book which might encourage people to read it for themselves.
I take it to be an unusually good contribution to discussions of God and “the
argument from evil.” The book as a whole is cautious and tightly reasoned. And
it develops an approach to God and evil that is highly original when compared
to the way in which the topic of God and evil is most typically discussed these
days by contemporary philosophers, whether theists or not.
Again and again in typical discussions of God and evil, the assumption is that
God is a kind of an enlarged or magnified center of consciousness, different
from human moral agents only in the fact that it lacks a body and has more
knowledge, more power, and more moral goodness than any of us do. On this
supposition God differs from us largely because God has certain “properties”
to a greater degree than we do, one of the most important of which is moral
goodness. On this supposition the big question when it comes to God and evil
is “Can God be thought to be morally bad in ways that we can be thought to be
morally bad?” Some say yes and argue that, since God is by definition morally
good by accepted standards of human moral goodness, God certainly does not
exist. Others, voting for a weaker form of the yes answer, say that God probably
does not exist. On the other side of this parliamentary-like division we find
people favoring a no vote to the question now at issue, while presenting
theodicies or arguing in defense of what is now commonly referred to as
“skeptical theism.” The fans of theodicy try to explain in detail how God is as
morally good as the best of us since he has what we can recognize as good moral
reasons for allowing our world to be as it is. Dealing with evils of various kinds,
they argue that any good moral philosopher should acquit God of being morally
bad as we can be morally bad. By contrast, friends of skeptical theism plead

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justifiable ignorance concerning our ability to appreciate how it is that God is
above reproach and could, in a tribunal similar to a human court of law, explain
how, in spite of the evidence against him, he has after all always been a wellbehaved citizen. In God’s Own Ethics, however, Murphy offers reasons for
saying “A plague on all your houses” when it comes to these familiar ways of
thinking about God and evil.
He does so by effectively defending a traditional notion of God according to
which God is not a “good chap,” as it were, but that to which no imperfection
can be ascribed, that which makes everything created to be good, and that which
cannot intend evils as ends in themselves. I said above that God’s Own Ethics is
original when compared to many recent discussions of its topic. And considered
exactly as that, the book is indeed original, or at least unusual. But it is also
worthy to be read and discussed since it presents in a new way, and in a new
philosophical and theological context, a view of God and evil that seemed
natural to authors such as Anselm and Thomas Aquinas, neither of whom think
of God as always exhibiting “familiar welfare-oriented moral goodness.” Anselm and Aquinas revere God as what makes all that is not divine to exist from
second to second. They also offer accounts of what God’s goodness amounts to
that, to put it crudely, do not claim that God acts as I would if I were the bestbehaved person around. And, of course, they take Jesus of Nazareth to be God
incarnate, whose suffering and death do not strike them as grounds for calling
into question the existence of God, considered as that which can be thought of
as perfect without reservation. For reasons such as these, I think that Murphy
is right to say: “What I am doing is not some sort of dodgily inventive recasting
of what God’s perfect agency consists in; rather, I am indicating that the
argument from evil as typically posed assumes a contentious and theologically
no-more-than-optional characterization of the divine nature” (194).
If pressed briefly to express reservations concerning God’s Own Ethics, I
would say that I worry a bit about Murphy’s references to God’s ethics, given
that they assume that an agent with ethics has dispositions to treat various
considerations as reasons, and as reasons of certain types. Like Aquinas (who
never uses the phrase “God’s ethics”), I think that God’s perfection includes
God’s being nontemporal and therefore lacking “dispositions” (which I assume
can only be had by things existing in time). Again, while Murphy says that an
agent’s ethics play a role in that agent’s “practical life,” I doubt that God can be
properly thought to have a practical life, since that idea conjures up images of
God going through processes of practical reasoning just as we do in time. I also
find myself to be in something of a fog when it comes to the idea that God has
reasons in any sense that we can understand, as when we speak of people having
reasons for doing what they do. Finally, I remain unclear as to what Murphy
has in mind when he refers to worship, for that can take different forms on
which he does not much comment. Shall we take “worship” to involve petitionary prayer? Shall we take it to involve gestures of groveling “before” God? Shall
we take it to involve sacrificing certain things? Shall we take it to involve rituals

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of one sort or another? Murphy has little or nothing to say about these
questions.
With these reservations noted, however, I commend God’s Own Ethics as a
truly excellent text, especially since it pushes so reasonably and relentlessly
against the hugely questionable assumption that good in “Fred is good” and
“God is good” should be understood univocally.
BRIAN DAVIES, O.P.
Fordham University
New York, New York

Faith Comes from What Is Heard: An Introduction to Fundamental Theology.
By LAWRENCE FEINGOLD. Steubenville, Ohio: Emmaus Academic, 2016.
Pp. xxi + 648. $54.95 (cloth). ISBN: 978-1-941447-54-3.
Fundamental Theology. By GUY MANSINI, O.S.B. Washington, D.C.: The
Catholic University of America Press, 2018. Pp. vi + 291. $24.95
(paper). ISBN: 978-0-8132-2985-0.
The theological revolution bookending Vatican II presents severe challenges
for theological education. While teaching the basics had been the work of theological manuals prior to the council, the theological style of conciliar teaching
is at some distance from any of the manuals then in use. As a result, the manuals
virtually disappeared. While it would be foolish to dismiss the standard list of
their shortcomings, it is unwise not to notice that the manuals served a necessary
purpose. They provided a systematic view of the whole of Catholic teaching on
a particular topic and set the terms for the work of academic theology in
sharpening the Church’s thinking through disputation. As the conciliar dust
begins to settle, it is not surprising to see a revival of this once-scorned genre.
It is equally unsurprising that the first of the new “manuals” to appear deal with
fundamental theology, that discipline that lays the conceptual foundation for
the special themes of properly dogmatic theology. The present review exams
two recent works, one by Feingold, well-known for his work on the natural
desire for God, and the other by Mansini, a leading expert and vigilant critic of
Catholic Modernism in its historic and contemporary incarnations.
Feingold’s work arises out of his teaching, and its accessible style is a strength
as Feingold guides his readers through “theology’s reflection on itself as a
discipline, its method, and its foundation in God’s Revelation transmitted to us
through Scripture and Tradition” (xix). He divides this reflective exercise into
six parts: (1) revelation and faith, (2) theology as faith seeking understanding,
(3) revelation’s transmission through Tradition and magisterium, (4) the

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inspiration and truth of Scripture, (5) historicity of the Gospels, and (6) biblical
typology. The fact that more than half of the work deals with Scripture reflects
Feingold’s sense of the evangelical urgency in presenting a distinctively Catholic
approach to the Bible in the face of Protestant claims to its revelatory uniqueness
and secular criticisms of its historical credibility. Accordingly, it is fair to judge
the success of the work, in part at least, by how well he carries out that task. It
is also the most significant point of contrast with Mansini.
In introducing the concept of revelation and its reception in faith, Feingold
employs the image of a twofold movement: God lowers himself to human
beings in order to elevate them to himself.
God’s Revelation has a double focus: the God who descends towards
man and man who is mysteriously capable of being elevated to union
with God. Thus, there is a double mystery at the heart of Revelation: the
mystery of God who is love and the mystery of man who is capax Dei—
capable of God despite the mystery of sin. (20)

The purpose of this movement is not merely to communicate important truths
(although this is entailed) but to affect our supernatural end of “nuptial union
with the Incarnate Lord.” Appropriate to a taking up of the human into the
divine life, God reveals in a manner commensurate with the way human beings
come to know (i.e., through encounter with sensible realities) and with how we
attain happiness as social beings. Revelation, therefore, is primarily a matter of
historical events that form community. Revealed history begins with the
preparatory hints regarding humanity’s supernatural end in the divinely infused
prophetic speech of the great figures of ancient Israel, and it attains definitive
expression in the life, death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Just as the
prophets and lawgivers formed Israel into a people, the Church is created by
God’s revelation of Jesus’s divine sonship and the gift of God’s Holy Spirit, a
community most fully realized in its Eucharistic celebration.
Feingold’s treatment of faith is similarly two-sided. In faith, a person gives
firm assent to something that is unseen, normally on the basis of a third, credible
witness. I did not see Mary rob the store, but my friend Tom told me that she
did. I have reasons to believe Tom, so I rightly will myself to hold Mary a
robber. The same logic applies in an act of divine faith, but here both the unseen
object (what God reveals) and the witness (God himself) are divine.
Accordingly, I rightly believe with certainty what God has revealed because God
is a witness who of his very nature cannot deceive or be deceived. The question
remains, however, as to how we can be sure that we are dealing with God in
the first place. Here, Feingold reminds the reader that divine faith is divine with
respect both to its object and to its cause, that is, grace illuminating the mind
and moving the will. “In the act of supernatural faith, man transcends the limits
of his own nature and makes a divine act through the grace of God” (48). Yet,
while the certainty of faith is divinely given, God has also provided signs of
faith’s credibility, and it is the particular work of fundamental theology to lay

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out these signs in an intellectually compelling manner. The rational case for
these signs is, for Feingold, inseparable from the idea that “God has revealed
definite dogmas of faith to mankind . . . through the Church” (46). Feingold
seeks to explain and defend this idea by contrasting it with the “private
judgment” that reigns in Protestantism and whose “inevitable offspring” are
fragmentation and indifferentism. I must admit that I find Feingold’s treatment
of Protestantism, which he considers a “material heresy” (47-48), neither
particularly well-informed nor adequate to the Church’s ecumenical commitments; Catholic students will need to discover the riches of those traditions
elsewhere. That said, Feingold is surely correct that a Catholic argument for the
signs of faith’s credibility is coterminous with evidence that the Roman Catholic
Church is divinely authorized to convey revealed truths. If such evidence is not
available, accepting the authority of its magisterium would be tantamount to
“attributing mere human words and claims to God” (56). Evidence that such
acceptance is in accord with reason has traditionally fallen into three categories:
the miracle of Old Testament prophecy, the miracles of Christ, and the holiness
of the Church. Feingold wisely adds the holiness of the doctrine itself, its being
“in perfect harmony with the secret dictates of conscience and the aspirations
of the human heart” (68).
Feingold’s emphasis on Church authority informs his discussion of theology
as a science of God in light of revealed truths about our supernatural end.
Following Pius XII’s Humani Generis, Feingold argues that a Catholic theologian must “seek to read the sources of Revelation through the eyes of the
Church and her living Magisterium which clarifies and illuminates those
sources” (154). Even when theology goes beyond what has been magisterially
taught, it is always and everywhere informed by the conviction that what God
has revealed “can only exist integrally and in fullness within the Catholic
Church, which received, maintains, and nurtures that deposit of Revelation”
(179). Nowhere is the ecclesial character of theology more necessary than in
dealing with Scripture. While Protestantism upholds Scripture as uniquely
divine in comparison with the all-too-human history of the Church, Catholicism
recognizes that, as a source of revelation, Scripture is inseparable from sacred
Tradition. Thus, a Catholic fundamental theology must defend what Feingold
calls “the hierarchical principle,” the idea that very imperfect human beings can
mediate divine truths.
Scripture’s authority, for Feingold, is derived from God’s inspiration of the
sacred writer, understood as the influence of “the efficacious grace that illuminated his intellect and reasoning (including historical research), moved his
will, and guided all his faculties involved in the composition of his work,
especially his imagination, memory, and literary judgment” (288-89). Because
inspired, the Bible is inerrant. Feingold is aware, of course, that since the
emergence of historical criticism, not only regarding the events to which the
Bible gives witness but also regarding the production of its final text, this is a
highly contested claim. In response, many theologians have restricted the claim

