Per Caritatem

Continuing with Horkheimer and Adorno “snippets” from Dialectic of Enlightenment, the authors make an interesting and somewhat unexpected connection between the structure of Kantian philosophy and the culture industry. According to Kant, the transcendental subject constitutes objects of experience. This means that the laws of nature are those that we have put into nature. In other words, given that we bring a priori the forms of intuition and the categories of the understanding to the manifold, and thus constitute the objects of possible experience, it turns out that the experience that the transcendental subject has is in a sense circular. The similarity with the culture industry, e.g., Hollywood, is that the film producers present us with images that bestow meaning. That is, the producer endows the images with structure and constitutes them, as does the Kantian subject. Prior to the film being made, the producer and his colleagues get together and decide what people will want to see. Thus, we only find what we have put into the objects of experience. Hollywood just gives the audience that which it believes the audience would be willing to accept. So the system of the Enlightenment (a system of theoretical thought) and the culture comes to be self-contained.

Picking up the theme of enlightenment rationality as “purely functional,” H & A explain that this is a logical end given that there is no longer any teleology that directs rationality (70). As a result, enlightenment does away with difference or alterity. Interestingly, H & A’s analyses and conclusions are very much in harmony with that which one finds in postmodern thinkers like Foucault and Heidegger. Because reason no longer has any goals outside itself, “pure reason became unreason,” as there is nothing regulating this “emptied out” rationality. This is part of the dialectic of enlightenment; it drives its self-critique such that the basis of its own rationality is destroyed. Only after enlightenment has eliminated all, then (according to enlightenment theory), we have acceptable meaning. This is reminiscent of analytic philosophy in general—a philosophy completely irrelevant to human existence (there are of course exceptions—e.g., Alvin Plantinga, but then again Plantinga is working within the Christian metanarrative). Analytic philosophers employ a method that has no “content” and end up just analyzing language in a formal way. Thought is meaningful only after the sacrifice of meaning. The result of this formalization of reason means that since there are no external criteria (but only internal criteria), this rationality can then be used positively or negatively. This is the kind of rationality used in e.g., fascism, as well as Marquis de Sade. De Sade, as H & A would be quick to point out, is not illogical, but rather thinks with amazing clarity and has understood that enlightenment thinking accepts no tradition or external values; thus, it can come up with its own rationality and can eliminate things like “pity.” So de Sade can set up narratives of dissoluteness, and at the same time can present a coherent system. Examples such as this fortify H & A’s thesis that “pure reason becomes unreason.”

Ben Myers, our favorite Australian theologian at Faith and Theology, has kindly asked me to write a “guest post” on Jean-Luc Marion. If you are interested, take a look and while you are there spend some time lingering on Ben’s прекрасный blog.

It is interesting to compare and contrast Aristotle’s account of how philosophy arises in history with Plato’s account and methodology. Aristotle takes a more systematic approach, whereas Plato’s style is more mythical.  In his work, Timaeus, Plato considers what the conditions would have to be for the cosmos to come about, and presents us with the demiurge (craftsman) and the eternal model. 

The demiurge is presupposed in Timaeus’ account, rather than argued for, yet, he is essential to the account.  Likewise, Timaeus doesn’t argue for the necessity of the eternal model, rather, the eternal model becomes the grounding for the truth. Later philosophers, Platonists in particular, reflect a great deal on the difference between the demiurge and the eternal model, and eventually want to conflate them into the same being.  Plato does not do this, but instead he keeps the duality. 

So we have the eternal model and the demiurge who acts to bring the eternal model into the visible.  The demiurge of whom we are only told that he is good, creates on the basis of the eternal model.  So we are given the postulation of an eternal model and then a visible world that comes to be on the basis of that eternal model.  Here Plato is assuming the physics of his day.  Could there be anything outside of those fixed stars, and if so, does it have characteristics that we cannot see, but that others can?  The cosmos according to this account is alive, but does it have a life outside what we see?  Timaeus says, “no,”—there cannot be many cosmoi (contra Democritus).

The demiurge wants to make the visible world as good as possible.  The eternal model is also good, so the demiurge wants to make the visible world as much like the eternal model as possible. 

