Archive for the ‘Theology’ Tag
Those who are familiar with Thomas Aquinas know that he begins the Summa Theologica (his magnum opus) with the question as to how one can go about studying theology. In article two of that question, he asks whether theology is a science, and to answer, he makes a critical distinction so that he can answer that theology is, in one way at least, a science, thus making the Summa itself a work of science:
Sacred doctrine is a science. We must bear in mind that there are two kinds of sciences. There are some which proceed from a principle known by the natural light of intelligence, such as arithmetic and geometry and the like. There are some which proceed from principles known by the light of a higher science: thus the science of perspective proceeds from principles established by geometry, and music from principles established by arithmetic. So it is that sacred doctrine is a science because it proceeds from principles established by the light of a higher science, namely, the science of God and the blessed. Hence, just as the musician accepts on authority the principles taught him by the mathematician, so sacred science is established on principles revealed by God.
In other words, theology is a science, Aquinas says, if we understand it as a sort of “subalternated” science which derives its first principles from another science. Unlike other subalterated sciences like music or optics, however, theology derives its first principles from a non-demonstrable science. Godfrey of Fontaines explains why this is so:
[I]f theology were truly and properly a science after the model of a subalternated science in relation to a subalternating one, it would be necessary that the principles of theology that are had in this life be certain by the certitude of evidence at least in regard to knowledge that such is the case, and it would be necessary that there would be knowledge of why it is the case in the science the blessed have of these principles . . . So, in order that theology be science and that not only would there be faith regarding the conclusion of theology as there is regarding the principles, then regarding its principles it is necessary that they be not only believed but be known and evident. For, the type of evidence the principles have will determine the parallel type of evidence that the conclusion will have. For although a conclusion may be drawn from principles that are only believed and the consequence or the necessity of the consequence can be scientifically known, still the consequent and its necessity cannot be known scientifically from such principles (Quodlibet, IV, q. 10, 1287).
In other words, we might call music or optics a subalternated science because it derives its first principles from another science (arithmetic or geometry), or is subjected to other more proper sciences. Thus, an optician may proceed to study optics without having proper knowledge of the first principles of his science, which are derived from geometry. However, the optician may study geometry and in doing so, gain a more perfect knowledge of optics. Optics is thus subordinated or subalternated to geometry, but not in such a way that prevents a more perfect knowledge of optics through gaining a more perfect knowledge of its first principles through the study of another science.
Theology, as Godfrey points out, is not like this. Theology is based on first principles which do not come from another human science which may be studied, but rather from the science which exists in the mind of God and is consequently beyond all human understanding. “Science,” Godfrey tells us, is “a sure habit possessing both the certitude of evidence and the certitude of conviction,” which theology can never have because it is based in principles which are not certain but accepted on faith. In contrast to science, faith, Godfrey writes, is “a sure habit having only the certitude of conviction, not the certitude of evidence.” Faith may be stronger than opinion (which lacks both the certitude of evidence and conviction), but for Godfrey, because theology rests on revealed first principles which cannot be proved, it can only be faith and never science.
Is there a difference between Thomas and Godfrey? Maybe, but on the subject of theology as science, perhaps they can be reconciled. Thomas, like Godfrey, knows that the first principles of theology rest on faith. Such principles like the Trinity, Incarnation, and Eschaton cannot be proved, only believed. For Thomas, belief comes as a gift not only of intellectual propositions, but the gift of an actual relationship with God. The object of faith, while not convincing to the non-believer, is actually more certain than sensory knowledge because it is a knowledge based not only on the discursive intellect, but also the affections (as elevated by the gifts of the Holy Spirit). However, from those first principles, rational and logical conclusions can be drawn which enhance the knowledge one has of the first principles, and on this, Thomas and Godfrey are not in such disagreement. Godfrey writes:
So, when theology is posited as science, it is necessary that its principles become in some way evident and known or understood. In fact, evidence has to be of a kind that respects the excellence of its subject matter and the weakness of the human knower. Thus, to one instructed in theology, it is much more evident than to the simple layman that Christ, God and man, has risen, and how this is possible and not impossible. . . Therefore, even though such things are not as evident as are the principles of other sciences because of their lack of proportion to our intellect, still they are known by a kind of evidence that is sufficient. . . Concerning he kind of knowledge we have in theology, Augustine, in Book XIV of his De Trinitate, says: “Many of the faithful are not strong in this science, even though they are strong in the faith itself. For it is one thing to know what a man must believe in order to gain the blessed life; it is another thing to know how that which is believed may help the pious and be defended against the impious.”
So, both Aquinas and Godfrey show us that by studying theology, we are not making scientific arguments that will be convincing as science to the non-believer. However, by studying theology scientifically, that is, by logically deducing conclusions from revealed first principles, we do get a sort of science which is important, not because it makes our beliefs more convincing to the non-believer, but because we become more convinced, even in light of the opposition of non-believers. Thus, theology does enhance knowledge if conducted scientifically, even if we still might not be able to call theology a proper science.