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of inerrancy to matters directly related to salvation and have excluded historical
and scientific matters. They claim support from Dei Verbum’s statement that
“the books of Scripture must be acknowledged as teaching solidly, faithfully and
without error that truth which God wanted to put into sacred writing for the
sake of salvation” (DV 10). For Feingold, however, such a reading is heretical
since it fails to conform to papal condemnations from the early part of the
twentieth century. A strong hermeneutic of continuity is operative throughout
his work, and Feingold’s arguments throw into question any claim that the
council taught clearly on the subject. That said, he scarcely does justice to the
significant problems that arise from a strong doctrine of inerrancy or to the
council’s freedom to back away from statements such as those of the Pontifical
Biblical Commission under St. Pius X.
In regard to upholding the historical reliability of the Gospels, Feingold
rightly sees the necessity of defanging Rudolf Bultmann’s use of form criticism
to disconnect the historical Jesus from what is presented in the New Testament.
If the gospel witness to Jesus is not historically credible, neither can be the
Church’s teaching about him. To make his positive case, Feingold uses the
writings of Benedict XVI to good effect as well as some recent work on the
reliability of oral tradition in oral cultures. But I wish he were more willing to
engage with the work of Protestant specialists who make similar arguments with
more expertise and nuance, such as James Dunn, Richard Bauckham, and Dale
Allison. As it is, the case he makes is overly burdened by his strong view of
inerrancy and his questionable insistence on the binding authority of preconciliar statements on matters such as the primacy of Matthew and the
apostolic authorship of John. He is on much safer ground when he argues that
the Church authoritatively teaches, as an implication of the revealed truth that
sustains its common life, the historical reliability of the Gospels. “To be a
disciple of Christ means to believe the apostolic witness about Christ contained
preeminently in the Gospels, as well as the rest of Scripture and Tradition”
(489). Feingold builds upon this insight in the final part of the book, which is
dedicated to biblical typology.
Like Feingold, Mansini orders his presentation in light of the Church’s faith
conviction that God has spoken to us in Jesus Christ. Accordingly, his aim is to
demonstrate by reasoned argument what has been revealed about revelation “on
the basis of . . . revelation itself as inscribed in Scripture and Tradition, and as
these things are expounded by the Magisterium, and with the very reason that
faith illumines, but where revelation itself again declares the scope and the
nature of the illumination it brings to reason” (5). Thereby, the work is divided
into two parts: “God Speaks” (which treats revelation, Tradition, Scripture, and
Church and dogma) and “Man Hears” (which treats praeambula fidei,
credibility, faith, and theology).
Since divine faith presumes divine testimony, Mansini begins with Dei
Verbum’s description of revelation as a “pattern” constituted by the unfolding
of deeds and words, interconnected and mutually illuminative, to establish a

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history of salvation. The ultimate form of this pattern is revealed in Christ, but
Christ cannot be understood apart from the history of Israel and a consequent
community beholden to the witness of his apostles empowered by the Holy
Spirit. For this pattern to reveal God, words are needed, words that communicate who God is, what he has done and continues to do, and how we are
to respond. Accordingly, an ineffable experience of revelation, a notion that
Mansini argues has caused great mischief in postconciliar theology, is an
oxymoron. It tells us nothing and leaves us trapped in immanence. That said,
revelatory words are bolstered by and explanatory of the revelatory actions that
make up a history of salvation revealing Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The Bible
reveals the Trinity by presenting two testaments that display an intricate pattern
that shows forth a coherent whole through the manifold resonances of its parts.
It is by contemplating and enacting this complex narrative of God’s saving plan
from creation to glory that we are able to speak words about God’s word.
To have effect, words once spoken must be repeated, and thus revelation
requires an authoritative Tradition, a “handing on of the deeds of the Lord and
the words that illuminate them” (43). Tradition, in this sense, is prior to and
encompasses Scripture. Apart from a sufficiently stabilized Tradition of
preaching, worship, sacramental practice, and the beginnings of Church order,
the New Testament could not have arisen either as individual books or a canon.
At the same time, the stability unique to the written word gives Tradition a
surety that would otherwise be unavailable. Of course, the various elements that
make up Tradition must be borne by a community that persists from generation
to generation, a community that is both agent of the Tradition, determining its
boundaries, and its recipient, continually forming itself in light of what has been
handed on. This community is the Church. At this point, we can see an
important convergence between our two authors: revelation must be
understood in light of the community that it creates and through which revealed
truth is upheld through history.
Like Feingold, Mansini gives special attention to the question of the divine
inspiration of Scripture’s human authors. If revelation is the conveying of
knowledge about God that human beings need but are incapable of providing,
the revelatory character of the Bible is due to its being divinely inspired. This
topic is fraught, and Mansini is clearly aware that a sound approach must
counter not only skepticism concerning the Bible’s veracity but a naïve fundamentalism hopelessly vulnerable to the legitimate deliverances of reason. In
dealing with the knotty and pastorally urgent issue of inerrancy, Mansini works
from two judgments: divine inspiration entails inerrancy, and the Bible contains
errors. Holding these together is the work of reason operating within the ambit
of faith, and dealing with difficulties is an exercise not of apologetic
demonstration but rather of faith seeking understanding. Theologians must
confront the possibility of errors with the confidence of divine faith that
Scripture “gives us an unfailing and certain access to the revelation of God”
(102). The challenges are three: metaphysical (e.g., God seemingly causing evil

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by hardening Pharaoh’s heart), moral (e.g., the divine command to slaughter
the Amalekites), and historical (e.g., conflicts between the Gospels). With the
first, Mansini holds that while the distinction between God’s positive and
permissive will was not always well articulated, the overall pattern of revelation
teaches divine innocence. Likewise, Mansini handles the morally dark passages
in the OT by arguing that the pattern as a whole points to Israel’s moral
education over time, a divine pedagogy culminating in the person and teachings
of Jesus. Regarding the presence of historical falsehoods, Mansini is refreshingly
frank: “An inerrant Scripture does not imply that everything constituting the
economy of salvation is described with an unvarying historical exactitude;
rather, the descriptions Scripture offers us admit of inventions, verisimilitudinous guesses according to the lights of the human author, fictional
elaborations of narrative truth, and minor slips that have nothing to do with the
point of the assertion” (105). These things do not undermine either biblical
inspiration or its consequent inerrancy, since the Bible is inspired in its unity.
While individual passages might contain errors, these texts are to be approached
in light of the whole pattern of revelation to the Church. Mansini’s sobriety
here is admirable; he maintains the revelatory character of Scripture without
burdening it with a load it cannot bear. In comparison to Feingold, Mansini
provides a more stable intellectual foundation for the young theologian.
The final section of “God Speaks” treats the Church and dogma. As with
Tradition and Scripture, Mansini highlights the Church and its teaching
authority as entailed by God’s successful communication of supernatural truth
to human beings. The Church is the “first consequence of revelation since . . .
there is no teaching unless someone is taught and there is no word spoken unless
it has been heard” (112). Apart from a “custodian” guided by the Holy Spirit to
maintain what has been handed on, Tradition would slip, and Scripture would
be confined to what was originally expressed. Of course, if the Church is to
convey the truth of God and his work in the world, its authoritative dogmas
must be propositional. In contrast to the Modernists who conceived of dogmas
as historically and culturally conditioned human speech employed to express
essentially ineffable experiences of the divine, Mansini insists that dogmas are
divinely authorized words, which are thereby transhistorical and transcultural.
Mansini begins his “Man Hears” section with a discussion of the praeambula
fidei, “those things that walk before faith” and are thus philosophically
presupposed by the reception of divine revelation in faith by a rational creature.
Such praeambula include the ability of human minds to transcend the merely
sensible to attain spiritual realities, and philosophy’s capacity to formulate
demonstrations of God’s existence. Yet, even though Catholic faith presupposes
such strength on the part of philosophy, its confidence arises from faith and is
independent of the success of any particular philosophical argument. The same
mindset informs Mansini’s treatment of credibility and the act of faith, topics
that traditionally held a place of honor in the manuals but for a variety of

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reasons have almost dropped from sight. It is a signal contribution of Mansini’s
work that he gives them such intelligent attention.
As expected, Mansini ties credibility with the fact of divine speaking. “God
does not speak unless he can be heard, and he does not command unless he can
be obeyed” (184). Because human beings are rational by nature, our acceptance
of revelation must be in accord with our capacity to discover what is true about
the world by reason. One must be careful, however, to distinguish between
God’s “uncreated credibility” and the “created credibility” our reason uncovers.
To render God credible on any other basis than his identity as first truth is
“either confused or tantamount to blasphemy” (ibid.). Fundamental theology,
nonetheless, makes the best case it can for the credibility of Christianity and this
includes: (1) the internal coherence of salvation history, (2) the words of Jesus,
(3) the Resurrection, (4) the apostolic witness of the risen Jesus, (5) the
foundation of the Church, and (6) the intrinsic believability of that Church’s
dogma. Each of these is connected to the others, and they together build up the
ultimate case for why an act of Christian faith is an act befitting a rational being.
I shall focus on (3) and (4).
The idea that the credibility of the Resurrection is based on the empty tomb
and the appearances of the risen Jesus held pride of place in the manuals. Yet,
as theology more and more emphasized the operations of grace on the believing
subject, arguments for the historicity of the Easter event fell out of favor and
were even viewed as a type of rationalism. Sensitive to this charge, Mansini
insists that the main issues at play in the Resurrection’s credibility are not
historiographical but theological. He uses the image of an upper blade of
historical arguments and a lower blade “of the theological categories to
understand why the Christ must suffer and why death could not hold him”
(197). Students will benefit from his summaries of the historical arguments of
such scholars as Wolfhart Pannenberg, N. T. Wright, and Dale Allison. Of
course, since our awareness of the Resurrection comes solely by apostolic
witness, Mansini agrees with Feingold that a Catholic fundamental theology
must provide scholarly arguments on behalf of the historical basis of the Gospel
accounts. The goal, however, will not be apodictic demonstration—ancient
history does not afford this—but rather to provide “enough evidence to satisfy
the mind of those whom the Holy Spirit moves to believe, but without sufficient
evidence to compel belief in those who choose to perish” (202-3).
Mansini caps his discussion of credibility by dealing with the problem that
despite the fact that we are certainly right to believe God when he speaks, the
fact of revelation is not established by its mere assertion. One must proceed
delicately here, holding two rather different convictions in balance: God has
provided “signs” of credibility that he has revealed himself, and belief in these
signs is not interior to the act of faith. Mansini’s solution is that “the fact of
revelation and the revealed content are attained in the same act” (239-40). We
believe, in the same graced act, what God has said and that God has said it. The
argument here is subtle, however, since much depends on a proper

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understanding of faith and reason within the act of believing. It is worth the
effort.
The book concludes with the topic of theology, which Mansini defines as
“our word about God’s word spoken to us in Christ and mediated to us by the
Church in Scripture and Tradition, and in her own magisterial determination
of its content in dogma” (244). It is rendered necessary not only because of
challenges to faith but also by the inclusiveness of what it means to deal with a
word of God. Theology, therefore, must be both true to its revealed foundation
and capable of engaging with all claims to speak truthfully about the world, the
human person, and the divine. Recent history tells us that there is more than
one way to thread this needle, and the plurality of theological methods requires
some explanation for the novice called upon to navigate the complexities of
contemporary Catholic theology.
Mansini offers a taxonomy of twentieth-century Catholic theology, consisting of Modernism, theology as an Aristotelian science, and the nouvelle
théologie. While Modernism was magisterially condemned at the beginning of
the twentieth century, theology as an Aristotelian science (i.e., Thomism) served
as its papally sanctioned antidote leading up to the Second Vatican Council.
Revelation for Modernism is essentially ineffable, and theology is a human
attempt to articulate the role of the spiritual in human flourishing. In contrast,
Thomist theology accepts revelation as the conveyance of supernatural
knowledge to human beings, with theology being primarily a matter of learning
what is “posited” in revelation. Mansini has much positive to say about “positive
theology” and convincingly argues that the standard criticisms are overwrought
and, in any case, fail to recognize the level of sophistication Thomism attained
by the middle of the twentieth century. Nonetheless, the criticisms that Thomist
theology was insufficiently attuned to the historical sciences (including what
was being discovered about Aquinas himself) created a space for the emergence
of la nouvelle théologie, which sought “to recover a more lively patristic
presence in contemporary theology, but also to break the hold of Thomism on
Catholic theology that had been in place since Leo XIII” (266). Its success is
undeniable not only from its massive influence on the documents of Vatican II
but also by the prominent place it has had in theology since the council. That
said, Mansini notes that a number of its most prominent figures drifted toward
Modernism late in their careers by allowing experience untutored by revelation
as a theological source. In contrast, others such as de Lubac, Daniélou, and
Balthasar can be understood as practitioners of the “theology of disclosure,” a
term coined by Robert Sokolowski, which supposes the truth of Church
doctrine regarding what God has revealed and in that light “attends to how
Christ and Christian things appear to us. It is interested in how they must appear
to us, if the very thing to be seen really is seen” (266). Rooted in
phenomenology, this approach does not attend to the causes of things and thus
ought to be complimented with more metaphysical theology as a science.
Accordingly, Mansini believes that a proper theological education must be

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informed by the best of both la nouvelle théologie and the Thomism that
dominated prior to the council. If this is done properly, the student will
experience “the deep satisfaction of the desire to know the causes of things and
the ordering of reasons, prior and posterior” as well as the “constantly renewed
delight at beholding the way the mysteries first present themselves to a greater
than philosophic wonder that the theology of disclosure gives us” (272).
The work of these two authors fills an important need in Catholic theological
education. Each reliably presents the basics of fundamental theology in light of
the relationship of revealed knowledge and divine faith. While Feingold’s
approach is more suited to beginners, Mansini’s is more demanding and, in my
judgment, provides more intellectual meat on central issues such as biblical
authority and credibility.
JAMES KEATING
Providence College
Providence, Rhode Island

