GENERAL INDEX TO THE THOMIST
VOLUME 83 (2019)
ARTICLES
Brock, Stephen L., The Specification of Act in St. Thomas: Nonmotivating
Conditions in the Object of Intention .......................................... 321
Butler, Sara, M.S.B.T., Feminist Christology: A New Iconoclasm? ............. 493
Casanova, Carlos A., and Ignacio Serrano del Pozo, An Assessment of the
Being and Operation of Mary’s Marriage ...................................... 37
Dahm, Brandon, and Daniel D. De Haan, Thomas Aquinas on Separated Souls
as Incomplete Human Persons .................................................... 589
De Haan, Daniel D., and Brandon Dahm, Thomas Aquinas on Separated Souls
as Incomplete Human Persons .................................................... 589
Fisher, Kendall A., Operation and Actuality in St. Thomas Aquinas’s
Argument for the Subsistence of the Rational Soul ...................... 185
Hahn, Michael S., Thomas Aquinas’s Presentation of Christ as Teacher....... 59
Hochschild, Joshua P., Aquinas’s Two Concepts of Analogy and a Complex
Semantics for Naming the Simple God ........................................ 155
Johnson, Junius, Unlocking Bonaventure: The Collationes in Hexaëmeron as
Interpretive Key .......................................................................... 277
Koritansky, Peter Karl, Retributive Justice and Natural Law ...................... 407
Michalson, Gordon E., Jr., The “Coincidence of the Christian and the
Reasonable”: Barth’s Reading of Kant’s Religious Thought ......... 213
Robertson, Charles, Lawrence Dewan, Legal Obligation, and the New Natural
Law ............................................................................................ 437
Roniger, Scott, Natural Law and Friendship with God .............................. 237
Roszak, Piotr, Between Wisdom and Sluggishness: Thomas Aquinas on the
Elderly .......................................................................................... 89
Serrano del Pozo, Ignacio, and Carlos A. Casanova, An Assessment of the
Being and Operation of Mary’s Marriage ..................................... 37
Spiering, Jamie Anne, “The Divine Goodness Could Be Manifest through
Other Creatures and Another Order”: The Source of Aquinas’s
Convictions about Divine Freedom ................................................. 1
Van Nieuwenhove, Rik, Saint Thomas Aquinas on Salvation, Making
Satisfaction, and the Restoration of Friendship with God ............ 521
Washburn, Christian D., Three Sixteenth-Century Thomist Solutions to the
Problem of a Heretical Pope: Cajetan, Cano, and Bellarmine ...... 547
Wilkins, Jeremy D., The Spiration of Love in God according to Aquinas and
His Interpreters .......................................................................... 357

REVIEWS
Brugger, E. Christian, The Indissolubility of Marriage and the Council of Trent
(Peter F. Ryan, S.J.) .................................................................... 136
Budziszewski, J., Commentary on Thomas Aquinas’s “Treatise on Law” (V.
Bradley Lewis) ............................................................................ 305
Connell, Sophia M., Aristotle on Female Animals: A Study of the “Generation
of Animals” (Brian Chrzastek, O.P.) ............................................ 652
Curran, Charles E., Diverse Voices in Modern U.S. Moral Theology (Dennis J.
Billy, C.Ss.R.).............................................................................. 145
Elders, Leo J., Thomas Aquinas and His Predecessors: The Philosophers and the
Church Fathers in His Works (Andrew Hofer, O.P.) .................... 132
Elliot, David, Hope and Christian Ethics (Steven J. Jensen) ........................ 316
Emery, Gilles, O.P., and Matthew Levering, eds., Aristotle in Aquinas’s
Theology (Kevin L. Flannery, S.J.) ............................................... 295
Feingold, Lawrence, Faith Comes from What Is Heard: An Introduction to
Fundamental Theology (James F. Keating)................................... 115
Hibbs, Thomas S., Wagering on an Ironic God: Pascal on Faith and Philosophy
(Randall G. Colton) .................................................................... 647
Kerr, Gaven, Aquinas’s Way to God: The Proof in “De ente et essentia”
(Edward Feser) ........................................................................... 300
Kirwan, Jon, An Avant-Garde Theological Generation: The “nouvelle
théologie” and the French Crisis of Modernity (Guy Mansini, O.S.B.)
................................................................................................... 479
Levering, Matthew, The Achievement of Hans Urs von Balthasar: An
Introduction to His Trilogy (James J. Buckley) ............................. 639
Levering, Matthew, and Gilles Emery, O.P., eds., Aristotle in Aquinas’s
Theology (Kevin L. Flannery, S.J.) ............................................... 295
Madden, James D., Mind, Matter, and Nature: A Thomistic Proposal for the
Philosophy of Mind (James Brent, O.P.) ...................................... 150
Mansini, Guy, O.S.B., Fundamental Theology (James F. Keating) .............. 115
Murphy, Mark C., God’s Own Ethics: Norms of Divine Agency and the
Argument from Evil (Brian Davies, O.P.) ..................................... 111
O’Connor, Michael, Cajetan’s Biblical Commentaries: Motive and Method
(Anthony Giambrone, O.P.) ........................................................ 643
O’Regan, Cyril, The Anatomy of Misremembering: Von Balthasar’s Response to
Philosophical Modernity, vol. 1, Hegel (William Desmond) ......... 123
Rea, Michael C., The Hiddenness of God (Michael J. Dodds, O.P.) ............ 475
Reimers, Adrian J., Hell and the Mercy of God (Bryan Kromholtz, O.P.) ... 308
Riches, Aaron, Ecce Homo: On the Divine Unity of Christ (Corey L. Barnes)
................................................................................................... 311
Rosemann, Philipp, The Charred Root of Meaning: Continuity, Transgression,
and the Other in the Christian Tradition (Cyril O’Regan) ............ 466
Saccenti, Riccardo, Debating Medieval Natural Law: A Survey (Kenneth
Pennington) ................................................................................ 142

REVIEWS (con.)

Smith, Randall B., Reading the Sermons of Thomas Aquinas: A Beginner’s
Guide (M. Michèle Mulchahey) .................................................. 482
Stump, Eleonore, Atonement (David L. Whidden III) ................................ 471
Ten Klooster, Anton, Thomas Aquinas on the Beatitudes: Reading Matthew,
Disputing Grace and Virtue, Preaching Happiness (Daniel A. Keating)
................................................................................................... 128
Tück, Jan-Heiner, A Gift of Presence: The Theology and Poetry of the
Eucharist in Thomas Aquinas (Matthew Levering) ....................... 488
Wilkins, Jeremy D., Before Truth: Lonergan, Aquinas, and the Problem of
Wisdom (Reinhard Hütter) .......................................................... 461

The Thomist 83 (2019): 493-519

FEMINIST CHRISTOLOGY: A NEW ICONOCLASM?
SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.
University of St. Mary of the Lake
Mundelein, Illinois

I

N ITS SOME OF ITS best-known expressions, feminist
Christology1 is a contemporary version of iconoclasm.2
Several leading Catholic feminist theologians, in fact,
explicitly claim their identity as “iconoclasts” (“image-breakers”)
in their critique of Christian doctrine. They embark on a program
of deconstruction and revision of Christian symbols because they
believe that exclusively male representations of God and of
Christ function as “idols” that legitimate male superiority over
women.3 They object to the iconic argument for reserving priestly
1
There are many different “feminist Christologies,” but most share a common method
and explore similar themes. For an early report, see Anne E. Carr, “Feminist Views of
Christology,” Chicago Studies 35, no. 2 (1966): 128-40. For a more recent survey that
includes the contributions of “new feminists,” see Michele M. Schumacher, “Feminist
Christologies,” in The Oxford Handbook of Christology, ed. Francesca Aran Murphy
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 408-24.
2
The link between the two is explored by Anglo-Catholic theologian Geoffrey Kirk,
“The Language of Lite Religion,” in Quo vaditis: The State Churches of Northern Europe,
ed. John Broadhurst (Leominster, England: Gracewing, 1996), 88-91; and Orthodox
theologian Kallistos Ware, “Man, Woman, and the Priesthood of Christ,” in Woman and
the Priesthood, ed. Thomas Hopko (Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press,
1983), 9-37, at 24-27. (In the 1999 edition of this book, Ware adopts a different position.)
3
See, for example, Rosemary Radford Ruether, Sexism and God-Talk: Toward a
Feminist Theology (Boston: Beacon Press, 1983), 66; Anne E. Carr, “Is a Christian
Feminist Theology Possible?” Theological Studies 43 (1982): 279-97, at 285 and 296-97;
idem, Transforming Grace: Christian Tradition and Women’s Experience (San Francisco:
Harper & Row,1988), 134, 140-41; Elizabeth A. Johnson, She Who Is: The Mystery of
God in Feminist Theological Discourse (New York: Crossroad, 1992), 36, 39-40, 45, 51,
243; Sandra M. Schneiders, Women and the Word: The Gender of God in the New
Testament and the Spirituality of Women (New York: Paulist, 1986), 71; and Elisabeth

493

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

ordination to men—namely, that it is fitting that a priest be male
in order to represent Christ vis-a-vis the Church—by questioning
the theological significance of Christ’s own maleness. Some
conclude that granting this not only amounts to idolatry but also
suggests that women are excluded from salvation.4
The idea that granting theological significance to Christ’s
maleness constitutes idolatry is not entirely without precedent.
There was a dispute over how to reconcile belief in Christ’s
universal human nature with the significance of his concrete
humanity, with its male character, during the iconoclastic controversy in the eighth and ninth centuries (726-843) in the Christian
East.5 The iconoclastic controversy had to do with inanimate
icons of Christ, images on wooden panels, and the legitimacy not
only of venerating them but even of “writing” them at all. For
iconoclasts, an icon of Christ either excludes his divine nature or
attempts to circumscribe it. They deny that Christ is circumscribed by the flesh and object that since he assumed “man in
general,” or flesh without distinguishing features, he cannot be
portrayed.6 The feminist Christologies I have in mind are con-

Schüssler Fiorenza, Discipleship of Equals: A Critical Feminist Ekklesia-logy of Liberation
(New York: Crossroad, 1993), 137-38.
4
See Ruether, Sexism, 116-38; Schneiders, Women and the Word, 4-5; Carr, “Feminist
Views,” 133); idem, Transforming Grace, 161; Johnson, She Who Is, 73, 153-54.
Schneiders (Women and the Word, 72-73, 79) and Johnson (She Who Is, 297) cite an
influential article by Anglican scholar Richard Norris, “The Ordination of Women and
the ‘Maleness’ of the Christ,” Anglican Theological Review, Supplementary Series, no. 6
(1976): 69-80.
5
See Nonna Verna Harrison, “The Maleness of Christ,” St. Vladimir’s Theological
Quarterly 43, no. 2 (1998): 111-52 at 114-24; and Valerie Karras, “The Incarnational
and Hypostatic Significance of the Maleness of Christ According to Theodore of
Stoudios,” Studia Patristica 32 (1996): 320-24, at 321-22. For the full scope of the
controversy, see Christoph Schönborn, God’s Human Face: The Christ Icon, trans. Lothar
Krauth (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1994), 135-235; and John Meyendorff, Byzantine
Theology (New York: Fordham University Press, 1974), 42-53 and idem, Christ in Eastern
Christian Thought (Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1975; translation of
Le Christ dans la théologie byzantine), 173-92.
6
This second objection, found in the arguments to which St. Theodore responds,
corresponds very closely to the feminist expressions of concern about Christ’s “inclusive”
humanity, both as it was assumed at the Incarnation and as it is transfigured in the
eschaton.

FEMINIST CHRISTOLOGY

495

cerned with which persons may be regarded as “icons” of
Christ—males only, or both males and females.7 For feminists as
well as iconoclasts, Christ’s humanity must be inclusive, so the
claim that only males can function as his “icons” in the priesthood
excludes females—not only from his humanity but also from
salvation. Both, then, deal with purported deficiencies in visible
representations of Christ.
These feminist and iconoclastic theologians both, in fact, raise
questions about the reality, permanence, and character of the
Incarnation.8 While iconoclasts were initially concerned only
with the veneration of icons, the debate they initiated was
eventually recognized as a Christological controversy.9 While
feminist theologians were initially concerned chiefly with
women’s access to the ministerial priesthood, their critique has
also given rise to questionable Christological claims.10
Saint Theodore the Studite (756-829), the leading champion
of icons during the second phase of the iconoclastic controversy,
is one of the few Fathers of the Church who took up the question
of Christ’s maleness.11 I hope to show that St. Theodore’s
response to the iconoclasts of his day also meets the objections
7
Some Christian artists attempt representations of an androgynous Jesus. See, for
example, Janet McKenzie’s “Jesus of the People” at http://www.janetmckenzie.com/
prints.html.
8
Meyendorff’s description of the iconoclasts’ concerns in Christ in Eastern Christian
Thought, 184, seems to name those of feminist Christology as well.
9
Ibid., 180.
10
Some Christians influenced by this critique have rejected traditional images of
Christ, certain of his names and titles, and even fundamental doctrines. Often, however,
these same critics find in Jesus’ person and example the subversion of “patriarchal”
privilege. See Ruether, Sexism, 134-38; Carr, Transforming Grace, 160-61; and Elizabeth
A. Johnson, “Redeeming the Name of Christ,” in Freeing Theology: The Essentials of
Theology in Feminist Perspective, ed. Catherine Mowry LaCugna (HarperSanFrancisco,
1993), 115-37, at 126.
11
See Karras, “Incarnational and Hypostatic Significance,” 322; and Harrison,
“Maleness of Christ,” 118. It is of interest to note that St. Theodore considers the priest
as an “icon” (eikon) and a “symbol” (mimēma) of Christ in his Seven Chapters against the
Iconoclasts, IV. See Theodore the Studite, Writings on Iconoclasm, trans. and intro. by
Thomas Cattoi, Ancient Christian Writers 69 (New York: The Newman Press, 2015),
126. For a commentary on this passage, see Ware, “Man, Woman, and the Priesthood of
Christ,” 24-27.

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

posed by feminist Christology. His appeal to Christ’s birth from
the Virgin Mary Theotókos, moreover, calls attention to the
traditional way of claiming a role for women in the economy of
salvation.
I. FEMINIST CHRISTOLOGY12
I will take Rosemary Radford Ruether, Anne E. Carr, and
Elizabeth A. Johnson as representatives of the feminist
Christology that took shape in response to the iconic argument
proposed to elucidate why priestly ordination is reserved to
men.13 As expressed in the 1976 Declaration of the Congregation
for the Doctrine of the Faith Inter insigniores,14 the iconic
argument appeals to St. Thomas Aquinas’s teaching that
sacramental signs “represent what they signify by natural
resemblance.”15 The declaration (art. 5) explains:
The same natural resemblance is required for persons as for things: when
Christ’s role in the Eucharist is to be expressed sacramentally, there would not
be this “natural resemblance” which must exist between Christ and his minister
if the role of Christ were not taken by a man: in such a case it would be difficult
to see in the minister the image of Christ. For Christ himself was and remains a
man.16

12
In this essay, then, “feminist Christology” will designate the work of Ruether, Carr,
and Johnson.
13
Johnson (She Who Is, 281 n. 33) acknowledges indebtedness to Ruether’s pioneering
work. Carr and Johnson do not, however, adopt Ruether’s method or share her radical
rejection of the Christological councils; they intend to address the feminist critique from
within the context of the Church’s faith. Their analyses continue to influence the debate
on the ordination of women to the diaconate. See Phyllis Zagano, “The Question of
Governance and Ministry for Women,” Theological Studies 68 (2007): 348-67, at 365:
“But the iconic argument represents a naïve physicalism that reduces Christ’s humanity to
maleness and ignores the overwhelming fact that God became human in Christ.”
14
See Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, From “Inter Insigniores” to
“Ordinatio Sacerdotalis”: Documents and Commentaries (Washington, D.C.: United
States Catholic Conference, 1998), 20-53. I will cite the text from this publication.
15
IV Sent., d. 25, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 1, ad 4.
16
From “Inter Insigniores,” 43 (emphasis added).

FEMINIST CHRISTOLOGY

497

Advocates of women’s ordination charge that this teaching
functions, in practice, to justify male domination. According to
sacred Scripture, they point out, women as well as men are made
in the “image of God” (Gen 1:27) and, by virtue of baptism, are
able to “image” Christ (cf. Rom 8:29; Gal 3:28). In appearing to
St. Paul, in fact, Jesus identifies his male and female disciples with
himself (Acts 9:2, 5; 22:4, 8; 26:15). For these authors, the
problem is not just that priestly ordination is reserved to males.
It is more fundamental still; it is the fact that the Church attaches
theological significance to the sex or “maleness” of Jesus. Some
contend that the iconic argument is novel, seriously flawed, and,
on Christological grounds, heretical.17
I will mention, only to set aside, the mistake this feminist
Christology makes by confusing different types of “resemblance”
or “representation.”18 The “natural resemblance” required for
holy orders to which the declaration appeals is neither our common humanity nor our configuration to Christ by grace, but the
male sex, a sign given by nature.19 In saying that the sacramental
sign of holy orders should be a male because he represents Christ
the mediator who is a male, the declaration draws on the teaching
of St. Bonaventure.20 As it points out, in the case of holy orders
17
See Rosemary Radford Ruether, Contemporary Roman Catholicism: Crises and
Challenges (Kansas City, Mo.: Sheed & Ward, 1987), 37-38; Carr, Transforming Grace,
178; and Johnson, She Who Is, 167; and idem, “Imaging God, Embodying Christ: Women
as a Sign of the Times,” in The Church Women Want: Catholic Women in Dialogue, ed.
Elizabeth A. Johnson (New York: Crossroad, 2002), 45-59, at 55.
18
See, for example, Elizabeth A. Johnson, “Responses to Rome,” Commonweal 123
(January 26, 1996): 11-12, at 11: “let it be plainly stated that women are icons of
Christ, imago Christi, in every essential way. There is a natural resemblance between
women and Jesus Christ in terms of a common humanity and participation in divine grace.
To teach otherwise is a pernicious error that vitiates the power of baptism.” Holy orders
presupposes baptism, but it is another sacrament, and it has its own requirements, for it
signifies Christ in his relation to the Church.
19
See St. Thomas Aquinas, IV Sent., d. 25, q. 2, a. 1. As St. Thomas explains, even
though holy women—like prophets, judges, and abbesses— exercise spiritual authority, a
woman is not a fitting sacramental sign for holy orders. The female sex does not disqualify
women from leadership positions in other sacred or secular spheres.
20
See IV Sent., d. 25, a. 2, q. 1 (Quaracchi ed., 4:649). Although some theologians
make the case that St. Thomas would agree, he did not in fact propose this as the reason
for reserving the priesthood to males. Saint Bonaventure, on the other hand, did link the

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

the minister who takes the role of Christ (acting “in persona
Christi capitis Ecclesiae”) enters himself into the sacramental
sign, and because Christ “was and remains a man,”21 it is fitting22
that his representative be a male. On the mistaken supposition
that the iconic argument constitutes the fundamental reason for
the sacramental tradition, and that it unjustly discriminates
against women,23 many feminist theologians proceed to challenge
its Christological foundations.
A) Three Claims of Feminist Christology
The following claims are characteristically made by the
feminist Christology I have in mind.
(1) Jesus’ maleness is only one “historical particularity” among
others, and it is not theologically significant,24 although it has
social-symbolic significance. It cannot mean that God is male or
that Jesus is the Incarnation of a divine male. It reveals nothing
about the divine nature, for sex belongs to the created order.
requirement of a male candidate to the male sex of Christ and its nuptial significance. See
Sara Butler, “The Priest as Sacrament of Christ the Bridegroom,” Worship 66 (1992):
498-517.
21
From “Inter Insigniores,” 43 (art. 5). The declaration goes on to say that Christ is
“the firstborn of all humanity, of women as well as men. . . . Nevertheless, the Incarnation
of the Word took place according to the male sex; this is indeed a question of fact.”
22
The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, like St. Thomas and St.
Bonaventure, supplies an argument from fittingness for a sacramental practice accepted
as authoritative on the basis of an unbroken tradition, settled in canon law, and
understood to represent the will of Christ.
23
For a reply to these charges, see Sara Butler, The Catholic Priesthood and Women:
A Guide to the Teaching of the Church (Chicago: Hillenbrand, 2007), chap. 3. Ruether
acknowledges the fundamental reason, but she does not consider it a factor since she
rejects the dominical foundation of the priesthood. (See her “Women Priests and Church
Tradition,” in Women Priests: A Catholic Commentary on the Vatican Declaration, ed.
Leonard Swidler and Arlene Swidler [New York: Paulist Press, 1977], 234-36). Carr and
Johnson tackle the iconic argument without adverting to the difference between the
“fundamental reason” and the “theological argument.”
24
Feminist Christology uses “theological significance” to caution against suggesting
that maleness is a property of the divine nature, or that the Incarnation of the divine
Logos as a man rather than a woman is an ontological necessity. For both feminist and
iconoclast Christology, “theological significance” also has to do with the problem of
maleness as a permanent property of Christ’s particular human nature.

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Classical Christology, however, has promoted “the unwarranted
idea that there is a necessary ontological connection between the
maleness of Jesus’ historical person and the maleness of the Logos
as the male offspring and disclosure of a male God.”25 To offset
this bias in favor of males, it is useful to explore how the
scriptural symbol of Wisdom (Sophia), a female personification
and attribute of God, functions as an equally legitimate biblical
alternative.26 As regards Jesus’ human identity, he was, of course,
a man. His male sex, however, has no more significance than his
ethnicity or race or social class.27 It is only one historical
particularity among others.28 What is significant is not Jesus’
maleness but his “compassionate, liberating life in the world.”29
For the baptized, “imaging” Christ, or being “christomorphic,”
depends not on being male but on the moral choice to follow his
example. His example of self-sacrificing love, in fact, reveals that
Christ’s maleness has a positive, “social-symbolic” value; it serves
as a model for men who would otherwise claim “patriarchal”
privilege and use their power to dominate women.30

25
Ruether, Sexism, 117. According to Johnson, She Who Is, 35, “As visible image of
the invisible God, the human man Jesus is used to tie the knot between maleness and
divinity very tightly.”
26
See Ruether, Sexism, 57-61; Carr, Transforming Grace, 173-74; and Johnson, She
Who Is, 86-100.
27
According to Johnson (“Redeeming,” 118), “The fact that Jesus of Nazareth was a
man is not in question. . . . His sex is as intrinsic to his historical person as are his race,
class, ethnic heritage, culture, Jewish religious faith, his Galilean village roots, and so
forth.” See also Rosemary Radford Ruether, To Change the World: Christologies and
Cultural Criticism (New York: Crossroad, 1981), 47; idem, “The Liberation of
Christology from Patriarchy,” New Blackfriars 66 (1985): 324-35, at 332; and Carr,
“Feminist Views,” 132.
28
Johnson proposes a “multi-polar anthropology” to deal with this question. See She
Who Is, 154-56.
29
Ibid., 73:“The image of Christ does not lie in sexual similarity to the human man
Jesus, but in coherence with the narrative shape of his compassionate, liberating life in
the world, through the power of the Spirit.”
30
See Ruether, Sexism, 136-38; Carr, Transforming Grace, 160-61; and Johnson,
“Redeeming the Name of Christ,” 126. For this reason, Ruether identifies Jesus himself
as an “iconoclastic” prophet who manifests the kenosis of patriarchy.

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

(2) What is theologically significant is Jesus’ humanity, not his
male sex.31 Christ assumed our human nature as a whole. His
humanity, therefore, is necessarily inclusive of the female sex.
This is the force of the soteriological principle enunciated in the
early Church, “What was not assumed was not redeemed.”32 If
Christ were incarnate only as a male, he could not represent
women, and consequently could not redeem them.33 But since the
Church has always admitted women to baptism and included
them among the redeemed, it must be admitted that his humanity
is inclusive of females as well as males.
(3) The “human man Jesus” was a male, but “the Christ”34—
risen and transfigured in glory—transcends sexual identity.35 At
his Resurrection, Jesus became “the Christ.” The Christ, in
contrast to Jesus, is not male. The transformation of his humanity
31
Rosemary Radford Ruether, “Male Clericalism and the Dread of Women,” The
Ecumenist 11, no. 5 (1973): 65-69, at 65; Carr, Transforming Grace, 161; Johnson, She
Who Is, 164-65.
32
The principle is traced to St. Gregory Nazianzen’s Letter to Cledonius against
Apollinaris (Epistle 101). See Edward R. Hardy, ed. Christology of the Later Fathers
(Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1954), 215-24, at 218. This argument is made by
Ruether, “Male Clericalism,” 65; and by Norris, “Ordination of Women and the
‘Maleness’ of the Christ.” See also Carr, Transforming, 161.
33
Ruether, with reference to the male priesthood, says, “If women cannot represent
Christ, then it becomes questionable if Christ represents women” (Contemporary Roman
Catholicism, 37). See also Carr, Transforming Grace, 161; and Johnson, “Redeeming,”
120. In She Who Is, Johnson says, “To make of the maleness of Christ a christological
principle is to deny the universality of salvation” (73).
34
Contemporary New Testament scholars distinguish the “historical Jesus” from “the
Christ,” or the pre-Easter “Jesus” from the post-Easter “Christ.” Theologians who hope
to replace the vocabulary of Chalcedon (one person, two natures) for something more
contemporary and intelligible sometimes use these names to distinguish Christ’s human
and divine natures. For the problem of supposing that the conceptual pairing “the
historical Jesus/the Christ of faith” matches the conceptual pairing “humanity/divinity,”
see John P. Galvin’s important essay, “From the Humanity of Christ to the Jesus of
History: A Paradigm Shift in Catholic Christology,” Theological Studies 55 (1994):
252-73, at 256-67. Feminist theologians who take this option (the historical Jesus/the
Christ), also draw on the classical tradition of speaking of the “whole Christ (totus
Christus),” i.e., the risen Christ together with his Body the Church.
35
For Carr (Transforming Grace, 181), “the risen Christ is understood to have
transcended all the particularities and limitations of earthly existence in the new life of
the resurrection.” For Johnson (She Who Is, 163), “Jesus has truly died, with all that this
implies of change: he is gone from the midst of history according to the flesh.”

FEMINIST CHRISTOLOGY

501

escapes our imagination, but it is inclusive of humanity in all its
variety. Christ has taken body in the Church, a pneumatological
reality inclusive of the redeemed of both sexes. It is “naïve
physicalism,” then, to “collapse the totality of the Christ into the
human man Jesus,”36 and to assume that he “remains a man,” as
Inter insigniores asserts. Ruether puts it this way: “Christ, as a
redemptive person and Word of God, is not to be encapsulated
‘once-for-all’ in the historical Jesus. The Christian community
continues Christ’s identity.”37
B) Initial Assessment
How shall these three feminist claims be evaluated? Granted,
being male is only one among Christ’s distinctive human features,
and it does not imply that the divine nature is characterized by
sex; but this does not mean that his sexual identity has no more
theological importance than his ethnicity or race or social class.
Granted, what is central for faith in the Incarnation is Christ’s
true and full humanity, not his male sex, but true humanity
includes rather than excludes sex. If Christ is able to act on behalf
of women as well as men to merit our salvation, it is not because
he is a male but because he is a divine person who has assumed
our human nature. Granted, after the Resurrection the
transfigured and glorified Christ is the Head of his Body, the
Church, a pneumatological reality (the “whole Christ”) which
includes both men and women. This does not mean, however,
that he abandoned his human nature at his Resurrection, or that
he is simply identical with the Church.
The line of feminist Christology I am examining addresses two
of the issues raised by the iconoclasts, namely, the consequences
for Christ of assuming human nature “as a whole” and the
deification of his human nature at the Resurrection. Whereas
feminist Christology objects only to granting theological significance to Christ’s maleness, iconoclasm questioned the reality,
36

Johnson, She Who Is, 161.
Ruether, Sexism, 138. See also Carr, “Feminist Views,” 132; and Johnson,
“Redeeming,” 128-29.
37

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

permanence, and character of Christ’s humanity. In light of St.
Theodore’s rebuttal of iconoclastic Christology, however, it
becomes apparent that feminist Christology also calls into
question the reality, permanence, and character of Christ’s
humanity. To the extent that both deviate from conciliar teaching
on the hypostatic union, they undermine the doctrine of the
Incarnation. The defense of icons identifies what is missing in
feminist Christology and shows that some of its objections are
based on a misreading of the Church’s teaching.
II. SAINT THEODORE’S REBUTTAL OF ICONOCLASTIC
CHRISTOLOGY
The iconoclasts charged that Christians who wrote and
venerated icons violated the biblical law against making graven
images (Deut 5:7-9; Exod 20:3-4). Out of zeal for religious
reform, and for political reasons as well, they destroyed the icons
and persecuted the iconodules (or iconophiles, the “iconlovers”). They also worked out a theological critique of icons,
especially icons of Christ the Lord.38 For the iconoclasts, any
attempt to depict Christ “in the form of a servant” (Phil 2:7)
amounts to idolatry. Icons, they said, either (1) portray only his
humanity, to the exclusion of his divinity (which is
Nestorianism); or (2) presume to depict his two unmixed natures
(which is impossible, since his divinity is “uncircumscribable”);
or (3) presume that his divinity is confused with his humanity

38
The first period of the iconoclast controversy (726-787) was concerned chiefly with
the legitimacy of writing and venerating icons. At a council held by 338 iconoclastic
bishops at Hieria in 754, Emperor Constantine V condemned the veneration of icons as
a Christological heresy (Schönborn, God’s Human Face, 168). The Second Council of
Nicaea (787) defended the veneration of icons but did not respond to this charge
(Schönborn, God’s Human Face, 200; Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology, 46). The
iconoclast controversy flared up again in 813 and lasted until the “victory of orthodoxy”
in 843. During this period, the “Golden Age” of icon theology, iconodule theologians
took up and answered the charge of Christological heresy. Saint John Damascene
(675-749) belonged to the first generation of iconodule theologians and St. Theodore the
Studite (759-826) to the second.

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(which is Monophysitism).39 If Christ is one person (prosôpon)
“out of” two natures, one material and one immaterial but now
inseparable, they asked, how can he be depicted at all?40 They
held, correctly, that Christ assumed human nature as a whole, but
they also taught that his human nature was deified by its union
with his divine nature and therefore became uncircumscribable.
(They were the Monophysites!)41 In their view, then, an icon that
presumes to portray the deified countenance of Christ, either in
his earthly life or as the Risen Lord, is an idol. The formula “out
of” two natures favors the iconoclast position (i.e., the person
[prosôpon] results from the union), whereas the formula “in” two
natures preserves the doctrine that Christ’s hypostasis is the
preexisting hypostasis of the Word, “one of the Trinity.”42
Saint Theodore the Studite successfully identified and refuted
the iconoclasts’ Christological errors in his three treatises On the
Holy Icons, or Antirrhêtikoi.43 These errors, which are common
to iconoclasm and feminist Christology, concern (1) the distinction between “person” and “nature,” (2) human nature as a

39

This is the Christological dilemma posed to the iconodules by the Iconoclast Council
of 754. See Schönborn, God’s Human Face, 168-78; Meyendorff, Christ, 180-81.
40
See Schönborn, God’s Human Face, 171. A “strict Chalcedonian” would have taken
exception to the iconoclasts’ “out of two natures” because Chalcedon says that Christ “is
to be acknowledged in two natures” (171, 177 n. 85). The Second Council of
Constantinople (553) allowed for the expression “out of two natures,” but only if it were
used in accordance with its own doctrine regarding the one person of Christ. See
Enchiridion symbolorum, definitionum et declarationum de rebus fidei, ed. Heinrich
Denzinger, Peter Hünermann (hereafter DH), 429, canon 8.
41
According to Meyendorff (Christ, 182), iconoclast Christology held that “the
deification of the humanity of Christ suppresses the reality of the properly human natural
character.”
42
See Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology, 153. Schönborn (God’s Human Face, 173-78)
discusses this in some detail and places it in the larger context of the iconoclast
controversy.
43
For his three refutations, see St. Theodore the Studite: On the Holy Icons, trans.
Catherine P. Roth (Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1981). I will cite the
texts from this translation. Since St. Theodore lays out his position in dialogue with his
adversaries, I will rely on his report of the iconoclasts’ objections. Roth (ibid., 7-17),
provides an excellent introduction to St. Theodore’s contribution. See also Schönborn’s
summary (God’s Human Face, 219-35). For a more recent translation that includes
Theodore’s other anti-iconoclast writings, see Cattoi, trans., Writings on Iconoclasm.

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

universal and its existence in individual men and women, and (3)
the permanence of the Incarnation. Saint Theodore’s defense of
icons responds to each of these; his teaching can be spelled out
in six statements.
1. An icon depicts Christ’s person, not his natures. The iconoclasts assumed that an icon intends to depict the personal
countenance, or prosôpon, that results from the union of his
divine and human natures. In their view, “Our Lord Jesus Christ
is one person [prosôpon] out of two natures.”44 In other words,
they regarded the one person as the result of the union rather
than the subject of the Incarnation. In effect, they understood the
divine nature, rather than the divine person of the Word, to be
the subject of the Incarnation. When the divine nature assumed a
human nature, it deified and suppressed the human nature.
Christ, then, the person who results from this union, is
uncircumscribable. The iconoclasts failed to distinguish Christ’s
hypostasis from his two natures.45
Saint Theodore replied that an icon depicts neither the divine
nature nor the human nature but the person (hypostasis) of the
pre-existing Logos,46 “one of the Trinity,”47 as man.48 An icon
44
Schönborn, God’s Human Face, 171. In this, the iconoclasts were like the
Monophysites who reasoned that Christ had a composite nature. For more on this, see
Schönborn, God’s Human Face, 109.
45
See Meyendorff, Christ, 182. Schönborn points out (God’s Human Face, 109) that
the Monophysites suppose that the composite hypostasis is also a composite nature.
46
As Meyendorff (Byzantine Theology, 153) explains, the Council of Chalcedon “did
not clearly specify that the term hypostasis, used to designate [Christ’s] identity, also
designated the hypostasis of the pre-existing Logos.” This was taught, however, by the
Second Council of Constantinople (DH 424-30). Catholic scholars and ecumenists have
reassessed the contribution of II Constantinople in recent years. The Catechism of the
Catholic Church (para. 468) explicitly asserts its teaching that “there is but one hypostasis
[or person], which is our Lord Jesus Christ, one of the Trinity.” See DH 424 and DH
432.
47
St. Theodore identifies Christ as “one of the Trinity” in On Holy Icons I:2 (PG
99:332A) and III:A 19 (PG 99:400A). Schönborn points out (God’s Human Face, 223)
that he takes up the insight of Maximus the Confessor regarding the relation of person
and nature in Christ, namely, “the very same properties that define Jesus as this specific
man also render his divine person visible.”
48
See On Holy Icons, III:A 34 (PG 99:405B): “When anyone is portrayed, it is not the
nature but the hypostasis which is portrayed.” In defending the tradition of venerating

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depicts “God-made-man,” the Son of God who by reason of his
Incarnation exists “in,” not “out of,” two natures.49 It does not,
as the iconoclasts charged, depict a “mere man,” for the Word
did not assume an individual man, a human person. Instead, an
icon depicts Christ, a divine person who possesses a human
nature and is in fact a man.50 In saying this, St. Theodore appeals
to “the Church’s judgment” that “the hypostasis of the Word
became a common hypostasis of the two natures.”51 He goes on
to explain that Christ’s human nature is anhypostatic: “This
human nature does not have its existence in a self-subsisting and
self-circumscribed person, apart from the hypostasis of the Word,
but has its existence within that hypostasis.”52
2. An icon depicts Christ according to his humanity. The
iconoclasts denounced icons of Christ because they understood
them to imply that the divine nature could be circumscribed. To
respond, St. Theodore employs the communication of idioms.53
The “hypostasis of Christ is circumscribable: not according to its
icons, the Second Council of Nicaea asserts: “He who venerates an image venerates in it
the person [hypostasin] whom the image represents” (DH 601).
49
According to the Council of Chalcedon (DH 302) “one and the same Lord Jesus
Christ, the only begotten Son, must be acknowledged in [not “out of”] two natures,
without confusion or change, without division or separation.”
50
See On Holy Icons I:3-4 (PG 99:332B-333A). Defending this doctrine against
Monophysitism, St. Theodore points out that Christ was “wrapped in swaddling clothes,”
“seen,” “touched,” and “crucified.” The Son of God became “man,” and he is also “a
man”—but not a “mere man.”
51
On Holy Icons III:A 22 (PG 99:400D).
52
Ibid. By “the Church’s judgment” St. Theodore refers to the teaching of the Second
Council of Constantinople that the one hypostasis is that of the pre-existing Word. The
council did not use the terms “anhypostasis” and “enhypostasis,” but it incorporated the
content of this theory—introduced by Leontius of Jerusalem—into its Christological
doctrine. Saint Theodore presupposes the doctrine of enhypostasis as a Christological
standard, as do the iconoclasts with whom he is debating. For the development of this
doctrine, see Dennis Michael Ferrara, “‘Hypostatized in the Logos’: Leontius of
Byzantium, Leontius of Jerusalem, and the Unfinished Business of the Council of
Chalcedon,” Louvain Studies 22, no. 4 (1997): 312-27.
53
The “communication” appears more starkly if one says “God the Word is
circumscribable according to his humanity.” One can distinguish what pertains to Christ
according to his divinity from what pertains to him according to his humanity only if one
identifies the hypostasis as the hypostasis of the Word. See St. Thomas Aquinas, STh III,
q. 16, aa. 4 and 5.

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

divinity, which no one has ever beheld, but according to his
humanity which is contemplated in an individual manner in it.”54
To refute the iconoclasts, he appeals to the teaching of Chalcedon: “the distinction between the natures was never abolished
by their union but rather the character proper to each of the two
natures was preserved as they came together in one person
[prosôpon] and one hypostasis.”55 Now it is proper to human
nature to be circumscribable.
3. The Word assumed our human nature “as a whole,” but it
subsists in him as an individual human being. The iconoclasts
held that Christ was uncircumscribable, not only because they
thought his flesh was deified by its assumption by the divine
nature,56 but also because it was the flesh of human nature “as a
whole” or “man” in general. In other words, they interpreted
“human nature” as “flesh without distinguishing features,”57 and
they denied that his human nature was concretely particularized
or characterized. On these grounds, too, they denied that Christ
could be depicted as a man. The human nature they attributed to
him remained an abstraction, a “universal” in the manner of a
Platonic idea.
Saint Theodore agreed that Christ assumed humanity in
general; in his day, it was commonly understood that Christ, the
New Adam, took on human nature as a whole, healing and
restoring it. Theologians regarded the absence of a human
hypostasis in Christ, in fact, as a soteriological necessity because
it left his humanity “open,” ensuring that all the members of the
human family could share in its deification.58 Saint Theodore
54
On Holy Icons III:A 24 (PG 99:401A). See also ibid., III:A 13 (PG 99:396B): “For
He who is incontainable was contained in the Virgin’s womb; He who is measureless
became three cubits tall . . . He who is timeless became twelve years old by increasing in
age . . . He who is bodiless, when He had assumed a body, said to His disciples, ‘Take,
eat, this is my body’.”
55
Council of Chalcedon (DH 302).
56
Schönborn, God’s Human Face, 177.
57
On Holy Icons III:A 15 (PG 99:396D).
58
This has special importance in the soteriology of the Eastern Fathers. They
developed the theme of the “marvelous exchange”: Christ took on our humanity to give
us his divinity. By assuming human nature as a whole, Christ makes room for our
deification. See Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology, 159: “God assumed humanity in a way

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maintained, however, that by his Incarnation, Christ accepted the
circumscription natural to his body.59 While he assumed the
totality of human nature, it subsists in him, that is, in his
hypostasis, as an individual. He is not only “man,” he is “a
man.”60 “Generalities [like humanity],” he writes, “have their
existence in particular individuals: for example, humanity in
Peter and Paul.”61
4. Christ’s male sex is proof that he is truly human. According
to St. Theodore, “[I]f Christ were uncircumscribable, as being
without a body, He would also be without the difference of sex.
But He was born male, as Isaiah says, from ‘the prophetess’:
therefore He is circumscribed.”62 His maleness is “a necessary
element of His Incarnation and a proof of the reality of that
Incarnation.”63 One cannot write an icon of “human nature”! He
writes, “Peter is not portrayed insofar as he is animate, rational,
mortal, and capable of thought and understanding”—characteristics that define human nature.64 He has to be distinguished from
others of the same species. It is impossible to depict a generic
human being, someone who is neither male nor female.65 It is
possible, however, to write an icon of Christ because he assumed
human nature as a male; he has a proper name, Jesus.66 His

which did not exclude any human hypostasis, but which opened to all of them the
possibility of restoring their unity in Himself.”
59
As Karras explains (“Incarnational and Hypostatic Significance,” 321), “the absence
of a separate, human hypostasis in Christ does not for Theodore mean that the Son’s
assumption of humanity is generic or docetic in nature, as some of the iconoclasts would
have it.”
60
On Holy Icons III:A 17 (PG 99:397BC).
61
Ibid., III:A 15 (PG 99:396D). Saint Theodore abandoned a Platonizing view of
humanity in general for Aristotelian categories, according to Schönborn (God’s Human
Face, 221, 229-30) and Meyendorff (Byzantine Theology, 47).
62
On Holy Icons III:A 45 (PG 99:409D). The reference is to Isaiah 8:3. Isaiah’s son
was understood to be a type of Christ; see Isa 8:18.
63
Karras, “Incarnational and Hypostatic Significance,” 322.
64
On Holy Icons III:A 34 (PG 99:405B).
65
See ibid., III:A 45 (PG 99:409D): “Maleness and femaleness are sought only in the
forms of bodies, since none of the differences which characterize the sexes can be
recognized in bodiless beings.”
66
Ibid., III:A 18, 20 (PG 99:397D; 400A).

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

human nature is like ours in this respect, that it is characterized
by sex.
5. Christ’s birth from a woman is also proof that he is truly
human. To underscore the reality of the Incarnation, St.
Theodore appeals to the Virgin Mary, the Theotókos. Christ’s
birth from a woman demonstrates that he has a human nature
like ours, one that can be depicted in icons. Echoing the tradition,
he writes, “Christ is identical with His Father in respect to
divinity, but identical with His mother in respect to his
humanity,”67 and he “comes from the uncircumscribable Father
. . . but from a circumscribable mother.”68 In icons of the
Theotókos (which the iconoclasts also opposed), the Virgin
Mother has Christ with her; he is held in her arms, seated on her
lap, or enclosed in a medallion on her breast or over her womb.
6. The risen Christ retains his human nature. When the
iconoclast theologians maintained that Christ’s divinized flesh
was uncircumscribable, they had the risen Christ in mind. They
appealed to the Apostle Paul, who said, “we once knew Christ
according to the flesh, yet now we know him so no longer”
(2 Cor 5:16).69 Saint Theodore defends the traditional teaching
that the divinization of Christ’s flesh at the Resurrection does not
spell the end of the Incarnation. “Christ is circumscribed even
after His Resurrection,”70 he writes. He cites the gospel accounts
of the Lord’s apparitions as evidence that deification did not
suppress the individual characteristics of his human nature. He
also appeals to the authority of Gregory the Theologian who
taught that “Christ is now with the body He assumed in order to
deify me by the power of his hominization.”71 To say otherwise
is once again to fall into the error of Monophysitism.