Interestingly, Timaeus begins his argument with a prayer, and thus sets the account in a mythic context.  The first thing he does is to make a distinction between what always is and what becomes.  (N.b., We are still in a Parmenidean world. Thus, Timaeus must isolate what always is and what becomes). What comes to be, has to have a cause.  With this, we are moving beyond Parmenides because Parmenides says that the world of motion is deception, and he doesn’t attempt to give an account for the orderliness of the world.   Timaeus, however, does want to account for the orderliness of the world, and his account involves a causal sequence.  Here we have to keep in mind that Being is grasped by understanding, and becoming deals with opinion.  Becoming therefore must have a cause.  So Timaeus asks about the cosmos and whether it has a cause.  After all, the cosmos has a body (it is visible and tangible) and thus it must have a cause (28b).  In other words, his argument is that becoming must have a cause, so the world that we see is one of these things that has come to be and must have a cause.  Both the parts and the whole world must have a cause.  To account for this cause, Timaeus gives us the eternal model and the demiurge. 

Then at 29b he takes a break and says a bit about the method of his account and says that accounts of what is a only likeness are themselves not completely accurate.   Here Plato continues the tradition of skepticism about those things that come to be. He does not dismiss them as deceptive (as Parmenides did), but he does qualify the truth in regard to what we can say about things in the visible realm, viz., these are opinions.  They do not give us an account of eternal being, but only of the visible cosmos.  In other words, accounts of things in the visible realm are not perfect—how can they because they are about what themselves are shifting.  So the character of our discourse will be unstable when we speak about that which itself is unstable.  (Later, Aristotle will say also that the natural sciences have the character of the stories that we tell).   One way to interpret what is going on here is that everything that we hear in the Timeaus Plato himself does not think is true, but rather considers as opinion and something always subject to revision. The idea being that if we can come up with accounts more likely than not, then we should be satisfied.    

Horkheimer and Adorno in their book, Dialectic of Enlightenment, argue that enlightenment emerges from myth, yet can (and does) return back to myth. “Myth” here means something like what we think of with Homeric myth. As they explain, “False clarity is only another name for myth; and myth has always been obscure and enlightening at one and the same time” (p. xii). With “false clarity” they point to the idea that reason is always falling short and when reason fails to recognize its short-comings, then we revert back into myth. Here myth or regression in tradition consists in “false clarity,” which is in essence inadequate reflection and this is what it means to revert to myth. In the Enlightenment, “false clarity” will appear as “reification” and “objectification. ”

The core thesis of the book is a Foucaultian-like “power and knowledge” thesis. According to H & A, reason was invented from myth (it emerged in Homer) and is used to control nature. Critics of this view, such as Louis Dupré, would agree that modern reason has indeed turned productive, but this occurred in the Enlightenment. Thus, we have two different analyses of the Western tradition: the traditional position or “rupture theory” (Dupré’s view) and the “continuity thesis.” H & A (as are Nietzsche and Heidegger) are of the latter persuasion. They say that we should not stop with modernity, but should instead go all the way back to Homer and the Greeks. According to H & A, the ancient Greeks are more manipulative and mastering than one might think. Also, perhaps in Middle Ages, theology as well increasingly became an attempt to “manipulate” the divine. Furthermore, H & A say that the “turn to the self” was not just with Descartes, but emerged with myth, and thus the “self” concept is strengthened over time. Those disagreeing with H & A’s thesis might counter by pointing to Aristotle and claim that his desire to gain knowledge is in admiration and wonder—not in gaining power over nature.

A second thesis of the book is that in enlightenment we have tendency toward self-destruction. In the period denominated the Enlightenment, every established view that has not yet justified itself through reason is challenged. For example, Descartes with his methodological doubt says that we have to wipe away all past views and begin with something “solid.” Kant as well makes the incredible claim that prior to him, metaphysics did not exist. By the time the positivists come along, the idea is full-blown—in reference to God, they say, “if you can’t define God, then don’t talk about him.” Given this analysis, H & A say that rationality becomes functional—reason becomes the function of critique. In Kant, “pure reason” has no content and exemplifies functional rationality. As H & A put it, we end up with a “self-castration” of reason. Reason deprives itself of all power with the result that all it can do is describe “facts.” Once the content is emptied, there is no basis for critique. So Enlightenment is a relapse into myth and now we just describe the “facts” and have statistics. This results in totalitarianism (p. 4, 18). Enlightenment is totalizing as only a function can be. Functionalized reason has no content, and thus cannot withstand the assault.

Speaking of the “self,” initially the self emerges from nature or myth, but detached from its ground the self annihilates itself. Here we encounter another paradox—according to the traditional view, with the Enlightenment we have the establishing of subjectivity, but that subjectivity is swallowed up by the subjectivity itself.

Is it possible to overcome the dialectic of enlightenment? First, H & A point to the necessity of enlightenment to reflect on itself (p. xvii). The problem is that the Enlightenment itself is characterized by a spirit of critique, but fails to critique itself. So first we must subject the Enlightenment to its own critique. A second problem with the Enlightenment is that it swallows up particularity. H & A claim that reality itself is composed of tensions and these cannot be resolved (p. 11). Here they employ a Hegelian idea, viz., if one analyzes a concept, it can first come into existence only by denial (negation). The concept is the beginning of the dialectical process, not the endpoint. For H & A, the dialectic of enlightenment is bad, but dialectic itself is not. After all, dialectic subjects language and rationality to critique and causes it to recognize its own shortcomings.