The Anatomy of Misremembering: Von Balthasar’s Response to Philosophical
Modernity. Vol. 1, Hegel. By CYRIL O’REGAN. New York: Herder and
Herder, 2014. Pp. xviii + 678. $36.91 (paper). ISBN 978-0-82452562-0.
This is a magisterial book by a major theological scholar and thinker. It is
focused in its central concerns and wide-ranging in its reference to theological
and philosophical resources, contemporary and traditional. It is written with
flourish and with the signatures of a distinctive style of intellectual orientation.
It has the wide fling of extensive erudition and the sharp focus of intensive
insight. It is a book which offers an education in itself, even as it illuminates
diverse themes and thinkers, chief among which are Hans Urs von Balthasar and
G. W. F. Hegel. One is tempted to compare it to a cathedral in its encompassing
embrace, and while these thinkers are brought for dialogue and dispute on the
high altar, there are many other side altars filled with the murmurs of other
disputations and related discussions. In its range it is a treasury of theology, not
in any loose sense of a mere collection of valuables but more literally as
containing treasures for theological contemplation.
One senses an extraordinary ambition at work. Among the major concerns
are the relations between philosophy and theology—philosophy especially in
the extraordinarily challenging works of Hegel and Heidegger, theology in the
form of the extraordinarily ambitious work of Balthasar. What are those
relations, what form of those relations is preferable for theological investi-

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gation? Some forms of philosophy are hospitable to theology, some not so.
Some on the surface are hospitable but, like rip currents on a calm surface, hide
secret dangers that might carry one away to places of doom. Others are more
directly antagonistic; others again are insinuating of the sacred, and yet the
insinuations carry potentially poisonous equivocities in relation to Christian
theology in particular. The current volume has Hegel as Balthasar’s major
interlocuter, Hegel whose surface of philosophical hospitality towards Christianity hides a questionable speculative counterfeiting. The second volume, still
to follow, will engage Heidegger as perhaps the equivocally insinuating
interlocutor.
The question is if, and how, the theology of Balthasar illuminates the
philosophies of Hegel and Heidegger in light of whether they are imperialistic
projects which colonize theological discourse, either as a whole, as Hegel might
be said to do, or in significant part, as Heidegger might be suspected of having
done. A theology that wants to be true to the canonical theological tradition
and maintain its faithful integrity must be wary of these thinkers and the
inheritances of thinking that have come from their work.
The response to this question would not be some univocal negation of these
thinkers but finessed comprehension of how their complex thought presents a
temptation and an opportunity. In the work of Balthasar, O’Regan finds
multiple resources to respond in ways that are both welcoming of what is to be
recognized as worthy and standing against what is to be resisted. There is a
diagnostic side to this, as well as a more positive rejoinder, the resources for
which again are said to be found in the very wide-ranging, yet significantly
focused theology of Balthasar.
Given that Balthasar’s thought is spread out over many volumes, it is not an
easy task to get the measure of his relation to Hegel via one or a few decisive
texts of Hegel. O’Regan’s claim is that Balthasar’s entire triptych of Theological
Aesthetics, Theodramatics, and Theologic (15 volumes in English) contains a
sustained engagement with Hegel (and Heidegger). Hegel’s philosophical and
theological authority is proposed by O’Regan as the motivation for this
engagement. This authority is carried by the comprehensiveness of this philosophy, in terms of both its incisive insights and its being in communication, at
least in intention, with the history of Western philosophy as a whole. Hegel
particularly was concerned with religion in general and Christianity in
particular, attempting to transpose into philosophical concepts what he claimed
to be articulated in representational terms in religion, most crucially the
doctrine of the Trinity. The encounter between Balthasar and Heidegger will
be modified to suit the distinctive concerns of Heidegger, early and late, not
least the sacred intonation of the dialogue of the poet and the thinker.
To offer a brief summary of what exceeds summary: The book is divided
into four parts, following a preface and introduction in which Heidegger figures
almost as much as Hegel. Part 1 is entitled “The Specter of Hegel and the
Haunting of Ancient Discourses.” It offers a genealogy of Hegel, as well as

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allowing Balthasar to confront Hegel in a trial by genealogy. However attractive
Hegel is, accepting him would require “massive rethinking of received Christian
views” (50).
Part 2 is called “Gloriously Awry: Hegel’s Epic Deviation.” Here Balthasar
is presented as something of a Trojan horse entering the Hegelian sanctuary.
Oriented towards the substantive confrontation with Hegel, it follows the
“great deflections” of Hegelianism from the mainstream of Christianity.
Part 3 is entitled “Of Fathers and Sons.” In one chapter we visit Bathasarian
fathers, modern and premodern, especially Franz Anton Staudenmaier,
Irenaeus, Sergei Bulgakov and Johan Georg Hamann. In the subsequent chapter
we drop in on the Hegelian and Valentinian paternity claimed to be in
contemporary theological thought. Jürgen Moltmann is given central stage in
this account.
Part 4 is called “Eidetic Apocalyptic and its Contemporary Rivals.” First
among the thinkers here is Johann Baptist Metz, but attention is also given to
Ernst Bloch and Walter Benjamin. Part 4 could well be a monograph in itself—
something we find also in the works of the master Balthasar, where some “parts”
are close to being entire works unto themselves. Part 4 serves to bring out “what
gradually was becoming apparent throughout Parts 2 and 3, that the battle
between Balthasar and Hegel is nothing less than an apocalypticomachia” (516).
Worth recalling is that Balthasar’s three-volume Habilitation, Apokalypse der
deutschen Seele (1937-39) offered a diagnosis of modern German philosophy
and literature as thoroughly apocalyptic—granting that these forms of
apocalyptic diverge from biblical apocalyptic.
In relation to the Christian tradition, O’Regan sees the Enlightenment as
embodying a forgetting. And while German Romanticism and German Idealism
are post-Enlightenment, indeed often anti-Enlightenment, the Enlightenment
critique of Christianity is broadly sustained, and a selective memory of the
Western tradition is perpetuated. Balthasar’s response to philosophical modernity in the figure of Hegel is open to positive features, even while also being
critical. Among the positive features are the hospitality of Christianity to speculative philosophy; the importance of a Christological outlook, and especially
the doctrine of the Trinity; the rejection of reason in rationalistic guise, and the
enlargement of reason’s embrace to the whole, including the human whole; the
drama of history as theater of divine providence; the philosophical ascription
of a certain absoluteness to art, and religion. By contrast, on the critical side,
there are signs that something has gone awry in Hegel’s philosophy and its
aftereffects in the reconfiguration of the relation of reason to the theological
tradition, the interaction between the human and the divine, with heterodox
consequences for Christology and Trinitarianism. Some of the negative
consequences noted by Balthasar include an imperialism of philosophical reason
that erases mystery while claiming to comprehend it; a monistic interpretation
of the narrative of creation, fall, redemption, and eschaton as the self-mediated
realization of Spirit; the collapse of the difference between the immanent and

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economic Trinity; the erasure of resurrection and ascension; the overcoming of
the singularity of the person of Christ by the community of spirit, itself
superseded in immanence by the State and its Sittlichkeit.
O’Regan finds one precedent for his own task in Franz Anton Staudenmaier
(1800-1856) who addresses the matters mentioned above and repudiates an
alliance between German Idealism and Catholic theology. He also is inspired by
the mission of Irenaeus in his struggle with the Gnostic production of
“counterfeit doubles” of the Christian understanding of divinity. O’Regan’s
other works on a Gnostic return in modernity, a heroic undertaking in itself,
testify strongly to his own desire to be something of a postmodern Irenaeus. In
fact, he thinks that the most apt genealogical categories for a full theological
understanding of Hegel, through the eyes of Balthasar, are the “apocalyptic”
and the “gnostic.” The apocalyptic dimension comes especially to the fore in
the last part of the book.
While this great book is replete with many discussions, let me offer some
remarks on Hegel. It is worth recalling that O’Regan’s first book, The Heterodox
Hegel (SUNY Press, 1994) is an outstanding work, and one of the best books on
Hegel’s philosophy of religion to have appeared in English. It is fair to Hegel to
a fault, and yet it is marked by a philosophical and theological finesse that
penetrates to the heart of Hegelian matters. As we see in the book under review,
O’Regan continues not to be taken in naively by the speculative rhetoric of
Hegel when he speaks of God. There is hermeneutical finesse, attentive to
significant equivocities in Hegel’s dialectical-speculative rendition of God and
the relation between God and humans.
The title of the current book is especially revealing. Misremembering cannot
be defined by a simple contrast of remembering and forgetting. Misremembering is neither remembering not forgetting. Misremembering presents
itself as remembering but it is a form of untrue remembering which is
paradoxically a kind of forgetting claiming to be remembering. Our relation to
tradition(s) is at issue—what we remember of them, what we forget of them, or
are to forget, what we misremember of them, and why we misremember thus.
Misremembering is a kind of counterfeit remembering which may be entirely
sincere about itself. It is a kind of “make-over” of what is remembered for
present purposes, purposes which might well be resisted by a truer
remembering. We speak of selective memory but there are selections that
amount to misrememberings. O’Regan claims that Balthasar offers the truer
recollection.
The Anatomy of Misremembering is also marvelously suggestive relative to
anatomy. Anatomy refers us to the study of bodily structures and functions, but
it is often furthered by dissections performed on bodies that are dead. O’Regan
does not want to imply that the body of Hegel is dead simply. There is a
haunting at work, as is evident in speaking of the specter of Hegel (haunting is
also at issue in O’Regan’s exploration of Jacob Boehme relative to the Gnostic
return in modernity). Haunting has to do with something that is dead, a ghost,

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a Geist, not alive and still alive, in life and beyond life, taking forms, often
unnatural if we go by the measure of given being. A revenant: someone who
returns (from the dead). The theme is not far from the Christian notion of
resurrection, though it is not the same. And yet this pervasively haunts Hegel’s
system as a whole: the returning ghost, the ever-returning Geist, the always selfreturning Holy Ghost.
The stress on “misremembering” makes us remember how Hegel’s Phenomenology ends with the claim that the absolute knowing of true philosophy is
a recollection, an Erinnerung, in which spirit runs through its myriad forms and
now at this point of culmination finds always itself, even in those forms where
previously it had taken to be related to an other than itself. Now in the final
self-recollection, it is the self of absolute Geist that finds itself in all of these
others. In a certain sense, this is a claim of absolute philosophical memory. It is
not like Platonic anamnesis which can never be absolutely accomplished in this
life. The Hegelian claim seems to be that absolute knowing is itself the
accomplishment of this completed Erinnerung. This is, in effect, the claim to
entirely overcome any “beyond,” any transcendence that only seemingly
remains other to the process of philosophical knowing itself.
O’Regan has written many essays (some of them verging on being small
monographs) on themes in Hegel’s philosophy of religion. I am thinking particularly of his marvelous review essay of Henry Harris’s book on Hegel’s
Phenomenology of Spirit which has the subtitle: “Hegel’s Liquidation of
Christianity.” The liquidation is effected by Hegel in the transition from religion
to philosophy. It is the liquidation of the sense of insuperable mystery marking
the divine in its “always greater dissimilitude” or asymmetrical transcendence.
The originality of O’Regan’s suggestion here is that Hegel’s project of complete
Erinnerung entails crucial misrememberings. It remembers, and its memory
might seem to be accurate, but this turns out not to be true. Hegelian Erinnerung
entails an extraordinary engagement with the diversity of forms which have
been assumed previously by the spirit, but, because the form of remembering is
itself marked by a kind of forgetting, it is an extraordinary misremembering of
something that above all else should not be forgotten.
O’Regan’s work is an act of prodigious remembering that might be termed
an act of theological witness. The witness is exemplary of the spirit of truth. I
compared it to a treasury above, but I conclude by invoking its likeness to a
cornucopia: a plenitude offering gifts that overflow determinate exhaustion.
While I have stressed its primary concern with the relation of Balthasar and
Hegel, the book could be the basis for an extensive education in modern
theology, as well as recuperative appropriations of major figures in Western
theological and philosophical traditions. On many levels, given its richness, it
asks to be read and read again. It calls for continued enactment of true memory,
never finished with the fullness to which it seeks to be faithful. The excellences
of this work make one wait with eager anticipation for the volume to follow,

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which, again in dialogue with Balthasar, will seek to take the measure of
Heidegger.
WILLIAM DESMOND
Villanova University
Villanova, Pennsylvania