67

Ibid., III:B 2 (PG 99:417B).
Ibid., III:A 39 (PG 99:408C). In III:A 54 (PG 99:413D) St. Theodore says: “Of
whatever kind of being she is who gives birth, that which is born must be the same kind
of being: since the mother of Christ is circumscribed, then Christ also is circumscribed, as
her son, although He is God by nature.”
69
Ibid., II:41 (PG 99:381C).
70
Ibid., II:41 (PG 99:384B).
71
See also ibid., III:A 42-47 (PG 99:384B-388A).
68

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III. FEMINIST CHRISTOLOGY IN LIGHT OF ST. THEODORE’S
DEFENSE OF ICONS
Feminist Christology, like iconoclastic Christology, fails to
grasp (or accept) the teaching of the Second Council of
Constantinople on the hypostatic union,72 so it does not address
St. Theodore’s first two points. As for his third and fourth points,
it follows the faulty analysis of the iconoclasts, and it carries this
analysis over to his sixth point. Because it fails to deal with his
first two points, moreover, it fails to factor in his fifth point,
namely, the essential role of the Theotókos in the Incarnation. As
a consequence of this last omission, feminist Christology concludes that the divine economy of salvation privileges males over
females, men over women. Let us see, then, how St. Theodore’s
rebuttal of iconoclastic Christology helps to identify problems in
feminist Christology.
1. Saint Theodore’s response to the iconoclasts of his day
relies on the distinction between nature and person worked out
in the Christological councils.73 An icon depicts neither the divine
nature nor the human nature, but the divine person (hypostasis)
of the pre-existing Word, “one of the Trinity,” as man. Christ’s
human nature has no independent personal existence, but exists
within the hypostasis of the Word. Feminist Christology does not
observe this distinction. It has little to say about the pre-existing
divine person.74 Instead, it takes the divine nature (or simply
72

That is, it fails to identify the one person with the hypostasis of the pre-existing
Word, and consequently ignores or misinterprets the communication of idioms. Unlike
iconoclastic Christology, which tends towards Monophysitism, however, feminist
Christology tends towards Nestorianism.
73
See Alois Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition, vol. 2, part 2 (London: Mowbray,
1995), 507: “For Chalcedonian christology after 451 . . . the one hypostasis was not to
be considered as the end-product (apostlesma) of the union. Rather it is already present
in the person of the Logos who exists in the divine nature, but who now in the Incarnation
assumes a complete human nature.”
74
Feminist Christology refers to “the Word” or “Sophia” as Christological symbols,
and expresses some ambivalence about the possibility of naming the three divine persons
apart from the economy. See Ruether, Sexism, 68-71; Carr, Transforming Grace, 149;
Johnson, She Who Is, 202-5. Ruether, in fact, does not accept the Christological and
Trinitarian doctrine of the councils. In The Christology of Rosemary Radford Ruether: A

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

“God,” undifferentiated as to person) to be the subject of the
Incarnation. When it warns against the possibility of “a certain
leakage of Jesus’ male human nature into the divine nature,”75 it
betrays its affinity with the iconoclasts’ view that Christ (the one
person) is the product of a union of divine and human natures.76
In addition, because it does not suppose that Christ’s human
nature exists in the hypostasis of the Word, it thinks of the human
Jesus as having his own independent existence. Like Nestorianism, feminist Christology takes “Jesus” to be a human person,77
distinct from “the Christ,” who must be portrayed by both sexes
because in the eschaton his humanity is inclusive. What is missing
from the feminist reconstruction of Christology, then, is the
person of the pre-existing Word, “one of the Trinity,” the subject
of the Incarnation.
2. Saint Theodore explains that an icon depicts Christ
according to his human nature, rather than according to his
divine nature. Given that feminist Christology does not distinguish the person of the Son from his divine nature, it has no way
to acknowledge this. The appeal to the communication of idioms,
however, is the correct response to the feminist suspicion that
God or the divine nature is understood to be male apart from the
Incarnation. It depends logically on the Chalcedonian doctrine of
the hypostatic union, namely, that the one divine person—“one
and the same Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son”—subsists

Critical Introduction (Mystic, Conn.: Twenty-Third Publications, 1988), 71, Mary
Hembrow Snyder reports her belief that “classical christology at its zenith replaced the
historical person of Jesus with a cosmological doctrine that issued from contemporary
religious philosophy.”
75
Johnson, She Who Is, 152; see Ruether, Sexism, 117.
76
See Johnson’s description of the hypostatic union (She Who Is, 35) and Carr’s
description of Christ’s person as “the mysterious unity of the divine and human”
(Transforming Grace, 161). Both seem to identify Christ as the product of the coming
together of the two natures, and to overlook the clarifications proposed by the postChalcedonian councils.
77
In response to the Nestorian heresy, the Council of Ephesus taught “the Word,
hypostatically uniting to himself the flesh animated by a rational soul, became man” (DH
250) See the Catechism of the Catholic Church, para. 466: “Christ’s humanity has no
other subject than the divine person of the Son of God, who assumed it and made it his
own, from his conception.”

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“in two natures,” and that “the distinction between the natures
was never abolished by their union.”78 Is feminist Christology
able to confess with Chalcedon that Christ, who was “begotten
from the Father before the ages” according to his divine nature,
was “born of the Virgin Mary” according to his human nature?79
If so, it should be able to recognize the solution to its dilemma:
Christ is male not according to his divine nature, but according to
his human nature, and the distinction between his two natures
was not abolished by their union but the character proper to each
was preserved.
3. Saint Theodore teaches that the Word assumed our human
nature as a whole,80 and feminist Christology agrees that this is
what is theologically significant. Like iconoclastic Christology,
however, it understands Christ’s human nature in an abstract,
“Platonizing” way, and regards its male character as irrelevant.
For St. Theodore, human nature exists only in particular individuals.81 It is impossible for the concrete, individual human
nature assumed by the Son of God to be without sexual identity.
If he did not have a human nature marked by sex,82 Christ would
not be truly human, “consubstantial with us.” Being truly human,
for Christ, does not exclude sex but presupposes it.83
78
Council of Chalcedon (DH 302). In fact, like iconoclast Christology, feminist
Christology suggests that the distinction between the natures is abolished in the eschaton.
79
Ibid. (DH 301).
80
According to On Holy Icons I:4 (PG 99:332D), “Christ did not become a mere man,
nor is it orthodox to say that he assumed a particular man, but rather that He assumed
man in general, or the whole human nature.” Gaudium et Spes 22a reiterates this: “by
His Incarnation the Son of God has united himself in some fashion with every man
[homine]” (DH 4322).
81
Harrison, “Maleness of Christ,” 114-20, describes how this involves the problem of
human universality and human particularity. She argues that what is “particular” in
Christian revelation is an anchor, or starting point, that is open to a universal realization.
82
That Christ is “one in being” with us is the teaching of Chalcedon (DH 301).
Jonathan Baker argues that this misuse of Gregory of Nazianzen’s soteriological principle
leads to the conclusion that “to be male is not to be fully human.” See Consecrated
Women? ed. Jonathan Baker (Norwich: Canterbury Press, 2004), 92-93 and 221 n. 319.
83
Because Christian anthropology holds that body and spirit are one with a substantial
unity (Catechism of the Catholic Church, para. 365), it understands bodily sex to be
integral to the identity of the concrete individual. Humanity is both one in an identity of
nature and two in its concrete embodiments. Being “fully human” and being male are not

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4. Again, St. Theodore acknowledges the soteriological
principle, “what was not assumed was not redeemed,” but he
would not divorce “the man Jesus” from “the Christ.” The Christ
portrayed in icons is the divine person, the Word who assumed
our flesh as a male and rose from the dead in his glorified
humanity. The claim of feminist Christology that Christ cannot
save women if his maleness is theologically significant is based on
several misconceptions.
First, the patristic Christological controversy in which this
principle was formulated had to do with Christ’s possession of
the constitutive elements of human nature, and in particular with
his assumption of a rational soul,84 not with his sexual identification as male. It was proposed in order to establish that by
his Incarnation the Word assumed a complete human nature. It
also confirms the traditional teaching that by his Incarnation the
Word assumed human nature as a whole. The Church teaches
that human nature (“the flesh”) is enhypostasized in the preexisting Word; it has no separate hypostasis, so it is not a human
person. Jesus of Nazareth is the Word Incarnate; he is not a
“mere man”; he is not “someone else.”
Second, as St. Theodore points out, “Maleness and femaleness
are sought only in the forms of bodies,”85 and Christ is male, not
female. A woman, as female, cannot be an “icon” of Christ as a
sacramental sign, that is, she is not a natural symbol of Christ in
his concrete humanity, for she embodies human nature in a
different, complementary, way.86 As Pope St. John Paul II
explains, there are two ways of being a body.87 Christ’s maleness
alternatives; instead, being male is one of two ways of being human. See Pope St. John
Paul II, Man and Woman He Created Them: A Theology of the Body, trans. Michael
Waldstein (Boston: Pauline Books & Media, 2006), 156-65 (General Audiences of
November 7 and 14, 1979).
84
See Pope Damasus I (DH 149) and First Council of Constantinople (DH 151).
85
On Holy Icons, III:A 45 (PG 99:409D).
86
This has to do with sacramental symbolism, not the moral imitation or “imaging”
of Christ to which women as well as men are called. For more on this distinction, see
Michele M. Schumacher, “The Unity of the Two: Toward a New Feminist Sacramentality
of the Body,” in Women in Christ: Toward a New Feminism, ed. Michele M. Schumacher
(Grand Rapids, Mich.: William B. Eerdmans, 2004), 201-31.
87
See Man and Woman, 157 (General Audience of November 7, 1979).

FEMINIST CHRISTOLOGY

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is not an insignificant historical particularity, for human nature
exists in him only as embodied. By questioning this, feminist
Christology seems to endorse a soul/body dualism that risks
denying the reality of the Incarnation.88
Third, the feminist argument that Christ cannot save women
if he is incarnate only as a man fails to acknowledge that our
salvation is accomplished by a divine person in and through the
choices he made, in his humanity.89 We are saved not only by his
assumption of our human nature but also by his sacrificial death
and glorious Resurrection. His Incarnation is the ontological
precondition of his saving work, not the whole of it.90
5. Saint Theodore appeals to the Theotókos to underscore the
reality of the Incarnation. The icons of the Theotókos, it seems,
are themselves part of the Church’s response to iconoclastic
Christology. Since feminist Christology does not distinguish the
person of the Son from his divine nature, it has no way of
accounting for the Virgin Mary’s office as “mother of God.”91 It
88
This soul/body dualism identifies the person with the spiritual self and negates the
meaning and value of the body.
89
See St. Thomas Aquinas, STh III, q. 26, a. 2 (“Whether Christ, as Man [quod homo],
Is the Mediator of God and Men [hominum]”). Jesus Christ, a divine person who has
assumed our human nature, is able to represent the human race and act on our behalf.
This is why his saving work is efficacious; it is not because he is a man rather than a
woman.
90
See Gaudium et Spes 22 (DH 4322). GS 22 integrates two soteriological perspectives: the “Eastern” view that attributes objective redemption principally to the
Incarnation, and the “Western” view that emphasizes redemption by means of Jesus’
saving Cross and Resurrection.
91
See Elizabeth A. Johnson, Truly Our Sister: A Theology of Mary in the Communion
of Saints (New York: Continuum, 2003). Johnson acknowledges that faith honors Mary
as “Mother of God” (3, 75, 95, 117-18), but she chooses to explore her identity as
“Mother of the Messiah,” in part because she intends to retrieve the “historical Mary”
and in part because she presumes that devotion to the “Mother of God” is “actually
devotion to God the Mother” (77). For Johnson’s account of the recent shift that took
place in Mariology and its implications for the dogmas of the Virginal Conception and
the Incarnation, see her “Mary and Contemporary Christology: Rahner and
Schillebeeckx,” Église et théologie 15 (1984): 155-82. Carr (Transforming Grace, 189)
acknowledges Mary as the mother of God and “a religious symbol of enduring power in
the tradition,” but agrees, without rebuttal, that she is “an ambiguous figure for women
today.” For Ruether (Sexism, 154), “Mary’s faith makes possible God’s entrance into
history,” but “patriarchal theology” has generally not given her credit for this.

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is ambivalent, in fact, about Mary’s role in the economy of
salvation. Rather than lift up the tradition that testifies to a
woman’s indispensable contribution to the Incarnation, feminist
Christology relocates female human nature in the “inclusive”
humanity of the risen Christ.
It is worth noting that the Catholic tradition asserts that either
a man or a woman can represent humanity as a whole,92 and that
the Blessed Virgin Mary did represent the human race,93 though
not in the same way as Jesus Christ, of course, in the economy of
salvation. Today’s questions did not occupy St. Theodore, but St.
Augustine and St. Thomas, to name only two Latin doctors, did
address the problem raised by feminist Christology. They taught
that the female sex was not excluded from the mystery of the
Incarnation, but was represented by Mary, who alone gave Christ
his human flesh. Saint Augustine writes, “Men, despise not
yourselves: the Son of God became a man; despise not yourselves,
women; the Son of God was born of a woman.”94 Saint Thomas
quotes St. Augustine when he writes:
Although the Son of God could have taken human flesh from whatever matter
He willed, it was nevertheless most becoming [thus, an argument from
fittingness] that He should take flesh from a woman. First, because in this way
the entire human nature was ennobled. Hence Augustine says (QQ, lxxxiii, qu.
11), “It was suitable that man’s liberation should be made manifest in both
sexes. Consequently, since it behooved a man, being of the nobler sex, to
assume, it was becoming that the liberation of the female sex should be

92
According to Ruether (“Liberation,” 333), it has been assumed that only a man can
represent “generic humanity,” so a feminist reconstruction will have to affirm the equal
capacity of a female to represent the human race. If the implications of this have not
always been appreciated, Pope St. John Paul II draws them out in his apostolic letter
Mulieris dignitatem (1988), art. 4.
93
The Church already has a tradition of viewing Mary’s representative role. Saint
Bernard begs her to say “yes” on our behalf in his famous homily “In Praise of the Virgin
Mother” (Hom. 4:8-9). Saint Thomas, discussing the spiritual marriage that takes place
between the Son of God and human nature, says “the Virgin’s consent was besought in
lieu of that of the entire human nature” (STh III, q. 30, a. 1).
94
De agone christianos, 11 (CSEL 41 [1900], 99-138 at 115), cited by St. Thomas in
STh III, q. 30, a. 4, ad 1. Saint Thomas thinks the male sex is nobler than the female, but
he quotes St. Augustine to the effect that both are ennobled by the Incarnation.

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manifested in that man being born of a woman.” Secondly, because thus the
truth of the Incarnation is made evident.95

According to St. Augustine, both sexes ought to be involved in
the Incarnation and in the salvation of the human race. This
theme, already present in the early analysis of the Virgin Mary as
the New Eve to Christ’s New Adam, eventually found expression
in Christological terms. It is paramount, of course, in the doctrine
of the Theotókos.
Anglican theologian Eric Mascall offers this careful doctrinal
assessment:
It was male human nature the Son of God united to His divine person; it was a
female human person who was chosen to be His mother. On the other hand, no
male human person was chosen to be the Messiah (To suppose so was the error
of the adoptionists), and no female human nature was assumed by a divine
person. Thus from one point of view the Incarnation exalts the male above the
female while from another point of view it exalts the female sex above the male.
In no woman has human nature been raised to the dignity which it possesses in
Jesus of Nazareth, but in no male human person has there been given the dignity
comparable to that which Mary enjoys as the Mother of God.96

As this analysis illustrates, the distinction between person and
nature is essential to an explanation of the way God has involved
both sexes in the economy of salvation.
6. According to St. Theodore, icons portray the Incarnate
Word in his deified human nature. The Incarnation is not temporary but perduring, as the appearances of the Risen Lord
testify. Feminist Christology bypasses the doctrine and grammar
of the early Christological councils, uses Christ’s names in place
of his natures, and claims that while Jesus was a male, the Christ
95

STh III, q. 31, a. 4 (“Whether the Matter of Christ’s Body Should Have Been Taken
from a Woman?”). Saint Thomas had already treated this question in his commentary on
the Sentences (III Sent. d. 12, q. 3, a. 2, qcla. 2). There too he argues that the Incarnation
according to the male sex is fitting, not only because the male sex is nobler, but also
because of the need to involve both sexes in the work of redemption: “Sed contra.
Christus venit utrumque sexum salvare. Sed ipse fuit vir. Ergo debuit ex muliere carnem
assumere.”
96
Letter to the Editor, “The Ministry of Women,” in Theology 57, no. 413 (1954):
428, cited by George William Rutler in Priest and Priestess (Ambler, Penn.: Trinity Press,
1973), 35, and reprinted more recently in Baker, ed., Consecrated Women?, 28.

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

(i.e., the “whole Christ”) transcends maleness. In other words, it
denies that the character proper to his human nature was
preserved in the eschaton and understands “the Christ” as a
symbol of redeemed humanity. Like iconoclasm, feminist
Christology holds that after his Resurrection Christ no longer has
a human nature like ours.
According to St. Theodore’s analysis, this error also follows
from the failure to observe the distinction between person and
nature in Christ. The mistake of feminist Christology becomes
clear when it claims that the person of Christ is not “encapsulated
‘once-for-all’ in the historical Jesus,” or warns against collapsing
“the totality of the Christ into the human man Jesus.”97 Chalcedonian Christology, as interpreted by the post-Chalcedonian
councils and taught by the magisterium, would say instead that
an icon depicts Christ in (or “according to”) his glorified human
nature, not in his divine nature. His glorified or deified human
nature retains its identity, which is male.98 It is impossible to write
an icon of Christ in his divine nature, but it is possible to write
an icon of him in his deified human nature.
Inter Insigniores, article 5, sets out the traditional doctrine on
the permanence of the Incarnation and the identity of the risen
Christ, in his glorified humanity, with Jesus of Nazareth when it
insists, “Christ himself was and remains a man.” It rejects the
view that “since Christ is now in the heavenly condition” the
Incarnation according to the male sex is a matter of indifference.
The distinction of sex is part of God's creative plan. This
distinction so affects the identity of the human person that it is
not suppressed in the state of glory, and this also holds true for

97

See Johnson, She Who Is, 161; and Ruether, Sexism, 138. Carr (Transforming Grace,
180-81, 185) acknowledges that “the human figure of Jesus is clearly male,” but wants to
say that the Risen Christ, while “fully human,” transcends “all the particularities and
limitations of earthly existence.”
98
His deified human nature is not the same as his divine nature. See Galvin (“From
the Humanity of Christ to the Jesus of History, 256-57): “‘Jesus of history’ is not
equivalent to ‘humanity of Christ,’ however true it remains that his human nature is more
susceptible to historical investigation than is his divinity. Similarly, ‘Christ of faith’ is not
synonymous with ‘divinity of Christ,’ for in orthodox understanding the risen Lord does
not shed his human nature in his exaltation.”

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517

Christ.99 What Christians expect when they contemplate their
own salvation is a continued existence, even the resurrection of
their bodies, and the Lord’s bodily resurrection is a promise and
a cause of this.
CONCLUSION
Many feminist theologians reject the iconic argument
proposed by the Catholic Church in support of the male
priesthood, not only on the basis of their understanding of the
doctrines of holy orders and Christian anthropology but also on
Christological grounds. Some claim to be “iconoclasts” and
propose a Christological dilemma analogous to the one proposed
by iconoclast theologians of the eighth and ninth centuries. For
the iconoclasts of the eighth and ninth centuries, icons of Christ
“in the form of a servant” either exclude Christ’s divine nature
or attempt to circumscribe it. In any case, they hold that the risen
Christ is no longer marked by the properties of his human nature.
For feminist theologians Rosemary Radford Ruether, Anne E.
Carr, and Elizabeth A. Johnson, icons that portray Christ as male
imply that God (or the divine nature) is male and that women are
excluded from the human nature Christ assumed and redeemed
unless he is identified with the “whole Christ,” Christ embodied
in the Church. Since the body of the risen Christ includes all
baptized Christians, it is no longer marked by the properties of
his human nature. On this reading, women as well as men can
serve as “icons” of Christ, that is, as priests.
The Second Council of Nicaea identified iconoclasm as a
heresy and defended the tradition of writing and venerating
icons, and St. Theodore the Studite, during the second phase of
the iconoclast controversy, appealed to Christ’s maleness as a
proof of his true humanity. His defense of icons suggests how the
challenges put by feminist Christology might be met. With regard
to the feminist claim that Christ’s maleness is only one “historical
particularity,” without theological significance, St. Theodore
points out that it is impossible to write an icon of “humanity in
99

See From “Inter Insigniores,” 45-47.

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SARA BUTLER, M.S.B.T.

general.” Human nature exists only in concrete, bodily forms,
and in Christ’s case, it is male. If he did not have a human nature
marked by sex, Christ would not be truly human, for a human
being is either male or female.100 According to Chalcedonian
Christology, his humanity retains its own properties; those
properties are individuating characteristics which include the
male sex. It is correct to say, then, that the Word of God is male,
not female, according to his humanity. Feminist Christology
provides its own answer to the charge that Christ’s maleness
supports male privilege, in fact, by noticing its social-symbolic
significance.101 By his teaching and example, Jesus subverts all
patriarchal models of male behavior.
With the feminist claims that by his Incarnation Christ
assumed humanity as a whole, that “what is not assumed is not
redeemed,” and that it is his humanity, not his maleness, that is
theologically significant, St. Theodore would have no problem.
He would add, however, that an icon portrays Christ according
to his humanity, and that the distinction between his divine and
human natures was never abolished. Christ is a divine person—
“one of the Trinity,” who assumed our human nature as a man,
and whose humanity was deified in the Resurrection—not a
“mere man” (or “human person”), Jesus, who has become
divine.102 He would also add that Christ takes his male human
nature exclusively from his mother. This is both a guarantee of
his true humanity and the source of her dignity.103 Her
motherhood reveals how God involves the female sex in the
economy of salvation. The Virgin Mary alone of the whole
human race has, as Christ’s mother, a relationship of unparalleled
100
For a discussion of contemporary Church teaching on this point, see Sara Butler,
“Embodiment: Women and Men, Equal and Complementary,” in The Church Women
Want: Catholic Women in Dialogue, ed. Elizabeth A. Johnson (New York: Crossroad,
2002), 33-44.
101
See above, n. 30.
102
James T. O’Connor, “Modern Christologies and Mary’s Place Therein: Dogmatic
Aspect,” Marian Studies 33 (1981): 51-75, shows how modern Christologies have
influenced feminist reconstructions.
103
See Verna Harrison, “The Fatherhood of God in Orthodox Theology,” St.
Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 37 (1993): 185-212, for more on the tradition of
comparing Mary’s motherhood to God’s fatherhood.

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519

intimacy with him which extends even to her bodily assumption
into heaven.
With regard to the permanence of Christ’s humanity,
including his male identity, in the eschaton, St. Theodore again
appeals both to the Gospels and to the Council of Chalcedon.
According to the Church’s faith, in the Incarnation the Word
united to his person a human nature like ours with the result that
he really is consubstantial with us. The risen Christ has not shed
his human nature. The Resurrection did not bring the Incarnation
to an end.

The Thomist 83 (2019): 521-45

SAINT THOMAS AQUINAS ON SALVATION, MAKING
SATISFACTION, AND THE RESTORATION OF
FRIENDSHIP WITH GOD1
RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE
Durham University
Durham, United Kingdom

T

HE THEMES OF “making satisfaction” and (to a lesser
extent) “merit” in the thought of Thomas Aquinas are
worth revisiting.2 A number of scholars have claimed that
the seeds of a penal understanding of salvation lie in Aquinas’s
notion of satisfaction. In contrast to St. Anselm, who operated
with a strict distinction between punishment and making
satisfaction, Aquinas, so they allege, would have blurred this
distinction by introducing the notion of poena satisfactoria. In
this manner Aquinas would have “paved the way” for a penal
understanding of salvation. Gerald O’Collins, for instance, has
argued that Aquinas’s soteriology contributed to the
development of “a monstrous version of redemption: Christ as
1

An earlier version of this article was delivered during the annual Thomistic Circles
Conference on the topic of “Salvation in Christ” on September 6, 2019 at the Dominican
House of Studies in Washington D.C. I am most grateful to Fr. Dominic Legge and Fr.
Dominic M. Langevin for their kind invitation to share my ideas and for constructive
feedback on an earlier version of this article.
2
I have dealt with Aquinas’s soteriology in “St. Anselm and St. Thomas Aquinas on
‘Satisfaction’: Or how Catholic and Protestant Understandings of the Cross Differ,”
Angelicum 80 (2003): 159-76; “‘Bearing the Marks of Christ’s Passion’—Aquinas’s
Soteriology,” in Rik Van Nieuwenhove and Joseph Wawrykow, eds., The Theology of
Thomas Aquinas (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005), 277-302;
“The Saving Work of Christ” in Brian Davies and Eleonore Stump, eds., The Oxford
Handbook of Aquinas (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 436-47; and more
recently in “Protest Theism, Aquinas, and Suffering,” in Karen Kilby and Rachel Davies,
eds., Suffering and the Christian Life (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2020), 71-86.
521

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the penal substitute propitiating the divine anger.”3 O’Collins
further attempts to substantiate this claim by arguing that the
language of divine appeasement is present throughout Aquinas’s
writings. Others see this alleged rupture with Anselm as a cause
for quiet gratification: a reading in which Aquinas supposedly
anticipates some of the views of the Reformers strengthens their
status as legitimate exponents of the tradition.4
There are undoubtedly important differences between Anselm
and Aquinas. For example, Aquinas, perhaps following William
of Auvergne’s own Cur Deus homo, allows for a plurality of
models whereas Anselm offers only one. More importantly, in
contrast to Anselm, Aquinas rightly emphasizes the need for our
participation in Christ’s redemptive work: through the intimate
union between Christ and his Body, the faithful can share in the
merits of Christ.5 Thus, a genuine exchange can take place
whereby Christ’s suffering can be satisfactory for us because of
his union as Head with us, his Body; and our sufferings can
become a participation in Christ’s, allowing us to become more

3

Gerald O’Collins, Christology: A Biblical, Historical and Systematic Study of Jesus
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 207.
4
In his recent book, God as Sacrificial Love: A Systematic Exploration of a
Controversial Notion (Bloomsbury, 2018), Asle Eikrem, from the Norwegian School of
Theology, aligns himself with the views expressed by Brandon Peterson (“Paving the
Way? Penalty and Atonement in Thomas Aquinas’s Soteriology,” International Journal of
Systematic Theology 15 [2013]: 265-83) that Aquinas contributed to a penal notion of
the saving work of Christ: “I tend to agree with Branden Peterson who, against the
interpretation provided by Rik Van Nieuwenhove, argues that Aquinas attached penal
images to his notion of satisfaction. Together with Abelard, he thus paved the way for the
later reformers’ understanding of the sacrifice of Christ in terms of penal satisfaction”
(God as Sacrificial Love, 26). The tendency to read Aquinas’s soteriology in penal terms
may be strengthened by (1) a forensic notion of salvation in which there is no intrinsic
link between Christ’s saving work and our “justification” understood (in Catholic terms)
as transformation of the human person through participation in Christ’s redeeming work;
and (2) (and related to this) a theological context in which penance is no longer
considered a sacrament, thus rendering opaque to interpreters the penitential aspect of
Christ’s Passion.
5
STh III, q. 48, a. 2, ad 1: “The head and members are as one mystic person; and
therefore Christ’s satisfaction belongs to all the faithful as being his members.” All
translations from the Summa theologiae are from the translation by the Fathers of the
English Dominican Province (Westminster, Md.: Christian Classics, 1981).

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523

Christ-like.6 Moreover, as I will argue in this article, Aquinas will
subtly but significantly recast Anselm’s doctrine in light of charity
and friendship with God, where demands of a just retribution are
not as stringent as they would be amongst those who are not
friends.
Before I delve into the main argument, a preliminary observation is in order. In my view, “making satisfaction” is neither the
most innovative nor the most important theme in Aquinas’s
soteriology. The young Aquinas follows Peter Lombard (and
early thirteenth-century Scholastics) in book 3 of his commentary
on the Sentences, distinction 18, focussing primarily on the merit
that Christ attains through his charity.7 Distinction 19, however,
offers a more diverse picture. Here Aquinas mentions other
models, such as liberation from sin and the devil, redemption,
and reconciliation. In distinction 20 we encounter the theme of
making satisfaction (with one explicit reference to Anselm’s Cur
Deus homo).8 References to making satisfaction and Anselm’s
Cur Deus homo surface more frequently in book 4, especially in
the treatise on penance, where we find an entire quaestio
dedicated to it.9 This link between satisfaction and penitential
practices is not without significance, as I hope to show in this
article. Also, it is fair to say that Aquinas’s emphasis on distinct
models evolves. In his commentary on the Sentences merit is the
most important model of salvation. The theme of making
satisfaction dominates the discussion in Summa contra Gentiles
III, chapter 55. By the time he writes the Summa theologiae III,
question 48, Aquinas presents a balanced account, offering a
richly diverse picture of models of atonement, such as merit,
making satisfaction, redemption, and especially sacrifice, which
now receives an attention it had not enjoyed in his earlier
6

Van Nieuwenhove, “Bearing the marks of Christ’s Passion,” 277-302.
The notion of “making satisfaction” (satisfacere) is conspicuously absent from Peter
Lombard’s Book III of The Sentences. Other Scholastic theologians before Aquinas paid
more attention to the theme of making satisfaction. See Summa Halensis III, tract. 1, q. 1,
cc. 4-6; tract. 5, q. 1, m. 3, c. 3; Bonaventure, III Sent., d. 20, a. un, qq. 2-5; Albert the
Great, III Sent., d. 18, a. 14; d. 20, aa. 1 and 7.
8
III Sent., d. 20, q. 1, a. 4 qcla., arg. 2.
9
IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1: “Satisfaction.”
7

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

theological syntheses and which may very well be the most
important one (as STh III, q. 48, a. 6, ad 3 appears to suggest).10
In what follows I want to consider whether a penal reading of
Aquinas’s soteriology is plausible. I will first deal, albeit briefly,
with the issue of the language of divine anger; second, and in
more detail, I will discuss the notions of satisfaction and poena
satisfactoria.11 After this I will treat of merit, charity, and meeting
the demands of divine justice.
I. LANGUAGE OF PLACATING GOD
As indicated already, O’Collins argues that some of the
terminology Aquinas uses suggests a vindictive notion of a God
whose anger needs to be appeased. Brandon Peterson quite
rightly points out―against O’Collins―that the language of
divine appeasement in Aquinas (or in the Bible, as Aquinas
interprets it) is metaphorical, and cannot be properly attributed
to God. Talk of divine placatio should not be understood in terms
of placating or changing God but rather as pleasing God.12 The
language of appeasement refers to a change in us and not in God.
The Bible contains several passages in which all-too-human
categories are attributed to God (anger, taking offence, jealousy,

10
In developing the model of sacrifice he draws extensively on book 10 of St.
Augustine’s The City of God, as a key quotation from Augustine illustrates (“the visible
sacrifice is the sacrament, i.e., the sacred sign, of the invisible sacrifice”). It recurs in STh
III, q. 22, a. 2; q. 48, a. 3, obj. 2; q. 60, a. 1; and earlier in II-II, q. 81, a. 7, ad 2. See also
In Rom. 12:1 (Marietti ed., 957). The entire discussion in In Rom. 12:1-3 (Marietti ed.,
953-65) is relevant to understanding Aquinas’s theology of sacrifice. It is not hard to see
why the quotation from Augustine appealed to Aquinas: it coheres well with his emphasis
upon charity or intention rather than upon the actual suffering per se, and it links
salvation with sacramentology. Albert briefly discusses sacrifice in the earlier III Sent.,
d. 4, a. 1; and d. 19, a. 2.
11
Romanus Cessario, The Godly Image. Christ and Salvation in Catholic Thought from
Anselm to Aquinas (Petersham, Mass.: St Bede Publications, 1990) remains the most
insightful study on making satisfaction.
12
Peterson, “Paving the Way,” 279: “Rather than signalling the mollification of divine
anger, Thomas uses placo to signal the creature’s acting rightly in relation to the Creator,
functioning within the proper order in which God delights.”

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525

etc.). A theologian, such as Aquinas, who is steeped in sacred
Scripture will of course, adopt this language.
Before we rush to the conclusion that Aquinas is guilty of
promoting an anthropomorphic (or even angry, vindictive)
notion of God we must consider what he has to say about this
kind of language when applied to God. In several places Aquinas
makes the point that when we come across language in the Bible
that suggests change in God we should interpret it as saying
something about our world and how it is affected by God, rather
than about God himself. We find an instance of this in the Prima
pars (STh I, q. 9, a. 1, ad 3), when Aquinas responds to the objection that the Bible attributes change and movement to God,
such as in James 4:8 (“Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh
to you”). Aquinas answers that these things are said in Scripture
of God metaphorically. He offers a simile: as the rays of the sun
are said to enter a house, or to go out, “so God is said to approach
us, or to recede from us, when we receive the influx of his
goodness, or decline from him.”
Similarly, when the Bible attributes anger to God this occurs
“on account of a similitude of effect.”13 Anger is a passion for
Aquinas, and this can only be metaphorically attributed to God,14
and not properly.15 The anger of God, then, refers to the poenae
that we encounter in our world. I leave this notion of poena
untranslated for now as I will come back to it shortly.16
13
STh I, q. 3, a. 2, ad 2: “Anger and the like are attributed to God on account of
similitude of effect. Thus, because to punish is properly the act of an angry man, God’s
punishment is metaphorically spoken of as his anger.”
14
STh I, q. 21, a. 1, ad 1. See F. J. A. De Grijs, “Ira as a divine metaphor,” in Henk
Schoot, ed., Tibi soli peccavi: Thomas Aquinas on Guilt and Forgiveness (Leuven: Peeters,
1996), 19-46.
15
STh I, q. 19, a. 11: “anger is never attributed to God properly [nunquam proprie],
since in its primary meaning it includes passion.” Nor is punishment a sign that there is
anger in God, as Aquinas explicitly states in ibid., ad 2: “punishment [punitio] is not a
sign that there is anger in God; but it is called anger in him, from the fact that it is an
expression of anger in ourselves.”
16
Another passage that illustrates how language about God must at times be
interpreted in terms of language about creation can be found in Aquinas’s Commentary
on John 12:39-40. John quotes Isaiah: “the Lord has blinded their eyes and hardened
their heart.” Aquinas explains that we should not take this passage at face value, as if God
puts malice into us or forces us into sin. We should understand it as referring to the fact

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If a literalist reading of Aquinas’s use of concepts such as
“anger” or “offense” can be easily dismissed, a second issue
deserves more in-depth consideration. For Anselm satisfaction
and punishment are mutually exclusive. Aquinas, on the other
hand, introduces a hybrid terminology (as it was called by Eileen
Sweeney)17 by speaking of poena satisfactoria (as in STh I-II,
q. 87, a. 7), often translated as “satisfactory punishment.” In this
manner, Aquinas, allegedly, imports penal elements into the
concept of satisfaction, and distances himself from Anselm’s
views, thus “paving the way” for a penal notion of salvation.
II. STH III, Q. 48, A. 2: MAKING SATISFACTION (PER MODUM
SATISFACTIONIS) AND POENA SATISFACTORIA
I am not convinced that the use of poena satisfactoria supports
the claim that Aquinas contributes to a penal notion of salvation.
In this section I will briefly recall how Aquinas characterizes
making satisfaction before considering the notion of poena
satisfactoria in greater detail.
In question 48, article 2 of the Tertia pars, Aquinas writes:
He properly makes satisfaction for an offense who offers something which the
offended one loves equally, or even more than he detested the offense. But by
suffering out of love and obedience, Christ gave more to God than was required
to compensate for the offense of the whole human race. First of all, because of
the exceeding charity from which he suffered; second, on account of the dignity
of his life which he laid down in atonement [pro satisfactione], for it was the

that God does not infuse grace due to our rebellious obstinacy. He offers a vivid
metaphor: “It is like a person who closes the shutters of his house and someone says to
him: ‘You cannot see because you lack the light of the sun’. This would not be due to a
failure of the sun but because he shut out the light of the sun.” And he concludes: “In the
same way we read here that they could not believe, because God blinded them, that is,
they were the cause why they were deprived of sight.” I use the translation by Fabian
Larcher published as Saint Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the Gospel of John, vol. 36
of Latin/English edition of The Works of St. Thomas Aquinas (Lander, Wyo.: The Aquinas
Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2013).
17
Eileen Sweeney, “Vice and Sin (Ia IIae, qq. 71-89),” in Stephen Pope, ed., The Ethics
of Aquinas (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 2002), 151-68, esp. 157.

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life of one who was God and man; third on account of the extent of the Passion,
and the greatness of the grief endured, as stated above.18

The language of “offending” and “making satisfaction” for the
sake of justice may, when taken in isolation, appear to strengthen
the argument that Aquinas’s soteriology gestures at a vindictive
notion of God.19 From his earliest theological synthesis, however,
Aquinas describes “making satisfaction” in terms of a restoration
of friendship (restitutio amicitiae) with God through penance.20
Moreover, charity (or friendship for God) is not just the root of
18
In ScG IV, c. 54 Aquinas summarizes the notion of making satisfaction as follows:
“[T]he order of divine justice—as is clear from the foregoing—requires that God should
not remit sin without satisfaction. But to satisfy for the sin of the whole human race was
beyond the power of any pure man, because any pure man is something less than the
whole human race in its entirety. Therefore, in order to free the human race from its
common sin, someone had to satisfy who was both man and so proportioned to the
satisfaction, and something above man that the merit might be enough to satisfy for the
sin of the whole human race” (translation by Charles O’Neil, Saint Thomas Aquinas,
Summa contra Gentiles. Book Four: Salvation (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre
Dame Press, 1975). The terminology and logic remain closely indebted to Anselm,
especially the reference to the two natures of Christ. In the Summa theologiae we find
similar passages, such as STh III, q. 1, a. 2, where Aquinas states: “Now a mere man could
not have satisfied for the whole human race, and God was not bound to satisfy; hence it
behooved Jesus Christ to be both God and man.”
19
A number of scholars have claimed that the notion of “making satisfaction” is
indebted to feudal categories in which vassals had to placate their over-lord for offending
him. Aquinas states in a number of places that he considers “punishments” in terms of
“paternal correction” (In Heb. 12:5-9 [Marietti ed., 679]); he characterises them as “a
certain medicine” (ibid. [Marietti ed., 680]): “For just as medicine is bitter and repulsive
when taken, yet its goal is sweet and desirable, so also discipline is heavy to endure but
brings great fruit.” Again: “He chastises, or scourges, not unto condemnation, but unto
salvation.” (ibid. [Marietti ed., 674]). Finally (ibid. [Marietti ed., 681]): “Punishments are
a certain medicine. . . . For just as medicine is bitter and repulsive when taken, yet its goal
is sweet and desirable, so also discipline is heavy to endure but brings great fruit”
(translation by Fabian R. Larcher in Saint Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the Letter of
Saint Paul to the Hebrews, vol. 41 of Latin/English edition of The Works of St. Thomas
Aquinas [Lander, Wyo.: The Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012]).
20
In IV Sent. d. 15, q. 1, a. 3 sol. 1 we read: “the removal of an offense is the restoration
of friendship; and so if there is something that blocks the restoring of friendship,
satisfaction cannot even exist between men.” All translations from Book IV are by Beth
Mortensen, Saint Thomas Aquinas. Commentary on the Sentences, Book IV, Vols. 7-10 of
Latin/English Edition of the Works of St Thomas Aquinas (Lander, Wyo.: The Aquinas
Institute 2017).

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

merit; it also transforms the nature and exigencies of justice that
apply to our (broken) relationship with God. Before I develop
this in greater detail it is important to discuss the notion of poena
satisfactoria, and whether or not Aquinas’s use of this terminology constitutes a move toward a penal notion of salvation.
First, I need to make a rather elementary point regarding the
translation of the word poena. It is usually translated as
“punishment,” which is, of course, one of its primary meanings.
It can, however, also be translated quite simply as “pain” or
“affliction.” In that case it does not necessarily have penal
connotations. The point is not without significance, as Peterson
himself concedes, for if poena can be correctly translated as pain
or suffering rather than as punishment, then his conclusions
would be “circumvented.” Aquinas would then distinguish between “satisfactory pain” and “punishment” in the strict sense of
the word, and Anselm’s strict dichotomy between satisfaction and
punishment would be retained.21
There are at least some passages where we cannot
meaningfully translate poena as punishment. For example, the
following passage concerns almsgiving and raises the question of
whether it is part of satisfaction. One of the objections asks
whether it is meaningful to distinguish neatly between the
different parts of satisfaction, namely, almsgiving, fasting, and
prayer. Aquinas replies:
Poena is called an evil inasmuch as it takes away some good because this is how
evil injures a nature. . . . There is a different character of poena in almsgiving,
which takes away riches, and in fasting, which takes away tasty things, and in
prayer, which brings down a proud spirit’s height by humility. And because of
this there are different parts of satisfaction.22

It seems clear that poena simply refers to something that goes
against our will (“pain,” “deprivation,” “affliction”), as Aquinas
explicitly states in what follows, with a revealing reference to
Anselm: “poena enim voluntati contrariatur, ut Anselmus dicit.”
Poena does not have any penal connotations in this passage.
21
22

Peterson, “Paving the Way,” 276 n. 53.
IV Sent., d. 15, q. 2, a. 1, qcla. 2, ad 3.

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Indeed, the whole passage is part of a treatise on penance, and
Aquinas is quite clear on the distinction between penance and
punishment: the former we freely espouse (even though elements
of it deprive us of pleasure and are painful),23 the latter is inflicted
against our will. To translate poena here as “punishment” instead
of “pain,” only makes sense if we are willing to call engaging in
almsgiving and fasting, or saying prayers, a kind of punishment.
That, however, is stretching both theological and linguistic
boundaries beyond plausibility. In fasting, praying, and
almsgiving we freely espouse certain deprivations (pains) but we
are not being punished against our will.
Similarly, in question 87, article 7 of the Prima secundae,
Aquinas mentions medicinas poenales―and it does not make
sense to translate this as “medicinal punishments.” A doctor who
prescribes “bitter potions to his patients that he may restore them
to health” (which is how Aquinas illustrates medicinas poenales)
does not inflict punishment, nor is he acting in a vindictive
manner. Examples could be multiplied.24

23
Hence, Aquinas writes in STh I-II, q. 87, a. 6 that satisfactory poena is, absolutely
speaking, against the will (because “pain” is abhorrent to all sentient beings) but in this
particular instance and for this purpose, it is voluntary.
24
In STh III, q. 68, a. 5, ad 1, Aquinas says that the poena Christ suffered was
satisfactory for the sins of those who were to be baptized, “just as the poena of one
member can be satisfactory for the sin of another member.” Now Aquinas clearly states
that punishment, unlike satisfaction, cannot be borne for sins of others. Punishment for
sin is personal and cannot be meritorious, while making satisfaction and being deserving
of merit are intrinsically linked. Again, STh III, q. 49, a. 3, obj. 2 raises the point that the
fact that a poena satisfactoria is enjoined upon penitents seems to suggest that we have
not been freed from the debt of punishment (reatus poenae). In the Blackfriars Edition
Richard Murphy, O.P., translates poena satisfactoria quite correctly as “atoning penance”
rather than as “satisfactory punishment” (which, it must be admitted, sounds odd at the
best of times), as Shapcote had done in this context. “Atoning penance” is the correct
translation because Aquinas is clearly discussing penitential―as distinct from
penal―practices that derive their meaning and efficacy from Christ’s atoning work.
Through penances or sufferings of some kind (per aliquid poenalitatis vel passionis) we
attain conformity to the suffering Christ, as Aquinas explains in his reply (STh III, q. 49,
a. 3, ad 2).