N.b., “Enlightenment” with a lower case “e” speaks of enlightenment in general, whereas when capitalized, it refers to the period called the Enlightenment.

Tim Enloe at Societas Christiana has recently posted a very interesting series on hermeneutics and modernity many of which come from his reading and reflections from, Hermeneutics: Ancient and Modern (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1992. The posts are as follows:

1. “What’s All That White Space Around the Text?”
2. “On the Four-Fold Sense Hermeneutic of Medieval Expositors”
3. “Spinoza and the Development of Cartesian Hermeneutics”
4. “Cartesian Hermeneutics and the Bible as Passive Object“

Below are selected passages (with minimal commentary here and there) from Peter Enns’ article, “Apostolic Hermeneutics and an Evangelical Doctrine of Scripture: Moving beyond a Modernist Impasse.” (The article originally appeared in the Fall 2003 issue of the Westminster Theological Journal).

Personally, I found the article extremely helpful and would recommend it, as well as Enns’ book, Inspiration And Incarnation: Evangelicals And The Problem Of The Old Testament, to those interested in engaging hermeneutical issues from a distinctively Christian point of view. (Because I am citing the passages from an electronic copy of the article, there are no “page numbers” to cite. My copy of the original article as published in the WTJ is packed in a box, as we are preparing to move into our first home this week!) Lastly, if anyone wants an electronic copy of the article in its entirety, email me and I’ll be happy to send it your way.*******
In his article, Enns argues that “the Apostles’ hermeneutical goal (or agenda), the centrality of the death and resurrection of Christ, must be also ours by virtue of the fact that we share the same eschatological moment. This is why we must follow them precisely with respect to their Christotelic hermeneutic.” Consequently, if we employ a Christotelic hermeneutic, we cannot simply treat the OT primarily literally (a “first reading”), as this does not lead to a Christotelic reading (a “second reading”).

Rather, “a Christian understanding of the OT should begin with what God revealed to the Apostles and what they model for us: the centrality of the death and resurrection of Christ for OT interpretation. We, too, are living at the end of the story; we are engaged in the second reading by virtue of our eschatological moment, which is now as it was for the Apostles the last days, the inauguration of the eschaton. We bring the death and resurrection of Christ to bear on the OT. Again, this is not a call to flatten out the OT, so that every psalm or proverb speaks directly and explicitly of Jesus. It is, however, to ask oneself, ‘What difference does the death and resurrection of Christ make for how I understand this proverb?’ It is the recognition of our privileged status to be living in the post-resurrection cosmos that must be reflected in our understanding of the OT. Therefore, if what claims to be Christian proclamation of the OT simply remains in the pre-eschatological moment—simply reads the OT ‘on its own terms’—such is not a Christian proclamation in the apostolic sense.”

Enns then asks, “Just how far do we follow the exegetical methods used by the Apostles?” Given that we did not live in the Second Temple period, we cannot follow the Apostles in toto, i.e., we do not have the authority to omit, add or change words as the Apostles often freely did. However, this is not to endorse a strict grammatico-historical approach (GH), because that approach will not yield a Christotelic reading. So is a Christotelic approach just a better “method” than the GH orientation? Here Enns is instructive and asks, “what if ‘method,’ so understood, is not as central a concept as we might think? What if biblical interpretation is not guided so much by method but by an intuitive, Spirit-led engagement of Scripture with the anchor being not what the author intended but by how Christ gives the OT its final coherence?” It is not “method” per se that serves as the impetus of apostolic hermeneutics, rather the arrival of Christ necessitates new exegetical horizons. Thus, speaking in terms of Apostolic exegetical “methods,” is likely to lead us astray.