Thomas Aquinas on the Beatitudes: Reading Matthew, Disputing Grace and
Virtue, Preaching Happiness. By ANTON TEN KLOOSTER. Leuven: Peeters,
2018. Pp. ix + 314. ISBN: 978-90-429-3643-0.
This detailed and painstaking study of the beatitudes in Aquinas is an
important work, well worth the labor required to follow its dense lines of
argumentation. The merits of this volume are many: a fine (and up-to-date)
description of biblical exegesis in Aquinas, a nuanced account of grace and merit
in Aquinas’s thought, fresh insight into the organization of the Secunda pars
according to the theme of happiness/beatitude, and a concise and persuasive
summary of how Aquinas correlates infused virtues, gifts of the Spirit, fruits of
the Spirit, and the beatitudes.
One major contribution of this study is signaled by the sub-title: ten Klooster
shows (in chap. 1) how Aquinas’s threefold task as a master of Scripture fits
together into a coherent and ordered whole: “The single office consisted in the
exercise of three tasks: to read and comment on Scripture, legere, to hold
disputations, disputare, and to preach, praedicare” (iv). This simple outline
sheds a great deal of light on how biblical commentary, disputed questions, and
preaching worked together in Aquinas’s day, and for ten Klooster should work
together in our time. The task begins with teaching what the Scripture says—
this is the basic and foundational work of the magister in sacred Scripture. This
gives rise to questions and issues, which are then taken up through disputation
where contrary answers are considered and resolution is offered. Finally, the
fruit of all this work yields the preaching of the word, whereby the Scripture is
made available to the whole congregation for spiritual nourishment. “The
interpretation of the letter is given in the lectio, the systematic elaboration in
the disputatio, and the praedicatio applies it to the happiness of the saints and
to the life of the believer” (243). This simple outline clarifies how these three
distinct activities were ordered and coordinated within the single task of rightly
handling the Scripture. Together they are “part of medieval Scriptural hermeneutics” (2). And by ordering his study of the beatitudes in Aquinas according

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to this threefold model, ten Klooster displays for the reader how this threefold
task of handling the Scripture can function.
Ten Klooster also provides (again in chap. 1) a concise description of the
hermeneutics of Scripture in Aquinas. Surveying the scholarly renaissance of
works on Aquinas as a biblical commentator and theologian, he includes brief
discussions on the senses of Scripture, the purpose and unity of the Bible, the
use of authorities, and the technique of divisio textus (the division of the text).
What value does Aquinas’s biblical hermeneutics have for us today? Ten
Klooster offers a nuanced position. On the one hand, Aquinas’s presuppositions
(unicity of Scripture, multiple senses) put him “at a great distance from presentday Biblical exegesis” (29); to receive his approach uncritically would not do
justice to the advances in biblical studies since his day. On the other hand, a
“full rejection” of his method “would not do justice to what is of value in his
reading of Scripture” (ibid.). In the study of the beatitudes that follows, ten
Klooster practices this critical reception of Aquinas, identifying elements that
are deficient but also promoting qualities that would benefit the reading and
interpretation of Scripture today.
On the disputed question of whether Aquinas allows for more than one
literal sense of a given text of Scripture, ten Klooster offers a view that is not
fully satisfactory. He plainly inclines to the view that in principle there can be
only one literal sense of a text for Aquinas, but he recognizes that Aquinas often
gives more than one reading at the literal level. “In the [Matthew] commentary,
it is striking that Aquinas seeks to establish the literal sense, but never pins it
down to a single interpretation. In theory, it may be possible to say that there is
a single literal sense, but in the practice of exegesis it is difficult to find Aquinas
defining it” (61). Summing up, he states that “the unicity of the literal sense is
clear in principle,” but that Aquinas’s actual exegetical practice is “more
complicated” (65). One can wonder whether this conviction about the unicity
of the literal sense in theory is derived more from contemporary assumptions
than from Aquinas’s actual practice. The great frequency of multiple literal
readings in Aquinas cannot be accounted for on the basis of Aquinas’s not
knowing what the best reading is, or on the basis of a distinction between a
“more literal” and “less literal” reading of the text (60). If we begin from
Aquinas’s actual consistent practice, it would seem that he makes room for
multiple readings at the literal level, and that he did not find this multiplicity a
threat to his own stated principle that the literal sense is the basis for all the
spiritual senses.
In chapters 2 and 3, ten Klooster offers a close study of Aquinas’s reading
(legere) of the beatitudes in his Commentary on Matthew and situates Aquinas’s
discussion of “happiness” within both the classical tradition and the medieval
tradition of his own day. Several important conclusions emerge from this initial
study of the beatitudes in the Matthew commentary. First, ten Klooster finds
that, for Aquinas, “the beatitudes are a form of moral instruction, rather than a
collection of eschatological promises or a series of uplifting sayings” (84). The

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beatitudes function for Aquinas as “the core text of the new law” (85). They are
meant for all Christians of whatever state in life, and they describe the kinds of
virtuous activity that the grace of Christ enables us to attain in this life. Second,
ten Klooster shows how Aquinas views each beatitude as a form of meritorious
action: the first line of each beatitude describes this action, the second offers
the reward for the action. Yet this merit is not something that puts God in debt
to us, but rather to himself—to the fulfillment of his own promise. Further, the
meritorious action is always a product of the gifts of the Spirit: “Aquinas is only
able to speak about merit in relation to the grace of the Holy Spirit, in particular
the gifts” (89). Third, ten Klooster asks whether the “virtue” described here is
acquired or infused: Aquinas isn’t always explicit when talking about virtuous
action. Ten Klooster tentatively concludes that Aquinas is speaking only of
infused virtue when considering the beatitudes, a conclusion that he will
confirm when he examines the beatitudes in the Summa.
What is the worth of Aquinas’s reading (legere) of the beatitudes in the
Commentary on Matthew? Pointing to the Second Vatican Council’s express
desire for a solid scriptural foundation for moral theology, ten Klooster offers
Aquinas’s interpretation of the Sermon on the Mount as a beneficial example.
By weaving together the beatitudes, the Decalogue, the new law, grace, the gifts
of the Spirit, and virtuous action, Aquinas provides a model for how scriptural
interpretation can undergird moral theology (122).
In his longest chapter (chap. 4), ten Klooster turns to Aquinas’s treatment of
the beatitudes in the Summa Theologiae. The primary issue he addresses is how
to understand the relationship between infused virtue (especially faith, hope,
and love), the gifts of the Spirit, the beatitudes, and the fruits of the Spirit.
Through careful analysis, ten Klooster offers an integrated picture of how these
work together for Aquinas. At the foundation are the infused virtues and the
gifts. These are the principles of human action, the habitus that grounds human
action. The infused virtues bring perfection to the faculties of the soul. “But
even infused virtues are not sufficient to move the human person toward his
ultimate end. There still needs to be some prompting of the Holy Spirit, to give
the definitive orientation to the virtues” (159). The same Spirit who infuses the
virtues also provides the gifts, as well as the impulse (instinctus) that moves the
soul toward its end. The result is that, for Aquinas, “the Holy Spirit does not
bypass free human action but rather perfects it by acting upon it” (161).
Where do the beatitudes and the fruits of the Spirit fit into this picture? Ten
Klooster shows that, for Aquinas, both beatitudes and gifts are actus that build
on the habitus of the infused virtues and gifts. The fruits of the Spirit are the
internal acts that the Spirit produces, while the beatitudes are the perfection of
action manifested in outward acts that culminate in the love of God and
neighbor. Klooster offers this summary of the integration of these elements in
the moral life:
The alignment of the beatitudes with the gifts of the Holy Spirit is key
to our interpretation of Aquinas. It reflects the distinction between

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habitus and actus. . . . The alignment of the virtues with the gifts then
explains how grace begins to take root in the soul, and the alignment of
beatitudes and fruits harmonizes exterior and interior actions (244).

In this context, an especially noteworthy contribution is ten Klooster’s
demonstration that, as Aquinas matured in his thought, the place of the Holy
Spirit in the Christian life —and the Spirit’s direct activity upon the individual—
came to the foreground and occupied a more prominent place. This is not an
insignificant insight. Given that the Western tradition—Aquinas included—is
often critiqued for having a deficient pneumatology, this clear indication of the
growing prominence of the person and work of the Spirit in Aquinas’s moral
theology is weighty. Ten Klooster shows that in his early works Aquinas relied
on a distinction between action humano modo and action supra humanum
modum to distinguish natural from supernatural activity. But probably due to
greater awareness of semi-Pelagianism, Aquinas shifted his terminology and
began to speak more directly about the activity of the Spirit and the direct effects
of the Spirit. In the Summa theologiae,
the distinction between humano modo and supra humanum modum is
replaced by a distinction between respectively acts of acquired virtue,
and acts of infused virtues and the gifts. In discussing the gifts, Aquinas
puts an even stronger emphasis on inspiration, and on the Spirit moving
the human person, and he introduces the term instinctus to describe this
movement (137).

For Aquinas in his mature thought, then, to achieve beatitude and merit eternal
life requires the direct activity of the Spirit (gifts and fruits), including the
internal instinctus (impulse, inspiration, instigation) of the Spirit in the soul.
Ten Klooster’s treatment of the third task of the master of Scripture, namely,
preaching (praedicare), is brief but enlightening. The beatitudes appear in two
sermons Aquinas preached for the Feast of All Saints and in his preaching on
the Lord’s Prayer. In the two sermons, the focus is on the saints already in
heaven who serve as examples and models for us in our efforts to reach the
beatitude of heaven. In the preaching on the Lord’s Prayer, Aquinas brings out
the intrinsic connections between the gifts of the Spirit, the individual petitions
of the Lord’s Prayer, and the beatitudes: “Just as the gifts bring about the
petitions, so the petitions bring about meekness, hunger for justice, etc.” (233).
Through this preaching on the Lord’s Prayer, Aquinas introduces prayer as an
essential element in living the beatitudes.
Anton ten Klooster’s study of the beatitudes in Aquinas simply bursts with
insights and interconnections. For this reason, he admits the difficulty of
categorizing his study. It treats topics typically grouped under moral theology
and virtue ethics, but the consideration of grace and the work of the Holy Spirit
positions the study more within dogmatic theology. Further, the historical
contextual treatment of biblical hermeneutics and the practices of the magister

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of sacred Scripture situate this work within the field of medieval studies. He
concludes that all of these categories apply and he readily embraces an
interdisciplinary approach in order better to understand the work of Aquinas
(v). In the end, ten Klooster sees this work as contributing to what Servais
Pinckaers calls “the freedom of excellence” (246). In this he admirably succeeds.
By uncovering Aquinas’s rich account of human action under the influence of
divine grace and the manifold work of the Spirit, ten Klooster opens up for us
the Angelic Doctor’s vision of the glory of God manifest in human beings
elevated by grace and equipped by the Spirit to attain to beatitude.
DANIEL A. KEATING
Sacred Heart Major Seminary
Detroit, Michigan

Thomas Aquinas and His Predecessors: The Philosophers and the Church Fathers
in His Works. By LEO J. ELDERS. Washington, D.C.: The Catholic
University of America Press, 2018. Pp. xv + 381. $75.00 (cloth). ISBN:
978-0-8132-3027-6.
The book under review is an English translation of Thomas d’Aquin et ses
prédécesseurs: La présence des grands philosophes et Pères de l’Église dans les
oeuvres de Thomas d’Aquin (Paris: Les Presses universitaires de l’IPC, 2015).
The French text has a dedication page to Pope Benedict XVI, which is missing
in the English edition. After a one-page author’s preface and a two-and-a-halfpage introduction, the book offers sixteen independent studies of select sources
of Aquinas’s thought, both philosophical and theological. The first five chapters
are (1) “Plato’s Philosophy,” (2) “Aristotle,” (3) “The Commentaries on the
Works of Aristotle,” (4) “The Stoa, Seneca, and Cicero,” and (5) “Gnosticism
and Neoplatonism: Philosophy in the First Centuries and Gnosis.” Elders offers
a sixth chapter, “The Fathers of the Church; Saint Augustine,” which supplies
an overview of the Fathers in less than three pages before turning to a
consideration of Augustine. The book’s chapters continue in this order: (7)
“Saint Jerome,” (8) “Saint John Chrysostom,” (9) “The Commentaries on Two
Treatises of Boethius,” (10) “Saint Gregory the Great,” (11) “The Platonism of
Pseudo-Dionysius,” (12) “The Metaphysics of the Liber de causis,” (13) “Saint
John Damascene and Saint Anselm of Canterbury,” (14) “Avicenna,” (15)
“Averroës,” and (16) “Jewish Philosophy: Avicebron and Maimonides.” No
conclusion is offered. Twenty-five books and articles written by Elders can be
found in his “works cited,” and Elders notes where he borrows from earlier
work in this new book.