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It is unclear why Aquinas introduces the language of poena
satisfactoria25 but we can venture a guess which, if correct, would
imply a surprising reversal of Peterson’s claims. It can be argued
that by introducing poena satisfactoria Aquinas actually softens
the penal aspects within the tradition rather than (allegedly)
strengthening them. According to Augustine, all afflictions or
poenae (sickness, death, etc.) are punishments for sin from God,
including for original sin.26 Insofar as Aquinas accepts this,27 he
25
He would have come across an association of poena with satisfaction in a text from
St. Ambrose that he quotes in IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 4, qcla. 2, s.c. Aquinas writes:
“Ambrose says, ‘and if faith’, that is, the consciousness of sin, should fail, suffering makes
satisfaction” (“Ambrosius dicit in littera: etsi fides, idest peccati conscientia, desit, poena
satisfacit”). The reference to Ambrose is from Expos. on the Psalms 118, littera 18, c. 2,
on verse 137 (CSEL 62:396).
26
See Augustine, De libero arbitrio 1.1.
27
I cannot develop this point within the constraints of this article but I suspect that
Aquinas has an understanding of the nature of death (as “natural” occurrence) and other
“defects” that is different from that of St. Augustine. STh I-II, q. 85, a. 5 seems
unequivocal in stating that “death and all consequent bodily defects are punishments of
original sin.” However, Aquinas also teaches that death is a natural occurrence in finite,
corporeal things (STh I-II, q. 42, a. 2, ad 3: “Death and other natural defects arise from
the universal condition of nature”; see also STh I-II, q. 85, a. 6), which appears to qualify
the traditional Augustinian position. Again, in ScG IV, c. 52 he toys with the idea that
defects such as illness and death “are not penalties, but natural defects necessarily
consequent upon matter. For necessarily, the human body, composed of contraries, must
be corruptible.” On the other hand, from a more transcendent perspective, they can
probably (probabiliter!) be considered “penalties” (ScG IV, c. 52). Also, in De Malo, q. 5,
a. 4 he introduces the notion of “concomitant affliction/punishment” (poena
concomitans). In withdrawing original justice from our first parents many ills befall us
concomitantly―in the way a judge may blind a criminal who then suffers a whole range
of afflictions as a consequence of the deprivation of sight. Some of these ills, Aquinas,
says, are not actual punishments as such: “And such ills are sometimes ordained as a
remedy against future sin, or to develop the virtue either of the one who suffers the ill or
of another, not as the punishment of any sin [non ut poena peccati alicujus].” Aquinas
goes on to refer to John 9:3 (the man born blind). He concludes: “the very fact that
human beings are in such a condition that such ills or deficiencies help them either to
avoid sin or develop virtue is due to weakness of human nature, which results from the
sin of our first parent. Just so, the fact that the body of a human being is so disposed as
to need surgery in order to cure it belongs to its weakness. And so all these ills correspond
to original sin as a concomitant punishment” (Thomas Aquinas, On Evil, trans. Richard
Regan [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003], 244). Also, it seems likely that Aquinas
has a different understanding of the inevitability of Christ’s death. For Anselm, at least,
Christ did not have to die, because he was free from sin altogether. Aquinas appears more

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531

qualifies the penal aspect by the very introduction of poena
satisfactoria. Some afflictions may acquire a satisfactory dimension if we freely espouse them, and thus the penal character that
the tradition has associated with them is softened.
This becomes more evident when we recall that Aquinas distinguishes between three kinds of poenae.28 There is punishment
for sin simpliciter whereby each person is punished for his or her
sin. This kind of poena is penal in the proper sense of the word,
and Aquinas explicitly points out that it always involves a relation
to sin in the one punished.29 In other words, this kind of punishment pertains to the sinner only: “each one is punished for his
own sin only [pro peccato suo punitur], because the sinful act is
something personal.”30 For all his emphasis upon personalism
and the need for personal transformation and incorporation in
Christ, Aquinas’s soteriology is not solely subjectivist. If sin had
remained unredeemed (or if we fail to avail of the redemption
offered by Christ) divine punishment would (will) ensue in accordance with divine justice. Sin destroys the right order in the
universe; there is an objective dimension to it, and it therefore
involves a reatus ad poenam, a debt or liability to punishment.31
Here there is clearly an element of retributive justice in Aquinas’s
theology:32 if sin remains unrecompensed, we will suffer
nuanced: “Christ’s body was subject to the necessity of death and other like defects”―a
“necessity which results from the principles of nature” albeit, of course, by divine consent
(STh III, q. 14, a. 2). On the other hand, Christ freely assumes the defects of our nature,
and cannot be said to be “contracting” them (STh III, q. 14, a. 3).
28
STh I-II, q. 87, aa. 7-8
29
STh I-II, q. 87, a. 7
30
STh I-II, q. 87, a. 8.
31
Even if sin had been remitted without satisfaction there would be something
“inordinate” or disordered in the world (III Sent., d. 20, q. 1, qcla. 2, ad 1; and III Sent.,
d. 20, q. 1, a. 1, qcla. 3, ad 3). While God for his part could have forgiven sins without
Christ’s satisfaction, this would have constituted a liberation from sin, but not redemption
properly speaking, as III Sent., d. 20, q. 1, a. 4, qcla. 1 makes clear.
32
In ScG III, c. 140, Aquinas deals with the question of whether our acts are punished
or rewarded by God. He writes: “Hence, since human acts are subject to divine
providence, just as things in nature are, the evil which occurs in human acts must be
contained under the order of some good. Now this is most suitably accomplished by the
fact that sins are punished [quod peccata puniuntur]. For in that way those acts which
exceed the due measure are embraced under the order of justice which reduces to equality.

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alienation from God, either here on earth (through the loss of
charity) or perpetually, in hell.33
There is also medicinal poena, whereby we suffer the loss of a
(bodily) good for the sake of spiritual health. Medicinal poenae
are not penal properly speaking (non proprie habent rationem
poena).34 As we mentioned, Aquinas compares them to bitter
potions we need to take in order to be healed.
Finally, there is poena satisfactoria whereby we willingly
espouse deprivation or do penance on behalf of ourselves or
others with whom we are united in charity. Thus, in answer to
the question whether every poena is inflicted for sin, Aquinas, by
introducing the notion of poena satisfactoria, is actually
qualifying the traditional Augustinian teaching that all afflictions,
bodily defects, and death are a punishment for (original) sin.
Aquinas generally uses the word poena to refer to anything that
goes against our will. Insofar, however, as we freely espouse it, it
loses the strong penal dimension that the tradition has attributed
to it. Hence he writes:
Now when poena is satisfactory, it loses somewhat of the nature of punishment
[de ratione poenae]: for the nature of poena is to be against the will [Est enim
de ratione poenae quod sit contra voluntatem]; and although poena satisfactoria,
absolutely speaking, is against the will, nevertheless in this particular case and

But man exceeds the due degree of his measure when he prefers his own will to the divine
will by satisfying it contrary to God’s ordering. Therefore, it is necessary that human sins
be given punishment of divine origin [puniantur divinitus] and, for the same reason, that
good deeds receive their reward.”
33
Even sin that has been forgiven still needs to be “covered” by God: God does not
reckon our sins. As Bruce Marshall has reminded us in an important contribution, this
refers to the fact that even God cannot undo our past sins. Bruce Marshall, “Beatus Vir:
Aquinas, Romans 4, and the Role of ‘Reckoning’ in Justification,” in Matthew Levering
and Michael Dauphinais, eds., Reading Romans with St Thomas Aquinas (Washington
D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 216-37. Marshall concludes:
“When God declines to reckon or impute our sins to us, he does more than forego his
undoubted right to punish us for our sin and corruption rather than change us for the
better, important as that is. He overlooks what is odious to him, but which he cannot
change, namely our past sinful acts themselves. He covers them, conceals them from his
sight, and treats them as though they were not” (237).
34
STh I-II, q. 87, a. 7.

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for this particular purpose, it is voluntary. Consequently, it is voluntary simply,
but involuntary in a certain respect.35

The claim that Aquinas’s introduction of the notion of poena
satisfactoria involves a move toward a penal notion of salvation
is therefore unconvincing. He plainly distinguishes it from poena
simpliciter, which is, indeed, clearly penal.36 If anything, the
concept of poena satisfactoria nuances the penal elements within
the broader Augustinian tradition: if all afflictions are on account
of original or personal sin, poena satisfactoria takes the edge off
this penal element: in freely espousing them in an act of penance
(on our own behalf or on behalf of others) the penal element
attached to those poenae largely dissolves. My argument can thus
be briefly summarized by stating that penal interpretations of the
way Aquinas understands Christ’s saving work confuse poena
simpliciter with poena satisfactoria. The latter is applicable to
Christ (with qualifications, given his sinlessness) but not the
former.
The qualification in the previous sentence is important. It
should be remembered that the text just quoted is taken from
question 87, article 6 of the Prima secundae, which is in the
middle of a discussion of sin (its causes, effects, and varieties, such
as venial and mortal). Undoubtedly, there is a close connection
between Aquinas’s understanding of making satisfaction and
penance. This does not mean, however, that we can apply
everything he says about our making satisfaction (in STh I-II,
q. 87) to Christ. A key difference, of course, is that Christ is not
liable for the debt of punishment (the very topic of q. 87) for he
35

STh I-II, q. 87, a. 6.
See also ScG III, c. 158: “Now if somebody imposes the penalty on himself by his
own will, he is said to make satisfaction to God. . . . But, if he does not exact this penalty
[poenam] of himself, then, since things subject to divine providence cannot remain
disordered, this penalty will be inflicted upon him by God [poena infligetur ei a Deo].
Such a punishment is not called one of satisfaction [nec talis poena satisfactoria], since it
is not due to the choice of the one who suffers it; but it will be called purificatory
[purgatoria].” Also IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 1: “Although making satisfaction in itself is
owed, nevertheless, to the extent that the person making satisfaction performs his work
voluntarily [voluntarie], it has the nature of something freely done on the part of the
doer.”
36

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

is sinless. Insofar as the category of poena satisfactoria has any
penal connotations they can only apply to us, and not to the
sinless Christ who is not liable to punishment,37 which is always
personal if understood as poena simpliciter.38 Besides, if God
were to punish the innocent Christ on our behalf, he would, by
Aquinas’s standards, be guilty of brutality.39 Finally, one of the
main reasons why a penal reading of “making satisfaction” cannot be accurate is the fact that it would void penitential practices
of all meaning, for they rely on charity to be meritorious in the
first place; and there cannot be charity without a free decision to
engage in these practices. This objection also applies to Christ’s
satisfactory work.
It is a credit to Peterson that he addresses the link between
Christ’s will and poena squarely. If Aquinas’s soteriology moves
toward a penal notion of Christ’s saving work then there must be
a strong sense in which his suffering goes against his will. This is,
after all, the distinguishing mark of punishment (as distinct from
penance): it is inflicted against our (rational) will. The problem
with Peterson’s account is that he appears to identify the
“natural” component of Christ’s will (which was reluctant to
suffer) with his “rational” human will, allowing him to write,
“satisfactory punishment is punishment since it, to some extent
and in a certain respect, contravenes the will, and Christ’s
(human) will is no exception.”40
This strikes me as a problematic claim. First of all, in making
satisfaction we engage in practices that to some extent go against
our inclinations, but overall we consent to them. Punishment, on
the other hand, implies a stronger opposition to our will. While
we willingly engage in penance (even though it contravenes our
will to some extent) if we are punished it goes against our will
37
This is the gist of STh I-II, q. 87, a. 7, obj. 3 and its reply. See also J. B. M. Wissink,
“Satisfaction As Part of Penance,” in Henk Schoot, ed., Tibi soli peccavi: Thomas Aquinas
on Guilt and Forgiveness (Leuven: Peeters, 1996), 75-95.
38
STh I-II, q. 87, a. 8: “each one is punished [punitur] for his own sin only.”
39
See STh II-II, q. 159, a. 2: those who inflict punishment upon another, not because
of some fault that person has committed, but because of the pleasure they take in him or
her being hurt, are guilty of extreme cruelty, even beastliness (bestialitas).
40
Peterson, “Paving the Way,” 276

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535

without qualification. Hence, for Peterson’s argument to stand
he should demonstrate that Christ’s Passion went against Christ’s
will in the stronger sense.
However, there cannot possibly be any opposition, or even
tension, between Christ’s human will and the divine will. There
is, of course, an abhorrence of suffering and death in Christ’s
lower sensitive nature. Christ’s will, however, understood as the
rational part of his soul, desired the Passion on our behalf.
Already in his commentary on the Sentences Aquinas makes it
clear that Christ’s human will was in complete conformity with
the divine will. Admittedly, Aquinas makes a distinction between
voluntas ut ratio and voluntas ut natura.41 The former always
conforms perfectly to the divine will. The latter, which includes
our lower sensuality, did not always conform to the divine will
(or Christ’s rational will as human): Christ’s “natural” will was
repulsed by the prospect of suffering. This tension between
Christ’s sensual nature and his reason (contrarietas sensualitatis
ad rationem) did not result in a vehement shunning of one power
from the other (non violenta refusio in Christo de potentia in
potentiam).42 The Father gave to the man Christ the will and the
charity by which he wanted to suffer (Christo homini voluntatem
dando, et caritatem, ex qua pati voluit), thereby pre-empting any
hint of “cruelty” on the part of God.43 Time and again Aquinas
reiterates that Christ wanted to suffer out of supreme charity (ex
maxima caritate pati voluit).44 Since there is, indeed, a harmony
41

III Sent., d. 17, q. 1, a. 2, qcla. 1. Aquinas would have come across this distinction
in Peter Lombard, III Sent., d. 17; and William of Auxerre, Summa aurea III, tr. 6, c. 1.
42
III Sent., d. 17, q. 1, a. 2, qcla. 2; see also STh III, q. 18, a. 6 (Blackfriars translation):
“Although Christ’s instinctive and his sensuous will [voluntas divina et voluntas
sensualitatis] may have desired something other than what was desired by the divine will
and his will as modified by judgement, nevertheless this did not constitute incompatibility
[contrarietas] of wills.”
43
III Sent., d. 20, q. 1, a. 5, qcla. 1. He writes (ibid., ad 1): “God has not delivered
Christ to death as if he coerced him to die but by giving him a good will by which he
freely wanted to die; and therefore it does not follow that there is any cruelty in God.”
44
III Sent., d. 20, q. 1, a. 3, ad 1. Similarly, in STh III q. 47, aa. 1 and 2 Aquinas
reiterates that Christ died by his own will (STh III, q. 47, a. 1, ad 3: voluntarie mortuus),
quoting John Chrysostom: “what took place was voluntary, and eliminates all suspicion
of opposition to the Father” (STh III, q. 47, a. 2, ad 1). It is just because Christ voluntarily

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

between the will of the human Christ and the divine will, the
argument that Christ’s saving work on the Cross is somehow
penal cannot be sustained.
In order to bolster the argument outlined so far, I will discuss
briefly the notion of merit, which is the first category under
which Aquinas discusses Christ’s saving work in his main
theological syntheses. I will argue that Aquinas’s emphasis upon
charity as friendship with God transforms the way he conceives
of the manner in which Christ’s saving work meets divine justice.
III. MERIT, CHARITY, AND JUSTICE
I will restrict myself to discussing the role of charity in
Aquinas’s understanding of merit and making satisfaction,
leaving a whole range of important aspects undiscussed.45 In book
3 of the Sentences commentary (III Sent., d. 18, q. 1, a. 2) Aquinas
deals with the question of whether Christ could merit. Aquinas
argues that merit falls broadly under the category of justice. In
general terms we merit when we act or do something in such a
way that something is due to us.46
It is, however, only when an action is performed out of charity
(actio ex caritate facta) that it is proportionate to receiving the
underwent his Passion (as Isa. 53 confirms) and because his will had been in-formed by
charity that he could merit (III Sent., d. 18, q. 1, a. 5): “Cum igitur Christus passionem
suam voluntarie sustinuerit (oblatus enim est quia ipse voluit, Is. 53) et voluntas ista
caritate fuerit informata, non est dubium quod per suam passionem meruerit.”
45
For example, his evolving views on merit in the Summa theologiae and the concept
of ordinatio in his mature works; the connection between grace and merit; the distinction
between merit ex congruo and ex condigno; or the problem of the merit of first grace. For
a thorough discussion of how Aquinas’s views on merit evolve in light of his increasingly
dynamic and intrinsicist notion of grace, see the classic study by Joseph Wawrykow, God’s
Grace and Human Action: “Merit” in the Theology of Thomas Aquinas (Notre Dame, Ind.:
University of Notre Dame, 1995).
46
III Sent., d. 18, q. 1, a. 5: “facere aliquid sibi debitum.” Aside from the two parties
involved, merit contains a third aspect, namely, the actual reward (merces) for the
meritorious deed. In the Sentences commentary Aquinas conceives of the relation between
the meritorious deed and the reward in terms of proportional equality, characteristic of
distributive justice, in contrast to a quantitative equality, which applies to commutative
justice. In the Summa theologiae he adopts a different perspective, for there he associates
salvation with commutative justice (which focuses on restoring an equal balance).

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reward of eternal life. Through such an action we merit ex
condigno, with a certain rightful claim. Christ who performed all
his actions with charity therefore merited ex condigno.47 When
discussing the relation between the action and the reward
Aquinas emphasizes the central role charity occupies in
establishing an equivalence between them:
There must be an equivalence between the action and the reward. I do not mean
an equivalence according to equality of quantity, which pertains to commutative
justice, such as in buying and selling, but according to an equality of proportion,
as demanded in distributive justice, according to which God bestows his eternal
rewards. Now, the action proportionate to eternal life is an action performed
with charity [Actio autem proportionata ad vitam aeternam est actio ex caritate
facta]. Thus one can merit ex condigno those things that pertain to eternal life.
Works done, however, without charity fall short of this proportion.48

But why exactly is charity essential in merit—so much so that we
cannot merit properly without charity or friendship for God?49
The answer is that charity transforms the nature and dynamic of
the manner in which the broken relationship with God is to be
restored. Consider a later passage (IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 3,
qcla. 4), where we read:
Now, since in everything that is freely given the primary reason of giving is love,
it is impossible that someone should cause such a debt to himself if he lacks
friendship. And therefore since all goods, both temporal and eternal, are given
to us by divine generosity, no one can acquire the debt of receiving any of them,
except through charity for God. And this is why works done without charity
are not meritorious condignly.

47

Condign merit is based upon a debt or claim to receive (debitum recipiendi).
Congruous merit implies that the giver should give according to what befits him
(secundum decentiam ipsius). Congruent merit is merit in the weak or improper sense,
and it depends as much on God’s merciful willingness to reward our efforts as it does on
divine justice.
48
III Sent., d. 18, q. 1, a. 2. Article 3 reiterates this idea. It asks whether Christ could
merit from the instance of his conception onwards. The answer is that because Christ
from the very beginning of his conception was moved by charity (in an indivisible,
nonsuccessive manner) he could merit.
49
See III Sent., d. 18, q. 1, a. 2.

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

Consider the following example. If Francis performs an act of
restitution for hurting or offending Clare, he will not merit
anything, nor restore his friendship with Clare, unless his
restitution is shaped and informed by feelings of genuine
friendship. If he is merely making an indifferent “repayment”
without regard to their mutual friendship it will not be
considered meritorious. Francis will have failed, quite literally, to
give Clare her due as a friend.50 In other words, it is not the actual
gift or compensation that is of primary importance but rather
what it signifies, namely, the attempt to restore the friendship.51
If the aspect of friendship is lacking it becomes a mere repayment
but cannot possibly be considered a gift worthy of reward. The
same applies to our relationship with God: because God, in his
radical generosity, has invited us to become friends with him (i.e.,
in charity) we now actually have a “claim” of some kind over God
that we could not conceivably have outside the context of
friendship. Friendship comes with a set of obligations, and God
in his astonishing generosity (manifested above all in the bestowal
of his Son) has condescended to assume these. On the basis of
friendship, God has therefore caused a debt from himself to us.52
50
In the words of Daniel Schwartz, Aquinas on Friendship (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2007), 136: “It is one’s reaching out to the giver with a friendly will that entitles
one to the benefits.” I have benefited from Schwartz’s study, especially from chapters 6
and 7. Incidentally, the central role of charity explains why IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 3,
qcla. 1 suggests that we cannot make satisfaction for one sin while retaining another.
Because satisfaction is primarily about the restoration of friendship, it cannot take place
if obstacles remain, “just as neither would a man make satisfaction who threw himself at
another’s feet and then gave him another slap.”
51
III Sent., d. 18, q. 1, a. 5, ad 1. It is therefore no surprise that actions by which we
merit are genuinely gratuitous: they are not primarily performed for the sake of the
reward but rather for the sake of love itself. The symbolic or intentional aspect of the
saving work of Christ (or, indeed, our own practices of penance) explains the appeal that
St. Augustine’s dictum from The City of God, book 10 would have had for Aquinas: “the
visible sacrifice is the sacrament, i.e., the sacred sign, of the invisible sacrifice.” Aquinas
must have come across this text (which informs his soteriological model of sacrifice in his
final works) quite late in life; he then quotes it time and again (see n. 10).
52
This may seem a radical reading, as if God becomes a debtor to us. It is implied to
some degree, however, by the fact that Aquinas characterizes “merit” on the basis of
charity as “condign” (and not merely as “congruous”); see n. 46. Again, when Aquinas
writes (in IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 3, qcla. 4) that “however great is the good work done

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539

In short, we obtain forgiveness from God (and ultimately eternal
life) when we make satisfaction on the condition that this occurs
within an overall context of friendship, which is the root of any
meritorious action.
It is certainly a daring theological move to claim that because
we are friends with God we acquire some kind of “claim” over
him.53 Admittedly, speaking of “claims” over God must be
nuanced: the claim we have is itself a gift from God in the first
place. There is, in other words, a pneumatological circularity
operative here. Charity itself is a gift from God. More
particularly, it is a way in which the Holy Spirit (one of whose
personal names is Gift)54 comes to dwell in us.55 Through
receiving the gift of charity or friendship, our actions informed
by them acquire a meritorious character whereby we can receive
further rewards from God―ultimately culminating in being
given the gift of eternal life.
Again, even though Aquinas uses the language of condign
merit there is no strict equivalence; but among friends this is not
required.56 Especially among friends who are not entirely on an
without charity, it does not make it so that the one doing it has a debt of receiving
anything from God, properly speaking” (a Deo faciens debitum habeat), the implication
is, of course, that one who does merit with charity is owed something from God, properly
speaking. Having said this, it remains true that for Aquinas, as for Augustine, God crowns
(and rewards) only his own gifts.
53
IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 3, qcla. 4, ad 1: “No work of ours is able to merit anything
by quantity of its own goodness, but from the power of charity [sed ex vi caritatis], which
causes those things that belong to friends to be shared. Hence, however great is the good
work done without charity, it does not make it so that the one doing it has a debt of
receiving anything from God, properly speaking.”
54
STh I, q. 38.
55
STh I, q. 43, a. 5, ad 2; see also STh I-II, q. 114, a. 3: “the value of its [=a meritorious
work] merit depends upon the power of the Holy Spirit moving us to life everlasting
according to John 4:14: ‘[The water that I shall give him] shall become in him a fount of
water springing up into life everlasting.’ And the worth of the work depends on the dignity
of grace, whereby a person, being made a partaker of the divine nature, is adopted as a
son of God, to whom inheritance is due by right of adoption, according to Rom. 8:17: ‘If
sons, heirs also.’”
56
In relation to satisfaction Aquinas writes in IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 5, qcla. 2: “It
should be said that for satisfaction a man must be reconciled to his neighbor, just as to
God. Now reconciliation is nothing other than the repairing of friendship. But while the
cause of friendship’s dissolution remains, friendship cannot be repaired; which cause

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

equal footing there is therefore an element of acceptatio by the
higher one:57 “equality in making satisfaction to God is not
according to equivalence, but rather according to his acceptance.”58 In a sense this places the bar both higher and lower:
higher, in the sense that the restoration of friendship requires
charity; a mere restitution will not do. Lower, on the other hand,
because the restoration of a friendship does not require that the
same demands be met as those that would apply in retributive
justice among those who are strangers.59
indeed was the inequality caused by an unjust taking or keeping. And so the person who
does not restore what was wrongly taken or kept cannot make satisfaction, nor be
reconciled to God. But it should be known that, as the Philosopher says in Ethics VIII
[14.1163b15], friendship does not always require the equal, but what is possible. And so
if anything has been taken that cannot possibly be restored, the will of restoring it with as
much restitution as is possible suffices according to the condition of both to the judgement
of good men.”
57
STh III, q. 85, a. 3, ad 1.
58
IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 3, qcla. 2: “Aequalitas autem in satisfactione ad Deum non
est secundum aequivalentiam, sed magis secundum acceptationem ipsius.” In relation to
“acceptance” and “aequalitas” he writes in IV Sent., d. 15, q. 1, a. 2: “among those honors
that are for parents or gods, even according to the Philosopher [Nic. Ethic.
9.14.1164b15], it is impossible to render the equivalent according to quantity; but it is
enough that a man render what he can: for friendship does not require an equivalent
except according as it is possible. And this is also a certain kind of equal, namely,
according to proportionality: for just as what is due to God is related to himself, so is
whatever this man can render related to him. And this is how the form of justice is
preserved in some way, and it is the same on the part of satisfaction.” Such an acceptatio
should not be read in light of later notions of acceptatio. For Aquinas, the context of
friendship between God and humans purges this notion of any legalistic or forensic
dimensions it might have. IV Sent., d. 20, q. 1, a. 2, qcla. 3 is also relevant: poena
satisfactoria has the power of making satisfaction mostly by reason of charity with which
a man endures it. It is precisely because greater charity is manifested in making satisfaction
for someone other than for oneself that less poena is required.
59
Also, among friends the compensation will not be determined by an external party,
such as a judge; rather, the offender will freely take it upon herself. In making satisfaction
we freely embrace penance in marked contrast to the retribution of punishment, which is
imposed. The following quotation brings out some of these connections (STh III, q. 85,
a. 3): “Penance is a special virtue not merely because it sorrows for evil done (since charity
would suffice for that), but also because the penitent grieves for the sin he has committed,
inasmuch as it is an offense against God, and purposes to amend. Now amendment for an
offense committed against anyone is not made by merely ceasing to offend, but it is
necessary to make some kind of compensation, which obtains in offenses committed
against another, just as retribution does, only that compensation is on the part of the

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541

The significance of this emphasis upon charity or friendship is
fundamental for understanding Aquinas’s notion of satisfaction―
and for recognizing that interpreting satisfaction in penal terms
as somehow meeting the demands of a vindictive God is
untenable. When discussing satisfaction as part of the sacrament
of penance (STh III, q. 90. a. 2), he writes:
Now it has been said above (STh III, q. 85, a.3 ad 3) that an offense is atoned
otherwise in penance than in vindictive justice. Because, in vindictive justice the
atonement is made according to the judge’s decision, and not according to the
discretion of the offender or of the person offended; whereas, in penance, the
offense is atoned according to the will of the sinner, and the judgment of God
against whom the sin was committed, because in the latter case we seek not only
the restoration of the equality of justice, as in vindictive justice, but also and still
more the reconciliation of friendship [sed magis reconciliatio amicitiae], which
is accomplished by the offender making atonement according to the will of the
person offended.

In penance satisfaction is made (and justice met) according to
radically different standards and criteria. The reason for this
difference is the friendship between God and humans, which
changes the dynamic of “retribution” altogether.
By way of conclusion I would like to mention Aquinas’s
discussion as to how divine justice and mercy relate to one
another. When dealing with the objection that God cannot remit
what appertains to his justice, Aquinas makes an important
observation:
God acts mercifully, not indeed by going against his justice, but by doing
something more than justice; thus a man who pays another two hundred
denarii, though owing him only one hundred, does nothing against justice, but
acts liberally or mercifully. The case is the same with one who pardons an
offence committed against him, for in remitting it he may be said to bestow a
gift. . . . Hence it is clear that mercy does not destroy justice, but in a sense is
the fullness thereof.60

offender, as when he makes satisfaction, whereas retribution is on the part of the person
offended against. Each of these belongs to the matter of justice, because each is a kind of
commutation. Wherefore it is evident that penance, as a virtue, is part of justice.”
60
STh I, q. 21, a. 3, ad 2.

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

The reference to the parable of the workers in the vineyard (Matt
20) is no coincidence. In that story, God bestows an equal reward
on all workers, even though some started much later, and others
worked all day. This may clash with our natural sense of justice;
it is, however, simply an illustration of God’s infinite generosity.
A different kind of justice operates among friends than among
those who are not on friendly terms.
All acts of divine justice are predicated upon God’s prior
generosity, goodness, and mercy, if only because there is no
proportion between God and creatures―for we have received
everything from God, including our very being. Yet charity, itself
a gift from God, creates a kind of proportion. This is the ultimate
foundation of Aquinas’s profound statement “the work of divine
justice always presupposes the work of mercy; and is founded
thereupon.”61
CONCLUSION
In recent years a number of scholars have claimed that
Thomas Aquinas’s doctrine of salvation contains penal elements.
Some (e.g., O’Collins) even claim that both through the language
he adopts and the introduction of the notion of poena
satisfactoria (in marked contrast to Anselm for whom poena and
satisfactio are mutually exclusive) Aquinas may have contributed
to importing a vindictive notion of divine justice into soteriology.
Others welcome this interpretation, seeing Aquinas’s alleged
incipient penal notion of salvation as a precursor to later
Calvinist doctrine, in which penal substitution becomes the
dominant paradigm to understand Christ’s saving activity.

61
STh I, q. 21, a. 4: “Now the work of divine justice always presupposes the work of
mercy; and is founded thereupon. For nothing is due to creatures, except for something
pre-existing in them, or foreknown. Again, if this is due to a creature, it must be due on
account of something that precedes. And since we cannot go on to infinity, we must come
to something that depends only on the goodness of the divine will—which is the ultimate
end. . . . So in every work of God, viewed at its primary source, there appears mercy. In
all that follows, the power of mercy remains, and works indeed with even greater force;
as the influence of the first cause is more intense than that of second causes.”

SALVATION, SATISFACTION, AND FRIENDSHIP WITH GOD

543

In this article I have tried to refute these claims. First, I have
demonstrated that the language of divine anger and placatio is
biblical in origin and should not be taken at face value. Aquinas
emphasizes that these concepts are used metaphorically, and that
they do not properly apply to God. On the contrary, they relate
to his created effects. For instance, talk of God abandoning us
should be interpreted as saying something about humans moving
away from God through sin.
The introduction of poena satiafactoria deserves a more indepth refutation. Here I have argued, first, that we should not
translate poena as “punishment” in all instances, which suggests
that we cannot take the introduction of the term poena satisfactoria as evidence that Aquinas introduces a penal dimension
into his theory of making satisfaction. More fundamentally
(going beyond issues of translation) I have indicated that this very
concept may actually be one of the ways in which Aquinas
nuances the penal elements present within the Augustinian
tradition. Our afflictions, which Augustine considered to be
“punishments” for original sin, may actually acquire a “satisfactory” or penitential character in Aquinas’s reading. Thus,
rather than strengthening the penal character of the tradition,
Aquinas’s notion may actually qualify it. Finally, a penal reading
of Aquinas’s theory of making satisfaction has to demonstrate
that in Christ the human and the divine wills are opposed to one
another. This is, after all, what distinguishes making satisfaction
from punishment: while the former is “voluntary simply but
involuntary in some respect” (insofar as every act of penance
implies deprivation of some kind, which our sensible nature
therefore resists), it pertains “to the nature of punishment to be
against the will” without qualification.62 Now, Aquinas is at pains
throughout his writings to demonstrate that Christ’s human and
divine wills are not in opposition, as I have shown. Thus, the
claim that Aquinas introduces a penal element in his
understanding of Christ’s saving work fails at a basic level.
In the final part of the article I have considered the notion of
“merit.” It undoubtedly deserves a fuller treatment in its own
62

STh I-II, q. 87, a. 6.

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RIK VAN NIEUWENHOVE

right. My main purpose in dealing with it, no matter how briefly,
was twofold. First, I wanted to indicate that Aquinas’s soteriology
cannot be reduced to the notion of making satisfaction. As in a
symphony, every movement or model (merit, satisfaction,
redemption, sacrifice) is multi-layered and recalls previous
elements, with a cumulative effect (see, e.g., STh III, q. 48, a. 6,
ad 3). The model of “merit” receives primary attention in his
commentary on the Sentences; in the Summa theologiae Aquinas
presents a holistic picture, perhaps crowned by the (more
biblical) notion of sacrifice. Only in the Summa contra gentiles is
“making satisfaction” the main model.
Second, I have argued that we need to be more attentive to
the role that charity plays in Aquinas’s account of merit. As is
well-known, charity is the root of merit. What is not so wellknown is that charity (or friendship with God) radically
transforms the notion of justice that is being met in Christ’s
saving activity (and in our penitential practices insofar as we are
united with, and incorporated into, Christ). In plain English,
retribution acquires an entirely different dimension among those
who are on friendly terms with one another, as distinct from
those who are not. Here strict equivalence does not matter; what
matters is divine acceptance. It is here that Aquinas parts ways
with Anselm. Anselm considered the self-gift of Christ sufficient
to outweigh the number and gravity of our sins, given the lofty
value of the person of Christ as the sinless Son of God.63 Aquinas
subtly shifts the focus to a far less transactional and more interpersonal dimension: through charity (or friendship with God)
Christ’s satisfaction compensates for sin and restores our
friendship with God in accordance with standards that prevail
among friends. In short, once we recall the nature of merit, and
more in particular the role of charity in it, the assertion that
Aquinas claims that Christ has to meet the demands of a
vindictive deity becomes even less plausible. Given the
importance of charity, making satisfaction is not in the first place
about meeting divine justice but rather about restoration of
friendship (cf. STh III, q. 90, a. 2), and this applies to both
63

Anselm, Cur Deus homo 2.14.

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545

Christ’s Passion and our practices of making satisfaction insofar
as we are in union with Christ. In short, the central role charity
occupies in Aquinas’s soteriology explains why God’s justice is
always predicated upon divine mercy, and why penal readings are
less than convincing.

The Thomist 83 (2019): 547-88

THREE SIXTEENTH-CENTURY THOMIST SOLUTIONS TO
THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE:
CAJETAN, CANO, AND BELLARMINE
CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN
University of Saint Thomas
St. Paul, Minnesota

A

NY CHRISTIAN ECCLESIOLOGY that recognizes an
external magisterial authority has to reckon with the
question, what happens if that authority tries to teach
definitively something that is contrary to the faith—in other
words, heresy? Theoretically, the question is of perennial
interest; historically, it occasionally has been a very lively one.1
1

One can see this lively debate surrounding the cases of Popes Honorius in the
seventh century and John XXII in the fourteenth century. See Georg Kreuzer, Die
Honoriusfrage im Mittelalter und in der Neuzeit (Stuttgart: A. Hiersemann, 1975). For a
detailed presentation of the controversy surrounding Pope John XXII, see Jared Wicks,
S.J., “The Intermediate State: Patristic and Medieval Doctrinal Development and Recent
Receptions,” in The Hope of Eternal Life: Common Statement of the Eleventh Round of
the U.S. Lutheran-Catholic Dialogue, ed. Lowell G. Almen and Richard J. Sklba
(Minneapolis, Minn.: Lutheran University Press, 2011), 159-70. In the
nineteenth century the issue of papal heresy was also vigorously discussed in the debates
over papal infallibility before and during the First Vatican Council. Prior to the council,
theologians such as Peter le Page Renouf (1822-97) and Ignaz von Döllinger (17991890) wrote pamphlets on the question of the papa haereticus, arguing that Pope
Honorius had been condemned for heresy. During the council some bishops in the
minority, such as Karl Josef von Hefele (1809-93) and Augustin Verot (1804-76),
objected to the ultramontane doctrine because they thought it ignored the cases of
popes like Honorius and Vigilius, who had in their opinion taught error. See
Mansi, Collectio conciliorum recentiorum (Arnhem: H. Welter, 1927), 52: col. 83; cols.
295-300. In our own day, some theologians have made a stir in accusing Pope Francis of
heresy. While, in my judgment, these last are wrong, the very existence of these false
accusations shows the ongoing relevance of the theories of our three authors for helping
the Church to discern faithful teaching from unfaithful.
547

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

In Catholic theology the question tends to be centered on the
pope (though it could just as easily be posed of a council). The
possibility of papal heresy was commonly treated in medieval
reflections on canon law and ecclesiology and was generally
affirmed in the Thomist school. In the sixteenth century, three
Thomist theologians, Cajetan, O.P. (1468-1534), Melchior
Cano, O.P. (1509-60), and St. Robert Bellarmine, S.J. (15421621), took up the question in the context of conciliarism and
the Reformation. This article will examine the views of these
three theologians about which kinds of papal teachings are
subject to error and which are not, and about whether and how
the Church could depose a heretical pope. To this end, this
article will treat each theologian’s understanding of papal
infallibility, since each of the authors thought that there are
conditions under which God necessarily protects the pope from
teaching error. It also will examine their understanding of the
limits of papal infallibility. This article will treat the three
authors’ assessments of popes who have been accused of heresy
in order better to understand their theory of the papa
haereticus, but it will prescind from analyzing whether their
historical judgment is correct. Finally, it will treat whether and
under what conditions a pope could be a heretic and the process
by which the Church can be freed from a heretical pope.
I. THEOLOGICAL BACKGROUND
Gratian’s Concordia discordantium canonum appeared
around A.D. 1140, and it was a kind of medieval “Denzinger”
containing a collection of authoritative texts.2 Gratian’s work
presents a series of texts concerned with the limits of papal
authority. Perhaps the best known is the following canon,
known by its incipit, Si Papa, written by St. Boniface, apostle to
the Germans and a martyr:
If the Pope, negligent of his own and of his brothers’ salvation, is discovered
slack and remiss in his deeds, and silent, moreover, in the cause of good when
2

Yves M.-J. Congar, “Saint Thomas Aquinas and the Infallibility of the Papal
Magisterium (Summa Theologiae, II–II, q. 1, a. 10),” The Thomist 38 (1974): 90.

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

549

he should speak, which last is the more harmful to himself and to others, then
no less does he lead countless people along with him in a throng to their first
slave of hell, he himself to be beaten with many stripes together with Satan for
all eternity. Here no mortal presumes to rebuke his faults, because he, the one
who is to judge all, is to be judged by none, unless he be found straying from
the faith.3

Gratian had both received and transmitted a basic tension in the
Church’s doctrine of the papal magisterium. This tension can be
seen in the two propositions: “the one who is to judge all, is to
be judged by none,” and “unless he be found straying from the
faith.”4 Gratian also holds that a person does not fall into heresy
by simply holding erroneous doctrine. One has to hold this
error pertinaciously after being corrected.5 Gratian not only
presents papal heresy as theoretically possible, but he seems to
have thought that it had occurred and gives the unhistorical
example of Pope Anastasius II (r. 496-98).6 While Si Papa is
clear that the pope could be judged for a deviation from the
faith, it also leaves much unsaid. It does not sanction any
particular method for judging a pope for heresy, nor who may
judge the pope, nor when the pope may be judged (e.g., after a
rebuke), nor in what condition a pope finds himself when

3
“Si papa suae et fraternae salutis negligens reprehenditur inutilis et remissus in
operibus suis, et insuper a bono taciturnus, quod magis officit sibi et omnibus,
nichilominus innumerabiles populos cateruatim secum ducit, primo mancipio gehennae
cum ipso plagis multis in eternum uapulaturus. Huius culpas istic redarguere presummit
mortalium nullus, quia cunctos ipse iudicaturus a nemine est iudicandus, nisi
deprehendatur a fide deuius” (Gratian, Concordantia discordantium canonum,
Decretum, part 1, d. 40, c. 6 [Aemilius Friedberg, Corpus iuris canonici (Graz:
Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt, 1955), 1:146]). English translation by James M.
Moynihan, Papal Immunity and Liability in the Writings of the Medieval Canonists
(Rome: Gregorian University Press, 1961), 26.
4
Klaus Schatz, Papal Primacy: From Its Origins to the Present, trans. John A. Otto
and Linda M. Maloney (Collegeville, Minn: The Liturgical Press, 1996), 95.
5
Gratian, Concordantia discordantium canonum, part 2, cause 24, q. 3, c. 31
(Friedberg, ed., 1:998); Moynihan, Papal Immunity, 50.
6
Gratian, Concordantia discordantium canonum, part 1, d. 19, c. 9, q. 1 (Friedberg,
ed., 1:64); Moynihan, Papal Immunity, 49 n. 23.

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

judged (e.g., is he still the pope or is he a heretic who was
deposed ipso facto?).
Si Papa ensured that the issue of papal heresy was a common
theme in the canonistic debates of the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries.7 The issue was in fact so common that the papal
magisterium itself recognized the truth contained in it. Thus,
Pope Innocent III (r. 1198-1216) stated that
For faith is so necessary to me, that, while I have only God for my judge in
other sins, I am able to be judged by the Church only on account of the sin
which is committed against faith. For he who does not believe is already
judged.8

A similar view was also held by Pope Innocent IV (r. 1243-54)
who, in his commentary on Gratian, approved of the doctrinal
content of Si Papa.9 In the sixteenth century, Pope Paul IV (r.
1555-59) reconfirmed the essential content of Si Papa in the
bull Cum ex apostolates officio (1559).10
The various schools of theology in the Middle Ages were one
in accepting the doctrine that a pope can be a heretic.
Dominican and Thomist theologians took up the issue in their
ecclesiological writings, and this became more pronounced
during their fights first with conciliarists and later with
Protestants. Saint Thomas Aquinas clearly affirmed the pope’s
infallibility in certain matters, such as promulgating a new creed
and canonizing a saint.11 At the same time, he affirmed that it is
7

Moynihan, Papal Immunity, 141-42. Brian Tierney, Foundations of the Conciliar
Theory: The Contribution of the Medieval Canonists from Gratian to the Great Schism
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 9. Thierry Sol, “Nisi deprehendatur a
fide devius: L’immunité du pape de Gratien à Huguccio,” Ius ecclesiae 31 (2019):
189-202.
8
“In tantum mihi fides necessaria est, ut quum de ceteris peccatis solum Deum
judicem habeam, propter solum peccatum, quod in fide committitur, possem ab ecclesia
judicari. Nam qui non credit, jam judicatus est” (Innocent III, Sermo II in consecratione
pontificis maximi [PL 217, col. 656]).
9
Moynihan, Papal Immunity, 115.
10
Bullarum, diplomatum et privilegiorum sanctorum romanorum pontificum
taurinensis, ed. Seb. Franco et Henrico Dalmazzo (Turin, 1857), 6:551.
11
STh II-II, q. 1, a. 10. Ulrich Horst, The Dominicans and the Pope: Papal Teaching
Authority in the Medieval and Early Modern Thomist Tradition (Notre Dame, Ind.:

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

551

possible for the pope to err as a person.12 In the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries, the Thomist school followed Aquinas in
maintaining that the pope’s teaching is protected from error in
certain conditions, although these conditions were not always
laid out with great clarity.13 Hervaeus Natalis, O.P. (c. 12601323), Petrus de Palude, O.P. (ca. 1275–1342), Guido Terreni,
O.Carm. (d. 1342), Juan de Torquemada, O.P. (1388-1468),
and St. Antoninus, O.P. (1389-1459) all affirm that the pope
can teach infallibly. Many of these Thomist theologians,
however, also explicitly hold that the pope can err doctrinally
or be a heretic when teaching as a “singular” or “particular”
person.14 Many of these authors either explicitly cite Si Papa as

University of Notre Dame Press, 2006), 20. Congar, “Saint Thomas Aquinas and the
Infallibility of the Papal Magisterium,” 93.
12
Quodlibet IX.8.
13
Hervaeus Natalis, O.P., De potestate papae, in In quatuor libros Sententiarum
commentaria. Quibus adiectus est eiusdem auctoris tractatus De postestate papae (1647;
reprint, Farnborough: Gregg, 1966), 365. Petrus de Palude, O.P., Tractatus de potestate
papae, ed. P. T. Stella (Zürich: Pas-Verlag, 1966), 191. Guido Terreni, Quaestio de
magisterio infallibili romani pontificis, ed. Bartolomé María Xiberta y Roqueta
(Münster: typis Aschendorff, 1926), 16, 25, lib. 2, c. 112. Juan de Torquemada, O.P.,
De inerrantia romani pontificis ex cathedra definientis suffragium praeclarissimi Card. Jo.
Turrecremata O.P. legati pontificii ad concilium Basileense deinde ad concilium
florentinum latinorum oratoris ex aureo illius opere summa de potestate papali
depromptum et Rev. patribus concilii Vaticani exhibitum (Turin: P. H. F. Marietti,
1870), lib. 2, c. 109. Saint Antoninus, O.P., Summa theologica (Graz: Akademische
Drucku. Verlagsanstalt, 1959), 3:364-65.
14
Hervaeus Natalis, De potestate papae, 365; Petrus de Palude, Tractatus de
potestate papae, 196; St. Antoninus, Summa theologica, 3:1207-8; Juan de
Torquemada, Summa de ecclesia ...: una cum eiusdem apparatu, nunc primum in lucem
edito, super decreto Papae Eugenij IIII. in Concilio Florentino de unione Graecorum
emanato (Venice: Apud Michaelem Tramezinum, 1561), lib. 2, c. 102; Terreni,
Quaestio de magisterio infallibili romani pontificis, 28, 30. Tierney reads Terreni as
holding a position that the pope simply cannot err (Brian Tierney, Origins of Papal
Infallibility, 1150-1350: A Study on the Concepts of Infallibility, Sovereignty and
Tradition in the Middle Ages [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1988], 245). Terreni is at pains,
however, to be clear that the pope is only infallible when defining a matter of faith for
the universal Church.

552

CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

one of their sources for this teaching15 or admit that popes have
in fact been deficient in living the faith in some respect.16 For
these authors, once the pope commits incorrigible heresy, the
pope ceases to be pope ipso facto.17 They also hold that the
pope is the highest authority in the Church and cannot be
judged by anyone, including a council.18 Nevertheless some, like
Petrus de Palude, St. Antoninus, and Torquemada, think that a
council can recognize officially the de facto situation in the
Church that there is no pope.19
In the sixteenth century, there were two different theological
fights over the nature of the papal teaching office, and our three
authors explicitly responded to both. The first was between
papalists and conciliarists; the second was between Protestant
and Catholic theologians. Conciliarism arose in the fourteenth
century, and it gained momentum during the great Western
Schism (1378-1417). The basic position of all conciliarists is
that a general council of the Church is higher in authority than
the pope. In the sixteenth century, conciliarism found able
defenders in men such as Jacques Almain (ca. 1480-1515) and
John Mair (ca. 1467-1550).20 Central to their argument that a
15
St. Antoninus, Summa theologica, 3:1207; Juan de Torquemada, O.P., A
Disputation on the Authority of Pope and Council (Blackfriars Publications, 1988), 48;
Petrus de Palude, Tractatus de potestate papae, 195.
16
Hervaeus Natalis, De potestate papae, 365; Juan de Torquemada, Summa de
ecclesia, lib. 4, c. 19-20. Torquemada’s account of Honorius in book four is at odds
with his account in book two. On this apparent contradiction, see Kreuzer, Die
Honoriusfrage im Mittelalter und in der Neuzeit, 132-33.
17
Petrus de Palude, Tractatus de potestate papae, 195. Juan de Torquemada, O.P., A
Disputation on the Authority of Pope and Council, 47. St. Antoninus, Summa theologica,
3:1208.
18
Petrus de Palude, Tractatus de potestate papae, 196.
19
Ibid., 196, 200; St. Antoninus, Summa theologica, 3:1208-9; Juan de
Torquemada, O.P., A Disputation on the Authority of Pope and Council, 47; Juan de
Torquemada, Summa de ecclesia, 1. III, c. 8 ad 4, fol. 282r.
20
Francis Oakley, “Almain and Major: Conciliar Theory on the Eve of the
Reformation,” American Historical Review 70 (1965): 673-90; idem, The Conciliarist
Tradition: Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church 1300-1870 (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003), 111-40; Friedrich Merzbacher, “Die Kirchen und Staatsgewalt
bei Jacques Almain,” in H. Lentze and I. Ganipl, eds., Speculum juris et ecclesiarum:
Festschrift für Willibald M. Plöchl zum 60 (Vienna: Herder, 1967), 301-12.