This seems to me incredibly important today when so many believers, when faced with a materialist and empiricist scientific worldview, feel the need either to doubt or abandon their faith or to withdraw into a sectarian, anti-scientific stance. For this latter group, recovering the Medieval concept of theology as a science can help Christians engage the scientific community in a spirit of dialogue rather than polemics, and by incorporating the sciences into the study of theology, they may actually become better believers.
Aquinas’ ethics begins with and is founded on the end. He introduces the Secunda Pars of the Summa Theologica with a treatise on man’s last end which he describes as “last in the order of execution but first in the agent’s intention.” What he means is that the end of an action is the last thing achieved in acting but the reason for acting is nevertheless the end. Think of spending several hours baking and decorating cookies, which I recently did for Christmas. The time mixing the dough, rolling it, cutting it into shapes, baking the cookies, and finally, painstakingly decorating them was all motivated by the last thing “in the order of execution of baking cookies,” which is the eating and enjoying of them. In the same way, Aquinas says that the ultimate end of all actions, which he will define as beatitude ,is the first in the order of intention for all human action. In other words, all human action is motivated by the desire to be happy. The reason I baked the cookies at all is because in some way, I thought that baking cookies, and watching my family enjoy eating them, would make me happy.
Another way of stating this is that the final cause is the first in the chain of causes. We think of what we want to achieve by acting before we act.
Aquinas says that there are two ways to think of the end. The first is the thing itself in which the end exists (beatitude) and the second is the use or acquisition of that thing. A glutton’s end is food, and the use of that end consists in the pleasure that comes from eating. According to Aquinas, the ultimate end of human existence in the first sense is God “who alone by His infinite goodness can perfectly satisfy man’s will.” In the second sense, the last end for human beings is the enjoyment of this last end which Aquinas calls “beatitude.”
The word beatitude is a difficult word to understand in English. Sometimes it is translated as “happiness,” but beatitude is a long-lasting happiness, not something that can be easily lost. “Happiness” does not connote the steadfastness of beatitude. Sometimes beatitude is translated as “flourishing” which again does not fully convey the full meaning of what Aquinas means by the word (mainly because we don‘t really use the word flourishing in our everyday speech and nobody really knows what it means). What we can do is identify what beatitude is not. Aquinas says it is not wealth, honor, fame and glory, power, good of the body, or pleasure. It is not something external, not something that can be easily lost, not something arbitrary like luck, and not any created good. Beatitude, according to Aquinas, is not even a good of the soul because if it were, the object of happiness would be human beings, which would mean that human beings could be loved for their own sake, which is contrary to what Christians hold to be true.
Beatitude, is, however, uncreated. It is not something we have, it is something we do. Aquinas speaks of beatitudes in two senses–its cause or object and its use. Beatitude in the first sense (the thing in which beatitude consists) can only be God, and in the second sense, beatitude can only be the enjoyment of God:
“Final and perfect happiness can consist in nothing else than the vision of the Divine Essence.”
How does Aquinas back this up? First, he says that nobody can be perfectly happy as long as there is something left for him to desire. Nothing on earth leaves us without some other desire to be fulfilled. It is almost a truism to say that just because a person has everything doesn’t mean that person is happy.
Aquinas’ second observation about happiness is that human beings are constituted to seek out the cause of things. If we see mold growing on a piece of fruit, we seek out the chain of causes behind this occurrence until we arrive at the ultimate cause. Our human nature is constituted to seek out the ultimate cause of our happiness. However, simply knowing that God is behind our happiness is not enough for our intellect; we want to know the essence of God and this is beyond what the human intellect on its own can accomplish. We need something else, some power outside of ourselves which Aquinas calls grace to elevate our intellect to know God in this way and to open our eyes to see God in this way.
In light of all this, Aquinas thinks that we can never achieve perfect happiness in this life. We can, however, achieve “imperfect beatitude.” This imperfect happiness is analogous to perfect happiness. It is stable and lasting, it doesn’t exist in external goods like money, fame, or power. Both types of happiness are “operations” or acts, not things. The major distinction between perfect happiness and imperfect happiness is that perfect happiness consists in contemplating the Divine Essence, which we can’t do on our own, and imperfect happiness consists in the exercise of virtue, which we can do without any external supernatural aid.
Happiness in this life is often unstable and subject to the vicissitudes of fortune. I knew somebody who had found great happiness–this person this person (we will call him Job) had friends, career success, a comfortable and even luxurious existence. People commented on how happy Job seemed going into the holiday season. About two weeks or so before Christmas, Job suffered a great disaster resulting in the loss of his home and possessions. Even if Job was a virtuous person and had all the right values and gave thanks to God that he still had his life, Job is still less happy in his homeless, possession-less existence. Aquinas’ treatment of happiness echoes Jesus saying to “store up treasures in heaven” because only in heaven can we ever find true happiness. In fact, this is the definition of heaven in Aquinas’ book–total happiness.