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This collection of essays on Aquinas and the predecessors he consults makes
a valuable contribution to Thomistic studies. Elders writes, “Our intention is to
show the extent to which the thought of these authors is present in the works
of Aquinas, and is appreciated or discarded by him” (ix). Questions could always
be raised about why some predecessors are chosen and not others. Elders
considers only “those philosophers and theologians who occupy a considerable
place in the works of Aquinas,” and he leaves out “the authors whose influence
on Western thought has not been very considerable” (x). As for Aquinas’s debt
to patristic sources, Elders writes, “Only those Church Fathers have been
mentioned whose presence in the works of Aquinas is substantial and who have
made a considerable contribution to his doctrinal synthesis. Thus the reader will
not find chapters on St. Hilary of Poitiers, St. Ambrose, Origen, and so on” (x).
For the curious, it might be noted that Hilary’s name appears over 700 times,
Ambrose’s name over 1,100 times, and Origen’s name over 1,000 times in
Aquinas’s works. Elders continues that he has not examined the presence of the
Latin theologians of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Aquinas’s works. He
assesses the way in which Aquinas read his predecessors: “The final conclusion
which imposes itself after the detailed survey is that St. Thomas studied and
evaluated the doctrine of these authors with perfect objectivity, grasped the
essential elements, and examined the extent of their being well-founded and
true” (xi).
Elders offers many insightful summaries and adroit observations, always with
respect for Aquinas, and he frequently features priceless quotations of Aquinas’s
sources. I love this Scriptum quotation from Gregory the Great’s Homilies on
Ezekiel: “In sanctorum vita cognoscimus quid in scriptura intelligere debemus”
(194 n. 6: “In the life of the saints, we realize what we ought to understand in
Scripture”). Later in that chapter on Gregory, the reader finds both the Latin
and a translation of what Elders calls Gregory’s “striking formulae” found in
Aquinas’s works (215-18). For an example from that list, Aquinas quotes from
the Homilies on Ezekiel: “The fire of love kindled here on earth, will burn more
strongly when we see the One we love” (217). Similar lists are found in the
chapters on Jerome (130-31), Chrysostom, (176-77), and, in a way, the Liber
de causis (256-57).
When we grasp how the Common Doctor practices the common Scholastic
respect for authoritative predecessors, we come to a greater awareness of how
he constructs his own thought within a conversation that spans thinkers from
diverse centuries, continents, philosophies, and religions. Although Aquinas did
not know the original languages of several authors he reads in Latin translation,
he evinces a sensitivity to the importance of translation (such as in Contra
errores Graecorum, proemium) as well as of identifying the predecessor’s
historical setting, context, and texts—often with detail so as to help readers
know that what he cites is not, for example, simply from Dionysius, but from
Chapter IV of the Divine Names. Always and everywhere, Aquinas wants to
learn the truth. Continuing a thought from Aristotle, when he criticizes Plato,

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Aquinas comments: “All should prefer truth to their friends” (I Ethic., lect. 6).
In his zeal for the truth, Aquinas at times—explicitly or implicitly—criticizes his
predecessors, even those who have the authority of being sancti doctores and
are due a reverential exposition.
Elders has been a pioneer in giving detailed accounts of Aquinas’s use of
sources, and readers can appreciate both what he has done and what he has left
for others to do. The Lord tells Israel that at harvest time they should not
harvest the entire field of grain, but should leave to the poor and the foreigner
the grain that falls to be gleaned (see Lev 23:22). And so it should not be
surprising that, in a field so vast as Aquinas’s readings of his predecessors, we
find this book of essays giving readers some opportunity for gleaning what is
dropped.
Sometimes readers need to be attentive to problems in translation. For
instance, the translation of the introduction resolves an ambiguity in the French
original by stating that Aquinas wrote a commentary on Dionysius’s Celestial
Hierarchy (x, original text, 14), which is false. The translator needed to be more
alert to faux amis, as in that same passage the phrase “notes critiques
éventuelles” (original text, 14) is twice rendered by the English term “eventual”
rather than “possible.” Also, John of Damascus is not “currently called John
Damascene,” but “commonly called John Damascene” (262). A significant
translator error occurs in discussing John Damascene where a sentence begins,
“In a well-known text he affirms that Christ is the instrument of the Divine
Word” (263). It should read, “the humanity of Christ is the instrument of the
Divine Word” (original, 294).
At other times, the reader needs to do some work for reasons other than
translation. In a chapter on Aquinas and Aristotle, Elders writes: “It is
superfluous to say that certain themes lie entirely outside the field of
philosophy, such as the dogmas of the Divine Trinity, the Incarnation and the
Redemption, and the sacraments. With regard to these themes, we do not find
any references to Aristotle. There also are none in the treatise of the theological
virtues (ST II-II, qq. 1-46) except for the question whether with the virtue of
faith one can believe something which is not true” (33). This position overlooks
the integral role of philosophy within Aquinas’s account of sacra doctrina. With
respect to Aristotle’s presence in STh II-II, qq. 1-46, Aquinas cites “the
Philosopher” over 130 times in those questions. The only significant difference
from the French original is that the English translation supplies the reference to
STh II-II, q. 1, a. 3, s.c. for what Elders claims as the only Aristotelian reference
in the first 46 questions of the Secunda secundae. Detailed attention to STh I,
q. 1, a. 8, ad 2 in this book would have provided clarity into how Aquinas uses
his predecessors in the focus of sacra doctrina on sacred Scripture.
Other claims by Elders about the quantitative presence of the predecessors
in Aquinas’s thought could stand to be double checked or considered in a
different light. Consider the presence of Gregory the Great. Regarding his
Dialogues, Elders writes, “Thomas refers twenty-five times to it, nine of these

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are in the Quaestiones disputatae de veritate, but there is only one reference in
the Summa theologiae” (194). By my reckoning, there are over ninety explicit
citations of that work in Aquinas’s texts, including eighteen in the Summa.
Moreover, Gregory’s presence in Aquinas’s thought can be identified not only
in the writings named by Elders on pp. 193-95, but also in his prayers of the
Mass. At times Aquinas explicitly credits a prayer to Gregory’s authorship, such
as in II Sent., d. 36, q. 1, a. 4, s.c. 1. But at other times he is more subtle. For
example, Aquinas says that according to Gregory “to serve God is to reign” (see
IV Sent., d. 24, q. 3, a. 1, qcla. 1, s.c. 1). The line “cui servire, regnare est”
comes from a prayer of the Mass (Corpus Orationum 1110).
Sometimes I am puzzled by how Elders describes sources that Aquinas used.
For example, Elders writes that Aquinas refers over a thousand times to John
Damascene’s De fide orthodoxa, “a work that was considered a commentary on
the Creed of Nicaea” (262). All orthodox theology needs to affirm the Nicene
Creed. But who considered De fide orthodoxa a “commentary” on that creed?
Originally written in the Greek monastic practice of 100 chapters, this text was
translated into Latin in the twelfth century, and divided into four books in the
early thirteenth century, in seeming imitation of Peter Lombard’s four books of
the Sentences. In neither form does it appear to me as a commentary on the
Nicene creed.
In the overview of the Fathers of the Church that begins his chapter on
Augustine, Elders writes, “Toward the middle of the thirteenth century,
Burgundio of Pisa wrote good translations of the homilies of Chrysostom on
the Gospel according to John and Genesis, as well as of his commentary on the
Gospel according to Matthew” (103). (The French original has Burgundio of
Pisa called “Jean Burgundio de Pise” [original, 125].) But Burgundio translated
in the twelfth century, not the thirteenth, and he did not translate what Aquinas
thought was Chrysostom’s commentary on Matthew, but Chrysostom’s
homilies on Matthew. Aquinas differentiates the two texts in his prologue to
the Catena on Matthew, and complains there that the translation of
Chrysostom’s homilies is poor (vitiosa). Elders has a chapter on Chrysostom’s
presence in Aquinas’s thought, and does not alert the reader to this important
distinction between the authentic homilies on Matthew and the inauthentic
commentary, the latter a Latin creation called the Opus Imperfectum in
Matthaeum. Elders calls that same Burgundio of Pisa, an Italian jurist who also
translated John Damascene’s De fide orthodoxa, John of Bourgogne elsewhere
(262; Jean de Bourgogne in the original, 293).
On a few occasions I disagree with the concluding assessment of a figure, or
would have wished greater recognition of scholarly debate in this lively field of
Thomistic inquiry. As an illustration, at the end of his study on Aquinas’s two
commentaries on Boethius, Elders writes: “In this chapter the numerous points
of contact between the writings of Boethius and the thought of Aquinas have
been stressed. It would seem that in reality Thomas has taken very little from
this learned author from the end of Antiquity, but that what Boethius wrote in

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the field of the liberal arts has undoubtedly been an important factor in the
formation of the young Thomas” (192). In a note at the end of the chapter,
Elders directs the reader for further details to two sources, one of which is Ralph
McInerny’s Boethius and Aquinas (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University
of America Press, 1990). After making such arguments as Aquinas’s finding the
metaphysical essence/existence distinction in Boethius, McInerny concludes
that book with this plea: “It is time we stopped trying to imagine a Thomism
unindebted to its sources” (253). Boethius’s name appears 119 times in the
Summa, and the mature Thomas seems to me significantly indebted to Boethius.
Or, to consider the chapter entitled “The Platonism of Pseudo-Dionysius,”
Elders does not discuss the important scholarly arguments in the past several
decades over Aquinas’s reception of Dionysius. For the secondary literature, he
begins the chapter by summarizing Étienne Gilson’s account of Dionysius’s
identity, and throughout the chapter cites for scholarship only the landmark
1895 study by Josef Stiglmayr, a 1938 article by Henri-Charles Puech, a 1970
essay by I. P. Sheldon-Williams, and his own The Philosophical Theology of St.
Thomas Aquinas.
In sum, the prodigious labor of this book beckons those who follow Elders
to look carefully at how the Common Doctor uses his sources to give shape to
his own thought—which is most importantly about what he finds on the sacred
page. We can be thankful for the bountiful harvest of wisdom in this book of
Elders, and be encouraged to continue the work that remains.
ANDREW HOFER, O.P.
Pontifical Faculty of the Immaculate Conception
Washington, D.C.

The Indissolubility of Marriage and the Council of Trent. By E. CHRISTIAN
BRUGGER. Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press,
2017. Pp. xiii + 295. $69.95 (cloth). ISBN 978-0-8132-2952-2.
“The Church’s position on the indissolubility of sacramental and
consummated marriage . . . was in fact defined at the Council of Trent and so
belongs to the patrimony of the Faith” (17). So wrote Cardinal Joseph
Ratzinger, then Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, in a
letter to Charles E. Curran. This claim is the thesis of Brugger’s book. He
explains that the thesis needs defending because some theologians have
questioned it ever since Paulo Sarpi wrote a grossly tendentious history of the
council fifty years after its closing, and because many have denied the thesis in
recent decades, so much so that Curran was emboldened to respond, with

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obvious exaggeration, “All Catholic theologians recognize the teaching of the
Council of Trent does not exclude as contrary to faith the [divorce] practice of
‘economia’ in the Greek church” (ibid.). Brugger adds that defending the thesis
is particularly important now, given Cardinal Kasper’s proposal to admit some
sexually active civilly remarried divorcees to the Eucharist. For while Kasper
denies that this change in pastoral practice implies a change in doctrine, Brugger
maintains that the logic of such a pastoral change inevitably presupposes what
Trent denies—that the Church’s teaching about the absolute indissolubility of
sacramental, consummated marriage is reformable.
“Trent’s teaching,” Brugger affirms, “need not remain indefinitely in dispute.
Responsible scholarship can settle the question in a way that excludes serious
doubt” (ibid.). The purpose of his book is to do precisely that. It consists of a
preface, an introduction, five chapters, and three appendices. The preface
contextualizes the problem by noting that modern deniers of what Brugger dubs
the “indissolubility thesis” (15) have relied largely on the work of Piet Fransen,
S.J., who published a series of essays in the 1950s on Trent’s treatment of the
indissolubility of Christian marriage in the case of adultery. Fransen’s analysis
of Trent’s canon 7 on marriage, in light of both the canon’s broader context
and various recorded statements of the council fathers, led him to conclude that
they did not intend to define the indissolubility of marriage as a truth of faith.
Brugger notes that Kenneth Himes and James Coriden, in a 2004 article in
Theological Studies, rely on Fransen to support their claim that the
indissolubility thesis is false. He further notes that Germain Grisez and I, in a
response published in the same journal, “observed that at multiple points the
author [Fransen] seemed to assert conclusions that were not supported by the
historical record as set down in the Council’s Acta” (x).
Brugger focuses entirely on Trent, and he delves far deeper into the Acta
than Grisez and I could. He realizes that because much of the theological
community has assumed for decades that Fransen got it right, only a
comprehensive approach to the council’s treatment of indissolubility will suffice
to displace that assumption. Fransen reports the results of some of the votes and
cites remarks of various council fathers that seem to support his claims. Brugger
sees that because Fransen’s view is in the ascendancy and appeals to many
people, his own response will have to do more than offer selective quotations
that support his alternative account. He will instead have to equip readers to
judge for themselves, and he does this admirably.
Brugger not only provides (mainly in the chapters) a thorough commentary
on the ecclesial and cultural context and an in-depth treatment of the council
fathers’ discussion of the successive formulations of canons 7. He also supplies
(in Appendix A, in Latin and English) all of the authoritative texts cited by
council fathers and theologians. And he provides (in Appendix B, in Latin and
English) the momentous intervention of the Venetian delegation arguing for an
indirect formulation of canon 7 for the sake of the Greeks; the three successive
formulations of the doctrinal preface to the canons on marriage; and the four