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

553

council is superior to a pope is the possibility that individual
popes could become heretics and be judged and deposed by a
general council.21 This ability to judge and depose a heretical
pope, they argue, demonstrates that a council is in fact superior
to a pope. Moreover, the conciliarists held that a general
council could judge and depose the pope not only in the case of
heresy, but also for other immoral crimes in which he
scandalizes the Church.22 Lastly, they read Luke 22:32, “I have
prayed for thee [Peter], that thy faith fail not,” not as a
guarantee of either the pope’s public or his personal faith, but
rather as a promise that the universal Church cannot err.23
At the same time, Protestant theologians began to reject or
reformulate almost every doctrine concerning those visible
properties that are constitutive of the Church’s hierarchical and
sacramental structure. This entailed that the discussion of papal
infallibility and heresy was no longer treated in the medieval
ecclesiological context. For Martin Luther (1483-1546) the
papacy is the office of the antichrist; the pope is “the devil’s
bishop and the devil himself.”24 While Luther retained the
medieval view that popes could doctrinally err,25 as early as the
21

Jacque Almain, Tractatus de autoritate ecclesiae et conciliorum generalium, in
Gersonii opera omnia, ed. Ellies Du Pin (Antwerp: Sumptibus Societatis, 1706), 2: cols.
1005, 1007; John Mair, Disputatio de authoritate concilii supra pontificem maximum in
Gersonii opera omnia, ed. Ellies Du Pin (Antwerp: Sumptibus Societatis, 1706), 2: cols.
1144-45.
22
Almain, Tractatus de autoritate ecclesiae et conciliorum generalium, 2: col. 1108;
Mair, Disputatio de authoritate concilii supra pontificem maximum, 2: col. 1135.
23
Mair, Disputatio de authoritate concilii supra pontificem maximum, 2: col. 1142.
24
Martin Luther, Matthäus Kapitel 18–24 in Predigten ausgelegt 1537–1540, WA
47:425. English What Luther Says, entry 370. Luther held his view prior even to
breaking from the Church. See Vorlesung über den Römerbrief [1515/1516], WA
56:417.
25
Remigius Bäumer, Martin Luther und der Papst (Münster: Aschendorff, 1987), 24;
idem, “Luthers Ansichten über die Irrtumsfähigkeit des Konzils und ihre
theologiegeschichtlichen Grundlagen,” Wahrheit und Verkundigung, Festschrift fur
Michael Schmaus, ed. Leo Scheffczyk, Werner Dettloff, and Richard Heinzmann
(Paderborn: Verlag Ferdinand Schoningh, 1967), 2:987ff.; Gerhard O. Forde,
“Infallibility Language and the Early Lutheran Tradition,” in Paul C. Empie, T. Austin

554

CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

Leipzig disputation (1519) he came to reject the medieval view
that the pope is infallible in certain circumstances.26 John Calvin
(1509-64) and the Anglican William Laud (1573-1645) were no
less clear than Luther in rejecting the infallible authority of the
pope,27 holding that when the pope is teaching in union with a
council he can still err in matters of faith or morals.28 While
generally speaking Protestants were not interested in the
theoretical aspects of the papa haereticus like their medieval
predecessors, they were very interested in demonstrating that
popes had in fact been heretics. In the Acta Augustana, for
example, Luther repeatedly alleged that popes had erred and
taught contrary to the Scriptures.29 In the Magdeburg Centuries,
Matthias Flacius Illyricus (1520-75) and Joannes Oporinus
(1507-68) repeatedly charged various popes with heresy.30 In

Murphy, and Joseph A. Burgess, Teaching Authority & Infallibility in the Church
(Minneapolis, Minn.: Augsburg Pub. House, 1980), 121.
26
Luther, Ad dialogum Silvestri Prieratis de potestate papae, WA 1:647-686; idem,
Resolutio Lutheriana super propositione sua decima tertia de potestate papae, WA 2:199,
15; idem, An den christlichen Adel deutscher Nation, LW 44:133. On Luther and the
papacy, see Scott H. Hendrix, Luther and the Papacy: Stages in a Reformation Conflict
(Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), 47-48, 67, 69, 181; Bäumer, Martin Luther und der
Papst, 24-26; Luther, Von den Konziliis und Kirchen, WA 50:509-653. Luther stated,
“Sicut non credam Thomam Aquinatem esse sanctum, licet a Papa canonisatum, non
sum Haereticus” (Luther, Assertio omnium articulorum M. Lutheri per bullam Leonis X,
WA 7:149.35-36).
27
John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, IV.7.28 (The Library of Christian
Classics, vols. 20-21, ed. John T. McNeill, trans. Ford Lewis Battles [Philadelphia: The
Westminster Press, 1960], 2:1146).
28
Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, IV.9.9 and 10; William Laud, A
Relation of the Conference between William Laud . . . and Mr. Fisher, the Iesuite . . .
with an Answer to such Exceptions as A. C. a Catholic, i.e. John Sweet? attributed also to
John Fisher . . . “True Relations of Sundry Conferences”, etc. (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1839), 227.
29
Luther, Acta Augustana, WA 2:10; LW 31:265. WA: 2:21; LW 31:282.
30
Matthias Flacius Illyricus and Joannes Oporinus, Ecclesiastica historia: integram
ecclesiae Christi ideam, quantum ad locum, propagationem, persecutionem,
tranquillitatem, doctrinam, haereses, ceremonias, gubernationem, schismata, synodos,
personas, miracula, martyria, religiones extra ecclesiam, & statum imperij politicum
attinet, secundum singulas centurias, perspicuo ordine complectens: singulari diligentia
& fide ex uetustissimis & optimis historicis, patribus, & alijs scriptoribus congesta; per

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

555

effect, the Protestant theologians retained the medieval Catholic
doctrine of the possibility of papal heresy, while rejecting that
the pope can infallibly define a matter of faith in certain limited
situations. It is in the context of both conciliarism and the
Protestant Reformation that Cajetan, Cano, and Bellarmine
discuss the problem of heretical popes.
II. CAJETAN, O.P. (1469-1534)
Probably the most important defender of papal infallibility in
the first half of the sixteenth century was Tommaso de Vio,
called Cajetan after his birthplace, Gaeta in Italy. Cajetan
entered the Dominican order in 1484 and taught philosophy
and theology at Padua, Pavia, and Rome. He served as Master
General of the Dominican order from 1508 to 1518, and during
his tenure he proved to be a vigorous opponent of conciliarists.
He attended the Lateran Council in 1512, was created a cardinal in 1517, and was nominated bishop of Gaeta in 1519.31 In
October 1518, Pope Leo X sent Cajetan to meet with Luther,
but he failed to persuade Luther to remain in the Church of
Christ.32 Cajetan dealt with papal infallibility and error
principally in four works.33 He first defended papal infallibility
aliquot studiosos & pios uiros in urbe Magdeburgica . . . (Basel: Per Ioannem Oporinum,
1560-74), 2:212 558, 559, 560, 627; 3:165, 277, 278.
31
On Cajetan’s life, see Marie-Joseph Congar, “Bio-Bibliographie de Cajetan,” Revue
Thomiste 17 (1934-35): 1-49. For a bibliography of Cajetan's works, see Harm
Klueting, “Thomas de Vio Cajetan,” in Thomistenlexikon, ed. David Berger and Jorgen
Vijgen (Bonn: Verlag Nova et Vetera, 2006), 71-78.
32
Gerhard Hennig, Cajetan und Luther: Ein historischer Beitrag zur Begegnung von
Thomismus und Reformation (Stuttgart: Calwer, 1966); Cajetan Responds: A Reader in
Reformation Controversy, ed. Jared Wicks, S.J. (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic
University of America Press, 1978); Jared Wicks, S.J., Cajetan und die Anfänge der
Reformation (Münster: Aschendorff, 1983); Cajetan and Charles Morerod, Cajetan et
Luther en 1518: Edition, traduction et commentaire des opuscules d'Augsbourg de
Cajetan (Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires, 1994).
33
On Cajetan’s ecclesiology, see J. D. M. Maes, O. P., “Le pouvoir pontifical d’après
Cajetan,” Ephemerides theologicae Lovanienses 12 (1935): 705-21; V.-M. Pollet, O.P.,

556

CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

in two works written against conciliarism, De comparatione
auctoritatis papae et concilii (1511) and Apologia de comparata
auctoritate papae et concilii (1512). Additionally, he discussed
papal infallibility and error in his Commentaria in Summa
theologiae (1518) while commenting on question 1, article 10
of the Secunda secundae. Finally, Cajetan defended the papacy
against the attacks of Luther in De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis (1521).34
Cajetan holds that Christ is the head of the whole Church,
but after his death and resurrection he made Peter his vicar over
the Church on earth.35 By divine institution, the Roman pontiffs
are the successors to Peter in this office36 and hold it for the
purpose of strengthening “the faithful amid the turbulence of
uncertainty and questioning which arise concerning the faith.”37
When the pope acts as the supreme teacher of the faithful in
solemnly defining the faith for the whole Church, he cannot
“La doctrine de Cajetan sur l’Église,” Angelicum 11 (1934): 514-32; 12 (1935): 223-44;
Anton Bodem, Das Wesen der Kirche nach Kardinal Cajetan: Ein Betrag zur Ekklesiologie
im Zeitalter der Reformation (Trier: Paulinus, 1971); Ulrich Horst, The Dominicans and
the Pope: Papal Teaching Authority in the Medieval and Early Modern Thomist
Tradition, 40-41; idem, Juan de Torquemada und Thomas de Vio Cajetan: Zwei
Protagonisten der päpstlichen Gewaltenfülle (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2012), 111-82;
idem, Papst, Konzil, Unfehlbarkeit: d. Ekklesiologie d. Summenkommentare von Cajetan
bis Billuart (Mainz: Matthias-Grünewald-Verlag, 1978), 24-26.
34
Cajetan, O.P., Commentaria in Summa theologiae, in Summa theolgiae cum
commentariis Thomae De Vio Caietani ordinis praedicatorum, Thomas Aquinas, Opera
omnia iussu impensaque Leonis XIII P. M. edita (Rome: Ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C.
de Propaganda Fide, 1882-1906), 8:24-25; idem, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et
concilii and Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concillii, in Cajetan, De
comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii. Cum apologia eiusdem tractatus, ed. V. M. J.
Pollet (Rome: Angelicum, 1936); idem, De divina institutione pontificatus romani
pontificis (1521), ed. Friedrich Lauchert, in Corpus Catholicorum 10 (Münster in
Westfalen: Aschendorff, 1925).
35
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 11 (Pollet, ed., 91);
idem, Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concillii, c. 7 (Pollet, ed., 244); idem,
De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 1 (Lauchert, ed., 2).
36
Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 7 (Lauchert, ed.,
48); c. 12 (Lauchert, ed., 66).
37
“firmare vero fideles fluctantes in ambiguitatibus et questionibus, que circa fidem
emergent” (Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13
[Lauchert, ed., 84]).

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

557

err.38 Cajetan primarily grounds Peter and his successors’ ability
to make an infallible judgment for the universal Church
concerning the faith in Christ’s prayer: “I have prayed for thee
[Peter], that thy faith fail not” (Luke 22:32). Christ’s prayer,
however, only guarantee’s the pope’s ability to make infallible
definitions, and not any other aspect of the Petrine faith or
teaching.39
In order for the pope to define something infallibly, Cajetan
thinks that certain conditions must be met.40 First, the definition
must be what he describes as a “definitive judgment” (iudicio
definitivo) or a “final determination” (finalis determinatio).41
Second, the object of infallibility must pertain to matters of faith
or morals. In fact, Cajetan does not use the term “faith and
morals,” but typically employs instead the term “the Christian

38

Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed.,
83). “Papa tamen, iudicando et definiendo quid tenendum ab Ecclesia sit de fide, errare
non potes” (Cajetan, Commentaria in Summa theologiae [Leonine ed., 25]). Cajetan, De
comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 9 (Pollet, ed., 67).
39
Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed.,
83).
40
For a fuller treatment of Cajetan’s conditions, see Christian D. Washburn, “Papal
Infallibility, Vatican I, and Three 16th Century Views,” Annuarium historiae
conciliorum 44 (2012): 143-70; Jose Arturo Dominguez Asensio, “lnfalibilidad y
‘determinatio de fide’ en la polemica anticonciliarista del Cardenal Cayetano,”
Communio (Seville) 14 (1981): 1-50, 205-26; idem, “Infalibilidad y ‘determinatio de
fide’ en la polemica antiluterana del Cardenal Cayetano,” Archivo teológico granadino
44 (1981): 5-61.
41
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 9 (definitiva sententia
fidei [Pollet, ed., 67]) (finalis sententia [Pollet, ed., 68]); c. 11 (infallibile Papae iudicium
[Pollet, ed., 87]); idem, Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concillii, c. 11
(finalis determinatio [Pollet, ed., 263]) (ultima decisio fidei [Pollet, ed., 265]) (finalis
determinatio [Pollet, ed., 268]) (sententiae definitivae [Pollet, ed., 272]) (finalis
determinatio [Pollet, ed., 274]); idem, De divina institutione pontificatus romani
pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed., 83); idem, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et
concilii, c. 11 (Pollet, ed., 86); idem, Commentaria in Summa theologiae (Leonine ed.,
24).

558

CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

faith” (de fide Christiana) or the “faith” (de fide)42 to describe
the object of infallibility. It is clear, however, that he includes
doctrines concerning morals and secondary objects of infallibility.43 Third, this definition must also be for the whole
Church and not just for part of it.44 The final criterion is that
the pope must act in his office as supreme judge and not in
some other capacity.45 Cajetan, however, does not have a special
term for this role. Instead, he typically uses the term “Supreme
Pontiff” (summus pontifex) to designate the pope’s role, either
when he infallibly defines a matter of faith or morals, or when
he issues disciplinary acts.
For Cajetan, there are two significant limitations to papal
teaching authority which are binding on all popes: divine law
and previous infallible statements of the magisterium. All
definitive papal judgments must conform to sacred Scripture
and apostolic Tradition, neither of which can change.46 Cajetan,
following Aquinas, makes it clear that neither the Church nor
the pope can contradict divine law on an issue like fornication.47
Moreover, it is important to note that for Cajetan, an infallible
decision never establishes a new faith; it simply makes explicit
that which was formerly implicit.48 For Cajetan, then, papal
infallibility is fundamentally in service to the divine Word and
not master of it. Moreover, the pope is also limited by all
previous infallible definitions, whether made by ecumenical

42
Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed.,
83); idem, Commentaria in Summa theologiae (Leonine ed., 25); idem, De
comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 9 (Pollet, ed., 67).
43
On the extent of the object of infallibility in Cajetan, see Washburn, “Papal
Infallibility, Vatican I, and Three 16th Century Views,” 153-54.
44
Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed.,
85).
45
Ibid., c. 13 (Lauchert, ed., 83).
46
Cajetan, Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concillii, c. 11 (Pollet, ed.,
271).
47
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 16 (Pollet, ed., 106).
48
Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed.,
85).

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

559

councils49 or previous popes.50 Therefore, if a pope were to
contradict either revelation or previous infallible definitions, he
would be a heretic.
Cajetan distinguishes sharply between when a pope issues an
infallible definition and when he is acting as a “singular person”
(singularis persona).51 This term singularis persona was often
used by medieval Thomist theologians and is sometimes translated as a “private person.”52 This translation is misleading since
it could be understood to mean that the pope is not acting in
any official capacity as pope. It is common today to think of the
pope speaking on faith and morals in a number of different
roles, such as private theologian, bishop of Rome, patriarch of
the western church, and supreme pontiff.53 In modern terms,
the pope acting as a “private theologian” would signify that this
activity is not magisterial in any respect. It would be used for
something like Benedict XVI writing his trilogy on Jesus.54
These distinctions in the capacities in which the pope can act
are made in order to help distinguish various levels of teaching
authority; however, they are still reducible to only infallible and
fallible teachings. Similarly Cajetan has only two categories: the
49

Cajetan, Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concillii, c. 7 (Pollet, ed.,

252).
50
Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed.,
85). Cajetan, Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concillii, c. 11 (Pollet, ed.,
267).
51
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 9 (Pollet, ed., 67); idem,
Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concillii, c. 6 (Pollet, ed., 256); idem,
Commentaria in Summa theologiae (Leonine ed., 25).
52
Ulrich Horst, Zwischen Konziliarismus und Reformation: Studien zur Ekklesiologie
im Dominikanerorden (Roma: Istituto Storico Domenicano, 1985), 28; idem, Juan de
Torquemada und Thomas de Vio Cajetan, 177.
53
Ioachim Salaverri, Sacrae theologiae summa: Iuxta constitutionem apostolicam
“Deus scientiarum Dominus,” 5th ed. (Madrid: Biblioteca de autores Cristianos, 1962),
1:693.
54
“It goes without saying that this book is in no way an exercise of the magisterium,
but is solely an expression of my personal search ‘for the face of the Lord’” (Benedict
XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: From the Baptism in the Jordan to the Transfiguration [New
York: Random House Large Print, 2007], xxiii-xxiv).

560

CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

pope acting as the supreme pontiff infallibly defining a matter
of faith for the whole Church, and everything else (whether
magisterial or not), which he designates with the term “singular
person.”55 Only the former is infallible, while the latter is able
to err.56 Thus, Cajetan holds that the pope as a singular person
can err and become a heretic.57 Moreover, for Cajetan Christ’s
prayer in Luke 22:32 applied both to Peter’s personal faith and
to his public faith, but with respect to Peter’s successors it
applies only to their public faith.58
Compared with Cano or Bellarmine, Cajetan spends
relatively little time defending popes from accusations of error.
He defends Peter from the charge of heresy by arguing that
Peter’s denial was a sin against charity rather than a heretical
act.59 He defends Pope Marcellinus (d. 304), who allegedly
sacrificed to idols during the persecution of Diocletian, by
arguing that he acted heretically only in an “exterior act” of
idolatry. Cajetan’s basic position is that both Peter and
Marcellinus used heretical words or deeds out of the fear of
death and so did not really commit formal heresy but sinned
only in an external act.60
The conciliarist Almain gave a number of examples of
seemingly contradictory propositions found in papal decrees in
order to show that popes had taught error. Among these were
Nicolas III and Celestine III.61 John XXII, Almain argued, had
“judicially” defined that Christ and the apostles owned property
in common while Nicholas III defined the contradictory.
55

Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 9 (Pollet, ed., 69).
“Papa ut singularis persona possit errare in fide; ut Papa tamen, iudicando et
definiendo quid tenendum ab Ecclesia sit de fide, errare non potest” (Cajetan,
Commentaria in Summa theologiae [Leonine ed., 25]).
57
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 11 (Pollet, ed., 86);
Cajetan, Commentaria in Summa theologiae (Leonine ed., 25); Schatz, Papal Primacy,
123.
58
Cajetan, De divina institutione pontificatus romani pontificis, c. 13 (Lauchert, ed.,
83).
59
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 27 (Pollet, ed., 188-89).
60
Ibid.
61
Jacques Almain, Authority of the Church, X, in Conciliarism and Papalism, ed. J.
H. Burns and Thomas M. Izbicki (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 179.
56

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561

Cajetan responds that Almain made two basic errors. First,
Cajetan denies that Nicholas had “determined judicially” that
the apostles owned nothing in common. Second, Cajetan thinks
that Almain made an error in his interpretation of Nicholas’s
decree since Nicholas admitted that Christ had a purse and
therefore owned property.62 Cajetan also responded to the
apparent contradiction between Innocent III and Celestine III
over whether it would be lawful for one to enter upon a second
marriage, if one’s first spouse had fallen into heresy. Cajetan
here does not deny that Celestine III was in serious doctrinal
error, but he argues that the language of the two decrees shows
that neither pope intended to give a definitive answer.63 Finally,
Cajetan also devotes one of his opuscula, Misuse of Scripture—
Response to Charges against the Holy See (1519), to defending
various popes from the Protestant accusations of heresy for
misinterpreting Matthew 16.64
For what kind of sin can the pope lose his office, according
to Cajetan? He emphatically rejects the view of the conciliarists,
who extended the sins for which a pope can be deposed beyond
heresy. Cajetan holds with Si Papa that there is only one sin, the
sin of heresy, that is the exception to the first see’s immunity
from judgment.65 He further rejects the view of Torquemada,
who argued that a secret (occultus) or merely internal heresy
places one outside the Church by a sort of self-deposition.66
Cajetan thinks that a merely internal sin of heresy is insufficient
for the loss of the papal office.67 He likens the case of a secretly
heretical pope to that of a secretly heretical bishop, arguing that
62

Cajetan, Apologia de comparata auctoritate papae et concilii, c. 11 (Pollet, ed.,

266).
63

Ibid.
Cajetan, Misuse of Scripture - Response to Charges against the Holy See, in Wicks,
ed., Cajetan Responds, 99-104.
65
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 27 (Pollet, ed., 176-77).
66
Torquemada, Summa de Ecclesia, lib. 4, par. 2, c. 20.
67
Cajetan, De comparatione auctoritatis papae et concilii, c. 19 (Pollet, ed., 124);
c. 20 (Pollet, ed., 126).
64

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

such a bishop is not automatically deprived of his office simply
on account of the sin of secret heresy, no matter how obstinate.
This internal sin would be known only to God, and the Church
cannot judge what it is incapable of knowing.68
Cajetan also does not think that a merely external heresy is
sufficient for the pope to be deposed. He rejects, for example,
that a pope who is coerced to affirm something heretical is
really a heretic, since the act is involuntary. Thus, such a pope
would not lose his office.69 Cajetan also rejects the view that a
pope can lose his office for a nonobstinately held external
heresy. If a pope is willing to be corrected, he is not to be
deposed. Cajetan argues that the sin of heresy, whether secret or
external, does not cause one to lose all relation to the Church.
This is because baptism, by which one becomes a member of the
Church, imparts three effects upon our souls: a sacramental
character, the virtue of faith, and the virtue of charity.70 As long
as the sacramental character remains, the individual does not
lose entirely his relationship with the Church even if he loses
faith and charity.71 For this reason, a pope still adheres in some
way to the Church and has the capacity for jurisdiction.72 Just as
sinful priests retain the power to consecrate the Eucharist, so
too the sinful pope retains his jurisdiction.73
There are two more elements that are necessary for the pope
to lose his office. First, the external heresy must be manifest.
The pope might affirm a heresy externally in such a way that no
one is around to hear him, and therefore does not lose his
office.74 Second, for the pope to be deposed, he must also have

68
“Propter quod talis haereticus non est excommunicatus; non enim potest Ecclesia
excommunicare quod non potest iudicare” (ibid., c. 19 [Pollet, ed., 121]).
69
Ibid., c. 23 (Pollet, ed., 150).
70
“ideo sciendum est quod baptismus, quo primum regeneramur et pertinemus ad
lesu Christi corpus mysticum quod est Ecclesia, tres, quantum ad propositum spectat,
facit in anima nostra effectus. Primo, imprimit characterem indelebilem: secundo,
fidem: tertio, caritatem” (ibid., c. 22 [Pollet, ed., 140]).
71
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 142).
72
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 143-44).
73
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 141); ibid., c. 23 (Pollet, ed., 150-51).
74
Ibid., c. 19 (Pollet, ed., 124).

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563

committed “incorrigibility or obstinate perseverance in heresy”
(incorrigibilitas seu perseverantia obstinata in haeresi).75
How then is the Church to rid itself of an incorrigibly
heretical pope (papa haereticus) according to Cajetan? First,
Cajetan rejects Torquemada’s view that a heretical pope loses
his office ipso facto in a sort of self-deposition.76 Second,
Cajetan rejects the view of the conciliarists that a council is
superior to a pope and can thus judge a heretical pope.77 In
part, he rejects this idea based on the witness of Scripture.
When, for example, Christ said to Peter alone, as distinct from
the other apostles, “Feed my sheep” (John 21:17), he made
Peter the chief shepherd over the other apostles, thereby
establishing the “monarchic government of the Church.”78
Nevertheless, Cajetan thinks that a council is an appropriate
way of dealing with a heretical pope. In normal circumstances,
according to Cajetan, only the pope can convene an ecumenical
or perfect council (concilium perfectum). In a perfect council
the pope is either personally present or present through his
legates.79 In extraordinary circumstances, however, “a perfect
council according to the present state of the Church” (concilium
perfectum secundum praesentem Ecclesiae statum) can be called,
even against the wishes of the pope.80 Cajetan holds that there
are two extraordinary circumstances that would require this
second kind of perfect council: (1) the pope is a heretic, or (2)
the results of a papal election are unclear.81 In either case such a
council would be “perfect according to the present state of the
Church,” since a pope simply could not lead it. In these two
extraordinary circumstances the cardinals, the emperor, and the

75

Ibid., c. 22 (Pollet, ed., 149).
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 140).
77
Ibid., c. 20 (Pollet, ed., 126).
78
Ibid., c. 7 (Pollet, ed., 48-53).
79
Ibid., c. 16 (Pollet, ed., 105).
80
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 107).
81
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 107-8).
76

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

bishops can call such a council.82 Cajetan also theorizes that a
pope could give to the cardinal electors the power of deposing a
heretical pope, just as he gave to them the power of electing the
pope.83
In order to explain how a council can depose a pope yet not
be superior to the pope, Cajetan has recourse to a distinction
between having a power over the pope and having a power over
the conjunction of the papal office and a particular pope.84 He
notes that the making of a pope depends in part on two human
powers: that of the electors who elect a pope, and that of him
who accepts his election.85 It is only in the conjunction between
these two human powers that the Church comes to have a new
pope. After all, if one wants to be the pope but is not elected, he
will not be the pope, and if one is elected but refuses the
papacy, he will not be the pope. One has both to be elected by
others and freely to accept the election in order to be the pope.
Cajetan argues that the unmaking of the pope is similar. When
the Church destroys this conjunction, it is not the case that
these human powers have authority over the power of the
papacy as such, for those powers come only directly from
Christ. Instead, the Church only has authority over the conjunction of a particular individual and the papal office.86
Cajetan notes that this conjunction between the papal office
and a particular person may come to an end in one of three
ways: death, abdication, or deposition.87 In the case of
abdication, the pope cannot unilaterally resign his office. His
resignation has to be accepted by the Church.88 Cajetan likens
the pope’s election to the making of a bishop. The ordinand’s
willful acceptance of being consecrated a bishop does not make
him a bishop; it simply makes him capable of being a bishop. It

82

Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 108).
Ibid, c. 21 (Pollet, ed., 135-36).
84
Ibid., c. 20 (Pollet, ed., 127).
85
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 128).
86
Ibid.
87
Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 131).
88
Ibid., c. 21 (Pollet, ed., 136).
83

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

565

is the consecration of the ordinand that makes him a bishop.89
So, too, the acceptance of the papacy makes one capable of
being pope, but the papacy is actually conferred by the electors.
The electors are an active principle, and the candidate is a
passive principle.
Cajetan calls this power of a council to unlink a person from
the papal office a “ministerial power” (potestas ministerialis). 90
It is “ministerial” because God does not deprive the pope of his
office ipso facto; rather, God uses the mediation of a council to
deprive the pope of his office. Cajetan does not explain this
process in any detail. Presumably it would involve an
investigation or trial to verify whether the pope was indeed an
incorrigible heretic. Until this process is completed, a manifest
and incorrigible heretic remains the head of the Church.
Cajetan also holds that the Church must first admonish the
pope twice. He bases this on his reading of Titus 3:10-11, “As
for a man who is factious, after admonishing him once or twice,
have nothing more to do with him, knowing that such a person
is perverted and sinful; he is self-condemned.”91 Thus after
admonishing the pope twice, he is to be shunned, which Cajetan
interprets as deposition from the papal office.
Cajetan’s positions that a pope with occult heresy does not
lose the papal office ipso facto and that the Church can depose
a heretical pope (papa haereticus) had prominent Thomist defenders into the twentieth century, such as John of St. Thomas,
O.P. (1589-1644), Domingo Báñez, O.P. (1528-1604), the Carmelites of Salamanca (Salmanticenses), Charles-René Billuart,
O.P. (1685-1757), Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, O.P. (18771964), and Charles Journet, O.P. (1891-1975).92
89

Ibid. (Pollet, ed., 135).
Ibid., c. 20 (Pollet, ed., 125).
91
Ibid., c. 23 (Pollet, ed., 152-53).
92
John of St. Thomas, O.P., Cursus theologicus in Summam theologicam d. Thomæ
(Paris: lib. Vives, 1883), 7:258-64; Domingo Báñez, O.P., Scholastica commentaria in
Secundam secundae angelici doctoris s. Thomae. Quibus, quae ad fidem, spem, &
charitatem spectant; clarissimè explicantur (Douay: Ex Typographia Petri Borremans,
90

566

CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

III. MELCHIOR CANO, O.P. (1509-60)
Melchior Cano, a Spanish Dominican, studied under
Francisco de Vitoria, O.P. (1483-1546) at Salamanca, where he
eventually succeeded him as a professor.93 He was therefore an
important figure in the renewal of Thomism that took place in
Salamanca in the sixteenth century.94 Cano attended the
Council of Trent in the second and third periods as the
theologian for Charles V, and his interventions are marked by a
careful attention to positive theology that distinguished the
Salamancan tradition.95 In his De locis theologicis96 he

1584), 3:46, 56-59; Carmelites of Salamanca, Collegii salmanticensis cursus theologicus:
Summam theologicam angelici doctoris d. Thomae complectens, ed. Carolo Amabili De
La Tour-d'Auvergne-Lauraguais (Paris: V. Palme, 1870), 11:246, 251-52; Charles-René
Billuart, O.P., Summa sancti Thomae hodiernis academiarum moribus accommodata sive
cursus theologiae, juxta mentem divi Thomae, insertis pro re nata digressionibus in
historiam eccliesiasticam (Paris: Victorem Lecoffre, 1886), 5:174-75; Reginald
Garrigou-Lagrange, O.P., De Christo salvatore (Rome and Turin: Marietti, 1946), 232;
Charles Journet, O.P., The Church of the Word Incarnate: An Essay in Speculative
Theology (London: Sheed and Ward, 1955), 483-84.
93
Vicente Beltran de Heredia, O.P., “Melchior Cano en la universidad de
Salamanca,” Ciencia Tomista 48 (1933): 178-208; J. Sanz y Sanz, Melchor Cano:
Cuestiones fundamentales de crítica histórica sobre su vida y sus escritos (Madrid:
Editorial Santa Rita, 1959); Romanus Cessario and Cajetan Cuddy, Thomas and the
Thomists: The Achievement of Thomas Aquinas and His Interpreters (Minneapolis:
Fortress, 2017), 89.
94
Joaquin Tapia, Iglesia y teologia en Melchor Cano (1509-1560): Un protagonista
de la restauración eclesical y teológica en la España del siglo XVI (Rome: Iglesia Nacional
Española, 1989).
95
Concilium tridentinum: Diariorum, actorum, epistularum, tractatuum nova
collection, Edidit Societas Goerresiana, ed. Stephanus Ehses (Freiburg im Breisgau: B.
Herder, 1961), 7/1:261-64; 366.16; 387-90; 498.35; 534.12; 539.29; Horst, “Die
Dominikanerschule von Salamanca und das Konzil von Trient,” 100; Rafael Gonzalez,
“La doctrina de M. Cano en su relectio de sacramentis y la definicion del tridentino
sobre la causalidad de los sacramentos,” Revista espanola de teologia 5 (1945): 477-96.
96
On Cano’s Loci, see Albert Lang, Die theologische Prinzipienlehre der
mittelalterlichen Scholastik (Freiburg: Herder, 1964); idem, Die Loci theologici des
Melchior Cano und die Methode des dogmatischen Beweisses (Hildesheim: Gerstenberg,
1974); Bernhard Körner, Melchior Cano De locis theologicis: Ein Beitrag zur
theologischen Erkenntnislehre (Graz: Styria-Medienservice, 1994); Eugene Marcotte, La
nature de la théologie d’après Melchior Cano (Ottawa: Scolasticat Saint-Joseph, 1949);

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

567

enumerates and explains ten theological loci or sources used by
theologians: (1) sacred Scripture, (2) apostolic Tradition, (3) the
Catholic Church, (4) councils, (5) the Roman Church, (6) the
Fathers of the Church, (7) Scholastic theologians, (8) natural
reason, (9) philosophers, and (10) history. In the fifth locus,
Cano takes up the issue of the pope’s teaching office, including
papal infallibility.97
For Cano, Christ constituted Peter the pastor of the universal
Church on earth.98 In this capacity, Peter could not err when he
confirmed Christ’s sheep, the Church, in the faith. For Cano,
Christ’s prayer in Luke 22:32, “I have prayed for you that your
faith may not fail; and when you have turned again, strengthen
your brethren,” is foundational. Christ’s prayer is always
efficacious; therefore, Cano argues that Peter’s faith, whether
public or personal, will not fail.99 Moreover, Christ willed that
after the death of Peter, the Church should have successors with
the gift to teach without err.100 Christ willed that Peter’s
successsors have the same gift so that in the future new controversies of the faith could be resolved.101
For Cano the pope can teach infallibly on a matter of faith
when certain conditions are met. First, the object of the

Günter Frank and Stephan Meier-Oeser, Hermeneutik, Methodenlehre, Exegese: zur
Theorie der Interpretation in der frühen Neuzeit (Stuttgart: Fromann-Holzboog, 2011).
97
Horst, Papst, Konzil, Unfehlbarkeit, 73-74; Ulrich Horst, Unfehlbarkeit und
Geschichte: Studien zur Unfehlbarkeitsdiskussion von Melchior Cano bis zum I.
Vatikanischen Konzil (Mainz: Matthias-Grünewald-Verlag, 1982); Elmar Klinger,
Ekklesiologie der Neuzeit: Grundlegung bei Melchior Cano u. Entwicklung bis zum 2.
Vatikan Konzil (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1978); Ulrich Horst, Die Lehrautorität
des Papstes und die Dominikanertheologen der Schule von Salamanca (Berlin: Akademie
Verlag, 2003), 98-104; Juan Belda Plans, “La infalibilidad ‘ex cathedra’ del Romano
Pontífice según Melchor Cano. Estudio de las condiciones de la infalibilidad en cuanto
al modo,” Scripta theologica 10 (1978): 519-75.
98
Melchior Cano, O.P., De Locis Theologicis Libri Duodecim, lib. 6, c. 2
([Salamanca: Mathias Gastius, 1563], 212).
99
Ibid. (Salamanca ed., 214); ibid., lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 238).
100
Ibid., lib. 6, c. 2 (Salamanca ed., 215).
101
Ibid., lib. 6, c. 3 (Salamanca ed., 218).

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

definition must pertain to faith or morals.102 Cano, like Cajetan,
typically speaks of the pope as not being able to err “in the
faith” (in fide).103 It is clear, however, that he thinks that doctrines concerning morals fall under the faith.104 Moreover, it is
clear that this includes both primary and secondary objects of
infallibility.105 Second, the pope must be trying to resolve an
issue for the universal Church and obliging the faithful to
believe this doctrine. It is often the case that popes give their
opinion on a doctrinal question without obligating the faithful
to hold it.106 Moreover, popes often respond to the private
questions of this or that bishop, explaining their opinion on the
subject but without giving a doctrine which requires the faithful
to believe.107 Third, it is only the definition of faith that is
infallible. Cano writes,
in the decrees of pontiffs, two things are to be distinguished; one is the
intention and conclusion of the decree; the other is the reason given for that
conclusion. In the conclusion, the pontiffs cannot err if they are deciding a
question of faith from the apostolic tribunal.108

Cano’s point is that only the definition (conclusio) of faith, and
not the reasons presented for this definition, is infallible. Cano
gives two hypothetical examples to explain what he means. If,
for example, a pope were to define as a matter of faith that
Mary was a perpetual virgin and used the passage from Ezekiel,
“to the closed gate” (Ezek 44:1-4), to support this doctrine,
only the definition of the doctrine would be infallible and not
the scriptural argument supporting that doctrine.109 Finally,
Cano thinks that the pope must act in his capacity as the public

102

Ibid., lib. 5, c. 5 (Salamanca ed., 191-92).
“Demonstraturus igitur Apostolicam eandemque Romanam sedem errare in fide
non posse” (ibid., lib. 6, c. 3 [Salamanca ed., 212]).
104
Ibid., lib. 5, c. 5 (Salamanca ed., 190-96).
105
Ibid. (Salamanca ed., 191, 195).
106
Ibid., lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 231).
107
Ibid., lib. 6, c. 8.7 (Salamanca ed., 232).
108
Ibid.
109
Ibid.
103

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

569

judge of the Church (publicus Ecclesiae iudex) and not as a
private man (homo privatus).110
Cano, like Cajetan, is clear that there are authorities prior to
the papal magisterium and therefore that there are limitations
on papal teaching. The first among these is the Word of God as
contained in sacred Scripture and apostolic Tradition. The
sacred Scriptures have divine authority and do not depend on
the Church for their authority.111 The sacred Scriptures in all
their parts were written under the assistance of the Holy
Spirit112 and therefore contain no errors whatsoever, unlike
magisterial statements which may contain errors. Apostolic
Tradition is also a form of divine revelation and as such has the
authority of God himself.113 The papal magisterium is bound to
God’s Word and may not change it. In addition, the papal
magisterium is bound to the infallible decrees of previous
pontiffs and ecumenical councils.114 Moreover, the magisterium
should not interpret sacred Scripture as if it were engaged in
pagan “divinization” but must adhere to the authoritative
interpretation of the Fathers of the Church.115 The magisterium
is also bound to the consensus of the various schools of
theology; a rejection of a thesis unanimously held by the various
schools and pertaining to faith and morals is either heretical or
proximate to heresy.116
Like Cajetan, Cano distinguishes rather sharply between
when the pope is teaching infallibly and when he teaches in any
110

Ibid., lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 230).
Ibid., lib. 2, c. 8, ad 4 (Salamanca ed., 30-32).
112
Ibid., lib. 2, c. 17 (Salamanca ed., 84-85).
113
Ibid., lib. 3. c. 3 (Salamanca ed., 107).
114
Ibid., lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 230).
115
Ibid., lib. 7. c. 4 (Salamanca ed., 263). On the authority of the interpretation of
Scripture by the Fathers of the Church, see Christian D. Washburn, “The Catholic Use
of the Scriptures in Ecumenical Dialogue,” Verbum Domini and the Complementarity of
Exegesis and Faith (Grand Rapids, Mich.: W.B. Eerdmans Pub., 2014), 72-78.
116
“Concordem omnium theologorum scholae de fide aut moribus sententiam
contradicere, si haeresis non est, at haeresi proximum est” (Cano, De locis theologicis,
lib. 8, c. 4 [Salamanca ed., 270]).
111

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

other capacity. Cano does not use the terms “particular person”
(persona particularis), “singular person” (singularis persona), or
“private teacher” (doctor privatus) to describe the noninfallible
teaching office of the pope, preferring instead the terms
“private man” (homo privatus) or “learned man” (homo
doctus).117 For Cano there are two types of doctrinal errors that
the pope can make: “personal error” (error personalis) as a
private man, or “judicial error” (error iudicialis) in his capacity
as pope infallibly defining something.118 The personal error is
described as private while the judicial error is described as
public. This use of the term “private” may give the impression
that the pope’s private error is not made in his papal office, but
this is not so. It is clear that Cano means that the pope acting as
pope can make a doctrinal error except when he is infallibly
defining a doctrine of faith or morals. A judicial error for Cano
is impossible since the category “judicial” is restricted to
infallible definitions; every other type of error is a personal one
regardless of how official. Like Cajetan, Cano holds that while
Christ’s prayer preserved both Peter’s personal and public
faith,119 it only preserves a later pope’s public faith when he
speaks infallibly for the universal Church. Cano explains:
[T]he inner faith of the Roman Pontiff is not necessary for the Church, nor
can a secret and private error of the pope harm the Church of Christ.
Therefore, it is not necessary that God always assists in the conservation of the
interior faith of the Roman pontiffs. But so long as they decide that which the
faithful must believe, and while they direct the faith of the Church of Christ,
they do not fail but shall be preserved by the divine hand.120

117

Ibid., lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 230).
Ibid. (Salamanca ed., 229).
119
Ibid., lib. 6. c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 238).
120
“Non enim fides interior Romani pontificis ecclesiae est necessaria: nec illius
occultus & privatus mentis error ecclesiae Christi nocere potest. Quapropter non est
necesse, ut in interioris fidei conservatione Romanis pontificibus Deus semper assistat.
At, quod, dum ea decernunt, quae fidelibus credenda sunt, dumque ecclesiam Christi in
fide dirigunt, non deficiant, sed divina manu teneantur” (Cano, De locis theologicis, lib.
6, c. 8 [Salamanca ed., 240]).
118

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571

Cano concludes that “it cannot therefore be denied that the
supreme pontiff can be a heretic.”121
Cano tries to steer a middle course between two extremes.
He rejects the view that because the pope has sometimes erred
in the past, he cannot be infallible in any circumstance. He also
rejects the view that the pope can never err in either his
personal or his public faith. Such a view appeared first in the
sixteenth century and was popularized by Dutch theologian
Albert Pigge (ca. 1490-1542),122 who not only defended the
infallibility of papal definitions but also thought that the pope
could not err in his personal faith.123 Pigge does not deny that it
is possible for the pope to make serious errors in the faith, but
he argues that Christ protects a pope from becoming a
pertinacious heretic.124 Pigge seems unconcerned about the
untraditional nature of his view, even freely admitting that his
view is contrary to Si Papa, the canonists, and “all
theologians.”125 Pigge argues that Christ’s prayer in Luke 22:32
not only protected Peter’s personal and public faith from error,
but also protects the public and personal faith of Peter’s

121

Ibid. (Salamanca ed., 240).
Hubert Jedin argues that Pigge was not the author of his view, but rather it was
Augustin von Alfeld, O.F.M (1480-ca. 1535) who first proposed the idea in 1520
(Hubert Jedin, Studien über die schriftstellertätigkeit Albert Pigges [Münster in
Westfalen: Aschendorff, 1931], 136). For a bibliography of Pigge’s works, see Wilbirgis
Klaiber, comp., Katholische Kontroverstheologen und Reformer des 16. Jahrhunderts,
Reformationsgeschichtliche Studien und Texte 116 (Münster in Westfalen: Aschendorff,
1978), 230-31. On Pigge’s ecclesiology, see Remigius Bäumer, “Das Kirchenverständnis
Albert
Pigges:
Ein
Beitrag
zur
Ekklesiologie
der
vortridentinischen
Kontroverstheologie,” in Volk Gottes: Zum Kirchenverständnis der katholischen,
evangelischen und anglikanischen Theologie. Festgabe für Josef Höfer, ed. Remigius
Bäumer and Heimo Dolch (Freiburg: Herder, 1967), 306-22.
123
Albert Pigge, Hierarchiae ecclesiasticae assertio per Albertvm Pighivm Campensem,
D. Ioannis Vltraiecten[sis] præpositum, ab ipso autore sub mortem diligenter recognita,
nouaq́[ue] accessione passim locupletata . . . Vnà cum Indice rerum præcipuarum
locupletissimo (Cologne: Novesianus, 1551), lib. 4, c. 8, fol. 167r.
124
Ibid., fol. 170r.
125
Ibid., fol. 167r.
122

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

successors.126 Pigge offers a detailed defense of how popes such
as Marcellinus, Liberius, Felix II, Anastasius II, John XXII,
Benedict XI, Honorius I, and Boniface VIII were not pertinacious heretics.127
Cano rejects Pigge’s view on several grounds. He rightly
regards it as a theological novelty in the Church.128 He also
thinks that it comes at a cost. In order for Pigge to justify his
position, he has to attack everyone who came before him,
including the sixth ecumenical council, which had condemned
Honorius for heresy. Cano explicitly criticizes Pigge for
distorting the historical evidence and impugning the integrity of
Gratian and the sixth council. Cano warns that
those who defend lightly and without discernment the authority of the
Supreme Pontiff on any matter and in every trial, weaken, do no favor to the
authority of the Apostolic See. They do not strengthen it, but rather ruin it. . .
. What strength will they have to fight heretics who see them defend the
pontifical authority based not on reason but on affection and who does not do
so to obtain light and truth with the force of arguments but to attract the
feelings and will of others? Peter does not need our flattery or our lies.129