Some people say that Aquinas has an otherworldly understanding of happiness that does not allow for any sort of happiness in this life. I do not believe this is the case. Aquinas thinks that we can flourish in this life in different ways but he wants to keep us from thinking that this life is it. No matter what we do, no matter how hard we work and how good we become, there will always be something else that we desire in order to be happy. Augustine expressed this sentiment in his Confessions when he said, “My heart is restless until it rests in you.” We always hunger for God as the ultimate Giver of all good things, and until we get him, we stay a little bit hungry.
Yesterday, my boyfriend and I were in the kitchen talking about theology when the subject of Hell came up. I mentioned that I was bothered by people who stopped going to church or believing in God completely because they found the idea of Hell so repulsive. My boyfriend replied that there were different conceptions of Hell but that he found the idea of eternal torture somewhat difficult to swallow because it does not seem that God’s justice would include eternal punishment for anything we could do on earth. I responded that God’s love makes eternal life with Him possible; why should not His justice include eternal punishment?
The conversation was a long one. My boyfriend and I brought out Scripture, the Church Fathers (and specifically Justin Martyr for this particular conversation), metaphysical speculation, and of course, Thomas Aquinas. We batted around different conceptions of God’s justice and tried to figure out which seemed most true in light of the different resources at our disposal. We never got to the point that we could say definitively that we fully understood how God in his justice could condemn people to a Hell of eternal suffering but we also didn’t conclude that because we could not fully understand, we were going to either (a) give up our faith or (b) dismiss the concept of Hell as false.
I am sure that all of us know people who say that they refuse to worship Yahweh because the Hebrew Scriptures reveal Him to be a wrathful, angry God who is arbitrary in His punishments and guilty of horrible atrocities like genocide. How many people have you talked to who have rejected the New Testament in response to things like Paul saying that women should keep silent, cover their heads, and stay obedient to their husbands? Christopher Hitchens has built his career on arguing that every religion, but especially Christianity, prove in their sacred texts that God is not great, and therefore not something we should worship.
The Christian faith is a complicated one, and it is perfectly reasonable that even the most pious Christian will have questions and doubts. There is, however, a way to pursue these questions within a faith tradition, without rejecting the faith outright. The conversation my boyfriend and I had illustrates how such conversations can proceed, even regarding topics we may have trouble fully consenting to intellectually.
St. Anselm of Canterbury famously defined theology as “faith seeking understanding.” But he too ran into people who, failing to reach understanding, gave up faith. In a text called “The Incarnation of the Word,” he describes
the presumption of those who, since they are unable to understand intellectually things the Christian faith professes, and with foolish pride think that there cannot in any way be things that they cannot understand, with unspeakable rashness dare to argue against such things rather than with humble wisdom admit their possibility. Indeed, no Christian ought to argue how things that the Catholic Church sincerely believes and verbally professes are not so, but by always adhering to the same faith without hesitation, by loving it, and by humbly living according to it, a Christian ought to argue how they are, inasmuch as one can look for reasons. If one can understand, one should thank God; if one cannot, one should bow one’s head in veneration rather than sound off trumpets.
Anselm is not saying here that we should refrain from asking difficult questions about our faith or even dare to disagree about how a particular doctrinal issue like Hell should be understood. But he is saying that the failure to come to some sort of understanding gives one license to reject the doctrine in question.
Thomas Aquinas identifies a particular virtue necessary for theological inquiry. The virtue of humility lies between the two extremes of pride and despair (see Summa Theologica II-II, Q. 161). The object of humility is the “difficult good,” such as knowledge that is hard to achieve, and this virtue serves to protect the mind from the pursuit of things which are against right reason. It is the virtue of humility that allows a person to remember her place in reference to God, and to subject herself to God, and to others for the sake of God, when appropriate.
Regarding theological inquiry specifically, Aquinas says that humility restrains a person from confiding in her own powers regarding great things (e.g. knowledge of God’s essence), but encourages her to aim at greater things “through confidence in God’s help . . . especially since the more one subjects oneself to God the more is one exalted in God’s sight. Hence Augustine says: ‘It is one thing to raise oneself to God and another to raise oneself up against God. He that abases himself before Him, him He raiseth up he that raises himself up against Him, him He casteth down” (II-II, Q. 161, art. 2, ad. 2).
Modern sentiments are wont to follow Machiavelli, Hume, and Spinoza, among others, in rejecting humility as a virtue only for the overly-pious or the feint-hearted. Aquinas’ understanding of humility is not one that encourages inactivity or self-deprecation, but rather pushes people to achieve great things and reach great intellectual feats in relation to others, and to God. Aquinas himself was a paradigm of such intellectual humility. He was not afraid to take on difficult points of doctrine, and to disagree with even his most illustrious predecessors like Augustine. But he was also not afraid to admit that some things were a mystery that our human minds could never exhaust. With the aid of humility, one can approach these mysteries as opportunities to grow in faith, rather than abandon it.