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successive formulations of canon 7, along with tables that record the remarks
of individual fathers on the latter formulations and corresponding tables that
categorize those remarks so the reader can tell how many had this or that
opinion about the different formulations. Finally, Brugger provides a schedule
of the Council of Trent (Appendix C) that indicates which topic was discussed
when and where, and shows that the initial discussions of marriage took place
in 1547 in Bologna and were not taken up again until 1563 in Trent.
The book is a meticulous work of scholarship. Its virtually comprehensive
and extremely well-organized data about Trent’s treatment of indissolubility has
a powerful effect on the attentive reader, who is aware that he holds in his hands
all the evidence he needs to come to a sound judgment about the thesis Brugger
defends.
The introduction, beginning with the teaching of Jesus himself, discusses the
meaning of indissolubility and the development of the Christian understanding
of it. Scholars generally agree that, during the first five centuries, East and West
were united in regarding the indissolubility of consummated, sacramental
marriage as exceptionless. But, Brugger notes, whereas the Western Church, to
no small degree through the influence of St. Augustine, maintained this view,
the Greek Church began to adopt the civil law of the Eastern emperors on
divorce and remarriage, and thus to admit exceptions. The introduction also
briefly explains the teaching of Trent on the controverted issue of indissolubility
in the case of adultery and discusses the history of the interpretation of that
teaching.
Brugger then lists four principal objections put forward by Fransen and other
opponents of the indissolubility thesis (18): The council fathers were (1)
primarily concerned to oppose Luther’s denial that Rome has jurisdiction over
Christian marriage and not much interested in the substantive question of the
nature of marriage and its property of indissolubility; (2) doubtful, because of
Matthew’s “exceptive clause,” about whether absolute indissolubility is a truth
of faith and therefore only willing to define indissolubility as a disciplinary
doctrine, not a de fide truth; (3) unwilling to anathematize those who teach that
marriage can be dissolved in the case of adultery because they were disinclined
to condemn any Church Fathers, particularly Pseudo-Ambrose, who held that
view; and (4) unwilling to include the Greek ritus (the practice of divorce and
remarriage) within its teaching on indissolubility and for that reason ready to
embrace an indirect formulation of canon 7. The book is a sustained and
remarkably effective refutation of those four objections.
Chapter 1, on “The Errores of the Reformers,” begins to answer the first
objection by establishing the following points: the council fathers (a) realized
that Luther not only denied Roman authority over Christian marriage, but had
long supported divorce and remarriage on multiple grounds; (b) intended to
condemn the latter judgment “in canons that were entirely separate from the
canons addressing his denial of Roman jurisdiction in matters of marriage” (22);
(c) made “no reference whatsoever . . . to the church in any formulation

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addressing indissolubility” (31) until August of 1563, when the Venetian
delegation requested that the Greeks be excluded from canon 7’s anathema,
which exclusion required the indirect formulation “if anyone says that the
Church errs” (265); and (d) were concerned, notwithstanding that wording, to
ensure that the canon dealt with the substantive issue of indissolubility, which
they had discussed for years.
Brugger deals with the fourth objection by examining, in chapter 2, the
history of the development of the Greek ritus and noting that although the
council fathers realized that the Greeks “believed that Jesus made a definite
exception to indissolubility for cases of adultery” (46), the fathers also knew
that the Greeks regarded adultery as but one of a whole catalogue of causes that
justified dissolving a marriage. Indeed, Brugger explains that the fathers knew
that among the causes accepted by the Greeks are those mentioned in canon 5,
which anathematizes anyone who says “that the bond of matrimony can be
dissolved on account of heresy, or irksome cohabitation, or the willful desertion
of one of the spouses” (46-47). Although the fathers had the reformers, and
specifically Calvin, in view in constructing canon 5, they intended precisely
what the canon says—to anathematize anyone, including the Greeks, who says
that a marriage can be dissolved for any of those reasons.
Thus, Brugger explains, the council fathers realized that excusing the socalled causa iusta of adultery, based on the Greeks’ conviction that Matthew’s
“exceptive clause” identifies a true exception, would not exempt the Greek
ritus. There is therefore no reason to think that the fathers intended to excuse
that practice by adopting the indirect wording of canon 7.
Why then did they adopt that wording? Brugger explains in chapter 5 that
Trent valued the limited communion the Church enjoys with the Greeks and
wanted to avoid damaging it needlessly, while still teaching that marriage is
absolutely indissoluble. “The Greeks rationalized their wider practice on the
basis of the Matthean exceptive clause” (139), the idea being that if Matthew
identifies a real exception, then marriage is not indissoluble (unless
indissolubility is understood merely as “a moral reality that establishes
permanence as an ideal towards which all Christian spouses should aim” [46]),
and there may be other exceptions. Although the Greeks did not find canon 5
offensive, the council fathers realized that the Greeks would have found an
anathema directed at the very foundation of their ritus—an anathema aimed at
those who hold that Matthew identifies a real exception—extremely offensive.
The fathers therefore excluded the Greeks from the anathema. But, Brugger
notes, “This does not mean that canon 7 does not teach the falsity of the
Matthean rationalization” (139), since rightly condemning those who say the
Church errs in teaching that marriage cannot be dissolved on account of
adultery entails that the teaching is true, and thus that Matthew’s “exceptive
clause” does not carve out a real exception.
Brugger recognizes that by adopting the indirect formulation for canon 7 and
thereby excluding the Greeks from its anathema, the council fathers made a

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significant concession, namely, to tolerate—in order to preserve a “real but
imperfect communion” (142) in the hope of eventual full communion—a
practice that she herself teaches to be wrong. He explains that while the Church
can tolerate this practice by those with whom she has only imperfect
communion and remain faithful to her mission, she would be unfaithful to that
mission if she were to adopt that practice for herself. For the Church to bless
the unions of remarried divorcees and admit them to the Eucharist “would
presuppose the falsity of its belief that the absolute indissolubility of marriage
is divinely revealed. This the Catholic church cannot do” (143).
As Brugger himself acknowledges, analyzing the discussions of the fathers at
Bologna in 1547 and Trent in 1563, which is the task of the third and fourth
chapters respectively, is a tedious one, and readers “will need fortitude to
persevere” (19). But as he quite rightly points out, “A thorough examination of
the Council’s discussions on divorce and remarriage is necessary to see the
whole picture” (20).
In chapter 3, Brugger shows that the council’s discussions of indissolubility
in Bologna refute the claim that the council fathers chose the indirect formula
to avoid condemning Church Fathers who taught that marriage can be dissolved
in the case of adultery (objection three above). He points out that only PseudoAmbrose held that view, whereas the real Ambrose taught that marriage is
absolutely indissoluble. Brugger also notes that although the council fathers
mistook Pseudo-Ambrose for Ambrose himself, they did not accommodate the
problematic view in any way. Instead, they appealed to Augustine, who
interpreted Matthew as teaching that although “It is worse to divorce a wife
who has not committed adultery and to marry another than to remarry after
divorcing a wife for committing adultery” (58), in both cases the man commits
adultery. Brugger also observes (pace objection two above) that the records of
the Bologna discussion show that all of the fathers who contributed to it either
explicitly defended or took for granted “the absolute indissolubility of marriage
as a de fide truth” (59).
The fourth chapter deals with the discussions of the successive formulations
of the canons on marriage at Trent. These conversations reflect the recognition
that the normative language used at Bologna (“It is not licit to remarry after
adultery”) should be changed to ontological language, reflecting the absolute
indissolubility of sacramental marriage (“Marriage cannot be dissolved by
adultery” [Brugger’s emphasis]) (96), making it even clearer (pace objection one
above) that the fathers were indeed concerned about “the substantive nature of
marriage itself” (97). Brugger also draws attention, as he does elsewhere, to
facts that contradict Fransen’s claims about Trent. For example, Fransen’s
assertion that “a majority of the fathers of the council declared openly against
the strict phrasing of the canon about divorce in case of adultery” before the
Venetian intervention “flatly contradicts the historical record” (108), which
actually shows that only an insignificant minority of the fathers at Trent and
Bologna did so.

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In chapter 5, which is “the heart of the text” (20), Brugger offers his most
compelling reasons for holding that Trent does indeed define that sacramental,
consummated marriage is absolutely indissoluble. He concedes that canon 7’s
use of the indirect formula—“If anyone says the Church errs, when she has
taught and teaches [docuit et docet], in accordance with the evangelical and
apostolic doctrine, that the bond of marriage cannot be dissolved on account of
the adultery of a spouse . . .” (131-32)—makes it clear that the canon does not
directly define the proposition that marriage is indissoluble even in cases of
adultery. But he observes that the canon nevertheless indirectly defines that
proposition by directly defining that the Church teaches truth when it teaches
that marriage cannot be dissolved on account of adultery.
Moreover, Brugger points out that the canons should be read in light of the
doctrinal preface that introduces them. Since that “doctrina asserts twice that
the perpetual and indissoluble character of the marriage bond is taught in divine
revelation,” the claim that the council fathers intended to define indissolubility
only as a disciplinary doctrine and not as a de fide truth (objection two above)
is untenable. Indeed, he notes that the fathers make this clear in the canon itself
with the words “iuxta evangelicam et apostolicam doctrinam” (133).
Brugger also points out the significance of the doctrina’s double assertion in
light of canon 7’s docuit et docet: The council introduces the term docet to
emphasize that “the church presently (i.e., at the time of Trent)” teaches
indissolubility, including in the doctrinal preface itself. Brugger concludes,
“Therefore, in canon 7 Trent solemnly defines that the church teaches truth when
it teaches what the church itself teaches in the doctrina.” In short, “anyone who
says the church errs in teaching that [i.e., the doctrina’s “general proposition
that marriage is absolutely indissoluble”] falls under the anathema” (133-34).
Brugger steadily avoids the temptation to draw conclusions that are not
strictly justified by his arguments and the historical record, and the reader
cannot help but be impressed by his disciplined approach. The honest reader
will find it difficult to deny that those arguments and that record vindicate
Brugger’s thesis that Trent defines the absolute indissolubility of sacramental,
consummated marriage. His remarkable book is a singular service to the Church
and essential reading for anyone, whether suspicious of or sympathetic to that
thesis, who is seriously interested in learning what Trent actually teaches about
the indissolubility of marriage.
PETER F. RYAN, S.J.
Sacred Heart Major Seminary
Detroit, Michigan

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Debating Medieval Natural Law: A Survey. By RICCARDO SACCENTI. Notre
Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2016. Pp. xiii + 155.
$45.00 (cloth). ISBN: 978-0-268-10040-7.
Natural law originated with the Romans. They coined the term ius naturale
to describe a set of higher norms or principles for human society. The Roman
orator Cicero wrote that “there was an eternal, immutable, and unchangeable
law that God had established” (De republica 3.22). The English translation of
the Romans’ ius naturale, natural law, betrays the richness of thought that
emerged from the jurists’ analysis of the term. Ius meant law but also meant
right. The Roman jurist Ulpian concluded that ius naturale meant “what is
always equitable and good” (Justinian, Digest 1.1.11). The meaning of ius as a
right was the jurists’ most significant contribution to jurisprudence and resulted
in an argument for every human being’s right to act or not to act or not to be
acted upon. Today we would call these rights human rights that are higher
norms and not always embedded in a nation’s legal system. The origin and
meaning of “natural law” has bedeviled, intrigued, and enraged scholars during
the post-World War II years. Riccardo Saccenti has written a superb essay that
outlines the scholarship and the disputes about the meaning, force, and
importance of natural law and natural rights in the Western world.
Until World War II, people had confidence that the just and fair nation
state—the Germans called it Rechtstaat—would produce a legal system that
would protect the rights of all human beings. Totalitarian regimes disproved
that naïve certainty in the twentieth century and continue to crush the rights of
people in the twenty-first. Democracies have also demonstrated that they can
violate the rights of their citizens and others. The United States’ use of torture
in the early twenty-first century is just one example. Whether higher norms exist
that protect individuals from the power of governments and majorities is a
pressing question. It is not just an academic, intellectual exercise.
Saccenti gives a detailed history of the renewed scholarly interest in ius
naturale in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. French and German
scholars were primarily interested in recovering medieval thought to counter
the rapid rise of legal positivism. Their political agenda was to curb the power
of rulers and the state. The return of natural law stimulated a reaction. Newly
minted legal positivists denied that it had any force. Otto von Gierke, Neville
Figgis, and the Carlyle brothers at the beginning of the twentieth century began
a historical crusade to demonstrate that ancient, medieval, and early modern
jurists had much to contribute to the jurisprudence of higher norms, human
laws, and custom. The main point of attack for the legal positivists was that
natural law was imbued with religious beliefs and doctrines.
In the second half of the twentieth century, scholars turned to two other
questions. (1) When did the jurists create the idea of a subjective right—that is,
when did jurists and theologians begin to argue that human beings had rights