Moreover, Cano thinks not only that it is possible for popes
to be heretics, but that some had engaged in doctrinal error in
the past. Cano examines fourteen popes who are alleged by
conciliarists or Protestants to have engaged in doctrinal error,
and he attempts to show whether and in what sense they were
heretics. In most of the cases, he is able to show that they were
126

Ibid.
Ibid., fol. 174. On the question of Honorius in Pigge, see Kreuzer, Die
Honoriusfrage im Mittelalter und in der Neuzeit, 137-45.
128
“aec verò Alberti opinatio, nova quidem in ecclesia est” (Cano, De locis
theologicis, lib. 6, c. 8 [Salamanca ed., 239]).
129
“Nunc illud breviter dici potest, qui summi pontificis omne de re quacunque
iudicium temerè ac sine delectu defendunt: hos sedis Apostolicae auctoritatem
labefactare, non fovere: evertere non firmare. Nam ut ea praetereamus, quae paulò antè
in hoc capite explicata sunt, quid tandem adversum haereticos disputando ille proficiet,
quem viderint non iudicio, sed affectu patrocinium auctoritatis pontificiae suscipere, nec
id agere ut disputationis suae vi lucem ac veritatem eliciat, sed ut se ad alterius sensum
voluntatemque convertat? Non eget Petrus mendacio nostro, nostra adulatione non
eget” (ibid., lib. 5, c. 5 [Salamanca ed., 196]).
127

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not pertinacious heretics. In the cases of Marcellinus and
Liberius, he argues that they were not formal heretics since they
acted under duress.130
Cano also attempts to defend several popes from more
serious charges of heresy; these are cases in which popes had
taught doctrines contrary to that of other popes. He defends
John XXII, for example, from the charge of formal heresy for
having taught that the souls that die before the general
judgment do not enjoy the beatific vision. Beginning in 1331,
Pope John XXII delivered a series of sermons in which he
argued that the purified souls of the dead only have a vision of
the humanity of Christ and do not enjoy the face-to-face vision
of God until the Resurrection.131 This view was condemned by
his successor, Benedict XII (r. 1334-42), in the constitution
Benedictus Deus (issued January 29, 1336), which infallibly
defined that souls that die before the general judgment do
indeed enjoy the beatific vision.132 Cano thinks that there are
two reasons that John is not a formal heretic. First, Cano argues
that John XXII cannot be a heretic for denying this doctrine
since the Church had not yet defined anything on the topic.133
Second, John did not issue an infallible definition on the
subject. Nevertheless, Cano does think that this pope made a
serious doctrinal error which contradicted Benedict’s
130

Ibid., lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 239).
For more on this, see Christian D. Washburn, “Nothing Unclean Will Enter
Heaven: Justification and Eschatology,” in Justified in Jesus Christ: Evangelicals and
Catholics in Dialogue (Bismarck, N.D.: University of Mary Press, 2017), 295-96; Jared
Wicks, S.J., “Appendix IV: The Intermediate State: Patristic and Medieval Doctrinal
Development and Recent Receptions,” in Almen and Sklba, eds., The Hope of Eternal
Life, 159-70.
132
Benedict XII in the constitution Benedictus Deus (DH 1000-1002). Catholic
theologians see this as an early example of an infallible declaration. See Klaus Schatz,
“Welche bisherigen päpstlichen Lehrentscheidungen sind ‘ex cathedra’? Historische und
theologische Oberlegungen,” in Dogmengeschichte und katholische Theologie
(Würzburg: Echter, 1985), 404-22. Klaus Schatz, Vaticanum I, 1869-1870 (Paderborn:
F. Schoningh, 1992), 3:331-39.
133
Cano, De locis theologicis, lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 230).
131

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

constitution. Similarly, Cano defends Pope Celestine III (r.
1191-98), who held that a marriage is dissolved when one
spouse falls into heresy. Cano argues that Celestine was not a
heretic since the Church had not yet issued a solemn definition
on the topic. Cano, however, freely admits that Celestine’s
teaching was a serious doctrinal error contrary both to the
gospel and to the decree of Pope Innocent III (r. 1198-1216).134
In both of these cases Cano’s defense is basically that the popes
were involved in serious doctrinal error, but were not heretics,
since they did not attempt to define a doctrine contrary to an
already defined doctrine of the Church.
For what kind of sin can the pope lose his office, according
to Cano? He does not think that the pope can lose his office for
sins other than heresy.135 With Cajetan, Cano rejects Torquemada’s opinion that a pope loses his office on account of a
merely secret or internal heresy, arguing that although secret
heretics (haeretici occulti) do not retain “the perfect unity of the
body of the Church” they retain a certain visible unity such as a
visible union in the sacraments.136 Like Cajetan, Cano argues
that just as a bishop does not lose jurisdiction on account of
secret heresy, so too a pope does not lose his jurisdiction on
account of secret heresy.137 It is only by external heresy that one
can be separated from the Church and lose one’s office as
pope.138
How then is the Church to rid itself of an incorrigibly
heretical pope (papa haereticus)? Cano rejects the conciliarist
view that a council is superior to the pope and can therefore
depose him.139 Since Cano also rejects Torquemada’s view that
the pope loses his office ipso facto for external heresy, he has to
134

Ibid.
Ibid. (Salamanca ed., 239-40).
136
Ibid., lib. 4, c. 2 (Salamanca ed., 127); ibid., lib. 4, c. 6 (Salamanca ed., 158).
137
“Nam summum pontificem, episcopos caeterosque ecclesiae ministros potestate
ac iurisdictione per haeresim abditam interioremque privari: non modò non certum, sed
ne probabile quidem esse, maxima auctoritate Theologi affirmant” (ibid., lib. 4, c. 6, ad
12 [Salamanca ed., 159]).
138
Ibid., lib. 4, c. 2 (Salamanca ed., 128).
139
Ibid., lib. 5, c. 5 (Salamanca ed., 177-78).
135

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575

find another way to depose the pope. The pope remains the
head of the Church until he is deposed by the Church.140 Even
though Cano repeatedly and approvingly cites Cajetan, he is
silent on Cajetan’s theory of the “ministerial power” of the
Church for undoing the conjunction between a pope and the
papacy. Instead Cano holds that the Church is able to judge the
individual who has voluntarily rejected the papacy by virtue of
his external heresy. Thus, the Church is simply rendering a
judgment of the de facto situation of the Church. Cano’s
argument for this position is appealing in its simplicity. He
argues first that the doctrine contained in Si Papa that a pope
can be deposed for heresy is simply the teaching of the Church.
Second, he thinks that this position is confirmed by “the
practice of our ancestors,” and he cites the spurious fifth Roman
Synod under Symmachus and Constantinople III’s anathematization of Pope Honorius as a heretic as confirmation of this
teaching.141
IV. ST. ROBERT BELLARMINE, S.J. (1542-1621)
Saint Robert Bellarmine joined the Jesuit order in 1560 and
was ordained a priest in 1570. He was appointed as a professor
to teach Scholastic theology at the Jesuit College in Louvain,
where in 1570 he began a series of lectures on Thomas
Aquinas’s Summa theologiae that lasted for six years.142 The
notes of these lectures were preserved, and Bellarmine, like

140

Ibid., lib. 4, c. 2 (Salamanca ed., 127-28).
Ibid., lib. 6, c. 8 (Salamanca ed., 239-40).
142
For a list of his lectures on the Summa, see Sebastian Tromp, S.J., “Conspectus
chronologicus praelectionum, quas habuit s. Robertus Bellarminus in collegio S. I.
Lovaniensi et collegio Romano,” Gregorianum 16 (1935): 97-105. Bellarmine’s lectures
are contained in Robert Bellarmine, In 3. Partem Summae S. Thomae de Aquino,
Louvain, ca. 1576-1577, Bibliothèque Royale Albert Ier, KBR 4243, fols. 1r-260v. Also
found in “Commentaria in Summa Theologiae D. Thomae. Copia transciptionis facta a
R.P.S. Tromp, S.I.”, a typewritten copy at the Archives of the Gregorian Pontifical
University: APUG, Fondo Tromp, nn. 2419-30.
141

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

Cajetan, dealt with the issues of both papal infallibility and
heresy in his commentary on question 1, article 10 of the
Secunda secundae. His views at this point are consistent with
those of his later published works;143 they also show a
dependence on the Jesuit Thomist Francisco de Toledo’s (153296) notes on the Summa, which Bellarmine had borrowed and
copied out by hand when still a student.144
Upon falling ill in 1576, he was sent to Rome to recover and
was made the professor of controversial theology at the
Collegium Romanum, where he lectured on controversial
theology for eleven years, from 1576 to 1587. The result of
these lectures was his Disputationes de controversiis Christianae
fidei adversus huius temporis haereticos (hereafter De contro-

143
Bellarmine, In secundam secundae d. Thomae commentaria: Articulus decimus
(1574), in: ARSJ Opp. N.N. 233 fol. 43r-4r. These are reproduced by Bishop Thomas
Löhr as an appendix in the unpublished version of his dissertation. The published
version of his dissertation does not include these texts. Thomas Löhr, Die Lehre Robert
Bellarmins von allgemeinen Konzil (Excerpta ex dissertatione in Pont. Univ. Gregoriana,
Limburg, 1986). I would like to thank Fr. Thomas Dietrich for sharing these scans with
me. See also Horst, Papst, Konzil, Unfehlbarkeit, 170-76.
144
Toledo’s text was not published until the nineteenth century. For Toledo’s
commentary on STh II-II, q. 1, a. 10, see Francisco de Toledo, In Summam theologiae s.
Thomae Aquinatis enarratio, ed. Iosephus Paria, S.J. (Rome: S. Congregationis de
Propaganda Fide, 1870), 2:40-73. It was once held that Bellarmine copied out these
notes in 1562 while still at the Roman College, thus giving evidence of his theological
precocity: James Brodrick, S.J., The Life and Work of Blessed Robert Francis Cardinal
Bellarmine (London: Burns, Oates, and Washbourne, Ltd., 1928), 1:37; Xavier-Marie
Le Bachelet, Auctarium bellarminianum: Supplément aux oeuvres du cardinal Bellarmin
(Paris: Gabriel Beauchesne, 1913), ix. Brodrick’s dating, however, does not seem to be
accurate. Tromp has shown that this text dates to Bellarmine’s days at Florence:
Sebastian Tromp, “De manuscriptis praelectionum lovaniensium s. Roberti Bellarmini S.
I. Chronologia et problemata annexa,” Archivium Historicum Societatis Jesu 2 (1933):
189. Both Biersack and Dietrich have followed Tromp’s dating: Manfred Biersack,
Initia Bellarminiana: Die Prädestinationslehre bei Robert Bellarmin S.J. bis zu sienen
löwener Vorlesungen 1570-1576, Historische Forschungen im Auftrag der historischen
Kommission der Akademie der Wissenschaften und Literatur, vol. 15 (Stuttgart: Franz
Steiner Verlag Wiesbaden GMBH, 1989), 35. Thomas Dietrich, Die Theologie der
Kirche bei Robert Bellarmin (Paderborn: Bonifatius, 1999), 27.

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

577

versiis), which he published in three volumes in 1586, 1588,
and 1593.145
Bellarmine divided De controversiis into fifteen controversies, roughly following the outline of the Creed.146 He deals
with the problem of a heretical pope in two places. The first is
in the fourth book, which is entitled “On the Supreme Spiritual
Power of the Pope” found in the third controversy, “The
Roman Pontiff as Head of the Church Militant.” The first half
of this book deals with the pope as the supreme judge of
doctrinal controversies, and there is an extensive discussion of
the pope’s infallibility in matters of faith and morals. In the
second half, Bellarmine deals with various accusations of papal
heresy.147 He returns to the issue of papal heresy in the fourth
controversy, entitled “On the Church Militant.” Here
Bellarmine is principally concerned with responding to the
arguments of conciliarists like Jean Gerson (1363-1429), Mair,
and Almain that a council can judge a pope in the case of heresy
and other sins, thereby demonstrating that it is superior to a
pope. Bellarmine’s Thomism is considered eclectic by some, but
on ecclesiological issues he is squarely within the Thomist
145

Brodrick, Life and Work, 1:132. Aimé Richardt, Saint-Robert Bellarmin, 15421621: le défenseur de la foi (Paris: F.-X. de Guibert, 2004), 186 n. 4.
146
Robert Bellarmine, Disputationes Roberti Bellarmini politiani societatis Jesu, de
controversiis christianae fidei, adversus hujus temporis haereticos (Paris: Triadelphorum,
1613) (Paris ed., 1:sig. bijr). Hereafter cited as De controversiis. Unless otherwise noted,
citations refer first to the number of the controversy, then the book within the
controversy, and the chapter within the book; volume and column numbers in the Paris
edition are given in parentheses.
147
For a bibliography, see Anita Mancia, “Bibliografia sistematica e commentata
degli studi sull’opera Bellarminiana dal 1900 al 1990,” in Roberto Bellarmino
arcivescovo di Capua, teologo e pastore della riforma Cattolica, ed. Gustavo Galeota
(Capua: Istituto Superiore di Scienze Religiose, 1990), 1:159-87. There are a few works,
however, that in part or in whole deal with the pope’s spiritual power. See F. Segarra,
S.J., “San Roberto Belarmino y el primado del romano pontife,” Razón y fe 92 (1930):
5-21; J. I. Corboy, S.J., The Doctrine of the Infallibility of the Pope in Bellarmine and his
Influence on the Definition in the Vatican Council (Excerpta ex dissertatione in Pont.
Univ. Gregoriana, Rome, 1961); Dietrich, Die Theologie der Kirche bei Robert
Bellarmin, 380-418.

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

tradition. He frequently expresses agreement with Thomist
ecclesiologists such as St. Antoninus, Torquemada, Petrus de
Palude, Cajetan, Melchior Cano, and Petro de Soto, O.P.
(1495/1500-1563).
Bellarmine holds that the pope is the head of the Church and
that he is the supreme teacher of the faithful. In this capacity,
“the Supreme Pontiff is not able to err when he teaches the
whole Church in those matters which pertain to faith.”148
Bellarmine calls this position “most certain” (certissima) and
states that it is “the general opinion of nearly all Catholics.”149
He thinks that the opposite opinion (i.e., that the pope qua
pontiff is able to teach heresy publicly) seems “completely
erroneous and proximate to heresy, so that it might well be
declared heretical by the Church.”150 Bellarmine founds his
position on sacred Scripture, which, he contends, explicitly
teaches this doctrine. He turns to Luke 22:31-32, arguing that
in this passage Christ grants to Peter protection from formal
heresy both when infallibly defining a matter of faith and as a
particular person.151
Bellarmine further identifies a number of necessary and
limiting criteria for an infallible definition. The first criterion is
that the pope must be acting in his capacity as the supreme
judge (summus iudex) or supreme pontiff (summus pontifex),
and not in some other capacity.152 Second, the supreme pontiff
must intend to resolve an issue definitively for the Church. It is
only the definition and not supporting arguments for the
definition that are infallible.153 Third, the object of the definition must pertain to a matter of faith or morals. Bellarmine
gives several examples of things that fall into this category,
148
“Summus Pontifex cùm totam Ecclesiam docet in his quae ad fidem pertinent
nullo casu errare potest” (Bellarmine, De controversiis, 3.4.3 [Paris ed., 1: col. 795]).
149
Ibid., 3.4.2 (Paris ed., 1: col. 794).
150
Ibid. (Paris ed., 1: col. 795).
151
Ibid., 3.4.3 (Paris ed., 1: col. 796).
152
Ibid., 3.4.2 (Paris ed., 1: col. 793).
153
“multa esse alia in epistolis decretalibus, quae non faciunt rem aliquam esse de
fide, sed solùm opiniones Pontificum de ea re nobis declarant” (ibid., 3.4.14 [Paris ed.,
1: col. 839]).

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579

including, in the language of later theology, both primary and
secondary objects of infallibility.154 Fourth, the pope’s definition
must be intended for the universal Church.155 A papal act that
does not meet these conditions is not infallible.
Bellarmine is clear that both the Word of God and infallible
pronouncements by previous popes and councils place limits on
what the pope can teach magisterially. The sacred Scriptures in
all their parts were written under the assistance of the Holy
Spirit and therefore contain no errors whatsoever.156 Bellarmine
asserts that all magisterial statements are subordinate to the
authority of the Bible, and he even describes five ways in which
the sacred Scriptures are fundamentally different from and
superior to magisterial decrees.157 Sacred Scripture, for example,
is without error in all things, whereas noninfallible magisterial
statements may contain and have in fact contained errors.158
Apostolic Tradition also has the authority of God himself. Prior
definitive magisterial statements are also a limit on papal infallibility. For Bellarmine, infallible conciliar decrees confirmed
by the pope are immutable (immutabilia), definitive (definitiva),
and not subject to revision or recession, even by the pope
himself.159 So the pope is bound not only by his predecessors’
infallible decrees but by conciliar decrees.
Like Cajetan and Cano, Bellarmine sharply distinguishes
between two ways that a pope can act: he can act as supreme
pontiff infallibly defining or as a particular person (persona
particularis). Bellarmine does not use the expression “singular
person” in this context like Cajetan and Torquemada,
preferring the terms “private teacher” (doctor privatus),
“particular teacher” (doctor particularis), or “particular person”
154
On the extent of the object of infallibility in Bellarmine, see Washburn, “Papal
Infallibility, Vatican I, and Three 16th Century Views,” 165-67.
155
Bellarmine, De controversiis, 3.4.3 (Paris ed., 1: col. 795).
156
Ibid. 4.2.12 (Paris ed., 2: col. 87).
157
Ibid. (Paris ed., 2: cols. 86-88).
158
Ibid. (Paris ed., 2: col. 87).
159
Ibid. 4.2.13 (Paris ed., 2: col. 90); 4.2.11 (Paris ed., 2: col. 85).

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

(persona particularis).160 He describes the error that the pope as
a particular person makes as “personal error” (error personalis)
and the type of error the pope as pontiff makes as a “judicial
error” (error iudicialis).161 For Bellarmine the former is possible,
but the latter is not. Like Cajetan and Cano, there are only two
basic categories: when the pope acts as a supreme pontiff
infallibly defining an article of faith, and everything else which
is subject to error.
Unlike either Cajetan or Cano, Bellarmine adopts a position
similar to Pigge’s position that the pope cannot be a
pertinacious heretic even as a particular person, calling this
opinion “probable and pious,” but he admits that it is “not
certain” and that it is contrary to the “common opinion.”162
This position met with a mixed reception amongst early
Thomist Jesuits. Francisco Suárez, S.J. (1548-1617), for
example, also considers it pious and probable, whereas Cardinal
Francisco de Toledo, S.J. (1532-96) explicitly repudiates it as
fanciful and contrary to the tradition.163 In any case,
Bellarmine’s “pious” position is often misunderstood as
entailing that the pope cannot teach anything erroneous, but
Bellarmine clearly thinks that popes can and have made serious
doctrinal errors. Indeed, Bellarmine freely acknowledges both
that the pope qua pontiff can err on factual questions164 and

160
doctor particularis (ibid., 3.4.2 [Paris ed., 1: col. 793]; 3.4.12 [Paris ed., 1: col.
830]); doctor privatus (ibid., 3.4.2 [Paris ed., 1: col. 793]; 3.4.12 [Paris ed., 1: col.
830]); persona particularis (ibid., 3.4.2 [Paris ed., 1: col. 793]).
161
Ibid., 3.4.4 (Paris ed., 1:801); 3.4.7 (Paris ed., 1: col. 805).
162
“Probabile est, pieque credi potest, summum Pontificem, non solùm ut Pontificem
errare non posse, sed etiam ut particularem personam haereticum esse non posse, falsum
aliquid contra fidem pertinaciter credendo” (ibid., 3.4.6 [Paris ed., 1: col. 805]);
“sententia probabilis est, & defendi potest facilè, ut postea suo loco ostendemus. Quia
tamen non est certa, & communis opinio est in contrarium” (ibid., 3.2.30 [Paris ed., 1:
col. 691]).
163
Francisco Suárez, S.J., De fide, disp. 10, sect. 6, 11, in Opera omnia (Paris: apud
Ludovicum Vivès, 1856), 12:319. Cardinal Francisco de Toledo, S.J., Francisci Toleti . .
. In Summam theologiae s. Thomae Aquinatis enarratio: Ex autographo in bibliotheca
collegii Romani asservato (Rome: Typis S. Congreagationis de Propaganda Fide, 1869),
2:71.
164
Bellarmine, De controversiis, 3.4.2 (Paris ed., 1: col. 793).

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581

that the pope as a particular person can err through “ignorance
even in matters of faith and morals,” just like any other human
teacher.165 His position is not that the pope as a particular
person cannot be a heretic in any sense, but only that the pope
as a particular person cannot be a heretic by “pertinaciously”
(pertinaciter) believing something contrary to the faith.166 His
point, to use modern terminology, is that the pope as a
particular person can be a material heretic, but he will not be a
formal heretic. Bellarmine notes, however, that it would be
interesting to see what new theological explanations would be
required if a pope as a particular person were found actually to
be a pertinacious heretic.167 This reflection may seem odd given
his position, but this shows that Bellarmine was humble enough
to realize that his “pious” view may be incorrect.
Bellarmine makes several arguments for his pious position.
First, he extends Christ’s prayer beyond Peter’s role in infallibly
confirming his brethren’s faith to the pope’s personal faith.
Thus, he rejects Cajetan’s and Cano’s position that Christ’s
prayer was limited to those occasions when the pope is
intending to “strengthen your brethren.” Second, Bellarmine
thinks that God will providentially arrange matters in such a
way that this evil should never befall the Church. After all,
165
“SECUNDO, posse Pontificem, ut privatum Doctorem errare, etiam in
quaestionibus iuris universalibus tam fidei, quàm morum, idque ex ignorantia, ut aliis
Doctoribus interdum accidit” (ibid.).
166
“Probabile est, pieque credi potest, summum Pontificem, non solùm ut Pontificem
errare non posse, sed etiam ut particularem personam haereticum esse non posse, falsum
aliquid contra fidem pertinaciter credendo” (ibid., 3.4.6 [Paris ed., 1: col. 805]).
167
Ibid., 3.2.30 (Paris ed., 1: col. 691). Pope Clement VIII (r. 1592-1605) once
informed Bellarmine that he was going to define in favor of the Dominican position
against the Jesuit position in the matter of grace. Bellarmine told Pope Clement that he
would do no such thing and predicted to Cardinal Del Monte that the pope would die if
he attempted to do such a thing. Interestingly, Clement VIII died not long after, no
doubt confirming in Bellarmine’s mind his own theory. Robert Bellarmine,
Autobiografia (1613): Con Sinossi dei dati cronologici della Biografia di Bellarmino e
delle sue pubblicazioni, ed. Gustavo Galeota, S.J., and Pasquale Giustiniani (Brescia:
Morcelliana, 1999), 78. Brodrick, Life and Work, 2:56, 111.

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

Bellarmine argues, God could make a heretic speak the truth
just as he made Balaam’s ass speak, but Bellarmine does not
think this would be in accord with his providence.168 Third, he
argues, as we will see, that the fact that there has never been an
instance of a pope being a pertinacious heretic suggests that
there will never be one.169
Bellarmine offers a much lengthier defense of individual
popes from the charge of pertinacious heresy than either
Cajetan or Cano, examining some forty popes who had been
accused of heresy by various conciliarist and Protestant
theologians. In some cases, he explains that the pope is guilty of
some sinful weakness rather than the sin of heresy. With
Cajetan and Cano, Bellarmine does not think that Pope
Marcellinus and Pope Liberius were heretics, since their actions
were coerced. He does, however, hold that both popes sinned
gravely.170
There were, however, more serious examples in which there
were at least apparent contradictions between popes. Both
conciliarists and Protestants had alleged, for example, that John
XXII’s Extravagantes contradicted Nicholas IV’s Exiit when it
defined that Christ did own property.171 Bellarmine notes that
this is only an apparent contradiction, since Nicholas says that
at some time Christ taught perfect poverty while John XXII
taught that other times he held property.172 Bellarmine is also
forced to deal, however, with a real contradiction between John
XXII and Benedict XII. Bellarmine admits, like Cano, that John
XXII’s thesis was incorrect, but he offers two basic reasons why
John XXII was not a heretic. First, the Church had not defined
the matter before Benedictus Deus.173 Second, John XXII never
intended to define his opinion but was investigating it “in order
to discover the truth.”174 What is clear from this third example
168

Bellarmine, De controversiis, 3.4.6 (Paris ed., 1: col. 805).
Ibid.
170
Ibid., 3.4.8 (Paris ed., 1: col. 813); ibid., 3.4.9 (Paris ed., 1: col. 814).
171
DH 930-31.
172
Bellarmine, De controversiis, 3.4.14 (Paris ed., 1: col. 840-41).
173
Ibid. (Paris ed., 1: col. 842).
174
“sed solùm disserere ad veritatem investigandam” (ibid.).
169

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

583

is that Bellarmine thinks that the pope did make a very serious
doctrinal error, even if it was not heretical yet. In effect his
explanation is that the doctrine was not yet defined and that
John did not pertinaciously hold to his private opinion, since he
eventually recanted his teaching in the bull Ne super his
(December 3, 1334).175
For what kind of sin can the pope lose his office, according
to Bellarmine? First, he rejects the view of the conciliarists that
a pope can be judged for misdeeds other than heresy. Instead he
accepts the doctrine contained in Si Papa that there is only one
exception to the principle that the first see is judged by no one,
and that exception is for the case of heresy. Second, it is not any
form of heresy, but only manifest formal heresy that causes the
pope to lose his office. With Cajetan and Cano, Bellarmine
rejects Torquemada’s view that a pope who is a secret heretic
loses ipso facto membership in the Church, and he does so for
reasons similar to both Cajetan and Cano.176
How then is the Church to rid itself of an incorrigibly
heretical pope (papa haereticus)? Bellarmine rejects the view of
the conciliarists that a council can judge and depose a pope for
heresy, since the pope is absolutely above a council.177 He also
rejects Cajetan’s doctrine of the “ministerial power” (potestas
ministerialis) of a council, since he thinks that in reality this
amounts to a form of conciliarism. He notes that when a thing
is made, the action is exercised over the matter of the thing that
is going to be, not over the composite which does not yet exist.
When a thing is destroyed, however, the action is exercised over
a composite. Therefore, when cardinals elect the pontiff, they
do not exercise their authority over the pontiff, since the pope
does not yet exist. Were a council to depose a pope, however, it
would necessarily exercise authority over the composite, that is,
the pope. Moreover, Bellarmine turns Cajetan’s principal
175

DH 990-91.
Bellarmine, De controversiis, 3.2.30 (Paris ed., 1: col. 691).
177
Ibid., 4.2.17 (Paris ed., 2: col. 95).
176

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

support for his position, Titus 3:10-11, against him. He notes
that Paul does not require a judgment of the Church after the
two admonitions; rather, the heretic is simply to be shunned
immediately.178
Instead Bellarmine holds that a heretical pope loses the
papacy ipso facto, and therefore the Church can judge him:
A pope who is a manifest heretic ceases per se to be pope and head, just as he
ceases per se to be a Christian and member of the body of the Church:
therefore, he can be judged and punished by the Church.179

There are three points to make about Bellarmine’s position.
First, he describes this position as the “true” and “common”
opinion because it is held in the Church by “all the ancient
fathers,” Si Papa, and Pope Innocent III.180 He notes that the
common opinion is also held by “learned men of our age,”
including John Driedo (1480-1535) and Cano.181 In Bellarmine’s opinion, Constantinople III’s judgment of Honorius
confirms this. It is striking that although Bellarmine absolves
Honorius from the charge of heresy, he still holds that the fact
that an ecumenical council judged him means that it must be
possible to judge a heretical pope, even if the council was
mistaken in its judgment about the particular facts.182
At first blush, it may seem odd and contradictory for
Bellarmine simultaneously to hold his “probable and pious”
opinion that a pope cannot be a heretic even as a particular
person and to hold that the true and common opinion is that a
heretical pope should be judged. Strictly speaking these two
views are not contradictory. It is after all a doctrine of the
Church that anyone, whether pope or layman, who falls into
manifest and pertinacious heresy is no longer a member of the
Church. The pope himself is not exempted from this divine law.
178

Ibid., 3.2.30 (Paris ed., 1: col. 692).
“Est ergo QUINTA opinio vera; Papam haereticum manifestum, per se desinere
esse Papam & caput; sicut per se desinit esse Christianus & membrum corporis
Ecclesiae: quare ab Ecclesia posse eum iudicari & puniri” (ibid. [1: col. 694]).
180
Ibid. (Paris ed., 1: col. 691).
181
Ibid.
182
Ibid.
179

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

585

One can simultaneously hold that a pope who is a manifest and
pertinacious heretic is not a member of the Church and that
God has and will providentially prevent such an occurrence.
This is like holding that anyone, including the Blessed Virgin,
who commits a mortal sin and dies unrepentant will descend
immediately to hell after the particular judgment. God, however, gave Mary graces such that she never committed such a
sin.
Second, Bellarmine holds that in the act of incorrigible and
manifest heresy the pope ipso facto loses his office. In this
respect, he follows Torquemada. Thus, Bellarmine can state
plainly that the “Church can judge a heretical pope”183 without
being guilty of conciliarism, since the Church is not judging the
pope at all but is judging, rather, a heretic. For Bellarmine, the
council would merely issue a declaratory statement that the
former pope has alienated himself from the papacy.
Third, Bellarmine agrees with both Thomists and conciliarists that the solution to this problem of a heretical pope is
to hold a general council. Indeed, he lists “the suspicion of
heresy in the Roman Pontiff”184 as one of the six reasons that a
general council may be called. A general council has the duty to
issue a declaratory sentence that the pope is no longer pope if
he is found to be a heretic.185 For Bellarmine, this position is
confirmed by the fact that Constantinople III judged Honorius.
Bellarmine also thinks that local councils can deal with this
problem. He recognizes that this was lawfully done in the
Church in the past, and he gives several examples. Pope
Marcellinus, according to some accounts, was condemned for
apostasy by three hundred bishops at the Council of Sinuessa.186
During the council the assembled fathers stated to Marcellinus,
“You will be judge, and will either judge yourself or absolve
183

Ibid., 3.2.27 (Paris ed., 1: col. 681).
Ibid. 4.1.9 (Paris ed., 2: col. 13).
185
Ibid.
186
W. T. Townsend, “The So-Called Symmachian Forgeries,” The Journal of
Religion 13 (1933): 165-74. Moynihan, Papal Immunity, 3.
184

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

yourself, we only being present . . . for you are both judge and
accused.” While this story is part of the Symmachian forgeries,
Bellarmine’s comment upon it reveals that he thought that a
local council could deal with the problem of a heretical pope.
He writes,
Marcellinus was accused of an act of infidelity, in which case a council can
examine the case of the Pontiff. If the council were to find that he was really
an infidel, it can declare him outside the Church and condemn him.187

Bellarmine explains that the bishops did condemn Marcellinus,
but only after the pope had condemned himself and, in that act,
abdicated the papacy.
Such a council is not a perfect council (concilium perfectum),
that is, a council with the pope as its head; instead it is an
imperfect council (concilium imperfectum).188 Such imperfect
councils can provide the Church with a new head, since the
Church already has the power to choose a papal successor and
frequently exercises it.189 Unfortunately, Bellarmine offers little
detail of how this would happen practically.
Bellarmine then considers the opinion held by a number of
medieval canonists, such as Alanus Anglicus (fl. ca. 1190–ca.
1210), that a pope can voluntarily subject himself to a council.190 Bellarmine holds that “the supreme pontiff cannot entrust
to either a council or anyone else compulsory judgment over
himself but only advisory judgments.”191 After all, as Bellarmine
notes, the supreme power of the pope is of divine right, and not
even the pope himself can dispense with a divine law. So the
187
“Respondeo PRIMO, Marcellinum fuisse accusatum de actu infidelitatis, in quo
casu potest Concilium discutere causam Pontificis, & si inveniat, revera esse infidelem,
potest declarare eum esse extra Ecclesiam, & sic damnare” (ibid., 4.2.19 [Paris ed. 2:
col. 100).
188
Ibid., 4.1.14 (Paris ed., 2: col. 26).
189
Ibid. (Paris ed., 2: col. 27).
190
Richard M. Fraher, “Alanus Anglicus and the Summa induent sancti,” Bulletin of
Medieval Canon Law 6 (1976): 47-54.
191
“Summus Pontifex non potest committere, neque Concilio, neque ulli homini
supra se judicium coactivum, sed tantum discretivum” (Bellarmine, De controversiis,
4.2.18 [Paris ed., 2: col. 99]).

THE PROBLEM OF A HERETICAL POPE

587

pope is not able to subject himself to the coercive power of the
Church; he can only be judged by God alone.192 Moreover, if
the pope were to subject himself coercively to another, it would
follow that he would be both a superior and an inferior at the
same time and in the same respect, which is inherently
contradictory. In the case of heresy or of immorality, the pope
cannot voluntarily subject himself to a coercive judgment of the
Church or council without violating divine law.
SUMMARY
While Cajetan, Cano, and Bellarmine, like their medieval
Thomist predecessors, do not all use the same terminology, they
share a basic doctrinal consensus on several points. All three
agree that the pope can teach infallibly and without error in
certain limited circumstances and that these teachings are
binding on the universal Church. They also agree that the
infallibility of the papal magisterium is part of the content of
divine revelation and the result of Christ’s prayer in Luke
22:32. They agree moreover that the pope is bound to
revelation and to the infallible definitions of previous pontiffs
and councils. They hold in common that the pope can fall into
serious doctrinal error by teaching contrary either to revelation
or to previous infallible definitions. Moreover, all three, like
their Thomist predecessors, agree that a pope can only be tried
for the sin of heresy and not for other sins and that the council
is not above the pope. All three think that a council is the best
practical means to deal with a pope who is under the suspicion
of heresy.
There are significant points of difference, however.
Bellarmine departs from Cajetan and Cano in holding that God
will providentially arrange things in such a way that the pope
will never be a pertinacious heretic. Nevertheless, Bellarmine
recognizes that his is not “the common opinion of the church.”
192

Ibid. (Paris ed., 2: col. 100).

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CHRISTIAN D. WASHBURN

Bellarmine holds that not one pope had yet fallen into manifest
and pertinacious heresy. Cajetan holds that the Church
exercises a ministerial power over the conjunction of the pope
and the papacy but not over the pope as such; Cano and
Bellarmine, however, hold that the Church could judge a
heretical pope.
Cajetan, Cano, and Bellarmine provide insight not only on
the nature and extent of papal power, but also its limits. Their
teaching on the primacy of God’s word and the authority of
tradition also helps us to better understand Dei Verbum 10: “the
teaching office [of the Church] is not above the word of God,
but serves it, teaching only what has been handed on.”

The Thomist 83 (2019): 589-637

THOMAS AQUINAS ON SEPARATED SOULS AS
INCOMPLETE HUMAN PERSONS
DANIEL D. DE HAAN

BRANDON DAHM

Oxford University
Oxford, United Kingdom

Franciscan University of Steubenville
Steubenville, Ohio

I

N RECENT YEARS an old Thomistic debate on the separated
soul has been resurrected. All parties to the debate agree that,
for Thomas Aquinas, the separated soul (anima separata)
designates the rational soul of a human person which survives the
death of the human, and that, prior to the resurrection, the
rational soul subsists in itself unnaturally apart from the body of
which it is the substantial form in statu viae. According to some
Thomists, called “corruptionists,” the separated soul is not a
person. Contrary to the corruptionists, other Thomists, called
“survivalists,” contend that the separated soul is a person. Both
views seem to have a point, and neither side seems able to
convince the other.1 Corruptionism is the exegetically stronger

References to Thomas Aquinas’s works are from the following editions: Sancti
Thomae de Aquino Opera omnia (Leonine, 1882–); vol. 22/1-3, Quaestiones disputatae
de veritate (=De Verit); vol. 23, Quaestiones disputatae de malo (=De Malo); vol. 24/1,
Quaestiones disputatae de anima (=Q. D. De Anima); vol. 24/2, Quaestio disputata de
spiritualibus creaturis (=De Spir. Creat.); vol. 25/1-2, Quaestiones de quolibet (=Quodl.);
vol. 42, Compendium theologiae (=Comp. Theol.); vol. 43, De unitate intellectus contra
Averroistas (=De unitate intel.); Scriptum super libros sententiarum ed. Mandonnet and
Moos, 4 vols. (Lethielleux, 1929-1947) (= Sent.); Summa theologiae (Editiones Paulinae,
1962) (=STh); Summa contra Gentiles, tt. 2-3. ed. Marc and others (Marietti Editori,
1961) (=ScG); Super Epistolas S. Pauli Lectura, ed. Cai, 2 vols., 8th rev. ed. (Marietti
Editori, 1953) (=In Cor.); Quaestiones disputatae, t. 2, Quaestiones disputatae de
potentia, ed. Pession (Marietti Editori, 1949) (=De Pot.); Quaestio disputata ‘De unione
Verbi incarnati’ ed. Obenauer and others (Frommann-Holzboog, 2011) (= De unione
Verbi). All translations are our own unless noted otherwise.
1
Most corruptionists are responding in some way to Eleonore Stump’s account of
survivalism; see esp., “Resurrection, Reassembly, and Reconstitution: Aquinas on the
589

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

position with respect to the texts of Aquinas; survivalism’s
strength rests in the clarity with which it draws attention to the
person-like features of the separated soul.
We aim to carve out a middle way. In this article, we argue on
Thomistic grounds that the separated soul is an incomplete
person. We defend this novel position by drawing upon Aquinas’s
application of a distinction between a complete and incomplete
“this something” (hoc aliquid) to human nature and the rational
soul, respectively.2 We show that Aquinas’s metaphysics of
personhood is framed by his quixotic metaphysics of the rational
soul as an incomplete hoc aliquid. Because he holds that the
separated rational soul is an incomplete hoc aliquid and is part of
an entity that performs rational operations, his metaphysical
principles entail that the entity constituted by the separated
rational soul is an incomplete person. Consequently, our position
has the fortuitous result that the views presented by
corruptionists and survivalists are both partially correct, but
Soul,” in Die menschliche Seele: Brauchen wir den Dualismus? ed. Bruno Niederbacher
and Edmund Runggaldier (Frankfurt: Ontos Verlag, 2006): 153-74. Patrick Toner and
Turner Nevitt provide the best defenses of corruptionism. For a defense of corruptionism
against Stump’s objections, see Patrick Toner, “St. Thomas Aquinas on Death and the
Separated Soul,” History of Philosophy Quarterly 26 (2009): 121-38. For a distinctive
and powerful argument against survivalism, see Turner Nevitt, “Aquinas on the Death of
Christ: A New Argument for Corruptionism, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly
90 (2016): 77-99. Unfortunately, we are not able to address Nevitt’s objection in this
article. The best defense of survivalism to date is Mark Spencer, “The Personhood of the
Separated Soul,” Nova et vetera 12 (2014): 863-912. Toner, Spencer, and Nevitt provide
detailed surveys of the literature.
2
To be precise, Aquinas does not distinguish between complete and incomplete senses
of a hoc aliquid, but our distinction tracks what he does say, which is that, unlike humans
and other paradigm cases of a hoc aliquid, the soul is a hoc aliquid insofar it is able to
subsist per se, but not in the sense of having a complete species in itself. Q. D. De Anima,
a. 1 (Leon. ed., 9.286-90): “Relinquitur igitur quod anima est hoc aliquid ut per se potens
subsistere, non quasi habens in se completam speciem, set quasi perficiens speciem
humanam ut est forma corporis. Et sic simul est forma et hoc aliquid.” Giuseppe Butera
invokes the idea of an incomplete person in his alternative account of survivalism; our
account of an incomplete person is substantively different (Butera, “Incomplete Persons:
Thomas Aquinas on Separated Souls and the Identity of the Human Person,” in
Distinctions of Being, ed. Nikolaj Zunic [Washington, D.C.: American Maritain
Association, 2013], 61-82).

SEPARATED SOULS AS INCOMPLETE HUMAN PERSONS

591

incomplete; the separated soul after death is not a person
simpliciter, but it is an incomplete person.
Our argument proceeds in two stages. In the first part of the
article we identify and explain Aquinas’s three criteria for personhood: subsistence, rationality of the supposit, and completeness.
Satisfying these criteria is individually necessary and jointly
sufficient for any being to be a person. Said otherwise, any being
that satisfies these criteria also satisfies the Boethian definition of
person that Aquinas appropriates, “an individual substance of a
rational nature.”3 The subsistence criterion requires that a person
be a per se subsistent individual. The rationality-of-the-supposit
criterion requires that a person be a supposit that performs
rational operations in virtue of the rationality of its nature. And
the completeness criterion requires that a person be complete or
whole. In the second part of the article, we argue that the
separated soul as understood by Aquinas satisfies each of these
criteria. Yet, it satisfies them imperfectly and therefore must be
qualified as an incomplete person instead of a person simpliciter.
I. CRITERIA OF PERSONHOOD
We find in Aquinas three criteria that a being must satisfy to
be a person: a person must have per se subsistence, have the
rationality of a supposit, and be complete. Our explanation of
these criteria requires situating Aquinas’s account of personhood
in the context of his multifaceted metaphysics. We include many
details, both textual and conceptual, for two reasons. First,
Aquinas’s view is complex and an adequate understanding of his
account of personhood requires the details. Second, at times the
debate between survivalists and corruptionists has operated
within a limited reading of Aquinas’s metaphysics; for instance,
many scholars emphasize matter and form composition to the

3
STh I, q. 29, a. 1, obj. 1; q. 29, a. 4; q. 34, a. 3, ad 1; q. 40, a. 3; ScG IV, c. 38; De
Pot., q. 9, a. 1, ad 3; q. 9, a. 2; De unione Verbi, aa. 1-2.

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

exclusion of other orders of act-potency composition.4 Our
detailed explication of Aquinas’s metaphysics of the person
corrects the sometimes truncated presentations of Aquinas’s
views.
A) A Person Is a per se Subsistent Individual
In this section we explain Aquinas’s subsistence criterion for
personhood by examining his account of person as an individual
substance. Aquinas’s account of personhood in the Prima pars of
the Summa theologiae distinguishes two principal meanings of
the term “substance” (substantia); it is the second that pertains to
his understanding of person as an individual substance.5 First,
“substance” can signify the essence or quiddity of a particular
thing which its definition signifies. Aquinas appropriates Avicenna’s quasi-definition of substance as an essence or quiddity to
which it does not belong to receive its existence (esse) in another.6
For instance, the human essence is defined as being a rational
animal, a substance that is composed of two essential principles
of rational soul and organic body, that is, of animating rational
substantial form and common matter—not this flesh and these
bones, but flesh and bones. The second meaning of “substance”
denotes a subject that subsists in the genus or category of
substance. When this sense of substance is taken as an individual
or particular substance, as the Boethian definition of person
designates, then such things are called “primary substances”
(primae substantiae). Aquinas observes that in addition to
signifying primary substance, an individual in the genus substance
can be called a “thing of nature” (res naturae), a “subsistence”

4
For a detailed study of Aquinas’s view, see Carlos Bazán, “The Human Soul: Form
and Substance? Thomas Aquinas’ Critique of Eclectic Aristotelianism,” Archives d’histoire
doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 64 (1997): 95-126.
5
John Wippel, The Metaphysical Thought of Thomas Aquinas (Washington, D.C.: The
Catholic University of America Press, 2000), chaps. 7-9.
6
Ibid., 228-37.

SEPARATED SOULS AS INCOMPLETE HUMAN PERSONS

593

(subsistentia), a “hypostasis,” and a “supposit” (suppositum).7
The first three notions signify some real aspect belonging to
individual substances, but here Aquinas explains that the term
“supposit” signifies individual substances as a second intention or
logical taxon, as genus and species do for univocal kinds.
Elsewhere, Aquinas also employs the term “supposit” in an
ontological sense that includes esse and is equivalent to
“hypostasis,” where a rational supposit is a person.8 Unless
otherwise stated, we use “supposit” in the esse inclusive and
ontological sense.
Just as Aquinas clarifies the relevant sense of “substance”
proper to a person, namely, to be a singular or individual
subsistence which subsists in itself as a particular thing with a
nature, he also elucidates the meaning of individuality and the
distinct ways it is manifested in the case of the divine, angelic,
and human persons. Again, we focus on the individuality of
persons as it pertains to humans.
In the Summa theologiae Aquinas identifies two special ways
of being an individual that are identified by the terms “hypostasis” and “person.” Even though universals and particulars are
found in every category, individuals belong to the category of
substance in a certain special way (speciali quodam modo).9 This
is because a substance is individuated in itself, while accidents are
individuated in their subject, which is a substance, and so
individuals in the category of substance have a special name, such
as “hypostasis” or “primary substance.” Similarly, and in a still
more special and perfect way (specialiori et perfectiori modo),
individuals that are rational substances are called “persons.” This
is because “actions pertain to individuals” (“actiones autem in
singularibus sunt”), and the highest and most perfect mode of
action belongs to individuals of a rational nature. So, the sui
generis form of individuality exhibited by persons is bound up
7
STh I, q. 29, aa. 1-2; q. 77, a. 8; q. 84, a. 7, ad 1; Q. D. De Anima, a. 10, ad 13;
a. 19, ad 2; De Pot., q. 9, a. 1.
8
De unione Verbi, a. 1; Quodl. II, q. 2, a. 2. See below, n. 24; Wippel, Metaphysical
Thought, 238-53.
9
STh I, q. 29, a. 1.

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

with their sui generis personal, that is, rational, operations, and
this directs our attention to the rational nature of these
individuals.
In the next section we confront head-on the rational nature
characteristic of persons, but a few anticipatory remarks
concerning rationality are required to clarify the individuality of
persons. For Aquinas, the actions of rational substances do not
always issue forth as nonrational determinate acts of their nature,
for their rational nature enables them to have dominion over
their own actions; persons can act of themselves as selfdetermining agents. This is why individuals of a rational nature
have a special name even among individual substances, and this
name is “person.” It is in virtue of these rational and voluntary
operations that we recognize the powers of intellect and will that
are grounded in the rational nature of human persons.
Consequently, we can say—though Aquinas did not—that these
rational and self-determining operations are personal operations,
indicative of the personal powers of the personal nature of the
rational supposit or human person that performs its personal
operations. We identify persons through their personal
operations.
It is for these reasons that Aquinas claims that “person” signifies that which is most perfect in all of nature (“persona
significat id quod est perfectissimum in tota natura”).10 Persons
are the acme of creation; they are individuals of the highest
existent actuality and unity, which enables them to participate
more perfectly in creation insofar as they can by nature rationally
and freely determine their actions and thereby exhibit their
resemblance to the divine as being created in the image and
likeness of God.11 In sum, these two special ways of being an
individual enter into the definition of person: “individual
substance” signifies a singular in the category of substance, and

10
11

STh I, q. 29, a. 3.
STh I, q. 35, aa. 1-2; q. 93, a. 5.

SEPARATED SOULS AS INCOMPLETE HUMAN PERSONS

595

“rational nature” is added to denote a singular rational substance
that performs rational and voluntary operations.12
Aquinas draws our attention to additional hallmarks of the
individuality proper to persons: incommunicability and distinctiveness. These features are introduced in his division of the
common, formal, and material significations of person. In the
Prima pars (STh I, q. 29, a. 4) he distinguishes the general
meaning of a term from the more determinate meaning it has in
diverse instances. We first consider individuality of persons in
light of the common signification of “person” and then turn to
the formal and material significations. The common meaning of
“animal” as such is not the same as the more determinate
meaning of “animal” as applied to humans; the former does not
include rationality, the meaning of “human animal” does.
Similarly, the common signification of “person” means “an
individual substance of a rational nature” (“quod persona,
communiter sumpta, significat substantiam individuam rationalis
naturae”), but this common meaning acquires a more
determinate signification in the case of human, angelic, and
divine persons. Common to each of these instances of persons is
“individual” which signifies that which is undivided in itself, but
is distinct from others (“individuum autem est quod est in se
indistinctum, ab aliis vero distinctum”) or, drawing on Richard
of St. Victor, is incommunicable and distinct from others
(“incommunicabilis et ab aliis distincta”).13
For Aquinas, principles of individuality in created things have
two functions.14 First, they are principles of subsistence, for a

12

STh I, q. 29, a. 1.
STh I, q. 29, a. 4; q. 29, a. 3, ad 4; De Pot., q. 9, a. 2, ad 12.
14
Although matter is often referred to as the principle of individuation, other
principles also do individuating work according to Aquinas; STh I, q. 29, q. 4, refers to
“this flesh, these bones, and this soul” as “the individuating principles of a man” (principia
individuantia hominem). Further, in Q. D. De Anima, a. 1, ad 2, Aquinas argues that the
act of existing has a connection to individuation. For the exegetical debate on
individuation by matter and esse, see Joseph Owens, “Thomas Aquinas,” in Individuation
in Scholasticism, ed. J. Gracia (Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 1994),
174-94; Wippel, Metaphysical Thought, 351-75.
13

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

common nature does not subsist of itself except as it subsists in
an individual. This is why the principles of individuality for
human persons include determinate matter and actual existence
(actus essendi). Second, the principles of individuality provide, in
the case of material creatures like humans, the principles for the
individuation of a species or that through which a supposit is
distinguished from other individuals of the same common nature
or infima species.15
In his treatment of the Incarnation in his commentary on book
three of the Sentences Aquinas distinguishes three caveats pertaining to the incommunicability that belongs to the intelligibility
(ratio) of person: partis, universalis, and assumptibilis. First, a
person cannot be communicated to another in the way parts
belong to wholes. As Mark Spencer notes, “Personal incommunicability requires being complete, not a part, since parts
communicate themselves to wholes.”16 Second, a person cannot
be transferred to others in the way a universal is shared among
individuals of the same nature. Third, a person cannot be
assumed into the personhood of another such that it thereby
ceases to have proper personhood in itself, akin to the way the
substance of water ceases to be a substance in itself when its
nature and powers are integrated into the substance of an
animal.17
We now consider individuation in light of more determinate
significations. Aquinas distinguishes two types of signification:
Formally what is signified by a term is that which the term was principally
intended to signify, which is the ratio of the term. As this term “human” signifies
something composed from a body and a rational soul. Materially what is
signified through a term is that by which the ratio is maintained [salvatur]. As
this term “human” signifies something that has a heart, brain, and other such
parts without which the body cannot be animated by a rational soul.18

15

De Pot., q. 9, a. 5, ad 13.
Spencer, “The Personhood of the Separated Soul,” 888.
17
III Sent., d. 5, q. 2, a. 1, ad 2.
18
De Pot., q. 9, a. 4.

16

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Formally, “person” signifies something subsistent and distinct in
nature, and in the case of the human person, it means something
subsistent and distinct in human nature. To be clear, “person”
does not formally signify a nature absolutely, because if it did
then “the term ‘human’ and the term ‘human person’ would
signify the same thing, which is obviously false; for the term
‘person’ formally signifies incommunicability or the individuality
of someone subsisting in a nature”19
The material signification of “human person” pertains to a
distinct entity subsisting in human nature, and this “something
individuated and distinguished from others through individual
matter.”20 So, for Aquinas, “human person” signifies not merely
the nature or essence common to the human species, but also the
individualizing principles of the essence that constitute this
individual human person. For, “person” signifies a primary
substance or a this something (hoc aliquid) that subsists in a
nature.21
For soul, flesh, and bone belong to the ratio of a human, but this soul, this flesh,
and this bone belong to the ratio of this human. And therefore hypostasis and
person add individual principles to the ratio of an essence; nor are they the same
as the essence in things composed from matter and form.22

The hypostasis or person is distinct from the essence in things
composed of form and matter, for Socrates is this human person
due to individuating principles which are unique to him and
cannot belong to more than one human being. Aquinas identifies
the person or supposit with the individual whole, where the
nature or essence is its formal part.23
19

De Pot., q. 9, a. 6.
De Pot., q. 9, a. 4. See Q. D. De Anima, a. 1, ad 1.
21
III Sent., d. 5, q. 1, a. 3: “Natura enim, secundum quod hic loquimur, est quidditas
rei quam significat sua definition. Persona autem est hoc aliquid quod subsistit in natura
illa.” See Wippel, Metaphysical Thought, 240-41.
22
STh I, q. 29, a. 2, ad 3.
23
Comp. Theol. I, c. 56. Aquinas holds that the supposit or person is distinct from its
essence in all hylomorphic entities, and he claims, in most texts, that essence and supposit
are not distinct in angels. In these cases essence and supposit seem to be formal
20

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Our exploration of the human person as individual substance
has revealed that Aquinas thinks persons are both subsisting and
complete individuals. As individual substances, persons are
fundamental entities that exist of themselves and not in another.
Human persons are not parts or principles of substances, but
wholes that have both their natures and individuating principles
united. Insofar as a person must be complete, we treat it under
the completeness criterion, but insofar as it must exist of itself, it
must satisfy the subsistence criterion:
Subsistence criterion: If a being is a person, then it is a per se subsistent
individual.

This statement of the subsistence criterion is intended to
encapsulate the preceding as a shorthand for Aquinas’s complex
account instead of a proposition to be abstracted from the details.
The subsistence criterion is a requirement of all individual
substances, but in the next section we turn to what separates
persons from other per se subsistent individuals: rationality.
B) A Person Is a Rational Supposit
Thus far we have explored the “individual substance” component of the definition of “person” and have seen that a person
is an individual substance or a this something (hoc aliquid) that
subsists per se. In this section, we explore the “rational nature”
component of the definition, and what is required for a person
to be a rational agent. We show that Aquinas’s account of the
rational nature of the person is committed to two conditions;
taken together these conditions comprise what we call the
determinations of the angel distinct from its esse (See III Sent., d. 5, q. 1, a. 3; ScG IV,
c. 55; De Pot., q. 9, a. 1; De Spir. Creat., a. 5, ad 9; STh I, q. 3, a. 3). But in Quodl. II,
q. 2, a. 2 Aquinas says the essence and supposit are distinct in angels and he does not treat
the supposit as a formal principle distinct from esse; here he distinguishes the
individualizing principles of the angel from the principles of its essence, which allows him
to include the angel’s actus essendi in the meaning of its supposit. See Wippel,
Metaphysical Thought, 238-53.

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“rationality-of-the-supposit criterion.” First, there is the rationality of the nature, powers, and operations of the person. Second,
there is Aquinas’s thesis that all operations or actions belong to
supposits (actiones sunt suppositorum).
We begin with what rational nature adds to person as a per se
subsistent individual. As with “substance” and “individual,”
Aquinas introduces a number of clarifications to the way
“rational nature” relates to his doctrine of person. First, he
frequently remarks that the notion of “person” simply adds
nothing but “rational nature” to “hypostasis” or “supposit.”24 So
a rational supposit or a supposit with a rational nature is a
person; consequently, “supposit” and “person” are coextensive
in every per se subsistent with a rational nature.
Second, “person signifies a certain nature with a certain mode
of existence.” The nature proper to persons is the most exalted
or dignified kind of nature, namely, any nature that is intellectual
in its genus. Similarly, the mode of existence proper to persons is
the most exalted or dignified mode of existence, namely,
something that exists in itself.25 As we saw before, the dignity of
an intellectual nature refers to a person’s exalted mode of
cognition and action; for rational substances exist per se and act
per se insofar as they alone have dominion over their actions and
so can act or not act.26 Aquinas interprets the notion of “rational
nature” in the Boethian definition of person analogously to mean
any mode of intelligence, whether it be human, angelic, or divine.
This is because Aquinas prefers to identify “rationality” sensu
stricto with the specifically human mode of intelligence which,
unlike divine and angelic intelligence, is discursive and receives
its proper object through sensation.27
24

STh I, q. 29, a. 1; De Pot., q. 9, aa. 1-2.
De Pot., q. 9, a. 3.
26
De Pot., q. 9, a. 1, ad 3: “Nam solae substantiae rationales habent dominium sui
actus, ita quod in eis est agere et non agree.”
27
De Pot., q. 9, a. 2, ad 10: “rationale est differentia animalis, secundum quod ratio,
a qua sumitur, significat cognitionem discursivam, qualis est in hominibus, non autem in
Angelis nec in Deo. Boetius autem sumit rationale communiter pro intellectuali, quod
dicimus convenire Deo et Angelis et hominibus.” STh I, q. 29, a. 3, ad 4: “Deus potest
25

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

Third, Aquinas states that the meaning of “nature” as rational
or intellectual that is contained in the definition of person does
not mean nature in the sense of a principle of motion treated by
natural philosophy. Rather, nature here signifies the differentia
that manifests the form of a thing; for the differentia is derived
from the special form of a thing which completes the definition
that signifies a thing’s essence.28 As with “person,” Aquinas is
employing all of these notions—“substance,” “individual,”
“rational,” “intellectual,” “nature,” “form,” “differentia”—
analogously so as to capture the nonunivocal likeness—what is
similarly dissimilar—in human, angelic, and divine persons
(“persona dicitur de Deo et creaturis, non univoce nec aequivoce,
sed secundum analogiam”).29
Fourth, all persons are individual substances of a rational
nature, but as used here, “rational nature” is not an ultimate
differentia; rather, it admits of divisions into the ultimate
differentiae that, analogously speaking, signify the forms that
differentiate the modes of intelligence proper to human nature,
angelic nature, and divine nature.30 The human person finds its
ultimate differentia as a supposit of a rational nature in its rational
soul. The rational soul is the substantial form of the body, but it
is also able to subsist and operate without the body after death.
Accordingly, the rational soul of the human person is intellectual
of itself and falls within the genus of intellectual substances.31
These four clarifications figure into Aquinas’s account of the
rational nature that is specific to human persons, but they only
touch on the rationality of that nature; they do not address what
or who the agent is that performs these rational operations. For
this we must turn to Aquinas’s thesis that operations belong to a
supposit. Aquinas’s more general account of the supposit that
dici rationalis naturae, secundum quod ratio non importat discursum, sed communiter
intellectualem naturam.” See De Pot., q. 9, a. 3, ad 1; II Sent., d. 3, q. 1, a. 2.
28
STh I, q. 29, a. 1, ad 4.
29
I Sent., d. 25, q. 1, a. 2.
30
De Spir. Creat., a. 2, ad 12; Q. D. De Anima, a. 7, esp. ad 1 and ad 4; Q. D. De
Anima, a. 15.
31
Q. D. De Anima, a. 7, esp. ad 17 and ad 18.

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601

operates is orthogonal to his views on persons and the rationality
of their nature, for there are many kinds of supposits that operate
which are neither persons nor agents that perform rational operations. However, we cannot fully understand the rationality of
persons—who are individual per se subsistent entities of a rational
nature—independent from Aquinas’s thesis that operations,
including rational operations, belong to a supposit.
Aquinas frequently states his thesis that actions or operations
belong to supposits (actiones sunt suppositorum) and not to their
nature or essential principles, such as the rational soul which is
the substantial form of the human person. The essential
principles are those by which the supposit operates in the ways it
operates as seeing, hearing, and understanding through
exercising its diverse powers.32 The following are some
representative texts of Aquinas’s thesis:
But who it is that acts is a person or supposit, because acts are of the individual.33
[Grace] is ordered to good action, and actions belong to supposits or
individuals. Hence action, and as a consequence grace which is ordained to
[action], presuppose the hypostasis [or supposit] which operates.34
An operation is attributed to the hypostasis as the operator, [however] it is
attributed to the nature as the principle of operation. For an operation does not
receive its species from the operator, but from the principle of the operation;

32
De unione Verbi, a. 1, ad 16 (Obenauer, ed., 42): “quod actio est suppositi secundum
aliquam naturam vel formam. Et ideo non solum diversificantur actiones secundum
diversitatem suppositorum, sed etiam secundum diversitatem naturae vel formae: sicut
etiam in uno et eodem homine alia actio est videre et alia audire propter diversas
potentias” (“Action is of a supposit according to some nature or form. And therefore
actions are not only diversified according to the diversity of supposits, but also according
to the diversity of nature or form. Just as in one and the same human one action is to see
and another is to hear because of diverse powers”). See STh I, q. 40, a. 1, ad 3; III Sent.,
d. 18, q. 1, a. 1, ad 1. For interesting studies on this principle in Aquinas and others, see
Alain de Libera, “When Did the Modern Subject Emerge?” American Catholic
Philosophical Quarterly 82 (2008): 181-220, esp. 210; Brian T. Carl, “Action, Supposit,
and Subject: Interpreting actiones sunt suppositorum,” Nova et vetera 17 (2019): 545-65.
33
III Sent., d. 9, q. 1, a. 2, qcla. 1.
34
STh III, q. 7, a. 13.

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hence in one operator there are diverse operations according to the species
proper to diverse principles of operation, as to see and to hear in humans.35
In creatures, acts are of the supposits, [for] an essence does not act, but is the
principle of acts in the supposit36
To act is not attributed to the nature as agent, but to the person, for acts belong
to supposits or singulars, according to the Philosopher. Nevertheless action is
attributed to the nature as to that whereby the person or hypostasis acts. Hence,
although the nature is not properly said to rule or serve, every hypostasis or
person may be properly said to be ruling or serving in this or that nature.37
Actions pertain to supposits and to wholes, but not, strictly speaking, to [their]
parts and to [their] forms or their powers. For it is not proper to say that a hand
hits, but that a man does with his hand, and neither is it proper to say that heat
heats, but that the fire heats by its heat.38

There is always something or someone who performs operations,
and strictly speaking the essential principles do not perform
operations but instead provide the principles of the nature by
virtue of which something or someone acts as it does. Consequently, rational operations are performed by supposits of a
rational nature; any supposit that performs rational operations
will thereby be a rational supposit, that is, a person.
Aquinas’s understanding of the thesis that actiones sunt
suppositorum is more complicated than it may seem at first sight;
it will be fruitful to explicate its bearing on the human person.
We find in Aquinas two kinds of elucidations for his thesis that
operations belong to the supposit; the first is phenomenological
or experiential and the second is ontological. The experiential
clarification pertains to supposits that are persons and it can be
found in various places, perhaps most prominently in Aquinas’s
well-known claim against the Averroists that it is this human that
understands (hic homo intelligit). Whenever a human sees, hears,
understands, or wills he knows that he is the one, the unified
35

De Verit., q. 20, a. 1, ad 2.
I Sent., d. 5, q. 1, a. 1.
37
STh III, q. 20, a. 1, ad 2.
38
STh II-II, q. 58, a. 2.
36

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603

agent, who is seeing, hearing, understanding, or willing whatever
it is that is seen, heard, understood, or done voluntarily.39
We can understand better the complementary ontological
basis for Aquinas’s thesis as it pertains to the human person and
the rational soul by elucidating the three metaphysical conditions
that are necessary for a supposit, namely, the (i) actual existence
and (ii) substantial unity or wholeness of (iii) an individualized
nature.40 We treated the third condition above; individual actions
belong to individual supposits (actiones sunt suppositorum
singularium), which ontologically ground and individuate them,
and preeminent among individuals are those persons who
perform individual rational and voluntary actions.41 We find the
first condition on display in Aquinas’s arguments that it is
impossible for the existence (esse) that belongs to the hypostasis
39
De Verit., q. 2, a. 6, ad 3; q. 10, a. 8; STh I, q. 75, a. 2, ad 2; q. 75, a. 4; q. 76, a. 1;
I-II, q. 18, a. 5, ad 2; q. 112, a. 5, ad 1; In II Cor., c. 12, lect. 1 (Marietti ed., 448); ScG II,
c. 73; III, c. 46; Comp. Theol. I, c. 85; De Spir. Creat., a. 2, and ad 2; Q. D. De Anima,
a. 3; De unitate intel., c. 3.
40
III Sent., d. 6, q. 2: “Ens enim subsistens est quod habet esse tamquam ejus quod
est, quamvis sit naturae vel formae tamquam ejus quo est. Unde nec natura rei nec partes
ejus proprie dicuntur esse, si esse praedicto modo accipiatur; similiter autem nec
accidentia, sed suppositum completum, quod est secundum omnia illa” (“For subsisting
being is that which has existence as it is that which is, although it is of nature or form as
it is that by which it is. Hence, neither the nature of a thing nor its parts are properly said
to exist [if existence is accepted in the aforementioned way], similarly neither are
accidents, but [only] the complete supposit, [it is] that which is according to all of those”).
Quodl. IX, q. 2, a. 2 (Leon. ed., 94.58-95.67): “Esse ergo proprie et vere non attribuitur
nisi rei per se subsistenti. Huic autem attribuitur esse duplex. Vnum scilicet esse quod
resultat ex hiis ex quibus eius unitas integratur, quod est proprium esse suppositi
substanciale. Aliud esse est supposito attributum preter ea quae integrant ipsum, quod est
esse superadditum, scilicet accidentale, ut esse album attribuitur Sorti cum dicimus: Sortes
est albus” (“Thus, existence is only properly and truly attributed to a thing that subsists
in itself. Yet there are two sorts of existence attributed to a subsisting thing. One is the
supposit’s proper substantial existence, which results from that which makes it one whole.
But besides that which makes it whole, there is another existence attributed to a supposit,
viz. an additional or accidental existence. Whiteness, for instance, is an accidental
existence attributed to Socrates when we say, ‘Socrates is white’” (Thomas Aquinas’s
Quodlibetal Questions, trans. Turner Nevitt and Brian Davies [Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2020], 96-97; translation modified). See Wippel, Metaphysical Thought, 257-59.
41
STh III, q. 20, a. 1, ad 2; q. 7, a. 13; III Sent., d. 18, q. 1, a. 1, ad 2.

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or person in itself to be multiplied in one and the same hypostasis
or person, for no being can have more than one act of existence.42
And this act of existence is that whereby a substantial unity or a
whole individual, that is, a supposit, actually exists. This last
point also pertains to the second condition concerning the
substantial unity or wholeness of the supposit. The basic ontological sense of the supposit signifies more than “nature” or
“essence” or “substance,” for unlike these notions, which are
indeterminate with respect to the individuating determinations of
this human, the notion of a supposit includes these determinations. And sometimes Aquinas employs a sense of “supposit”
that not only denotes the substantial individuating determinations of this human, but even includes the esse and accidents (e.g.,
intellectual and sentient powers, habitus, and operations) of the
individual. This esse-inclusive and accident-inclusive sense of
supposit signifies not simply the individuated substance of this
human sans its accidental determinations, but of this human
Socrates, who actually exists, lives in Athens, is bearded, is this
height, is married to Xanthippe, and exercises his power of
intellect in dialectical arguments with Glaucon.43 This sense of
supposit draws our attention to what constitutes a whole individual, namely, something (hoc aliquid) actualized by esse, a
substantial nature, and accidents.44
42
STh I, q. 76, a. 1: “sic enim aliquid est ens, quomodo et unum.” See STh III, q. 17,
a. 2, ad 1; STh III, q. 50, a. 5.
43
Quodl. II, q. 2, a. 2 (Leon. ed., 217.97-102): “In Angelo autem non est omnino
idem, quia aliquid accidit ei preter id quod est de ratione sue specie, quia et ipsum esse
angeli est preter eius essenciam seu naturam et alia quedam ei accident, que omnia
pertinent ad suppositum, non autem ad naturam” (“But in an angel they are not entirely
the same because something outside what belongs to the intelligible structure of its species
is accidental to it, both because the very being of an angel is outside its essence or nature,
and some other characteristics which belong entirely to the supposit are accidental to it
but not to the nature”) (Quodlibetal Questions I and II, trans. Sandra Edwards [Toronto:
Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1983], 83). See De unione Verbi, a. 1.
44
Quodl. II, q. 2, a. 2 ad s.c. (Leon. ed., 218.159-69): “quod natura dicitur constituere
suppositum etiam in compositis ex materia et forma, non quia natura sit una res et
suppositum alia res (hoc enim est secundum opinionem dicentium quod natura speciei sit
forma tantum, que constituit suppositum sicut totum), set quia secundum modum

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It is crucial that we keep distinct Aquinas’s account of the
supposit—in both the esse indifferent and inclusive senses—as the
metaphysical unity of a whole individual, from the way Aquinas
identifies different subjects of inherence for the sentient and the
intellectual powers of human persons. The sentient powers have
the rational soul and body of the hylomorphic composite as their
subject, but the intellectual powers—possible intellect, agent
intellect, and will—have only the rational soul and not the
hylomorphic composite as their immediate subject.45 Of course,
for Aquinas, this account is complicated by his metaphysics of the
twofold composition of act and potency, wherein matter is in
potency with respect to formal act, and the nature constituted
from matter and form is in potency to its act of existence.46 In the
case of humans, Aquinas argues that even though the same esse
actualizes and unites the rational soul and body of the individual
human supposit, the rational soul as form and body as matter do
not participate in this esse in the same way. In humans, the whole
individual supposit is constituted not merely through the
participation of its nature in esse, for within the composition of
its hylomorphic nature matter participates in esse by virtue of
matter’s participation in the esse of the formal act of the rational
soul. When the human body is corrupted at death, the very same
form—that is, the rational soul, but now as an incomplete
nature—continues to subsist through its participation in the same
act of existence which in statu viae actualized a complete

significandi natura significatur ut pars, ratione supra dicta, suppositum uero ut totum;
natura significatur ut constituens, et suppositum ut constitutum” (“that in composites of
matter and form also a nature is said to constitute a supposit, not because a nature is one
thing and a supposit another (for this is the case according to the opinion of those who
say that the nature of a species is only the form which constitutes the supposit as a whole),
but because according to the manner of signifying, a nature is signified as a part for the
aforesaid reason and a supposit is signified as a whole. A nature is signified as what
constitutes, a supposit as what is constituted”) (Edwards, trans., Quodlibetal Questions I
and II, 84).
45
STh I, q. 76, a. 8, ad 4; Comp. Theol. I, c. 89; Q. D. De Anima, a. 1; De Spir. Creat.,
a. 4, ad 3.
46
ScG II, cc. 52-54.

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nature.47 But this does not mean that in statu viae there are two
substantial unities or individual wholes, the human person
composed of its hylomorphic nature and esse along with the per
se subsistent soul and esse composite. Aquinas argues that even
though the rational soul has subsistent existence—insofar as its
esse does not depend on the body and it has operations and
powers that transcend matter—it actualizes matter by virtue of
its act of existence and therein shares esse which actualizes the
one existing composite of soul and body, that is, the one actually
existing human being.48
To address perspicuously the personhood of the separated
soul we must keep in mind Aquinas’s distinction between the
supposit and the kinds of subjects of inherence of sentient and
intelligent powers and operations. The human qua subject of
inherence is not the subject of understanding for it is the rational
soul qua subject of inherence that grounds the intellectual power
for understanding. The human qua supposit is what, or rather
who, it is that understands.49 And it is the supposit that is the
ultimate metaphysical unity or individual whole, the something
or someone that performs operations. That is to say, the actions
are of the supposit and not of the essential principles or subjects
of inherence of the supposit’s nature that enable these actions—
whether they be the sentient actions enabled by hylomorphic
composite subject or the intelligent actions enabled by the
rational soul alone as subject.50 It is this distinction that
47

De Spir. Creat., a. 1 (esp. ad 6); a. 9, ad 3 and ad 4.
De Spir. Creat., a. 2, ad 3 and ad 5.
49
This crucial distinction is overlooked both by survivalists, like Stump (“Resurrection,
Reassembly, and Reconstitution”), and by corruptionist responses to them, like Toner
(“St. Thomas Aquinas on Death and the Separated Soul,” 129-30, 132-34). Aquinas’s
distinction is also overlooked in de Libera, “When Did the Modern Subject Emerge?”;
Marilyn McCord Adams and Cecilia Trifogli, “Whose Thought Is It? The Soul and the
Subject of Action in Some Thirteenth and Fourteenth Century Aristotelians,” Philosophy
and Phenomenological Research 85 (2012): 624-47; Cecilia Trifogli, “Giles of Rome
against Thomas Aquinas on the Subject of Thinking and the Status of the Human Soul,”
Documenti e Studi 23 (2012): 221-44.
50
Just as a single divine person can perform operations grounded in two distinct
natures, so also can a human person perform rational and sentient operations even if they
48

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underscores Aquinas’s nuanced anthropology against the
Averroists.51
Understanding is an operation of the human soul insofar as it transcends the
order [superexcedit proportionem] of corporeal matter, and therefore [understanding] is not achieved through any corporeal organ. Nevertheless, we can say
that the conjunction itself, that is, the human, understands, inasmuch as the
soul, which is its formal part, has this proper operation, as the operation of any
part is attributed to the whole. For a human sees with his eye, walks with his
feet, and similarly understands through his soul.52

In the previous section we considered the way the subsistence
criterion reveals that every person is a per se subsistent individual
or hoc aliquid. The rationality-of-the-supposit criterion adds two
crucial conditions to Aquinas’s doctrine of the person not
addressed by the subsistence criterion. First, the rationality of the
nature reveals that the kind of per se subsistence of the person
must be of a rational nature, which grounds rational powers and
rational operations in the case of human and angelic creatures.
But more is needed. The condition concerning the rationality of
the nature by itself fails to specify what or who it is that performs
these rational operations in virtue of the rational powers of a
rational nature. Aquinas’s thesis that operations are of the
supposit supplies his account of the rationality of the nature with
the needed clarification that it is the supposit, not the nature, that
operates rationally; having a rational nature is not sufficient, for
rational operations—like all operations—are performed by the
supposit.53 We can encapsulate these complex doctrines from
Aquinas with the rationality-of-the-supposit criterion.

are grounded differently in one and the same nature of the rational animal. See STh III,
q. 19, a. 1, ad 4.
51
ScG II, c. 73; STh I, q. 75, a. 2, ad 2; q. 76, a. 1; Comp. Theol. I, c. 85; De Spir.
Creat., a. 2; De unitate intel., c. 3.
52
De Spir. Creat., a. 2, ad 2 (Leon. ed., 30.326-35).
53
I Sent., d. 4, q. 1, a. 2, ad 1; d. 11, q. 1, a. 2; III Sent., d. 1, q. 1, a. 2, ad 9; d. 5,
q. 3, a. 3, ad 3; d. 18, q. 1, a. 1, ad 2; De Verit., q. 27, a. 3, ad 25; De unione Verbi, a. 1,
ad 11 and ad 16; STh I, q. 36, a. 3, ad 1; q. 39, a. 5, ad 1; I-II, q. 75, a. 2; Q. D. De
Anima, a. 2.

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Rationality-of-the-Supposit Criterion:If a being is a person, then it is a supposit
that performs rational operations in virtue of the rationality of its nature.

C) A Person Is Complete
The previous two sections on the subsistence and the
rationality of the supposit criteria both touch on the third
criterion of personhood: completeness. It is in Aquinas’s
statements that a person must be complete that we find the
textual heart of the corruptionist position. Corruptionists object
that the survivalist thesis goes explicitly against certain doctrines
of Aquinas, who even states that since the soul is a part of the
human, “the soul is not the whole human, and I am not my
soul.”54 Indeed, on a number of occasions Aquinas explicitly
addresses the question of whether the separated soul is a person
(“anima separata sit persona”) and provides principled reasons
for rejecting the survivalist thesis. He addresses this question
head-on in his early commentary on book three of the Sentences.
The first objection contends, like the survivalists, that the
separated soul is a person since it satisfies Boethius’s definition of
a person. The third objection argues that the rational soul is a this
something (hoc aliquid), and a this something of a rational nature
is a person (“sed hoc aliquid in natura rationali est persona”).
Here we see Aquinas substitute hoc aliquid where “individual
substance” is usually found in the definition of person. Against
these objections, the second sed contra contends, as the
corruptionists do, that person has the intelligibility of being
complete and whole, and since the soul is a part, the soul does
not meet the intelligibility of a person.55 So we find in Aquinas’s
own texts the survivalist-corruptionist debate, presented in its
most sophisticated metaphysical form, articulating the best

54
In I Cor. 15, lect. 2 (Marietti ed., no. 924): “anima autem cum sit pars corporis
hominis, non est totus homo, et anima mea non est ego.”
55
III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 2, s.c. 2: “Praeterea, persona habet rationem completi et totius.
Sed anima est pars. Ergo anima non habet rationem personae.” III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 3:
“et hoc est contra rationem personae, quae maximam completionem importat.”

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principled reasons for and against each view. Which side does
Aquinas take?
Aquinas’s response reiterates points we have already seen.
Because the soul is united to the body as the form of matter, the
soul is only part of human nature and not a kind of nature in
itself. And since, as was introduced in the sed contra, the
intelligibility of a part is contrary to the intelligibility of a person,
the separated soul is not able to be called “a person.”56 Properly
speaking the separated soul is not a substance of some nature; it
is a principal part of human nature.57 Even though the rational
soul is a this something, it remains a part of human nature and
parts cannot be persons, even if the part is a this something; the
intelligibility of a person requires that a person be whole and
complete.58 Finally, Aquinas assigns greater dignity to the human
person over the rational soul insofar as the former is more
complete.59 Indeed, elsewhere in the Sentences Aquinas states that
the intelligibility of the person evinces maximal completion
(“rationem personae, quae maximam completionem importat”).60 In the Sentences, Aquinas unequivocally and explicitly
defends a corruptionist position.
56
III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 2: “Alia est opinio Aristotelis . . . quod anima unitur corpori
sicut forma materiae: unde anima est pars humanae naturae, et non natura quaedam per
se: et quia ratio partis contrariatur rationi personae . . . ideo anima separata non potest
dici persona: quia quamvis separata non sit pars actu, tamen habet naturam ut sit pars”
(“The other opinion is that of Aristotle, [who holds] that the soul is united to the body as
form to matter. Hence, the soul is a part of human nature and is not some nature in itself.
And because the aspect of a part is contrary to the aspect of a whole . . . therefore the
separated soul is not able to be called a person, because although when [the soul] is
separated it is not actually a part, nevertheless it has the nature as to be a part”).
57
III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 2, ad 1: “Ad primum ergo dicendum, quod anima separata,
proprie loquendo, non est substantia alicujus naturae, sed est pars naturae.”
58
III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 2, ad 3: “quod anima rationalis dicitur hoc aliquid per modum
quo esse subsistens est hoc aliquid, etiam si habeat naturam partis; sed ad rationem
personae exigitur ulterius quod sit totum et completum.” See III Sent., d. 6, q. 1, a. 1,
qcla. 1, ad s.c.; ScG II, c. 55; De Pot., q. 9, q. 3, ad 13; STh III, q. 16, a. 12, ad 2.
59
III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 2, ad 5.
60
III Sent., d. 5, q. 3, a. 3: “trahitur ad aliquod completius, ipsum incompletum
existens, ut patet ex praedictis, et hoc est contra rationem personae, quae maximam
completionem importat.”

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In later works such as De potentia Dei and the Summa
theologiae we find concise recapitulations of similar survivalist
objections and corruptionist responses.
[Obj. 14] The soul that is separated from the body through death is not said to
be a person; nevertheless it is an individual substance of a rational nature.
Therefore this is not a fitting definition of person.
[Ad 14] The separated soul is a part of rational nature, namely of human
[nature], and not a whole rational human nature. Therefore it is not a person.61
[Obj. 5] The separated soul is an individual substance of a rational nature. But
it is not a person. Therefore this definition of person is unsuitable.
[Ad 5] The soul is a part of the human species, and therefore, although it can
be separated, still because it retains the nature of unibility, it cannot be called
an individual substance which is a hypostasis or primary substance; just as
neither can hands nor any other parts of a human. And so neither the definition
nor the name of person befits it.62

Aquinas’s view is therefore clear and consistent: The separated
soul, because it is a part and “retains the nature of unibility,” is
not a person. Even in the face of strange consequences, like St.
Peter no longer being a person, Aquinas stands his ground and
explains that when we pray to St. Peter we are speaking by
synecdoche.63 According to Aquinas, if something is a person it
must be complete or a whole.
We now have our criteria for personhood:

61

De Pot., q. 9, a. 2, obj. 14: “anima separata a corpore per mortem, non dicitur esse
persona; et tamen est rationalis naturae individua substantia. Non ergo haec est
conveniens definitio personae.” De Pot., q. 9, a. 2, ad 14: “anima separata est pars
rationalis naturae, scilicet humanae, et non tota natura rationalis humana, et ideo non est
persona.”
62
STh I, q. 29, a. 1, obj. 5: “anima separata est rationalis naturae individua substantia.
Non autem est persona. Inconvenienter ergo persona sic definitur.” STh I, q. 29, a. 1, ad
5: “anima est pars humanae speciei, et ideo, licet sit separata, quia tamen retinet naturam
unibilitatis, non potest dici substantia individua quae est hypostasis vel substantia prima;
sicut nec manus, nec quaecumque alia partium hominis. Et sic non competit ei neque
definitio personae, neque nomen.” See STh I, q. 75, a. 4, obj. 2 and ad 2.
63
III Sent., d. 22, q. 1, a. 1, ad 6; IV Sent., d. 43, q. 1, a. 1, qcla. 1, ad 2.

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Subsistence: If a being is a person, then it is per se subsistent individual.
Rationality of the Supposit: If a being is a person, then it is a supposit that
performs rational operations in virtue of the rationality of its nature.
Completeness: If a being is a person, then it is complete or a whole.

If a created being meets all of these criteria, then it is a created
person. At this point, the texts of Aquinas clearly favor a corruptionist position, but in the next part of this essay we argue that
the separated soul meets each of these criteria of personhood in
some substantive way. We start by stating our position, and then
argue that the separated soul satisfies each of the criteria, even if
only incompletely.
II. OUR VIEW: A SEPARATED SOUL IS AN INCOMPLETE PERSON
In this second part we argue that the separated soul is an
“incomplete person.” As we have seen, Aquinas’s account of
personhood depends on his metaphysics of a hoc aliquid: if a
being is a person, then it is a rational hoc aliquid. A central claim
in our argument is that Aquinas’s metaphysical distinctions that
pertain to a rational hoc aliquid also frame his metaphysics of the
person. Consequently, because Aquinas countenances the notion
of an incomplete hoc aliquid in the case of the rational soul—for
it is known to be subsistent per se in virtue of its rational
operations even though it is incomplete according to its species—
his metaphysics of the person is thereby committed to the notion
of an incomplete person, which is what the separated rational soul
is as a rational incomplete hoc aliquid. We defend our view by
arguing that the separated soul satisfies, in a principled and
qualified way, the three criteria for personhood. It satisfies the
subsistence criterion by being an incomplete hoc aliquid that
subsists per se. It satisfies the rationality-of-the-supposit criterion
by being the supposit of rational operations in virtue of the
rationality of its incomplete nature. And it incompletely satisfies
the completeness criterion by being complete in four of the five
orders of completeness we identify.

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A) A Separated Soul Is a per se Subsistent Individual
In this section we argue that the separated soul satisfies the
subsistence criterion of personhood by considering Aquinas’s
response to the question of whether the rational soul is both a
form and a hoc aliquid.
One of the important endeavors of the thirteenth-century
Scholastics was to reconcile the newly received Aristotelian
psychology—mediated principally through the innovative neoAristotelian lenses of Avicenna, Averroës, and others—with the
traditions of theological anthropology of St. Augustine, St. John
Damascene, and others. Such an enterprise produced numerous
eclectic theological and philosophical anthropologies. Aquinas
inherited these elaborate traditions and engaged in the debates
that sought to reconcile two doctrines. First, that the human
rational soul is, like all Aristotelian souls, the substantial form and
first actuality of the organic body, which confers upon the whole
animal its fundamental nature, bodily organization, organs, and
powers for vegetation, movement, cognition, passion, and action.
And second, that after death the rational soul of a human person
can subsist in itself apart from the body. A central issue in this
thirteenth-century debate is the question of whether the
separated soul is both a hoc aliquid, that is, an individual or
primary substance, and a substantial form, that is, a part of an
individual substance.64 This is the question that opens Aquinas’s
64
“For Thomas the soul is a substantial form of a kind unknown to Aristotle. Instead
of leaving the noetic problem in a state of indetermination, as did Aristotle’s texts,
Thomas proposed an interpretation of those texts that overcame the aporiae and allowed
him to attribute intellection to the individual human soul. The analysis of the intellectual
operation led him to establish that the soul has operational independence, at least at that
level, and consequently, that it must also have existential independence vis-a-vis the body.
The human soul is a subsistent substantial form, a form of matter but not a material form.
This new kind of substantial form is not found in Aristotle’s philosophy, but it was
established through a process of philosophical analysis that was perfectly consistent with
Aristotelian principles” (Bazán, “The Human Soul,” 117). See Carlos Bazán, “13th
Century Commentaries on De Anima: From Peter of Spain to Thomas Aquinas,” in Il
commento filosofico nell’occidente latino (secoli XIII–XV), ed. Gianfranco Fioravanti and
others (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002): 119-84; Sander de Boer, The Science of the Soul: The

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Quaestiones disputatae De anima: Whether the human soul can
be a form and a hoc aliquid? (“Et primo queritur utrum anima
humana possit esse forma et hoc aliquid”).65
Aquinas’s response begins with the proper meaning of hoc
aliquid: an individual in the genus or category of substance. As
Aristotle states in the Categories, a primary substance signifies a
hoc aliquid. Furthermore, an individual in the genus of substance
that subsists of itself is also something complete in some species
of substance. So, properly speaking, hoc aliquid signifies (1) an
individual in the genus of substance that subsists in itself
(subsistere per se) and (2) is complete in the nature of its species.
One way to think about these conditions is as two types of
completeness: to subsist in oneself is to have existential
completeness and to be complete in one’s species is to have
essential or specific completeness. Accidents, like the powers of
intellect and vision, do not meet either condition; they merely
inhere in a substance. But hands and feet, like the rational soul,
are not accidents; they are distinct kinds of substantial parts
which subsist.66 Because hands, feet, and other separable features
of animals cannot subsist of themselves as complete instances of
a species—that is, they do not completely participate in the
nature of some substance—they are not called primary
substances, but parts of a substance; such parts belong neither to
a species nor to a genus of substance except by reduction (nisi per
reductionem).67 What distinguishes subsistent parts like hands
Commentary Tradition on Aristotle’s De Anima, c.1260-c.1360 (Leuven: Leuven
University Press, 2013). On this point, Robert Pasnau seconds Bazán’s contention, adding:
“It is particularly misleading to suggest that [Aquinas’s] theory is just an unhappy marriage
of Christianity and Aristotelianism. There is nothing specifically Christian about the thesis
that the soul survives death—we might just as well refer to this as a Platonic thesis. And
it is no departure from Aristotle to treat the intellect as separable from the body, since
Aristotle is quite explicit, on many occasions and to the considerable embarrassment of
many Aristotle scholars . . . that the intellect can exist independently of the body” (Robert
Pasnau, Thomas Aquinas on Human Nature [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2002], 414 n. 27).
65
Q. D. De Anima, a. 1 (Leon. ed., 3.1–3).
66
STh I, q. 75, a. 2, ad 1.
67
Q. D. De Anima, a. 1 (Leon. ed., 7.197-207) and ad 13 (Leon. ed., 12.434-41).