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that did not derive from the legal system? (2) Can subjective rights exist in any
meaningful way in a system dominated by legal positivism?
In the mid-twentieth century, the French legal philosopher Michel Villey
wrote a series of essays that put forward William of Ockham as the founder of
subjective natural rights. Villey was following in the footsteps of his teacher,
Georges de Lagarde. Villey identified Ockham’s nominalism as a key ingredient
in determining whether a philosopher would embrace subjective natural rights.
This led to several decades of scholarly debate about whether a thinker’s
metaphysics is a crucial factor in his philosophical conclusions.
In the second half of the twentieth century, John Finnis and Brian Tierney
were two key figures in the debate. In two books published in the 1980s, Finnis
argued that Thomas Aquinas had developed a fully formed system of thought
on natural law and natural rights. Tierney maintained that Aquinas had no
natural-rights doctrine. A key piece of evidence in this debate is Aquinas’s
equivocation about the terminology. Theologians in the early Middle Ages had
always called natural law lex naturalis. Only in the twelfth century did ius
naturale enter the theological lexicon under the influence of the jurists. Aquinas,
however, used the phrase lex naturalis more frequently than ius naturale. If he
were sensitive to the meaning of ius as a right, as Finnis claims, he would have
never used lex naturalis. Lex can be neither a ius nor a facultas.
Tierney’s books The Idea of Natural Rights: Studies on Natural Rights,
Natural Law and Church Law 1150-1625 (1997) and Liberty & Law: The Idea
of Permissive Natural Law, 1100-1800 (2014) have established the framework
for most of the debate about the role of natural law in theology, philosophy,
and law. Saccenti devotes a chapter to Tierney’s work. In his most recent books
and essays, Tierney “supports a continuity thesis” for the evolution of thought
about natural law and natural rights that leads from the twelfth-century jurists
to Grotius, Hobbes, and Locke. He also makes an extended argument that
nominalism is not the godfather of subjective rights. When William of Ockham
turned from theology and philosophy to law when he engaged in the political
disputes, he turned to the legal traditions where subjective rights were to be
found. Tierney argues that nominalism had nothing to do with Ockham’s discovery of subjective rights.
Saccenti discusses Tierney’s critics. They all have one thing in common: they
have not immersed themselves in the writings of the “ius commune,” that is, the
jurisprudence of medieval and early modern Roman and canon law. A
knowledge of medieval jurisprudence is particularly important because ius
naturale did not arise from Christian theology but from law. Two critics that
Saccenti highlights as examples, Cary Nederman and S. Adam Seagrave,
vigorously deny Tierney’s continuity argument and find “Copernican moments”
in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century thought. Neither understand that
“continuity” does not mean that Isidore of Seville’s conception of ius naturale
was the same as John Locke’s. It does mean that with centuries of discussion
about the meaning and content of ius naturale there was a gradual development

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in how ius naturale was understood. Saccenti puts it this way: “Nederman’s and
Seagrave’s criticism certainly underestimates the value of continuity in the
history of natural rights.”
Seagrave and Nederman ignore the jurists. Their criticism is flawed because
of that lacuna. Nederman has made two main points against Tierney: first, that
an individual had no rights when the common good was threatened; and
second, that theories of dominium were a source of rights. The first is just
wrong. The jurists saw no conflict or contradiction in arguing that many if not
all rights were derogated in times of necessity. They argued that point about
many different legal issues, from self-defense to the right of the poor to steal
food. Property rights were put in abeyance in times of great necessity.
Nederman’s assertion that “dominium afforded an alternative account of the
primacy of the individual” (review of Tierney in American Journal of Legal
History 42 [1998]: 217-19 at 219) is an unproven and unprovable ipse dixit of
the highest order. It is true, of course, that the property rights of people was an
important part of medieval juridical-rights discourse.
The main issue with the continuity debate is, How long will we be
imprisoned by the splendor of the Renaissance? Few would deny that
Renaissance art and Antonello da Messina represented a break with the previous
artistic traditions. Why, however, do we constantly assume that every other area
also broke with the past? It is certainly not true of law. I have been reading
medieval and early modern legal texts for almost fifty years. I have always been
struck by the continuity of medieval thought patterns that I find in any text or
topic in the early modern period. Do opinions change? Of course. Do the proof
texts and principles change? No. What does change is the way in which the
jurists apply law to changes in society. Bartolomé de las Casas is one example.
He was one of the first jurists to argue that slavery is wrong, contrary to the
entire legal tradition. He used, however, accepted principles of the legal
tradition to make his argument. The result was not a “Copernican” moment,
but new insights into the morality of slavery supported by old legal principles
and rights. Las Casas attacked slavery with Isidore of Seville’s old maxim,
“omnium una libertas,” applied to all human beings through reason and natural
law. “Following the rules of human rights that are established through reason
and natural law . . . sometimes decisions and things are permitted or justified
for certain reasons, which, when these reasons cease, [slavery] can no longer be
tolerated” (Bartolomé de las Casas, Obras completas, ed. Paulino Castañeda
Delgado, 14 vols. [Madrid: Alianza, 1988-98], 10:236). Las Casas may have
been the first person to call these rights human rights (derechos humanos).
Saccenti describes these debates fairly and without an agenda. Towards the
end of his book, however, he wanders a bit when addressing the influence of
Roman law. He writes that Tierney and others write about natural law and
rights primarily in terms of “medieval religious culture” and points to the
importance of Roman-law jurisprudence. There is no question that canonical
jurisprudence focused more on rights than Roman jurisprudence. It is also true

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that, for most of the twentieth century, scholars did not understand that from
circa 1200 Roman and canonical jurisprudence cannot be separated. Jurists
learned both. By 1350, they taught both. Baldus de Ubaldis wrote commentaries
on Roman and canon law and taught both subjects. He would have been
surprised to learn that he specialized in one or the other. He thought of law as
the ius commune, a combination of both. Recent scholarship has bridged that
gulf and has taken Roman law into account. My own work on procedure
demonstrates how Romanists and canonists jointly transformed medieval and
early modern procedure. Charles Reid’s book on marital and family rights also
shows how the ius commune shaped marriage law and the rights of women.
Chapter 5 is the weakest in Saccenti’s book. There are a few mistakes.
Irnerius was not a canonist. The description of how ius naturale entered into
Western jurisprudence (60-61) needs much reworking. Isidore of Seville’s
definition of natural law is attributed to Gratian, and Isidore’s examples of
natural law principles are misunderstood. Principles are not elements of positive
law. Further, Atria Larson and John Wei have recently demonstrated that
Gratian did have connections to Northern French theological teachings.
Nevertheless, Saccenti’s book will be an excellent vade mecum for scholars
entering the thorny thicket of debates about natural law and its influence on
modern rights thinking. I have only one serious complaint about the book. The
editors at the University of Notre Dame Press did readers a great disservice by
printing the footnotes at the end of the text (text 82 pages; endnotes 48). The
footnotes are packed with bibliographical information that is essential for
understanding Saccenti’s text.
KENNETH PENNINGTON
The Catholic University of America
Washington, D.C.

Diverse Voices in Modern U.S. Moral Theology. By CHARLES E. CURRAN. Moral
Traditions Series. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press,
2018. Pp. xiii + 264. $34.95 (paperback). ISBN: 978-1-62616-632-5.
Charles E. Curran, the Elizabeth Scurlock University Professor of Human
Values at Southern Methodist University, has been an outspoken and
controversial presence in the field of Catholic moral theology for more than
fifty years. The author of more than fifty books, his latest work consists of
twelve chapters (with helpful notes and indexing) and examines twelve
significant voices in Catholic moral theology in the United States: John C. Ford;
Bernard Häring; Joseph Fuchs; Richard A. McCormick; Germain G. Grisez;

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Romanus Cessario; Margaret A. Farley; Lisa Sowle Cahill; Ada María IsasiDíaz; Bryan N. Massingale; the New Wine, New Wineskins Movement; and
James F. Keenan (ix).
Although there is some cross comparison, each chapter focuses on one of the
voices mentioned above and can easily stand alone. Curran has chosen these
figures because they have used different approaches to moral theology in their
work. He cautions, however, that they do not necessarily represent all of the
most significant voices in modern Catholic moral theology. The important and
very influential voice of Jean Porter, for example, is not included, because her
work, in his mind, “does not fit into the category of diverse methods and
approaches to moral theology that is discussed here” (x). This reviewer would
add that another significant voice omitted in this volume is that of Francis J.
Connell, Redemptorist priest, professor of moral theology at the Catholic
University of America from 1940-58, a manualist, a charter member and first
president of the Catholic Theological Society of America, a peritus at Vatican
II, and the first recipient of the Cardinal Spellman Award, a precursor of the
John Courtney Murray Award, the highest award bestowed by the Catholic
Theological Society of America. Connell was one of the most prominent voices
in U.S. Catholic moral theology from the 1940s until his untimely death in
1967. Perhaps Curran decided that one manualist voice (that of Ford’s) would
be sufficient for the very limited scope of his study.
Curran begins with some comments on the reasons for the selection of these
particular voices. Although Häring and Fuchs were German moral theologians
teaching in Rome for most of their academic careers, he includes them in this
volume because they were internationally renowned figures whose thought
impacted U.S. Catholic moral theology in very significant ways. He also points
out that almost all the voices treated in the volume are individual Catholic moral
theologians. The one exception is the New Wine, New Wineskins movement, a
group of nontenured (mostly lay) moral theologians that came to the fore in the
early 2000s. Taken together, these voices show how the landscape of Catholic
moral theology has shifted from the end of World War II to the present, from
a manualist approach to moral theology, as it was taught in Catholic seminaries
before Vatican II (and even after), to a historically conscious approach that has
produced the wide spectrum of voices present on the scene of Catholic moral
theology.
As Curran points out in his Preface (ix-xiii), the book has three goals. The
first is to present to the interested reader the approaches of some major figures
who either have shaped or are shaping the field of Catholic moral theology
today. He says that even those who are professional moral theologians may not
be aware of how these different authors developed their approaches to moral
theology. Although he interjects his own opinions from time to time, he is not
interested in offering an in-depth critique of the authors in question. He prefers
to let the authors speak for themselves. In doing so, the book is a helpful

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summary of what has been going on in Catholic moral methodology since the
late 1940s.
The second goal is to try to foster dialogue among those doing Catholic
moral theology in the United States. Curran recognizes the deep divisions
existing between the so-called conservative and liberal approaches to the
discipline. Lying at the heart of this division are different views concerning the
possibility of dissent from reformable magisterial teaching. Each group, he
notes, tends to belong to different theological societies and write in journals
“friendly to its approach” (xi). It is interesting that the New Wine, New
Wineskins movement, which represents the younger generation of moral
theologians, has made overcoming this deep division one of its primary goals.
The third (and probably most important) goal is to show how Sitz im Leben
has played a significant role in how these various authors have developed their
particular approaches to moral theology. One of the characteristic shifts in
modern Catholicism was the movement from a classicist mindset to a growing
historical consciousness. While the former focused on the eternal, immutable,
and unchangeable, the latter looked to how the changing winds of history shape
the burning questions of the day and our response to them. Curran sees this
shift at play in the authors he has selected for his work and shows how the life
setting of each author has helped to shape his or her approach to the moral life
and Catholic moral theology. This shift in mindset, he says, requires Catholic
moral theology to evolve with the times and develop new ways of dealing with
the problems emerging from history as it seeks to serve the Church, the
academy, and society.
Curran’s own method in the book is clear and straightforward. With each
voice, he begins with a brief biographical overview, continues with a discussion
of the figure’s Sitz im Leben, describes how this situation in life has impacted
the author’s moral theological methodology, and concludes with an assessment
of his or her contribution to modern Catholic moral theology. With few
exceptions, he generally succeeds in implementing his methodological agenda.
One lacuna in his approach is that he does not supply clear criteria for
discerning precisely what are the forces at work at any particular authorial
situation. For example, critics will say that he emphasizes the impact of Vatican
II and Humanae vitae as clear indicators of Sitz im Leben in an early generation
of Catholic moral theologians, writing in the midst of the proportionalist
controversy, while he says very little about the impact of Veritatis splendor on
the divergent views of moral theology at the time of its promulgation and the
manner in which that encyclical has influenced future Catholic moral
theological discourse. The so-called minority voice of conservative Catholic
moral theologians, to which he refers a number of times in his book, is one that
needs to be reckoned with. The future of Catholic moral theology in the United
States and in the Church at large depends on the ability of divergent factions
within this fractured community to sit down, get to know each other, and
hammer out these positions. Curran recognizes that, although some dialogue