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and feet from the rational soul is that separated hands and feet
are only so called equivocally apart from the substance in which
they subsist as parts, whereas the separated soul remains a
rational soul apart from the body of which it is the substantial
form. Because the rational soul lacks specific completeness, it
seems that it cannot be a hoc aliquid. But Aquinas, surprisingly,
concludes that the separated soul is a hoc aliquid.
Aquinas arrives at his answer by working through the mistakes
of his predecessors’ views on the human soul. He begins with a
critique of Empedocles and Galen, who denied that the soul has
these two types of completeness, since they understood the soul
to be a mere harmony or complex congeries of elemental
qualities, and so neither subsistent in itself nor complete in
species. Aquinas argues that their view is untenable with respect
to vegetative and sensitive souls because both ground operations
that transcend the active and passive qualities of elemental
matter, and so a fortiori these material elemental qualities are
totally inadequate for explaining the intellectual operations
grounded by the rational soul which completely transcend all
materiality.
It is necessary that the intellectual soul be able to act per se inasmuch as it has
its proper operation without involving the body [absque corporis communione].
And because each thing acts according as it is actual, it is necessary that the
intellectual soul have complete existence per se [habeat esse per se absolutum]
not dependent on a body. For forms which have their existence dependent on
matter or a subject do not have per se operations.68

Aquinas claims arguments of this kind led later philosophers, like
Plato and Aristotle, to hold that the intellectual part of the soul
is something per se subsistent. But this is where Plato and
Aristotle part ways, for Plato, according to Aquinas, also
maintained that the per se subsistent soul in itself has specific
completeness, because a human is not essentially a composite of
soul and body, and that the soul’s conjunction with a body is akin
to the way a pilot is related to a ship. Aquinas rejects the view he
68

Q. D. De Anima, a. 1 (Leon. ed., 8.242-50).

SEPARATED SOULS AS INCOMPLETE HUMAN PERSONS

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ascribes to Plato and argues instead that the soul is what animates
or gives life to the body, and thereby gives the human body its
vital act of existing. Following Aristotle’s own line of argumentation from De Anima II, Aquinas contends that this account
of soul satisfies Aristotle’s criteria for being a form, and so the
human soul is the form of the body that gives the body and its
parts their species as constituents of a human. And this is why
when the human dies and the soul leaves the body, the bodily
parts only equivocally retain the names eyes, hands, feet, and so
forth. The essential unity of body and soul in one complete nature
and its substantial—and so not mere accidental—corruption at
death, are all characteristics that are true of humans that the soul
as pilot model cannot explain.69
Based on this line of argumentation, Aquinas concludes that
the rational soul is a hoc aliquid since it can subsist per se, not as
having a complete species in itself, but as perfecting the human
species as the form of the body.70 Hence, the rational soul of the
human person is simultaneously a substantial form and a hoc
aliquid, albeit not a complete hoc aliquid. Aquinas then illustrates
the intelligibility of his conclusion with a presentation of the
hierarchy of forms in nature according to their ascending
ontological and operational transcendence over the matter they
actualize—a hierarchy that proceeds from the forms of elements,
to mixed bodies, vegetative souls, sentient souls, and finally
human souls. “The human soul,” he writes elsewhere, “is situated
at the boundary line between corporeal and incorporeal
substances, as though it existed on the horizon of eternity and
time, it approaches to the highest by withdrawing from the
lowest.”71 This is why he claims that human souls resemble
separate substances insofar as by their intellectual operations
humans can cognize immaterial things, but human souls also
differ from separate substances insofar as the very nature of the

69

Q. D. De Anima, a. 1. See Q. D. De Anima, aa. 9-10.
Q. D. De Anima, a. 1 (Leon. ed., 9.286-90). See above, n. 2.
71
ScG II, c. 81 (James Anderson, trans., Summa contra Gentiles Book II: Creation,
[Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975], 265). See ScG IV, c. 11.
70

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

intellectual power grounded in the human rational soul must
acquire its cognition of immaterial things from sense cognition of
material things.
Aquinas concludes—following the Aristotelian heuristic
principle that the mode of being of operations reveals the mode
of being of powers and ultimately the nature of the soul that
grounds them—that the soul’s mode of existing can be known
from its operations. Since intellectual operations transcend
materiality, the rational soul’s act of existing transcends and does
not depend upon the body. However, because the perfection of
human operations requires intellectual operations that obtain
their objects from the sensory operations of embodied powers of
sensation, the human only has specific completeness insofar as
the human soul is united to the body as its form. This is why
Aquinas says that the human soul is itself established on the
boundary line dividing corporal from incorporeal separate
substances. As Carlos Bazán astutely pointed out, for Aquinas,
this operational contrast of essential dependence and existential
independence is grounded in an ontological contrast of essential
dependence and existential independence.72 Just as the per se
intellectual operations of the human person are existentially
independent of the body though essentially depend upon the
bodily senses for their object, so also the intellectual soul, which
grounds these intellectual powers and operations, is existentially
independent of the body, yet essentially depends upon the body
for the perfection of a complete human person.
So, unlike the human person which is a hoc aliquid that is
complete insofar as it subsists in itself and is a complete instance
of the species human, the rational soul is not a complete hoc
aliquid, even though it has existential completeness, because it
lacks specific completeness as an incomplete manifestation of the
human species. Consequently, the rational soul is an incomplete
hoc aliquid. Although incomplete, insofar as it is an existentially
complete hoc aliquid, it satisfies the subsistence criterion. What
kind of being is the separated soul, this separated incomplete hoc
72

Bazán, “The Human Soul,” 122-26.

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aliquid, insofar it can subsist in itself but fails to be a complete
instance of its species? This is a question not simply about the
meaning of words, but about what the metaphysics of this entity
requires of our categories in order to understand and identify it.
In the next section, we work towards an answer to this question.
B) A Separated Soul Is a Rational Supposit
The incomplete hoc aliquid that is the separated soul satisfies
the subsistence criterion, but does it satisfy the rationality-of-thesupposit criterion? We have already noted that if a being is a
person it must both perform rational operations in virtue of its
rational nature and be the supposit that performs these rational
operations. We start with the first condition. When separated
from the body the human soul still performs rational operations.73 Indeed, Aquinas claims that despite being imperfect with
respect to its nature, the separated soul’s acts of understanding
attain a higher mode of understanding after death.
The soul united to the body is in a certain way more perfect than when it is
separated, as this is according to the nature of its species. But with respect to its
intelligible act it has a certain perfection when separated from the body, which
it cannot have as long as it is united to the body. This is not unfitting because
intellectual operation is proper to the soul insofar as it transcends the capacity
of the body (supergreditur corporis proportionem). For the intellect is not the
act of any organ of the body.74
The intellect requires the assistance of sense while it is subject to imperfect
cognition, insofar as it depends on phantasms, but not when it is subject to the
more perfect mode of cognition which is proper to the separated soul, just as a
human requires milk as an infant but not as an adult.75

73
STh I, q. 89, aa. 1-6; I-II, q. 67, a. 2; De Verit., q. 19, a. 1; ScG II, c. 81; Q. D. De
Anima, aa. 15, 17-20.
74
Q. D. De Anima, a. 17, ad 1 (Leon. ed., 150.150-59).
75
Q. D. De Anima, a. 19, ad 19 (Leon. ed., 167.370-76). See Q. D. De Anima, a. 1,
ad 7; John Wippel, “Thomas Aquinas on the Separated Soul’s Natural Knowledge,”
Thomas Aquinas: Approaches to Truth, ed. J. McEvoy and M. Dunne (Portland, Ore.:
Four Courts Press, 2002), 114-40.

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So, although the separated soul constitutes only the formal part
of human nature, the separated soul nevertheless remains rational
and enables rational powers and operations. The separated soul,
then, clearly satisfies the first condition, but does it meet the
second condition of being the supposit of these rational
operations? To answer this question, we return to the relation
between hoc aliquid and personhood and show how our account
avoids a problem.
The metaphysics of the person depends upon and is framed by
the metaphysics of the hoc aliquid, but the metaphysics of the
person also introduces something to the metaphysics of the hoc
aliquid. We have already seen that, for Aquinas, a person, in
virtue of being a rational and self-determining agent, is necessarily a rational supposit of rational operations. So, while a hoc
aliquid must meet two conditions—existential and specific
completeness—being a person requires something more, namely,
being a supposit of rational operations. Earlier we presented
Aquinas’s view that the rational soul sensu stricto is never a
supposit of operations, but is always a formal principle of a
supposit—both in statu viae and as separated. However, because
the separated incomplete hoc aliquid that survives death performs
operations, it therefore seems that the separated soul is a rational
supposit, and so meets a central criterion for being a person.
An objection looms. If the incomplete hoc aliquid that is the
separated soul is able to perform rational operations when it is
apart from the body, and so meets all the criteria for being a
rational supposit, then that same rational soul as an incomplete
hoc aliquid must be a rational supposit in statu viae as well. But
this would entail the absurdity that in statu viae, when the soul
and body are united, there are two supposits performing
intellectual operations: there is the complete hoc aliquid that is
the human person performing intellectual operations, and there
is the incomplete hoc aliquid or rational soul that is also a
supposit performing intellectual operations. This has been called
the “too many thinkers” problem, because it seems to place two
thinkers in the body-soul composite corresponding to the two
supposits, which is absurd and inconsistent with Aquinas’s

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619

rejection of the assumptibility of persons by persons.76 Because
we hold that the separated soul is an incomplete person, the
objection could also be re-characterized as a too-many-persons
problem.
The objection fails, however, because it conflates, without any
rationale, some crucial distinctions. First, we have already explicated Aquinas’s reasons for maintaining that the rational soul
in statu viae is not a supposit and so not a person. Second, our
argument is not that the rational soul is a supposit because it is
an incomplete hoc aliquid. The conditions for being a supposit
are distinct from and amplify the conditions for being a hoc
aliquid; so even though the rational soul as such always meets the
conditions for being an incomplete hoc aliquid, the rational soul
only satisfies the conditions for being a supposit after the death
of the human person. Accordingly, the real issue is: Why does the
rational soul only meet the rationality-of-the-supposit criterion
after it is separated from the body?
Even this formulation of the problem leaves ambiguous what
is meant by “rational soul” and “separated soul.” It is important
76

We find early statements of this concern as the “too many minds objection” in
Sydney Shoemaker, “I—Sydney Shoemaker: Self, Body, and Coincidence,” Aristotelian
Society Supplement 73 (1999): 291; unnamed in Trenton Merricks, Objects and Persons
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001), 48 n. 9; adapted from Shoemaker to an objection
against corruptionism for the first time (as far as we know) in David Hershenov and Rose
Koch-Hershenov, “Personal Identity and Purgatory,” Religious Studies 42 (2006): 440;
and as the “thinking-soul problem” in Eric Olson, What We Are (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007), 169. Some have responded that corruptionism can answer the
problem (see Patrick Toner, “St. Thomas Aquinas on Death and the Separated Soul,” 133;
and idem, “St. Thomas Aquinas on the Problem of Too Many Thinkers,” The Modern
Schoolman 89 [2012]: 209-22) and others have argued that Aquinas’s metaphysics needs
to be changed either according to a nonstandard monist interpretation (see Eric
Hagedorn, “Is Anyone Else Thinking My Thoughts? Aquinas’s Response to the TooMany-Thinkers Problem,” Proceedings of the ACPA 84 [2011]: 275-86) or to include
immediate resurrection to answer a “Two-Person Problem” version of the objection (see
Christina Van Dyke, “I See Dead People: Disembodied Souls and Aquinas’s Two-Person
Problem,” Oxford Studies in Medieval Philosophy 2 [2014]: 25-45). Toner (“St. Thomas
Aquinas on Death and the Separated Soul”) turns the objection against Stump’s
constitution account of survivalism; his objection is addressed by Spencer, “Personhood
of the Separated Soul,” 907.

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to recognize that Aquinas frequently employs these and related
terms metonymically, which only presents a difficulty when his
readers fail to notice when he is doing so; for such readers the
term “separated soul” conceals from their view the complex
“whole” to which it belongs, a “whole” comprised of a separated
rational soul actualized by esse, which grounds intellectual
powers and operations. Strictly speaking, the rational soul alone
(i.e., sans its esse, powers, and operations) does not become a
supposit of operations, for the separated rational soul alone
cannot exist and a fortiori it cannot become a supposit. So what
does become a supposit?
As we have seen, the rationality-of-the-supposit criterion requires more than the essential principles of a nature. A supposit
also requires nonessential principles, and in the most inclusive
ontological sense of supposit this includes esse and accidents.
Accordingly, the entity that survives death is not the rational soul
alone, but the rational soul that is actualized by its esse and which
grounds intellectual powers, habitus, and operations. Keeping in
mind all of these crucial distinctions—which the objection from
the too-many-persons problem conflates—we will henceforth
follow Aquinas in metonymically calling this incomplete
composite entity of esse, rational soul, and accidents that results
from the death of a human the “anima separata.” We will
henceforth reserve the term “rational soul” to denote that
substantial formal part distinct from esse, matter, and accidents
which is the formal principle common to both the hylomorphic
nature of the human supposit in statu viae and the anima
separata. What survives death is the composition of esse, rational
soul, intellectual powers, habitus, and operations. Our
contention is that the anima separata qua incomplete rational
supposit is what results from the death of the human person;
prior to death there is only the human person and so no
incomplete rational supposit that could survive death. The anima
separata is not a newly generated entity; it is a reduced entity.
Two points are sufficient for showing why the anima
separata—the unified composite entity that results from death—
is a supposit. First, and as we have seen, the individual entity that

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subsists per se and is the supposit of operations must be an
actualized whole, an integrated individual unity. The rational
being that is actualized and unified as a subsistent entity through
esse is the rational supposit or person. When the rational soul is
united to the body, the actualized unity and whole is the complete
human person because the very esse of the rational soul is the esse
of the body, and so of the composite individual as well. And
Aquinas contends, as we have seen, that the rational soul
continues to be actualized by the same esse once it is separated
from the body after death. But only in this separated state does
the rational soul, the incomplete hoc aliquid, become the part of
the reduced entity which results from death, namely, the anima
separata, which is an incomplete rational supposit. The rational
soul is not an incomplete supposit in statu viae because its
existential actuality in statu viae is received and distributed
beyond the substantial form of the rational soul to the material
body, which thereby together constitute the whole composite
unity of the human person. While the rational soul as such is an
incomplete hoc aliquid it is never a supposit, either in statu viae
or after death. After death, however, the anima separata becomes
the only actually existing unified “whole” even though it is a
radically incomplete whole qua rational animal nature insofar as
it fails to communicate its existential and formal actuality as
substantial form to a material body. It is this epicenter of
actualized existence and unity that is required for there to be an
individual whole agent that can be the supposit of operations;
this actualized unified whole requires more than the rational soul
taken on its own, but is found in the composite entity we have
called the anima separata.77
The second point follows on the first. Aquinas maintains that
after death there is something performing rational operations,
and whatever it is, it is not the esse alone, it is not the rational
soul alone, and it is not any of the intellectual powers on their
own, for none of these exists apart from some actually existent
77
De Spir. Creat., a. 1 (Leon. ed., 13.376-14.400); Q. D. De Anima, a. 14; STh I,
q. 75, a. 6.

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unified whole or integrated composite entity. It is some separated
incomplete composite entity alone which can be the actually
existent entity that performs the intellectual operations Aquinas
ascribes to the anima separata. But in order to perform
operations, especially intellectual operations, a thing must be a
supposit, for operations belong to a supposit. Aquinas unequivocally endorses each of these claims.78 What he does not say—
in part because he never asks about it—is what is clearly entailed
by his theses taken together: that the anima separata must be a
supposit of rational operations, otherwise there would be no
unified composite entity that performed these operations; these
operations would belong to no thing or no one. Aquinas clearly
maintains that there are rational operations performed by the
anima separata in virtue of the rationality of its incomplete nature
and he gives us no reason to think the rational operations of the
anima separata are an exception to his thesis that actiones sunt
suppositorum. Consequently, we must conclude that the anima
separata is a supposit, and because it performs rational operations
it is a rational supposit of an incomplete rational nature. The
anima separata therefore meets both the subsistence criterion and
the rationality-of-the-supposit criterion.
By demonstrating that the anima separata is a rational
supposit that performs rational operations in virtue of the
rationality of its incomplete nature, we are one step closer to
establishing that the anima separata is an incomplete person. But
even the conclusion that the aforementioned independent
commitments of Aquinas entail that the anima separata is a

78
STh III, q. 19, a. 1, ad 4: “esse et operari est personae a natura, aliter tamen et aliter.
Nam esse pertinet ad ipsam constitutionem personae: et sic quantum ad hoc se habet in
ratione termini. Et ideo unitas personae requirit unitatem ipsius esse completi et
personalis. Sed operatio est quidam effectus personae secundum aliquam formam vel
naturam. Unde pluralitas operationum non praeiudicat unitati personali” (“To exist and
to operate belong to a person by nature, but in different ways. For to exist pertains to the
very constitution of a person, and in this respect it has the character of a terminus. And
therefore the unity of a person requires the unity of a complete and personal existence.
But operation is a certain effect of a person according to some form or nature. Hence a
plurality of operations is not incompossible with personal unity”).

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rational supposit advances the debate between the survivalists
and corruptionists about the proper identity of the anima
separata by providing a more adequate metaphysical characterization of the complex entity hidden from view by the often
unrecognized metonymic use of anima separata.
So far we have demonstrated that the anima separata is a
rational supposit of an incomplete rational nature. In the
remainder of this article we shall advance beyond this conclusion
to argue that this incomplete rational supposit is not just an
incomplete something but is an incomplete someone who is an
incomplete person. To establish this conclusion, we must address
the most important objection which Aquinas himself provides to
defend his own conclusion that the anima separata is not a person
simpliciter, namely, that a core feature of personhood is its
exemplary perfection or completeness—a feature that is clearly
lacking in the incomplete hoc aliquid that constitutes the anima
separata.
C) A Separated Soul Is Incompletely Complete
Aquinas explicitly denies personhood to the incomplete hoc
aliquid that is the anima separata because it fails to be perfect or
complete; this seems to entail that the notion of an “incomplete
person” is an oxymoron—a contradiction in terms. In this
section, we deal with this most serious objection to our view.
The first issue we must address is the incompleteness of
Aquinas’s enquiry into the relevant modes of completeness that
characterize the anima separata, for in the absence of a
sufficiently detailed account of the ways in which the anima
separata is or is not complete, one cannot adequately judge
whether it falls short of the completeness criterion of personhood. Our investigation of the rational operations, per se
subsistence, formal principle, supposit, and the incomplete
rational nature or species of the anima separata has identified five
orders (or modes) of completeness (or perfection) that are
relevant to the question of personhood and enrich the details of
the completeness criterion for personhood. First, Aquinas infers

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that the anima separata is complete in some sense on the basis of
its perfect intellectual operations; so the anima separata has
operational completeness. Second, the anima separata has
subsisting or existential completeness, because it is a per se
subsistent individual, which provides Aquinas’s rationale for
holding that it is an incomplete hoc aliquid. Third, even though
it is an incomplete hoc aliquid, the anima separata has formal
completeness. The substantial form that informs the body
remains itself, that is, a formal principle of human nature, once
separate from the body.79 Fourth, the anima separata has the
integrity, wholeness, and unity of a supposit that operates
rationally; so the anima separata has the completeness of a
supposit. Finally, the anima separata lacks specific completeness.
A human being that is complete according to its species includes
a body, but the anima separata does not animate a body. So, the
anima separata is specifically incomplete; however, it is complete
operationally, formally, existentially, and as a supposit.
Aquinas denies personhood to the anima separata on the
grounds that it lacks completeness of species. But what his
argument overlooks is that the anima separata satisfies four of
the five modes of completeness most relevant to personhood.
Furthermore, we will show that a more comprehensive examination of these modes of completeness relevant to the personhood
of the anima separata reveals that Aquinas’s arguments against
the personhood of the anima separata are inadequate and
therefore inconclusive. We begin with the operational perfection
of the anima separata and then address the other modes of
completeness; this more comprehensive enquiry, we argue,
provides sufficient justification for concluding with Aquinas that
the anima separata is not a person simpliciter, but we go beyond
Aquinas’s texts in concluding it is an incomplete person.
Independent of the problem of personhood, the incompleteness of the anima separata raises other questions for Aquinas. In
question 4, article 5 of the Prima secundae Aquinas asks whether

79

See Spencer, “Personhood of the Separated Soul,” 905.

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the body is necessary for happiness; the following are two
objections he raises:
[Objection 1] It seems that the body is required for beatitude. For the perfection
of virtue and grace presuppose the perfection of nature. But beatitude is the
perfection of virtue and grace. However, the soul without the body does not
have the perfection of nature, since it is naturally a part of human nature, and
every part separated from its whole is imperfect. Therefore, the soul without
the body cannot be beatified [beata].
[Objection 2] Beatitude is a certain perfect operation, as stated above, but a
perfect operation follows on perfect existence, because nothing operates except
according as it is a being in actuality [ens in actu]. Therefore, since the soul does
not have perfect existence when it is separated from the body—just as no part
[is complete] when it is separated from its whole—it seems that a soul without
a body cannot be beatified.80

On Aquinas’s account of beatitude or happiness, God seen in the
intellectual vision is alone sufficient for happiness.81 The incompleteness of the anima separata therefore presents a difficulty:
How can part of the human person have perfect human
happiness? In reply to the first objection, Aquinas explains that
the anima separata has the perfection by which happiness is
attained, which is through a perfect intellectual operation that
does not require the body. But, he notes, the anima separata lacks
the perfection of being the form of a body. To the second
objection he responds:
[Ad 2] The way the soul is related to its existence is different from the way other
parts [are related to existence] [anima aliter se habet ad esse quam aliae partes].
For the existence of the whole [esse totius] is not that of any of its parts, hence
either the parts entirely cease to exist when the whole is destroyed, just as the
parts of an animal [cease to exist] when the animal is destroyed; or, if [the parts]
remain, they have a different actual existence [habent aliud esse in actu], just as
a part of a line has a different existence from that of the whole line. But the
existence of the composite remains with the human soul after the destruction

80

STh I-II, q. 4, a. 5, obj. 1 and obj. 2.
STh I-II, q. 3, a. 8. In question four, Aquinas examines a number of things that seem
necessary for happiness; he concludes that the intellectual vision of God alone is required
for the essence of perfect happiness.
81

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

of the body, and this is because the existence of the form is the same [as the
existence of] the matter, and this is the existence of the composite [quia idem
est esse formae et materia, et hoc est esse composite]. But the soul subsists in its
own existence, as was shown in the First Part [STh I, q. 75, a. 2]. Hence it
follows that after its separation from the body [the soul] has perfect existence
and so it can have a perfect operation, although it does not have the perfect
nature of the species [licet non habeat perfectam naturam specie].82

The anima separata, then, has perfect existence and can have
perfect operations despite failing to have the perfect nature of its
species. What justifies Aquinas’s claim that an entity can have
some but not other modes of completeness? Why is Aquinas’s
reply not an ad hoc solution inconsistent with his hylomorphic
anthropology? Answering such questions will elucidate for us the
other kinds of completeness that the anima separata satisfies.83
Earlier we briefly encountered Aquinas’s introduction of the
metaphysics of participation into his account of the unity of the
human person. In his most detailed division of the modes of
participation in his commentary on Boethius’s De hebdomadibus,
Aquinas claims that matter participates in form according to the
second mode of participation, whose unifying feature is the
participation of potency in act.84 Aquinas explains in the Summa
contra gentiles (II, c. 53): “whatever participates in something is
compared to the thing participated in as potency to act, for
through that which is participated the participator is actualized
in such a way.” This metaphysics of participation is applied to the
soul and body in the Quaestiones disputatae De anima. After
82

STh I-II, q. 4, a. 5, ad 2.
In this article we make good on a promissory note I (Dahm) made in “Distinguishing
Desire and Parts of Happiness: A Response to Germain Grisez,” American Catholic
Philosophical Quarterly 89 (2015): 97-114 (see 111-12), in which I dealt with two of
Germain Grisez’s objections to Aquinas’s view that God alone is the ultimate end. In that
article I argued that the beatified, separated soul attains the essence of perfect happiness.
I was unable adequately to reply to a follow-up objection concerning the incongruity of a
part, incomplete being, or nonperson attaining perfect human happiness. This article fills
out the sketch of a reply offered there.
84
For an account of the relation between Aquinas’s Neoplatonist participation
metaphysics and Aristotelian act–potency metaphysics, see Daniel De Haan, “Aquinas on
actus essendi and the Second Mode of Participation,” The Thomist 82 (2018): 573-609.
83

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developing his account of soul as both hoc aliquid and form in
his responsio to the first article, which we explicated above,
Aquinas replies to two objections concerning the rational soul,
body, and their shared esse. The details of the objections are not
important for our purposes, but the replies are:
[Ad 17] Although existence is the most formal of all [principles], it is also the
most sharable, even though it is not shared in by inferior and superior [beings]
in the same way. And therefore the body participates in the soul’s existence but
not as perfectly as the soul [participates in existence] [Sic ergo et corpus esse
anime participat, set non ita nobiliter sicut anima].85
[Ad 18] Although the soul’s existence is also in a certain way the body’s
[existence], nevertheless the body cannot achieve participation in the soul’s
existence according to its total nobility and power. And therefore there is some
operation of the soul in which the body does not share.86

What we noted before, Aquinas makes explicit here: The body
and the soul share the same esse, but the body has being by
participating in an esse that is more perfectly participated in by
the rational soul. Thus the very actus essendi of the human
composite or whole is still participated in by the anima separata
after death, even though the anima separata is specifically
incomplete. Accordingly, the anima separata has existential and
formal completeness because the very same esse and rational soul
which perfect the human person also perfect the anima separata.
Aquinas contends that these two modes of completeness are
sufficient for the anima separata to have perfect intellectual
operations, and thus also operational completeness. Based on our
argument from the last section, we can now see that because the
anima separata has operational completeness—as an agent that
can perform the perfect intellectual operation required for the
beatific vision—the anima separata must therefore also have the
perfection or completeness of a rational supposit.

85

Q. D. De Anima, a. 1, ad 17 (Leon. ed., 12.467-72).
Q. D. De Anima, a. 1, ad 18 (Leon. ed., 12.473-78). See De Spir. Creat., a. 9, ad 3
and ad 4.
86

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

Let us return to Aquinas’s argument that the separated soul is
not a person, now with a clearer conception of the distinct but
interconnected orders of completeness relevant to the personhood of the anima separata. Again, his argument from the
Summa theologiae is as follows:
[Ad 5] The soul is a part of the human species, and therefore, although it can
be separated, still because it retains the nature of unibility, it cannot be called
an individual substance which is a hypostasis or primary substance; just as
neither can hands nor any other parts of a human. And so neither the definition
nor the name of person befits it.87

The soul is a part of the human species even when it exists on its
own, because it retains the unibility of a substantial form. The
reason Aquinas suggests for why this bars it from being an
individual substance or hypostasis is the same reason that other
parts of substances, like hands or feet, cannot be hypostases, and
so cannot be persons. But Aquinas’s analogy here between the
separated soul and other subsistent parts is a distraction from his
cogent argument for why the anima separata is not a person.
The analogy is a distraction because it misleadingly suggests
that the separated soul is like other substantial parts in ways that
are relevant to personhood; Aquinas in fact gives us plenty of
reasons to distinguish the separated soul from other parts of
substances in light of the criteria for personhood. Hands, feet,
and other parts of the human substance clearly lack the
existential, formal, and operational completeness common to
human persons and animae separatae. They lack existential
completeness because the soul’s relation to existence is not the
same as that of the other parts.88 This is why these other parts of
the substance corrupt and cease to exist when they are separated
from the whole; they do not retain the same esse as the soul does.
But they also fail to preserve, for at least three reasons, the formal
perfection of the rational soul which is common to the human
substance and the anima separata. First, as Aquinas often repeats,
87
88

STh I, q. 29, a. 1, ad 5.
STh I-II, q. 4, a. 5, ad 2.

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separated hands and feet are only so-called hands and feet
equivocally,89 whereas this is not true of the rational soul
common to the human person and the anima separata, which is
the very same formal principle. Second, the anima separata does
not lose its individuality as these other separated parts do. Crucial
to personhood is a kind of individuality that precludes assumptibility (assumptibilis).90 This individuality remains with the anima
separata without a material principle of individuation because the
act of existing (esse) and individuation (individuatio) of a thing
are always found together.91 Since the anima separata has the act
of existing of the whole being and this act of existing does not
cease when it is separated from the body, neither does the soul’s
individuation cease when the body corrupts. The anima separata
retains the individuation of the human person, something that
cannot be said of other parts. Third, the unibility of the anima
separata itself is unlike the unibility of other parts, since the
lacking part is united by participating in the esse the soul already
has. The soul is a part and not the whole of a human being, but
it is also the part that communicates the esse of the whole. Thus
the soul is a very special kind of part and any comparison drawn
between the soul and another part of the human being needs to
be qualified in a way not found in Aquinas’s elliptical argument
in the Summa theologiae.
This does not mean the survivalists are right. The cogency of
Aquinas’s arguments that the anima separata is not a person does
not rest on his comparisons between the rational soul and other
subsistent parts like hands and feet, but rather on the crucial
claim that no subsistent parts of a substance, whether rational
soul or hands and feet, have the complete nature of that
substance, and persons have a complete nature. What Aquinas’s
objection to the personhood of the anima separata fails to address
is what the other modes of completeness preserve despite the

89

ScG IV, c. 37.
STh I, q. 29, a. 1, ad 2.
91
Q. D. De Anima, a. 1, ad 2 (Leon. ed., 10.350-59); De Spir. Creat., a. 9, ad 4 (Leon.
ed., 96.353-64).
90

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incompleteness of the nature or species of the anima separata.
Because the anima separata maintains existential and rational
formal completeness it can still have operational completeness,
which is why Aquinas can ascribe to the anima separata the
perfect intellectual operations he does, and why he cannot and
does not ascribe the same operations to separated hands and feet.
And, as we have demonstrated already, because Aquinas ascribes
rational operations to the anima separata, we must conclude that
it is the rational supposit that performs these rational or
intellectual operations. In other words, the anima separata is
rational or intellectual in every respect that counts for designating
any being as having a rational nature except for its being
incomplete with respect to its species.
What this investigation reveals is that the anima separata is a
rational supposit which meets four out of the five modes of
completeness required for personhood. It is for these reasons that
we conclude that Aquinas’s arguments against the personhood of
the anima separata can only show that the anima separata is not
a person simpliciter. Furthermore, because the anima separata
does satisfy the subsistence criterion, the rationality-of-thesupposit criterion, and four out of the five modes required to
meet the completeness criterion, we conclude there are substantive reasons for introducing a principled distinction between
“complete persons” and “incomplete persons” to provide an
adequate characterization of the metaphysical character of the
anima separata—just as Aquinas introduced a principled
distinction between a complete hoc aliquid and an incomplete hoc
aliquid to provide an adequate characterization of the
metaphysical character of the rational soul. Failing to meet one
of the modes of completeness excludes an entity from category
inclusion in the paradigm, but satisfying all but one of the five
modes of the completeness criterion is sufficient for inclusion in
a qualified incomplete version of the paradigm. Because the
anima separata clearly satisfies the latter conditions, we therefore
conclude that the anima separata is an “incomplete person.”

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III. THE ANIMA SEPARATA IS AN INCOMPLETE PERSON:
OBJECTIONS AND RESPONSES
Corruptionists and survivalists alike might reasonably worry
that all of this has been a distraction from the real objection.
Granting that the anima separata is an incomplete rational hoc
aliquid and even granting that it has a kind of perfect being as a
rational supposit of perfect intellectual operations, it still does
not follow that “incomplete person” is a coherent idea. Aquinas
clearly holds that persons are complete simpliciter, and even if
something is a very special part or unique incomplete composite
entity, it cannot be a person. One version of this worry claims
that the notion of an incomplete person is unnatural.
In response we point out that, for Aquinas, death is rather
unnatural and to survive death is extraordinarily unnatural.92
92
Aquinas also identifies various ways in which death is natural and the survival of the
rational soul after death is natural. On the myriad philosophical and theological ways in
which death is natural and unnatural for humans, see De Malo, q. 5, aa. 4-5; ScG II,
cc. 79-81; III, c. 48; IV, cc. 79-82; Comp. Theol. I, c. 84; cc. 151-52; Q. D. De Anima,
aa. 1, 14; STh I, q. 75, a. 6; q. 97, aa. 1 and 4; I-II, q. 85, aa. 5-6; q. 94, a. 5, ad 2; III,
q. 50, aa. 3-5). Death is natural for humans insofar as matter tends to the dissolution and
corruption of the human composite of soul and body. Death is unnatural insofar as all
individual beings by nature seek to preserve their existence (STh I-II, q. 85, a. 6). Death
is especially unnatural for humans insofar as our substantial form, the rational soul, is
incorruptible (Q. D. De Anima, a. 14, obj. 2 and ad 2). It is natural for the rational soul
qua incorruptible hoc aliquid to persist after death, yet it is unnatural for the rational soul
qua substantial form to persist forever after death without animating a body (ScG IV,
cc. 79-82). The details of Aquinas’s account of human death go beyond the aims of this
article; nevertheless, it will be instructive to note briefly what implications our account of
incomplete persons has for understanding human death. Strictly speaking it is the
composite and not its substantial principles of form and matter that corrupt. Since death
is a form of substantial corruption, whatever corrupts is what dies and whatever persists
beyond death via the same existential and rational animating principles (Q. D. De Anima,
a. 14, ad 9-ad 11) is what survives: “vivere enim viventibus est esse” (Q. D. De Anima,
a. 1, ad 8; a. 14, ad 8). What is peculiar to human death is the persistence after death of
the unified and incorruptible living entity composed of the human’s esse, rational soul,
intellectual powers, habitus, and operations, that is, the constituents of the anima
separata. Because the human person corrupts when the human dies, the complete human
person does not survive death. What constitutes the anima separata does survive death;
however, the anima separata qua incomplete person does not survive death for it is the

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What the survivalists propose is a view, like substance dualism,
that makes death too natural because persons live on as persons
without their body. The notion of an incomplete person does not
misrepresent death but draws attention to its unnaturalness by
articulating a precise metaphysics of this unnatural incomplete
being. In short, the idea of an incomplete person, like a soul
surviving death without a body, is indeed unnatural. And it is
fitting for it to be unnatural, for our understanding of animae
separatae should respect the dead by neither exaggerating their
personal continuity with their complete lives as human persons,
as survivalists do, nor completely depersonalizing them, as
corruptionists do.
Another way to articulate this difficulty is to object that the
idea of an incomplete person introduces an ad hoc expansion of
Aquinas’s category of person. Our response to this “categoryexpansion objection” is twofold.
First, our categorization of the anima separata does go beyond
Aquinas’s texts and explicit categories; Aquinas denies personhood of the anima separata and the texts seem to leave no space
for the category of an incomplete person. On this score, we
concede that the exegetical case for corruptionism is indestructible; no textual case can be made to save the survivalist’s
view. Second, we have nevertheless demonstrated that in order
to address the rational soul and its survival after death Aquinas
himself introduced important expansions to his own metaphysical category of the hoc aliquid to include a distinction
between a complete hoc aliquid and an incomplete hoc aliquid.
The enquiries that led Aquinas to make such distinctions and
expand the category of the hoc aliquid in order to accommodate
the peculiar reality that is the rational soul suggest both that
categories, for Aquinas, do not dictate the nature of reality but
that categories must be revised in order adequately to capture the
contours of reality, and that for Thomists a similar enquiry into
result of the death and corruption of the human person. In short, the death of the human
person results in the survival of the constituents of the anima separata which subsists as
an incomplete person.

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the personhood of the anima separata might require a similar
expansion of categories, for two similar reasons.
The first is Aquinas’s own metaphysics of the person, which
depends upon his metaphysics of the hoc aliquid. The very
reasons Aquinas provides for expanding the category of the hoc
aliquid to permit the categorization of the rational soul by what
we termed an incomplete hoc aliquid apply no less to the category
of person. Moreover, it is not clear how one could in a principled
way both endorse Aquinas’s account of an incomplete hoc aliquid
and yet reject our notion of an incomplete person. If an
incomplete person is an ad hoc expansion of the category
“person,” then there is no principled way to defend Aquinas’s
account of an incomplete hoc aliquid from a similar charge of
being an ad hoc expansion of the category hoc aliquid. Both hoc
aliquid and “person” are paradigmatic cases of metaphysical
wholes of a complete nature, and since Aquinas uniquely permits
there to be an incomplete hoc aliquid in the case of the rational
soul we think this metaphysical commitment, and others treated
in this essay, require his metaphysics to make similar room for an
incomplete person in the case of the anima separata.
Consequently, the survivalist or corruptionist who wishes to
uphold the category-expansion objection against the idea of an
incomplete person either needs to reject Aquinas’s idea of an
incomplete hoc aliquid—without which Aquinas’s doctrine of an
anima separata cannot survive—or needs to articulate a
principled reason why there can be an incomplete hoc aliquid but
not an incomplete person.
The second reason that our enquiry into the anima separata
requires an expansion of the category of “person” is the personal
operations ascribed to the anima separata by Aquinas, which
must therefore be a rational supposit of personal operations. To
make the philosophical case for the personhood of any entity,
Aquinas’s Aristotelian heuristic demands we start our enquiry
with the objects and operations that are more known to us and
on this basis we can determine the powers and nature of the
supposit that ground and enable the exercise of these operations
with respect to their objects. To establish theoretically whether a

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

particular supposit is of the rational nature required for being a
person, we begin with the objects and operations that are rational
operations directed towards rational or intelligible objects. We
do not begin with the theoretical conclusion that something is a
person or of a rational or personal nature and then infer that such
an entity must have personal operations. Because the rationality
of a nature is a condition for the personhood of a supposit, and
since we only arrive at the rationality of a nature through the
rationality of its powers, operations, and objects, we must be able
first to identify the personal operations and their objects, and
these must be at least rational operations. Consequently, if we
can identify rational operations of a supposit, then we have
sufficient grounds for identifying personal operations which lead
to a theoretical justification for the ascription of personhood to
that supposit. Accordingly, our identification of the rational or
personal operations of a being supports the theoretical conclusion that the supposit performing those operations is a rational
supposit and so also a person. Aquinas’s ascription of rational
operations, which are thereby personal operations, to the anima
separata entails that there is some supposit that performs these
personal operations, and it too must in some sense be a rational
supposit, that is, a person. But, due to its incomplete nature, that
is, due not to any rational or intellectual incompetency but to its
not being the form of an organic body, it cannot be a complete
person. It is therefore no more, but also no less, than an
incomplete person.
Preserving the personhood of the separated soul in this
incomplete way avoids many of the problems that face
corruptionism, which often take the form of unfitting
consequences concerning the anima separata. The following list,
though long, is not meant to be exhaustive, but it does point out
the caliber of the bullet the corruptionist must bite.

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635

1. If corruptionism is true, then nonpersons can be friends.93
2. If corruptionism is true, then persons ask nonpersons to pray.94
3. If corruptionism is true, then nonpersons pray.95
4. If corruptionism is true, then a nonperson is judged for the acts of a person,
is punished or rewarded based on the acts of a person, and receives ultimate
punishment or ultimate reward.96
5. If corruptionism is true, then a nonperson has perfect human happiness.97
6. If corruptionism is true, then nonpersons are apostles, prophets, judges, and
holy confessors.98
7. If corruptionism is true, then a nonperson performs the kinds of acts it seems
that only persons can do, e.g., intellectual acts, free acts, acts of knowledge of
their nature.99

93
The saints in heaven have charity (STh I-II, q. 67, a. 6), which is friendship with
God (STh II-II, q. 23, a.1). One might think it is only slightly less problematic that the
saints retain other virtues (while others retain vices).
94
STh II-II, q. 83, a. 4.
95
STh II-II, q. 83, a. 11.
96
ScG IV, c. 91. Stump makes this argument against corruptionism in “Resurrection,
Reassembly, and Reconstitution,” 159. Toner replies by arguing, persuasively, that
Aquinas accepted these consequences: Patrick Toner, “St. Thomas Aquinas on Punishing
Souls,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 71 (2012): 103-16. Even if Toner
is exegetically correct, our view provides a more reasonable account in which nonpersons
are not ultimately punished or rewarded in a human way.
97
Stump amplifies this objection, “So something that God loves in union with him,
the separated soul of Dominic, God ceases to hold in loving union with himself in heaven
when Dominic is resurrected. For no fault on the part of the separated soul of Dominic,
the bliss the separated soul had in loving union with God terminates, never to be resumed.
Does the separated soul know and fear this loss of union with God? Or is the separated
soul in the beatific vision of heaven in a state of ignorance about its future loss of
beatitude?” (“Resurrection, Reassembly, and Reconstitution,” 160). For a treatment of
Aquinas’s account of the happiness of the separated soul, see Brandon Dahm,
“Distinguishing Desire and Parts of Happiness.”
98
For example, from Aquinas’s sermon, Beata gens, in The Academic Sermons, trans.
Mark-Robin Hoogland, C.P. (Washington D.C.: The Catholic University of America
Press, 2010): “It is true that all the saints reign with God, but the apostles reign in a special
way” (310); “Likewise, we find in heaven most righteous judges, namely, the prophets
who preached justice; these were the ones hungering for justice, and therefore they are
satisfied now” (311); “Likewise, we find some who live in solace, like the holy confessors
who mourned while they were in the world and did great penance. You have seen
Anthony [of Egypt] and Benedict, who lived in tears and great, austere penance, and who
now experience joy and consolation” (ibid.).
99
See supra II.B on the separated soul as a rational supposit.

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DANIEL D. DE HAAN and BRANDON DAHM

8. If corruptionism is true, then a nonperson either (i) performs all of these acts
without any “I” reference or (ii) has false “I” references in its acts.100
9. If corruptionism is true, then referencing a nonperson by the name of the
person it was a part of is acceptable.101

By expanding Aquinas’s category of person, as he did with hoc
aliquid, we avoid all of these difficulties.
CONCLUSION
In this essay we have argued the anima separata satisfies
Aquinas’s three criteria for personhood in a principled but
incomplete way. We have contended this provides sufficient
grounds for concluding that the anima separata is an incomplete
person. Unlike survivalism, we can accept Aquinas’s denial of
personhood to the anima separata, so long as it is piously
reinterpreted as a rejection of personhood simpliciter. Unlike
corruptionism, we can provide a more precise metaphysical
account of what and who the anima separata is and avoid the
many problematic consequences entailed by the austere accounts
of the anima separata defended by most corruptionists. We

100
If there are self-referencing thoughts, e.g., “I’m praying for Dominic,” or “My
prayers are efficacious,” these would be false, since there is no “I” according to
corruptionism. One way of dealing with this difficulty with respect to memory is to appeal
to “quasi-memories,” which are, “memory–like experiences that don’t entail that the
possessor is recalling his own experiences” (Hershenov and Koch–Hershenov, “Personal
Identity and Purgatory,” 441). This argumentative move is found in the personal-identity
literature; however, it fails if episodic memories—or other self-referential thoughts—
essentially include self-recognition (e.g., “I prayed” over “someone prayed”) excluded by
these quasi-memories. One’s stance on what is essential to self-referential thoughts will
affect one’s appraisal of this objection. We contend that having false self-referential
thoughts is unsuitable for someone experiencing the beatific vision. For another view, see
Butera, “Incomplete Persons,” 73.
101
Aquinas clearly thought synecdoche explained how a nonperson could be called by
a person’s name, e.g., III Sent., d. 22, q. 1, a. 1, ad 6; IV Sent., d. 43, q. 1, a. 1, qcla. 1,
ad 2. Corruptionists follow Aquinas; see Nevitt, “Aquinas on the Death of Christ,” 97.
We include this point not because the corruptionist answer utterly fails, but because it
remains a difficulty for corruptionism. It is a loss in a relationship to discover that St.
Peter, whom you have been asking for intercession and loving, is not a person.

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637

conclude that the strongest arguments against the personhood of
the anima separata only show that it is not a person simpliciter,
but fail to exclude that it is an incomplete person. Our conclusion
will not be the final word in this debate, but we do hope our essay
contributes an advance over the limitations—exegetical and
conceptual—of the debate so far and provides a cogent defense
of a distinctive position that so far has only been addressed
incompletely.102

102

We gratefully acknowledge the detailed feedback and objections we received on
various iterations of this essay from Brian Carl, Turner Nevitt, Jacob Wood, Mark
Spencer, Jason Eberl, Fr Dominic Langevin, O.P., and the anonymous readers for The
Thomist.

BOOK REVIEWS
The Achievement of Hans Urs von Balthasar: An Introduction to His Trilogy.
By MATTHEW LEVERING. Foreword by CYRIL O’REGAN. Washington,
D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2019. Pp. xxii + 253.
$29.95 (paper). ISBN 978-0-8132-3175-4.
As the title indicates, Levering’s book is a contribution to the still-growing
literature on Hans Urs von Balthasar—an innovative contribution, as we will
see. What the title does not suggest to readers is the equally important
contribution Levering’s book makes to a larger argument over how different
sorts of Catholic theologians can help (including by disputation) each other in
the twenty-first century—specifically, theologians sympathetic to Thomas
Aquinas (like Levering) and those more sympathetic to a kind of post-Thomist
ressourcement (like Balthasar). I am deeply sympathetic to each of Levering’s
aims—providing a charitable reading of Balthasar and doing so in service of a
theological project that holds together ressourcement theology and Aquinas.
However, by this review’s end, I will suggest that Levering’s book also
embodies a tension between these two important contributions—a tension that
is as helpful as Levering’s innovative reading of Balthasar’s achievement in the
book’s title.
Before making this case, it should be said that this is an eminently readable
book. As Cyril O’Regan’s helpful Foreword puts it, “Levering draws attention
away from how much he actually knows and generously invites the far less
learned reader to be a co-traveler on a voyage of discovery” (xvii). Scholars
should value the book for the bibliographies alone. But this book will be
readable by undergraduate majors and graduate students—and, perhaps even
more importantly nowadays, the book is readable by Levering’s peers in
theological fields other than systematics who are trying to figure out what in
God’s name systematic theologians nowadays are arguing about. It is a
remarkable rhetorical accomplishment—and, as O’Regan also puts it, “a far
more Thomistic than Balthasarian pedagogy” (xvii).
Levering bookends his treatment of Balthasar with an introduction and
epilogue that describe his aims. On the side of introducing Balthasar,
Levering’s focus is on “setting forth in painstaking detail the concrete
arguments that von Balthasar makes” (8) in the three introductory volumes of
each series within Balthasar’s trilogy—the aesthetics, dramatic, and logic.
Levering knows that a full-scale introduction (like those offered by Aidan
639

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Nichols and Edward Oakes [13-14]) would involve much more than the
volumes of the trilogy he covers here. But—and here is a transition to the
second achievement of this book—this introduction (unlike others) is “for the
theologically educated readers who mistrust von Balthasar [like some
Thomists] or who mistrust Balthasar’s critics [like some Balthasarians]” (15).
This is “an” (not “the”) introduction. And it is as much an introduction to
“Catholic theology today” as it is to von Balthasar’s theology.
How then to introduce Balthasar’s achievement in light of this end?
Levering’s strategy is ingenious. Focus on the first volume of each multivolumed part of Balthasar’s trilogy—the aesthetics, the theodrama, and the
theologic—rather than the subsequent volumes within each part which raise
their own critical issues (15). Then read each of these volumes as a response to
one major modern thinker: Kant (for the aesthetic), Hegel (for the
theodrama), and Nietzsche (for the theologic). Then show that each first
volume of Balthasar’s trilogy can be read as what Levering calls a Kantian
critique of Kant, a Hegelian critique of Hegel, and a Nietzschean critique of
Nietzsche (17)—I would say, a critical absorption of Kant, Hegel, or Nietzsche
into Balthasar’s Trinitarian and Christological theology. Thus, each of
Levering’s three parts (embracing the three parts of Balthasar’s trilogy) is
similarly structured: an introduction to the key thesis; an overview of relevant
texts by Kant or Hegel or Nietzsche; a survey of the first volumes of each of
the three parts of Balthasar’s trilogy showing how each part builds on some
agreements along with the multiple disagreements with Kant, Hegel, and
Nietzsche.
Here I can only give some tastes of this movement. The first volume of
Balthasar’s theological aesthetic The Glory of the Lord appropriates Kant’s
“transcendental apperception” (which Levering unpacks using Kant’s first and
especially third critiques) but “whereas for Kant the unchanging ground that
unifies all phenomenon in our concepts is our consciousness, for von Balthasar
it is the divine Persons’ self-surrender in love as manifested in the objective
form of Christ” (69). The first volume of von Balthasar’s Theo-Drama
appropriates elements of Hegel’s drama of Spirit in his philosophy of religion,
the sublation of epic and lyric in the drama of Hegel’s aesthetics, and the role
of the German people as bearers of “the Christian principle” in Hegel’s
philosophy of history. But Balthasar also criticizes Hegel at each stage,
particularly because “Hegel has no notion of the living Lord, Jesus Christ,
who personally and freely ‘can give the Christian a genuine mission by
enabling him to share charismatically in his saving act’” (115). Finally, the first
volume of the Theo-Logic takes the reader through six of Nietzsche’s key
works before arguing that Nietzsche’s will-to-power must be replaced by the
will to love, a Trinitarian and Christological self-surrender rather than an
empty will to power.
This, as Levering knows, is not the way all the first volumes of Balthasar’s
trilogy are explicitly structured. Hegel is clearly central to the Theo-Drama.

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641

But more of a case has to be made for Kant and Nietzsche—and (O’Regan’s
Foreword is again helpful on this) Levering makes this case, showing how
even Kant’s self-constituting subject and Nietzsche’s erotically dying subject
can be saved by Christ. But Levering is not aiming to “introduce” by simply
repeating what Balthasar says—and he is not writing treatises on Kant, Hegel,
or Nietzsche. His aim is to show how Balthasar can criticize Kant, Hegel, and
Nietzsche on some of their own terms: a Kantian critique of Kant, a Hegelian
critique of Hegel, and a Nietzschean critique of Nietzsche.
This is precisely what Levering hopes Balthasarians and Thomists can do to
each other. He wisely does not aim at agreement between the two—the book
is thus for “both [Balthasar’s] admirers and critics (while remaining admirers
or critics)” (20). Admittedly too, Levering does periodically criticize
Balthasar’s Kantian critique of Kant, Hegelian critique of Hegel, and
Nietzschean critique of Nietzsche. For example, Levering wonders whether
Balthasar imports too much of Hegel’s dialectic into the being of God (21213). And he finds Balthasar’s Nietzschean critique of Nietzsche basically
correct, without granting all of Balthasar’s particular judgments about the
relationship between love and truth (201, 213). But, by the book’s end, it is
hard to know whether to call these and other criticisms “Balthasarian critiques
of Balthasar” or “Thomist critiques of Balthasar”—and it really makes little
difference for the main argument Levering is making.
Where does this leave us with regard to Levering’s second aim? The
epilogue’s climax is a revisiting of “the internecine struggle” between—in
three stages—pre-Vatican II Scholastic and liberal and ressourcement
theologies, the post-Vatican II eclipse of Scholastic theology combined with
the dominance of liberal over resssourcement theologies, and today’s
arguments between ressourcement and Thomistic theologies (along with their
common antipathies to liberal theologies). Levering hopes that his reading
moves this current argument forward, calling students of Aquinas and
Balthasar into mutually critical because loving communion. Thus, “the basic
projects of neo-scholasticism and ressourcement can be complementary, even
if they remain quite distinct and even if much mutual criticism will fruitfully
take place” (227).
Indeed Levering does model how one Thomist can take Balthasar
seriously—for example, by paying “painstaking” attention not only to
particular texts by Balthasar but also particular texts that Balthasar himself
cites or assumes (Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche). But it is precisely here that there is
an instructive tension between Levering’s ingenious introduction to Balthasar’s
trilogy through Kant and Hegel and Nietzsche, and his welcome effort to
bring Balthasarians and Thomists into loving (including mutually critical)
dialogue. On the one hand, the introduction through Kant and Hegel and
Nietzsche is an introduction to Balthasar’s engagement with an important
piece of the modern world: the great Germanic tradition that constituted
Balthasar’s modern (shall we say largely “liberal”?) world from Kant through

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BOOK REVIEWS

Hegel to Nietzsche. On the other hand, the “internecine struggle” is more
intramural. To state that Thomists and Balthasarians share an antipathy to
liberal theology is correct, but seems to pull the rug from under the point of
the powerful reading of Balthasar’s Kantian critique of Kant, Hegelian critique
of Hegel, and Nietzschean critique of Nietzsche. Would we not need
Scholastic (including Thomist) readings of Kant, Hegel, and Nietzsche to
generate common and uncommon grounds with Balthasar’s readings of these
moderns? Levering could plausibly argue that this is a key challenge he leaves
for Thomists: how can we engage in critical discussion with these competing
modern philosophies—and do it better than von Balthasar? This is a discussion already begun piecemeal, but Levering seems to demand more—
perhaps a more holistic theology of modernity that shows how its brokenness
(Kant and Hegel and Nietzsche, after all, do not agree with each other) can be
saved.
If so, Levering’s strategy opens another door: does not Levering’s reading
of Balthasar’s evangelically modern critique of modernity generate a mutually
critical dialogue with modernist and liberal theologies as well as Thomism and
ressourcement theologies? Admittedly, this would require more description of
why Kant-Hegel-Nietzsche are an exemplary modern triumvirate (as I and
perhaps Levering would be prepared to argue) rather than merely one
German-language triad in a multi-linguistic world. In any case, this would
create an agenda well beyond what a single book could accomplish. But my
point is that I think Levering’s effort to bring the Balthasarian and Thomist
world into mutually loving (including critical) dialogue opens this door as
well.
I think that Levering could grant such questions, while arguing that a brief,
readable book can only do so much. We can be grateful for Levering’s astute
and compendious reading of Balthasar, along with his demonstration of how
Catholic theologies can treat each other as members of the same Body rather
than vying over who sits at Christ’s right hand.
JAMES J. BUCKLEY
Loyola University Maryland
Baltimore, Maryland

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Cajetan’s Biblical Commentaries: Motive and Method. By MICHAEL
O’CONNOR. St. Andrews Studies in Reformation History. Leiden: Brill,
2017. Pp. xvi + 302. $174.00 (hardback). ISBN: 978-90-04-32506-7.
The extended confrontation between late medieval Scholasticism and the
emergent biblical humanism of the late-fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries
is a momentous and riveting affair, a cornerstone of modern intellectual
history with considerable relevance for today. It is also an affair not yet free of
stereotypes and facile oppositions. Beyond any doubt, stultified intransigence
in the Scholastic establishment at times worked to barricade theology against
the healthy ventilation of a superior but threateningly independent learning.
The image of Erasmus, armed with his gargantuan erudition and unanswerable
wit, toying with obstructionist Schoolmen like Martin Dorp (or still more
Edward Lee), represents the widely held picture of the clash. Just as recent
scholarship has begun to contest the common, overly polemicized depiction of
the Enlightenment period—demonstrating the existence of a significant
moderate party, the so-called Catholic Enlightenment (Ulrich Lehner)—so too
important mediating figures may be found in the antecedent age of humanism.
The great Cardinal Cajetan certainly belongs among this number.
Just as the biblical commentaries of Aquinas have only recently begun to
command the attention of scholars, so Cajetan’s reputation has been overly
invested in his philosophical and systematic writings. Few recognize that in
1523, at the age of fifty-five, having already distinguished himself as a
theologian and churchman of the highest rank, the former master of the
Dominican Order began a vast humanistic labor of biblical study, to which he
consecrated the last eleven years of his life, producing nearly 3,000 pages of
translation and commentary, covering nearly the whole Bible (he omitted
Revelation and the Song of Songs, since he despaired of rendering their literal
sense, and he passed over the deuterocanonical books, holding their canonical
status to be problematic, as had Jerome). October 12-14, 2018, marked the
five-hundredth anniversary of Cajetan’s epic meeting with Luther at Augsburg;
and it has often been supposed that Cajetan’s ultimate turn to the Scriptures
was a calculated response to the Lutheran crisis. Although it appears that
Cajetan may have undertaken his commentary project with direct papal
support, the final result was no bulwark against the Protestant threat, and the
work was not well received. More than once, the theologians of Paris
aggressively attacked and denounced the commentaries, which were ultimately
submitted to Rome for investigation. Luther reportedly joked that in the end
Cajetan himself had become a Lutheran.
Michael O’Connor’s recent monograph recounts this whole story with
clarity and concision, and it serves as a very useful introduction to the subject.
Born of an unpublished dissertation completed twenty years ago at Oxford,
the study also contains material included in several earlier articles. It is neatly
organized into eight chapters, divided into three parts. The first part contains

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two chapters providing the necessary historical background. The second part,
also two chapters, explores Cajetan’s motive in writing. The third and longest
part offers four chapters detailing the concrete exegetical method Cajetan
used in his commentaries.
The argumentative heart of the book comes in the third and fourth
chapters. Here, addressing the question of motive, O’Connor advances his real
thesis, hoping to remedy a perception of the commentaries as an explicit
“Counter-Reformation” production. In fact, as he shows, this is far from a
polemical corpus. Admittedly, Cajetan was already an unusually irenic voice in
a polemical age, as Erasmus discovered with admiration. (The humanist
reversed his view of the cardinal as an obstructionist after reading his treatise
De divina institutione pontificatus Romani pontificis. Erasmus said that if
Luther were attacked by six hundred such books, which illuminate the subject
without stirring up riots, the whole world would thirst for learning.) The
cardinal was, nevertheless, quite capable of trenchant critique when occasion
required. The word “Lutherans” appears only four times in the commentaries,
however, and Cajetan’s interests simply seem to be elsewhere (e.g., correcting
the Vulgate and explaining the literal sense). His discussions of Paul’s letters,
for instance, are not preoccupied with setting the record straight on the
question of justification, nor does the commentary on Matthew 16:18-19
mount any major defense of contested papal claims (as the long work read by
Erasmus in 1521 had done). Cajetan’s career as a controversialist, in fact,
appears largely to have concluded with a position paper on the Eucharist,
which he wrote in 1525 at the request of Clement VII. This must not be
understood to suggest that Church reform was not at the center of Cajetan’s
commentary project, however. On the contrary, O’Connor contends that
reform through scriptural learning was already one of Cajetan’s announced
priorities, well before the irruption of controversy with Luther. It was not
inevitable that Cajetan should one day focus entirely on the Scriptures,
O’Connor says. Nevertheless, the Dominican’s whole ecclesiastical career did
serve him as a preparation.
Cajetan’s long-held commitment to Church reform is carefully discussed in
the opening chapters, on the historical setting. His interventions at the Fifth
Lateran Council (1512) are especially significant in this regard, particularly for
the way they distinguished him from other reform-minded, humanist
contemporaries like Giles of Viterbo. Worthy of special note in O’Connor’s
presentation of Cajetan the reformer is the move (in line with recent
scholarship) to dissociate him from the Dominican observant movement,
planting him solidly in the conventual camp. Those familiar with the classic
image presented in Mortier’s Histoire des maîtres généraux will thus be
surprised to find a more moderate and measured Cajetan—but also a more
sympathetic depiction of the conventual perspective, including the possibility
of a firm commitment to reform. Evidently, the coexistence and cooperation

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of these two movements are more nuanced and interesting than is often
imagined.
Another contrast to Mortier’s encomiastic account is O’Connor acceptance
of a somewhat unflattering (though not compromising) characterization of the
precocious Dominican’s extraordinary rise to power. Rather than establishing
himself simply by the sheer force of his dazzling intellect (e.g., the celebrated
debate with Pico, which O’Connor dismantles as something less than the
legend), the fledgling Tommaso de Vio was very much the beneficiary and
favorite of a powerful ecclesiastical patron: Cardinal Oliviero Carafa, cardinal
protector of the Order, who effectively prepared, then strong-armed,
Cajetan’s election as master general. The character that emerges is both
principled and stringent, but far from a radical. Cajetan appears as a man of
great personal merit and almost boundless energy; irenic and given to
scholarship, yet deeply animated by pastoral interests and politically
implicated; enormously endowed, though far from an all-capable solitary
agent; raised to the highest posts of power, but far from a great political
success.
This complex image fits well with the commentaries themselves, which are
remarkable and many-sided, and which, like the man, enjoyed no great
triumph in the end. The four chapters on Cajetan’s actual exegetical method
expose the different facets of this complexity, and O’Connor’s summary nicely
captures the overall effect.
Cajetan’s method was a hybrid: he employed ‘scholastic’ methods of
textual division (e.g., his approach to the structure of the psalms), as
well as ‘humanistic’ methods of textual criticism (e.g., correcting the
Vulgate in the light of Hebrew and Greek sources); he allowed the
dogmas of the Church to determine his reading of problematic verses
(e.g., Rom 5:12 on original sin), while also allowing the clear sense of
the text to challenge long-established customs (e.g., on marriage); he
revered Aquinas as a master and teacher without parallel, and he held
Erasmus in great respect and deferred to his linguistic acumen and
scriptural sensitivity; he drew on the teachings of the Christian fathers
(though perhaps not as conspicuously as his detractors would have
liked) while also sitting at the feet of the rabbis; he was capable of
venturing bold and imaginative interpretations of the ancient text, all
the while submitting his writings to the judgment of the papacy.
Cajetan’s methodological blend (which was not untypical of high
Renaissance Rome) was in service of his guiding pastoral motive: to use
the most adequate tools available in order to open up the Bible, and to
make the inspired word accessible to the learned reader and to
preachers and teachers of the Christian faith. (237)

If Cajetan’s “methodological blend” was indeed the flavor du jour in high
Renaissance Rome, it is perhaps not surprising that it quickly ran through
eighteen printings in the 1530s and 1540s. The shelf life was short, however,

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and soon the commentaries were “applauded neither by heretics nor by
Catholics” (239), to quote Cardinal Pietro Sforza Pallavicino (1607-77). After
having incited a couple of spurts of theological resistance in the mid-sixteenth
century, an inconclusive Roman investigation of Cajetan’s commentaries
eventually fizzled out, and the works were left to be forgotten. The Herculean
effort never entered the cardinal’s legacy.
Seen from a distance, the most striking thing revealed in Cajetan’s biblical
commentaries is not the blend of Scholasticism and humanism—which is
indeed fascinating, important, and suggestive—but a sharper paradox. On the
one hand, the biblical commentator showed himself audaciously independent
in his opinions. Cajetan, in fact, adopted some positions still quite shocking to
Catholic sensibilities today, notably on marriage and the canon. Such open
distance from both the Tradition and magisterial teaching excuses some of the
establishment hostility, which was not simply benighted theological opposition
to every salubrious text-critical suggestion. In another very important regard,
however, Cajetan the biblical commentator was anything but independent. In
contrast to other biblical humanists of the period, like his Dominican
confreres Agostino Giustiniani and Santi Pagnini, for instance, Cajetan was not
truly equipped for the humanistic task at hand. He thus relied heavily upon
the opinions of experts and was even forced to make use of secretaries more
competent in the biblical languages.
What we witness in the biblical commentaries of Cajetan is thus something
dramatically different from the situation of Aquinas in his role as magister in
sacra pagina. In the view of Gilbert Dahan and others, the thirteenth century
saw the first birth of exegesis as a specialized academic discipline; by the dawn
of the sixteenth century, with the arrival of the new philological skill set, the
work of interpretation had already become so specialized an affair that it was
no longer possible to hold it together with a full dialectical training and
expertise—even for a Renaissance man with the time, talent, and interest. If
joined to dogmatic theology in a single giant figure, scriptural science had
become a second career. Hence: Cajetan the Summa commentator (14971520), followed by Cajetan the Bible commentator (1523-34). Overwhelming
as this twin work of exposition is, it would be difficult to argue that both
careers were equally august and fruitful. The neat succession of one brand of
theology followed by another is a revealing image, however.
Scholasticism was never out-argued. It was simply shamed and retired as a
new culture of erudition took its place. When Dorp and Lee resisted Erasmus
for his mocking treatment of theology in the Praise of Folly, they rightly saw
that this was more than the mockery dished out to other quarters. The
philologist meant to teach theologians their trade with a nouvelle théologie.
(There are obvious parallels here with the way the “Christian humanism” of
De Lubac & Co. later surmounted neo-Scholasticism by sheer force of wider
reading, an alternative skill set, and radically different tastes.) If the old guard
could not finally keep pace, Cajetan himself represents an important example

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of how to bridge the divide, namely, through engaged collaboration.
O’Connor quotes Cicero, beloved by the Italian humanists and evidently an
inspiration for Cajetan as well: “We are not born for ourselves alone. . . . We
ought therefore to . . . contribute to the common good of humankind by
reciprocal acts of kindness, by giving and receiving from one another, and thus
by our skill, our industry and our talents work to bring human society
together in peace and harmony” (60).
In the modern age, from its very dawn in the sixteenth century, the
integrated work of theology has irremediably become a corporate enterprise.
To this extent, virtuoso displays of towering erudition can be a dangerous
distraction. Cajetan’s experience in this regard, his simultaneous confidence in
the opinions of the experts and bold readiness to try to decide for himself,
reveals an intellectual attitude well-balanced between what Thomas Reid
distinguished as the “social” and the “solitary operation of the mind.” Above
all, however, Cajetan’s final deference to ecclesial authority constitutes his
highly individual yet collaborative work as more than a merely social exercise.
Theology as Cajetan practiced it was an act of the Church.
The humanists empowered the Church to hear the sacred Scriptures
speaking with a vital new voice. Some theologians plugged their ears; others
like Cajetan strained with all their might to listen. If the exegetical guild
today, heir to those biblical humanists of the past, remains scarred, even
defined by the obstinate theologians who did not wish to let a new learning
make the Scriptures speak anew, perhaps the ultimate lesson to learn from
Cajetan’s second life as a biblical scholar lies in the theologian’s fearless
conviction in the power of Scripture, studied with all the intellectual tools at
our disposal, to reform and renew the life of the Church.
ANTHONY GIAMBRONE, O.P.
École biblique et archéologique française
Jerusalem, Israel

Wagering on an Ironic God: Pascal on Faith and Philosophy. By THOMAS S.
HIBBS. Waco, Tex.: Baylor University Press, 2017. Pp. xi + 204.
$44.95 (cloth). ISBN: 978-1-4813-0638-6.
Thomas Hibbs’s exploration of Pascal’s thought offers an important
corrective to a common tendency that takes Pascal’s Pensées as the
idiosyncratic, private musings of a solitary thinker. In Hibbs’s work, Pascal
emerges not as a lonely genius but as a thinker very much in conversation with
the philosophical tradition, especially René Descartes and Michel de

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Montaigne. In particular, Hibbs shows how Pascal engages in a three-cornered
conversation with Montaigne and Descartes about God, irony, and the best
way of life, especially in relation to the figure of Socrates. After engaging
Wagering on an Ironic God, readers will find their encounters with Pascal
complicated and enriched.
Hibbs presents a conversation among teachers about the content and means
of philosophical pedagogy. Each of these thinkers—Pascal, Descartes, and
Montaigne—writes so as to draw readers into a particular way of life, and
they all face a common challenge: their readers are disinclined to take up the
forms of self-understanding required by their conceptions of the best way of
life. So, they also each turn to Socrates, the philosophical teacher par
excellence, who found himself in the same pedagogical conundrum: how can a
teacher communicate a way of life to those whose self-understandings incline
them to construe that way of life as more a threat than a promise?
Socrates famously chose irony as the right pedagogical tool for the task.
Against a view of irony inspired by Richard Rorty that sees it as dissolving
detachment to any enduring commitment, Hibbs follows the account of irony
found in Charles Griswold’s and Jonathan Lear’s discussions of Socrates. As
Hibbs develops these insights, irony is a “capacity for transcendence” (14), a
disruption that causes one to note the gap between the actual and the ideal.
Irony acts as a veil, hiding a deeper wisdom while at the same time indicating
it. The ironic mode of discourse allows the teacher to draw the learner toward
one perspective that contains in itself a redirection toward another; and it also
allows the teacher to move the learner by appeal to the learner’s desire to
harmonize an apparent dissonance that the ironic discourse suggests.
As Hibbs tells the story, Montaigne, Descartes, and Pascal all look to
Socrates as a model, both in terms of his desire to move his interlocutors to
adopt a whole way of life and with regard to his ironic method. But despite
their areas of common agreement, these three thinkers engage in contentious
disputes. Insofar as their understandings of the best way of life diverge, so do
their ironic pedagogies differ.
In particular, Hibbs focuses on their differences over the roles played by
philosophy and theology, reason and faith, in the quest for the good life.
Montaigne, for example, uses irony to lead his readers back from a search for
supernatural transcendence to the meanings that are immanent in the varied
and fragmented pursuits of an ordinary human life. Descartes ironically uses
skepticism against itself in pursuit of the “public goods of science and
technology” (191), and so seeks to compartmentalize and sideline the
importance of any sort of supernatural theology. Pascal, finally, construes the
relation of revelation and reason ironically, so as to invite the reader into a life
of religious devotion in which one’s desires and character are so transformed
by an encounter with the Eucharistic Christ that one can live with hope, even
while conscious of one’s finite, sometimes miserable, human condition.

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After an introductory chapter with an initial exposition of these central
themes, Hibbs turns in the next two chapters to the texts of Montaigne and
Descartes, beginning each with a discussion of the role of Socrates in the
relevant texts. For Montaigne, Socrates is a model of the reconstruction of
philosophy into a practical mode of self-examination, eschewing metaphysical
and theological distractions to focus on attaining a life of relative equanimity
in the face of death’s inevitability. But he replaces Socrates’s erotic longing for
transcendence with a restriction of attention to the immanent, and so he offers
his essays as the matter for spiritual exercises that can prepare the reader for
an art of living consisting in a kind of self-exploration aimed at the new goal
of “authenticity” (43).
Montaigne also knows that many of his readers will be tempted away from
this path by a desire for the certainty offered by speculative philosophy,
especially in its Aristotelian form. To combat this possibility, Montaigne leads
his learner through an ironic reversal of Aristotle’s metaphysics. After
beginning with an affirmation of Aristotle’s dictum that all men by nature
desire to know, Montaigne considers the multivariate forms of experience and
their resistance to any reduction to a universal knowable by reason. The ironic
contrast between the beginning and subsequent assertions in Montaigne’s
essay opens a cognitive gap that suggests a turn to the practical as its
resolution. Montaigne thus leads the reader away from a pursuit of the
knowledge of nature or natural ends and toward an exploration of the
reader’s own unique individuality. As a consequence, Montaigne also teaches
the attentive reader that fragmentation is more basic than wholeness, that the
self is no more than a “shifting series of events” (58). In the end, though
Montaigne does not follow Socrates in his erotic pursuit of the Good, he does
endeavor to imitate Socrates’s ironic pedagogy to initiate his readers into a
way of life that abandons claims to speculative wisdom and finds happiness
solely in the immanent.
Descartes, by contrast, intends to achieve just that speculative wisdom to
which Socrates and Montaigne, in their different ways, disown any claim.
Descartes offers a “new science of virtue” (69), to be secured by his new
scientific methods and their results. This new science will replace the neverending task of Socratic self-examination with real and final knowledge. Hibbs
admits that the question of the best way of life and the use of ironic pedagogy
are less obvious on the surface of Descartes’s work than they are in
Montaigne’s. But he insists that attention to the “arts of writing” (ibid.) can
reveal these concerns in Descartes’s texts. He points, for example, to
Descartes’s aim to cultivate in readers their own appropriation of the
philosophical practices he models and to his uses of understatement and
indirection. As an example of the latter, Hibbs points to Descartes’s critique of
astonishment in the Passions of the Soul, a move Hibbs takes as an ironic
attack on the Platonic and Aristotelian claim that philosophy begins in
wonder. Descartes intends to replace that understanding of philosophy with a

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vision of knowledge as constructed and productive. More importantly,
Descartes takes an ironic stance toward theology, both praising it and
marginalizing it. He thus offers a new science of virtue and a new candidate
for the best way of life in which supernatural theology is not so much rejected
as simply ignored.
Like the other two thinkers in the conversation, Pascal aims to induce in his
readers a certain kind of self-knowledge that can allow them to participate in
the best way of life. But his relations to Montaigne and Descartes are
complicated. Pascal shares Montaigne’s conviction that the pursuit of wisdom
is a never-ending task, not a project to be completed by discovering better
methods. But Pascal, a brilliant mathematician like Descartes, shares with the
latter an interest in method, order, and even skepticism. Like Descartes, Pascal
values inquiry in mathematics and the sciences; but he also comes to the
conviction that the oddity of one part of the world’s seeking understanding of
the whole itself calls for inquiry. According to Hibbs, this inquiry leads Pascal
to the conviction that “human life has the structure of a quest” (127). This
realization already marks a departure from Montaigne’s resistance to
construing a human life in terms of a narrative whole. But it also reveals
significant differences from Descartes. The Meditations, for example, might be
read as a quest narrative but one in which the quest is definitively achieved;
after the end of the Meditations, all that remains is a bit of tidying up as the
inquirer follows out the deductive path to the last goals of human knowledge.
Pascal ironically reverses the movement of the Cartesian quest. Rather than a
movement that overcomes an immature and transitory moment of wonder,
Pascal’s quest leads ever deeper into wonder and contemplation.
The never-ending task of cultivating wonder follows from the feature of
Pascal’s thought that Hibbs calls his “residual teleology” (131). Pascal does not
commit himself to Aristotelian or Scholastic claims to metaphysical or natural
teleology, but he does insist on an intrinsic teleological structure in human
action and desire. Hibbs connects Pascal’s vision to Augustine’s claim that “the
weight of our desires is rooted in an ineradicable and unquenchable desire for
the infinite, for a happiness that cannot be lost and that fulfills all our
longing” (ibid.).
Pascal famously revels in various paradoxes resulting from the combination
of finite, embodied human being and the human orientation to the infinite.
Those sorts of paradoxes are not well-suited to Descartes’s geometric
methods, and Pascal recognizes the mismatch, especially as he contrasts
Descartes’s approach with a method of finesse more characteristic of
Montaigne. Unlike Descartes, Pascal rejects the notion that one method of
inquiry suffices for all the subjects one might investigate. Instead, he admits a
place for Descartes’s method in mathematics but insists on the necessity of
other methods in the inquiry into the human inquirer. In particular, he
develops the notion of finesse and takes advantage of his own work in
projective geometry to imagine ways in which an inquirer can bring disparate

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and apparently conflicting phenomena under one explanation, both of which
leave ample room for the use of irony.
Substantively, Pascal also departs from Montaigne and Descartes, and
Hibbs considers these departures in his last chapter, especially through a
rereading of Pascal’s most notorious argument, the wager. Against these other
two thinkers, Pascal denies that philosophy is sufficient for the best way of
life. Hibbs takes as his key text Pascal’s aphorism about philosophy and
Christianity: “Philosophers: they astonish the ordinary run of men. Christians:
they astonish the philosophers” (1). On Hibbs’s reading, this aphorism participates in a double irony, based on the gaps between, first, ordinary men and
philosophers, and, then, between philosophers and Christians. Keeping these
ironic contrasts in mind, Hibbs argues, can reveal the nature of the wager,
defuse an objection against it, and provide a cogent alternative to the typically
modern dichotomy between deistic and voluntaristic conceptions of God.
Hibbs argues that the wager presents the question of God’s existence as a
practical question about the best way of life. Pascal employs a number of
ironic strategies in his presentation of the argument. He both appeals to and
subverts self-interested reasoning, for example; and he leads the reader to see
that the “question about God is a question about me” (152). The wager
intends to elicit a transformation in behavior and moral vision that can move
the inquirer into association with the Church and the sacraments, the only
sufficient means for initiation into the best way of life.
But the success of the wager invites an objection. Hibbs formulates this
objection in terms of the problem of hope: Is not a reasonable hope confined
within the temporal reality we know to obtain? He points out that both
Montaigne and Descartes attempt to address this question “within the flow of
time” (174). Montaigne does so “by an embrace of the flow that in a
paradoxical way renders fluidity static” (ibid.), since his insistence on the
episodic character of human life means that real change is not possible; the
new is just one more instance of the constant difference that marks human
events. Descartes, on the other hand, seeks in scientific method and its
advance a guide to the achievement of progress that can lend intelligibility to
our hopes and desires. But, according to Hibbs, Pascal rejects both of these
approaches, convinced that a genuine hope requires a relation to eternity and
not only the evanescent succession of temporal moments. In other words, if
Pascal’s arguments are correct, the objection can succeed only at the cost of
eliminating all hope; the choice is not between eternal and temporal hope but
between hope and despair.
Descartes’s temporal hope does bear some connection to the divine, but
Pascal is deeply at odds with the Cartesian concept of God. On Hibbs’s telling,
Cartesian rationalism construes God in either a deistic or voluntaristic mode.
Pascal breaks through this dichotomy by proposing a God who relates to the
world through an ironic pedagogy. Against Descartes’s claim to have a
maximally clear and distinct concept of the divine essence, Pascal insists that

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God is hidden. But his hiddenness serves a pedagogical purpose, allowing him
to draw his creatures to himself through the transformation of their desires
and characters as they confront the gaps between themselves as they are and as
they could be, and between the ways in which they perceive the presence of
God and the ways in which they confront his absence. This divine and ironic
pedagogy continues in a more perfect form in Christian revelation, which
invites its hearers to a way of life through its prophecies, types, figures,
sacraments, and, above all, its proclamation of the Incarnation. Thus, the best
way of life ultimately calls for incorporation into the Church, the body of
Christ; philosophy is not sufficient. Just as philosophy exploits the gaps in
ordinary interpretations of human experience to call its students to a way of
life, so Christianity ironically points to the gaps in philosophical interpretations to call its practitioners to a sure hope, grounded in the hidden presence
of the eternal in time.
Hibbs’s book has many strengths and deserves a reading by anyone
interested in his triumvirate of modern thinkers. In my judgment, his attempt
to foreground the question of the best way of life in these three thinkers and
his presentation of their pedagogical aims promise real and important insight,
and he makes good on that potential in his chapters on Montaigne and Pascal
(though slightly less so in his treatment of Descartes’s use of irony). Some
aspects of his treatment of Pascal also call for further remarks. In particular,
one might appreciate some assessment of whether Pascal’s “residual teleology”
of human action is, in the long run, intelligible without a larger, metaphysical
context. Likewise, some readers may wonder why Pascal’s presentation of the
question of God’s existence in the wager does not end in a pragmatic
interpretation of religion. On a less significant note, the text suffers from
some repetition (for example, compare 14-15 with 188 and 34-35 with 140)
that sometimes disappoints the reader’s hopes for deeper treatments of some
of the very interesting themes broached in the first overview.
RANDALL G. COLTON
Kenrick-Glennon Seminary
Saint Louis, Missouri

Aristotle on Female Animals: A Study of the “Generation of Animals.” By
SOPHIA M. CONNELL. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016.
Pp. xv + 437. $126.00 (cloth). ISBN: 978-1-107-13630-4.
Though long regarded as the “teacher of those who know,” Aristotle has
come to be viewed with suspicion, even outright disdain, because of the way

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some of his claims rankle contemporary sensibilities. Some of the more
egregious offenses concern his remarks about women: that they are “inferior
to men” or that they are “mutilated versions of men.” These jarring statements
have led some to dismiss particular treatises, such as the Politics, or even
whole collections, such as his biological works. In her Aristotle on Female
Animals, Sophia Connell gives a thorough and careful analysis of the
Generation of Animals (GA) that warns against such a facile reading. Most
prominent in her defense is her opposition to the feminist allegations that
Aristotle’s philosophy is a thoroughly misogynist one. She warns us that such
is not at all the case. She is also at pains to warn against simply interpreting
Aristotle’s biology through the lens of his more abstract texts, which risks
obscuring the empirical details that characterize them, details she carefully
articulates. Thus, Connell’s work is not just in opposition to misreadings of
Aristotle; it also offers a helpful introduction to the intricacies of his biological
study.
Before proceeding through the individual chapters of the GA, Connell in
part 1 frames her study according to various methodological concerns.
Chapter 1 addresses what she takes to be the fundamental feminist complaint
concerning Aristotle’s biology: it is part of a rigid hierarchical system that sets
forth a superior male political position. Granting that Aristotle exhibits a
sexist understanding—one, she argues, that deserves some appreciation for the
historical setting in which it developed—she denies that this motivates his
philosophical project. She further warns that modern feminism, overly driven
by its own concerns, can exhibit its own anachronistic agenda that misstates or
misses the essential points of Aristotle’s biology. Her aim is not simply to
confront such an approach but rather to help the “scholar with feminist
sympathies to broaden our knowledge of Aristotelian philosophy” (52).
In her second chapter, Connell critiques a more traditional approach to
Aristotle’s biology that emphasizes that simple complementary contributions
to generation made by male and female may be understood in terms of form
and matter, respectively. She cautions that this tends to follow the more
general insights we are liable to find in the Metaphysics and Physics, works
that she argues are more indebted to the Posterior Analytics. By contrast, the
GA, as a much more empirical work, is not so programmatically driven but is
more indebted to the approach described in the Topics. The pattern of the GA
seems to be to identify general characterizations of generation, which are
refined in particular instances in the later chapters. This is achieved not simply
by proceeding from general principles but also by seeking to articulate
“reasons relating to outcomes (teleology)” (83) in its concluding discussions,
deliberately including exceptional cases, such as insects, which, Aristotle
claims, generate spontaneously. This makes it clear that the GA tends to the
specific rather than the general, the empirical rather than the theoretical. As
such, its interpretation ought not to rely on Aristotle’s more theoretical
studies.

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Part 2 aims to reassess the generative role of the female in Aristotle’s
biology. Connell begins, in chapter 3, by noting how others, such as
Hippocrates and Galen, argued that the female produces semen as does the
male, with the stronger of the two “determining the outcome in terms of sex
and inheritance” (98). Though this is seemingly a satisfactory explanation
from a feminist perspective, in that both generative contributions are
understood on equal terms, Connell warns on Aristotelian principles that this
scheme is unable to explain the unity of the whole animal. She notes that
Aristotle does recognize a female semen, countering the common supposition
that the female contribution is merely passive or material. She goes on to
assert that the female contribution is complementary rather than competitive,
as the materialist alternative proposes.
Chapter 4 develops a more complete response to the supposition that the
female contributes the matter of generation, which receives the male’s formal
contribution. She locates the textual basis for this in what she calls the “craft
model,” in Physics II, which describes wood that is made into a chair by the
imposition of form. She then presents an alternative from Hippocrates that
describes a more dynamic possibility, according to which the female
contribution involves feeding the embryo in its subsequent growth, the idea
being that the material contribution somehow unfolds by its own dynamism.
Beyond either possibility, she shows how Aristotle’s approach characterizes
the female contribution according to two stages: (1) at the point of
conception, where the contributed matter can be said to be passive while yet
having a dynamic potential concerning the embryo’s growth until (2) the
appearance of the fetal heart, at which point the further dynamic potential of
its blood begins to develop various organs (149). So rather than contributing
inert matter that becomes the passive element of a final product or that
supplies its own increase, the female contribution ensures the dynamic
possibility of a living entity that is able to develop itself in all of its living
complexity.
Part 3 reassesses the male contribution in light of this more dynamic
understanding of its female counterpart. Chapter 5 helps explicate the
formative aspect of the female contribution to generation, particularly as
regards wind eggs, which are developed but incomplete wholes. This result
seems to invite the conclusion that where the female contributes the nutritive
soul, the male provides the sentient soul, a proposal Connell is quick to
counter. First, this supposes that these two souls are wholly separable; second,
“it imagines, in its most simplified form, that a portion of soul can be handed
over or supplied by the male parent” (173). While the male semen is the basis
of Aristotle’s account of the formation of the soul in the embryo, Connell
notes that it “does not thereby possess form or soul” in itself. The father’s soul
is only the source of the change as it develops in the offspring, a source that
must also be understood in terms of the female’s contribution to the offspring.

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Before proceeding with the details of Aristotle’s account, chapter 6 reviews
a number of different interpretations of the male contribution to generation in
order to clarify his account more fully. At this point, Connell changes her
interlocutors. She no longer concerns herself with the abstract metaphysical or
feminist readings, though the latter seem to linger somewhat, and instead she
takes up the more biologically focused reading—a transition that she might
have noted more explicitly. The first of these more focused readings is
“theological vitalism,” which appeared in Christian and Islamic readings of
Aristotle. Though it is certainly part of a substantial tradition, it is not what
the Stagirite intended. This vitalism alleges that “pneuma, the active physical
component of male semen, is analogous to aithêr, the fifth element, which
allows the cyclical movement of the heavens” (187). This association, Connell
argues, has led to a whole tradition of interpretation that reads the GA as
saying that such pneuma is the divine breath, a claim she eschews: “the
hotness of semen is analogous to aithêr not because it is an earthly version of
the heavenly element, but because it is ‘more divine’ than those elements taken
on their own” (191). Other interpretations that we may group under the
ambit of materialism claim that the male semen reduces to purely physical
terms, which she dismisses here for a variety of reasons, one of the most
prominent being that the male role “is the efficient cause of substantial
change” (203), which involves more than just material causation. Of course,
final causality is one of the most important elements in Aristotle’s account of
biological entities, a factor many other readings seem to ignore. Here Connell
only introduces it, warning that it ought not be considered too soon lest we
fail to appreciate all the intricacies that it helps to explain. The implicit
admonition is that with Aristotle we must carefully take in hand what
materialism overlooks and what vitalism presumes to explain in order to
cultivate a proper appreciation for what nature itself discloses.
In part 4, which concerns the “generation in lower animals and particular
instances,” Connells’s analysis becomes more difficult to follow, not because
of any lack of precision or clarity on her part but because of the proliferation
of details that arise in the latter chapters of the GA. Because of the depth of
the analysis, her response to the basic feminist objections has receded into the
background. Thus we are able to appreciate that while Aristotle’s study can be
made to respond to his more rhetorical, feminist, detractors, it really aims at a
more fundamental objective: an inquiry into the intricacies of biology. In
chapter 7, Connell focuses on elements of the GA that will allow her to
develop the teleological aspects of animal generation. She first highlights
Aristotle’s distinction between what profits an individual animal and what
profits the species in its future individuals. This is a key point as regards a telic
appreciation of the species, which concerns the reciprocal relation between
male and female. The offspring benefit neither father nor mother as
individuals but both together as a species. Connell then follows Aristotle’s
analysis of this point over the hierarchy of species. Higher animals are those

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whose offspring are more complete at birth, which makes clear the
significance of the female contribution to gestation. The more complete the
offspring at birth—that is, the greater the contribution of the female in
carrying the embryos to term—the higher the animal. This should help
ameliorate the worry about female inferiority in Aristotle’s biology. Examples
of “lower species” are fish, where “the male sprinkles milt on eggs after they
have been laid” (247); the deficiency here is that the eggs, both before and
after fertilization, are subject to various environmental factors, such as
predators, that might inhibit or prevent their complete gestation. Next,
Connell notes that Aristotle deems gestation in the very lowest of species to be
“spontaneous,” as among “testacea” and various insects (though not bees),
where neither the concocted female matter nor the male semen contributes to
the result. Yet even in this anomalous case where generation depends on such
exogenous principles, there is still an analogous sense in which the male and
female contribute, in a complementary way, to an identifiable telos: the
continuance of the species.
Having explored the complementary generative teleological contributions
of the two parents, chapter 8 turns to what we might call their “competing”
roles. This specifically concerns the determination of the offspring’s gender.
Connell highlights Aristotle’s actual opposition to the claim that the female
represents a “generative failure,” simply because this overlooks the female’s
positive contribution in the provision of proper matter understood in dynamic
terms. Granting the relative weakness of the female menses, Connell still
insists that we must appreciate Aristotle’s account of the female’s contribution
evident in the possibility of female offspring. Connell summarizes his rejection
of Democritus’s rival view, which claims this is simply a question of the
relative strengths of the competing parental semen, if only because of the
empirical fact that children of both sexes are liable to resemble either parent
in various ways. She also emphasizes Aristotle’s rejection of pangenesis, which
says the offspring’s parts are determined by relative competing parts of its
parents: this claims that the whole result is simply the sum of its parts, which
clearly overlooks teleological determinations of the whole organism. She
argues that Aristotle’s answer is that “a relevant balance (summetria) between
male and female contributions causes sexual differentiation” (271). This
balance is determined by the relative heat of the parent’s contribution,
relative, that is, to each other within their respective ranges as determined by
their species. If the result of generation is female, this does not mean that the
mother’s contribution is warmer than that of the father, but that her
contribution is relatively high for the female norm of the species while his is
relatively low within the male norm. Here again, Connell emphasizes that
Aristotle’s account ought not to be understood by the “craft model” drawn
from Physics II, but by the “culinary analogy”: a lopsided cake may not be the
fullness of what it ought to be, but it is still a cake. Similarly, female offspring
might not be the fullness of a male issue, but it is still a fully formed individual

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of that species. (A modern way to appraise the relative contributions of male
and female is according to the distinction of dominant and recessive genes. In
contrast, Aristotle identifies the relative strength of the male according to
specifically developed philosophical principles.) Connell concludes that for
Aristotle, given that the female contribution is necessary for the continuance
of the species, we might say that a female offspring is “both disabled and
differently abled” (291).
In chapter 9, Connell presents a refinement in Aristotle’s account of
generation concerning specific resemblances between offspring and their
various progenitors. Having identified the relative heat of the parents’ semen
as the determinants of the offspring’s gender, she now identifies their kinêseis
as the determining factors of its particular features. After a fairly lengthy
consideration of alternative theories, such as those of Balme, Henry, and
Cooper, and then an exhaustive examination of the possible mechanisms of
these factors, she presents a graded scale as to how these kinêseis determine
the various features of the offspring, as those of the male or female gain
mastery over their counterpart. The most significant part of this discussion is
how, according to Connell, kinêseis “shape the parts of offspring and when
these fail they allow for a falling back onto ancestral . . . kinêseis” (298-99).
Though Aristotle only seems to describe the role of paternal grandparents, she
argues that kinêseis “operating in heredity are neither form nor matter and
therefore can come from both male and female parents” (321). So, at a more
fine-grained level, she indicates how the female contribution to generation is
not, as the “craft model” proposes, merely passive, but exercises a reciprocal
determination with its male counterpart.
In chapter 10, Connell accounts for Aristotle’s incorporation of material
necessity into his account of animal generation. The difficulty is to explain
how matter, which is governed by its own nonbiological necessity, still
supports the telic actions of animal generation. Opposing those interpretations
that allege Aristotle simply subsumes material powers under biological
teleology, she highlights his explicit reliance on them “particularly when it
comes to accounting for deformity” (334). Aristotle gives deformity a fairly
wide interpretation: anything that “does not measure up to the best animal—
the human male” (338). In such concise terms, this frames her presentation of
a twofold account of deformity. The first case involves a whole species whose
offspring are relatively incomplete in that they fail to resemble their parents as
well as they might, say, by being blind or having undifferentiated digits (353).
Her point is not that such species lack a telos, but that they seem to face extra
impediments to its realization, both in their generation and in their subjection
to environmental factors. The second case concerns the variation within a
species along the lines she developed in the prior chapter. This has to do with
the hereditary resemblance between the offspring and either of its parents (or
more distant generations) according to the relative strength of their kinêseis.
Although Aristotle insists on the superiority of the male’s contribution in

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generation, Connell reminds us that this derives from his metaphysical
considerations rather than purely sexist motives. Further, as Connell has
certainly emphasized, Aristotle himself consistently asserts the female’s
necessary and dynamic contribution in the generation of offspring.
In her brief concluding chapter, certainly worth reading in itself, Connell
summarizes the main points of her study, highlighting the complementary
contribution of both sexes to generation. Having carefully guided us through
the GA, she notes how we are able to appreciate Aristotle’s identification of
the role of the female in generation, as well as the broader empirical
intricacies of his study. In this, she suggests how we might read him as the
“teacher [not only] of those who know” but also of those who would seek to
understand—if we are so disposed.
BRIAN CHRZASTEK, O.P.
Pontifical Faculty of the Immaculate Conception
Washington, D.C.