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has existed in the past, much more is needed, and he hopes this volume will
help in fostering it.
Curran demonstrates in this work that the history of moral theology is not
only about the development of ideas, but also about the people who develop
and embrace them. By placing these authors in their historical contexts, he
shows how moral theology has been shaped by the concerns of the circumstances in which the various authors find themselves. Through this approach, he also maps out the shift in methodology from a manualist approach
to one that was more Christ-centered, more scripturally based. Accompanying
this shift was a movement of Catholic moral theology away from the seminary
and its concern for priestly training (especially for the confessional) to the
university and its concern for classroom teaching and research. Although the
influence of this latter movement can be overplayed, Curran is correct in
pointing out that the laity, not priests, presently make up the majority of moral
theologians in the United States. This change alone speaks volumes about how
the landscape of Catholic moral theology has changed since the time of the
council.
This reviewer appreciates the way Curran uses these authors to demonstrate
the important changes that Catholic moral theology has undergone over the last
seventy years. In this single volume we have represented the manualist tradition
(Ford), a call for a more Christ-centered moral theology (Häring), the
distinction between “goodness” and “rightness” (Fuchs), a focus on proportionalism (McCormick), a concern for feminist issues (Farley), a “both-and”
approach to moral issues (Cahill), the birth of mujerista theology (Isasi-Díaz), a
treatment of black Catholic theological ethics (Massingale), a look at the
interests of a new generation of Catholic moral theologians (the New Wine,
New Wineskins movement), and a concern for the good of the discipline of
Catholic moral theology itself (Keenan). This reviewer was especially interested
in seeing how Curran would treat Grisez and Cessario. As representatives of the
so-called minority position, they are the voices in this study with whom Curran
would likely disagree most. Grisez’s focus on basic human goods and Cessario’s
Thomistic approach and positive assessment of such magisterial documents as
Veritatis splendor and the Catechism of the Catholic Church are very different
from Curran’s own approach. To his credit, he steers clear of openly criticizing
them and presents their thought in a clear, straightforward manner. He is as
open and fair-minded in his treatment of them as he is in his treatment of all
the other voices.
In his conclusion (249-52), Curran applies Bernard Lonergan’s insight that
the most important change in the aftermath of Vatican II was a movement from
classicism to historical consciousness to the changes in Catholic moral
methodology during this same period. While this insight has merit, it is
important to remember that just as an authentic Christology must maintain a
delicate balance between the human and divine in Christ, so too an authentic
Catholic moral methodology must maintain a similar balance between the

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transcendent and the historical. A concern for the eternal, unchanging, and
immutable must not lose sight of what is concrete, singular, and particular. And
care must also be taken to prevent a concern for the eternal from simply
collapsing into pure historical consciousness. The real difference between
classicism and historical consciousness parallels the difference between a highdescending and a low-ascending Christology. Although their starting points may
be different, both approaches must ultimately cover similar ground.
Given the diversity and pluralism of the authors treated in this volume,
Curran concludes his study by asking “whether an identifiable Catholic moral
theology still exists today” (250). In responding to this question, he says that all
the authors in this volume would oppose an anthropology that sees the
individual as an isolated individual. In addition, he claims they would all
embrace the principle of mediation (i.e., the incarnational or sacramental
principle), hold to a chastened universalism, and recognize the ecclesial
dimension of Catholic moral theology. Although he does not explicitly state it,
it also seems that they all would see their discipline as serving the Church, the
academy, and society. For Curran, the period in question was one not of
collapse, but of growth. He concludes with this appraisal of modern U.S.
Catholic moral theology: “The Catholic tradition in moral theology is truly a
living tradition that involves both continuities and discontinuities. In the future,
there will continue to be diverse approaches, especially in the light of the Sitz
im Leben, but all these approaches will be influenced and affected by the
continuing living tradition of Catholic moral theology” (252).
This book is an excellent resource for scholars wishing to have a clear and
concise presentation of many of the major voices in modern U.S. Catholic moral
theology. It could serve as a useful introductory reference to the thought of
these twelve important voices in the field. It would also be a helpful guide in a
seminar on differing moral methodologies and how a theologian’s historical
situation influences his or her approach to concrete moral issues.
DENNIS J. BILLY, C.SS.R.
St. Mary’s Seminary and University
Baltimore, Maryland

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Mind, Matter, and Nature: A Thomistic Proposal for the Philosophy of Mind. By
JAMES D. MADDEN. Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of
America Press, 2013. Pp. xiii + 307. $34.95 (paper). ISBN: 978-08132-2141-0.
James Madden has provided a great service for contemporary philosophers
interested in the unique merits of Aquinas’s hylomorphism over and against the
variety of accounts of human constitution on offer in the contemporary
philosophy of mind. When speaking among themselves, Thomists often claim
(sometimes nonchalantly) that Aquinas’s hylomorphism is much more than just
one more theory on offer within the philosophy of mind. Rather, the claim goes,
Aquinas’s hylomorphism belongs to a different tradition of philosophical
inquiry, with different background principles, starting parts, and framing
questions. Sometimes, a bolder claim is made that the Thomist tradition is
completely different (a different paradigm?) from the whole problematic of
contemporary philosophy of mind. The latter problematic need never have
arisen and has proven over time that it goes nowhere in the end.
These are very large claims indeed, and vindicating them before a contemporary audience would require (1) a thorough understanding of the
problematic and positions of contemporary philosophy of mind, (2) a thorough
understanding of the Thomistic tradition of the philosophy of human nature
(which would require a good understanding of Aquinas’s philosophy of nature
and metaphysics), and (3) the ability to speak across the traditions to the extent
possible according to the terms, principles, and methods of each in such a way
as to be intelligible and potentially persuasive. Given such understanding and
skill, one might reason and write in analytic idiom, walk a reader through the
problematic of the contemporary philosophy of mind, stake out the various
positions involved, point out their problems, gradually build a case that every
which way one turns is a dead end, tell a historical tale of how the problematic
need never have arisen, and, finally, propose a radical alternative: AristotelianThomistic hylomorphism. One might also point out very serious differences
between contemporary philosophy of mind as a whole and Aristotelian-Thomist
hylomorphism, and introduce the reader to the latter as an alternative but
promising tradition of inquiry. In his book, James Madden undertakes just this
project, and his work is impressive indeed.
Madden argues in the analytic idiom for some of the large claims that
Thomists like to make about the philosophy of mind, for example, “I agree that
there is little hope for a fully satisfactory philosophy of mind: given the way the
debate is typically framed, it is unlikely we can ever avoid the dead ends we
have encountered” (219). He does not say this nonchalantly. He walks the
reader through a long dialectical movement, starting from the contemporary
issues and leading to the radical alternative on offer in the Thomistic tradition.
Yet Madden stops short before making the bolder claims that the philosophy of
mind and Thomistic philosophy of human nature are completely different, or

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incommensurate paradigms, or like two cities of God and man between which
one must choose. Rather, he affirms more moderately that “though there is
sometimes a bewildering disparity in terminology and philosophical
methodologies . . . Thomistic and analytic traditions of philosophizing are
ultimately commensurable” (221-22 n. 2). Madden aims to further on all sides
our humanly shared discussion of what human beings are, and, according to his
subtitle, he offers a Thomistic proposal for the philosophy of mind.
The walk through the philosophy of mind toward hylomorphism begins in
chapter 1 with a discussion of naturalism and its variants. Madden presents his
own work primarily as a response to naturalism. Chapter 1 is an excellent
introduction to naturalism, ancient and contemporary, except that it fails to
outline the “argument from the success of science” in favor of naturalism. In
chapter 2, Madden presents property dualism and substance dualism, and makes
a case for the latter with the modal argument and the difference argument. But
in chapter 3, he raises for dualism the interaction problem, the causal closure
problem, and the difficulty posed by the manifest dependence of our mental
states on our brain conditions. All of these make dualism not incoherent but
counterintuitive. So, in chapter 4, he turns to materialism and its major variants,
providing clear presentations of each: eliminativism, behaviorism, identity
theory, nonreductive materialism, and functionalism. Chapter 5 presents the
problems with these accounts but takes special aim at functionalism by posing
the problems of qualia, intentionality, and others. Chapter 6 describes and
critiques Searle’s emergentism as a form of naturalism that claims to dissolve
the dichotomy between dualism and materialism. Madden criticizes
emergentism on the ground, inspired by Thomas Aquinas, that “it is impossible
for certain thoughts to emerge from (or be causally reducible to) any physical
organ” (203). What thoughts? Thoughts of universals. Madden here offers his
own variation of Aquinas’s argument that it is impossible for a physical organ
to conceive abstract universals. Madden also rejects emergentism on the
grounds that it cannot account for free agency. After a two-hundred-page walk
through contemporary philosophy of mind, the reader is disposed to consider
not only further theories within the overall problematic but also an alternative
conceptualization of the whole question of human constitution. So, Madden
turns to telling a historical tale of how once upon a time there were philosophers
who conceived of the whole question in radically different terms (but not in
terms of an incommensurably different paradigm, inaccessible to anyone but the
initiated). The radically different terms are those of the philosophy of nature.
Therefore, in chapter 7, Madden recounts a general story of Aristotelian
philosophy of nature. He narrates this philosophy almost as if to introduce it
for the first time to those who have never heard of it. His account is spelled out
in analytic terms but authentically retells (some of) the perennial principles.
Aristotle began his inquiry from our common experience of nature, took up the
pre-Socratic questions regarding change in nature, and brought to light
fundamental distinctions and principles such as potency and act, matter and

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form, substantial and accidental change, the four causes, and the grades of
perfection of composite beings. Then, given his account of nature as a whole
set forth in these terms, Aristotle offered an account of human beings as part of
nature and more than just material beings.
In chapter 8, Madden explains how Aristotle’s claim can seem bizarre to us
because of the mechanistic theories of science we now spontaneously use to
interpret our experience of things in nature. Aristotle was opposed to
mechanistic philosophy and conceived of nature as a milieu of matter-form
composites arrayed in various grades of perfection and exercising different
kinds of operations. On this account, human beings are matter-form composites
too. All living things have a soul; the soul is the form of the body; and so in
human beings too, the soul is the form of the body. No interaction problem, for
soul and body are related not as one entity to another, but as form to matter.
Many human cognitive operations are the workings of material organs, and all
our cognitive operations presuppose the workings of material organs. There is
no trouble accounting for why physical conditions affect mental states, since
mental states either are or presuppose the workings of material organs. But
human beings are more than just material beings. For unlike other things in
nature, human beings exercise rational activity, and rational activity is not the
working of a material organ. (Madden offers his own version of the classical
Thomistic argument for this claim: no material organ can receive a form qua
universal, but the rational power receives a form qua universal.) Therefore, such
rational activity requires a special sort of soul. Like the souls of other living
things, this special sort of soul is the form of the body, but unlike the souls of
other living things, the human soul is not limited to being the form of the body.
The human soul can become another form in thought alone without the whole
thinker (body-soul composite) becoming another form. The human soul is
capable of existing in its own right even without a body. Madden offers a
Thomistic argument for the possibility of the separate existence of the human
soul, and replies to the objections to hylomorphism, including that Thomistic
hylomorphism is just dualism in disguise.
The book as a whole is excellent. It offers extensive argumentation in
analytic idiom and serves as a thorough introduction to the fields of philosophy
of mind and philosophy of nature and philosophy of human nature. It makes
the Thomistic proposal in contemporary and argumentatively rigorous terms,
and on this score alone Madden has accomplished something. But one thing is
missing.
The first chapter fails to outline the “argument from the success of science”
and the central role it plays in motivating naturalism. What do we do with the
“scientific image,” as Sellars called it? Can one affirm the scientific image of the
world and Aristotelian-Thomistic philosophy of nature? The former is
mechanistic, and the latter is not. Madden sees the issue and provides important
distinctions in response to the difficulty (243-49). He acknowledges it is a vast
issue that he cannot treat fully (245). But he treats the question of coherence

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between hylomorphism and science as something like one more issue along the
way. For the naturalist, however, it is the issue.
JAMES BRENT, O.P.
Pontifical Faculty of the Immaculate Conception
Washington, D.C.