Enns goes on to say that this is in part why he has been attracted to Biblical Theology (BT) of the Vosian flavor. By BT, Enns has in mind the sense in which Vos used the term, viz., as the “self-revelation of God” as recorded in the Bible. [1]. Further explicating Vos’ notion, Enns writes, “Inherent in Vos’s conception of Biblical Theology are such notions as the progress of redemption culminating in the person and work of Christ in whom Scripture coheres, while also showing a respect for theological diversity as a function of the historical situatedness of revelation. Both of these dimensions of Biblical Theology are central to the thoughts I have outlined here. Such an approach to biblical interpretation is not a “method” that assures a stable exegetical result, but a spiritual exercise wherein a Christian looks at Scripture from the point of view of what she/he knows to be true—Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again—and reads the OT with the expectation that it somehow coheres in that fact. Perhaps Biblical Theology is as much about where one starts as it is about where one finishes. From a more explicitly ‘methodological’ point of view, I have tended to focus on such things as links (both on the lexical and larger syntactical levels) between various portions of Scripture as well as larger OT themes that either explicitly or subvocally come to completion in Christ. But these ‘methods’ do not determine the Christotelic conclusion. Rather, they are employed with the end result already in mind. This is also true for those portions of the OT that have been resistant (and for good reason) to typology, namely, Wisdom Literature. And again, this is why I find the term “Christocentric” unhelpful. Christ is not the ‘center’ of Proverbs or Ecclesiastes, but he is the ‘end.’ As in-Christ beings participating in the last days, we are obliged to think of how that status impinges upon what a proverb or Ecclesiastes ‘means.’ And the ‘method’ by which these horizons are bridged is a creative, intentional, purposeful exploration that moves back and forth between the words on the page and the eschatological context that we share with the Apostles but that the OT authors did not.”

Notes
[1] Geerhardus Vos, Biblical Theology: Old and New Testaments (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1948), 5.

The following analogies constitute “sketchy” and “nascent” thoughts regarding our embracing rather than eschewing the human element in Scripture, while simultaneously not allowing the human aspect to swallow up the divine and not simply giving “lip service” to the biblical notion of God as Lord over all (including history and the entire process of revelation).

Beginning first with a musical example. Let’s says that the famous cellist, Yo-Yo Ma is given a Bach piece to play, and Russian cellist is given the same piece as well. Both play the same notes on the written page, yet we can hear a difference between the two performances. That is, we can sense that, e.g., Yo-Yo Ma is playing the piece because we recognize his “touch” just as we recognize the familiar voice of our spouse or friend. This personality element in no way makes the piece unintelligible or defiled, but rather adds something beautiful. If you are not convinced, consider the difference between a symphonic piece programmed into a computer or synthesizer verses a piece performed by live musicians. The former will be executed with mathematical precision—not one mistake will occur. However, the effect is a “stiffness” and “inauthenticity,” as we sense a loss of the living, breathing, human element that animates music. The live performance, on the other hand, will indeed contain “mistakes,” slight bendings of notes that cause the tuning to be off here and there, slight rhythmic glitches etc. Yet, with the live performers there is a dynamic and improvisatory element (yes, even in classical music) that comes to life in the performance—e.g., the way that the orchestra intimately follows the crescendos and dimuendos of a solo by the violinist.

Additionally, I am not convinced that the personal element somehow stands between the “original” and the interpretation in a way that harms the (multi-layered) meaning. When we consider Scripture, we see that God has purposed that human personality be part of His work and is so intimately and dynamically involved in his revelatory activity that the levels of meaning that He desires are neither skewed nor lost. Turning to a contrasting (musical) example, Edgar Varese (a French-born composer during the rise of modernism in America) in many ways exemplifies the modern quest for “objectivity.” Varese’s music gradually became more and more machine-like until he eventually proposed using actual machines instead of people to “get rid” of the “middle man” (the interpreter) – the one causing a “block” between what he heard in his head and how it the music is actually played.

As many Christian thinkers have brought to our attention, we as Christians ought to (in the spirit of Augustine) glean the postmodern “gold.” Along these lines, John Frame writes, “postmodernism has rejected fundamental norms for historical study […] the discussion of postmodernism has made it clear that even the commitment to consistency is not religiously or even culturally neutral. Is logic in the tradition of Aristotle and Russell, after all, a necessity for human thought, or is it merely a form of Western, linear thinking, by which wealthy cultures oppress those who think in paradox?” With Frame, I would agree that postmodernism’s rejection of modernism’s lust for “objectivity” is something that we as Christians can (and should) maximize in our apologetic (and of course place within the proper presuppositional context—i.e., within the Christian metanarrative–i.e., Creation, Fall, Redemption in Christ, and Final Consumation of all things in Christ–[not "metanarrative" in Lyotard's sense]).

A second analogy involves a brief consideration of the ways in which scientific paradigms have changed and been replaced by new paradigms over the course of history. Many physicists today would simply consider Newton’s laws as “obvious,” yet in surveying the history of science during the 16th and 17th centuries one would quickly recognize that that prior to Newton, such laws were anything but “obvious.” The paradigm was in no way “fixed” and given this situation any number of solutions to e.g., the problem of motion, were theoretically possible. Prior to Newton, many tried to account for motion in terms of an Aristotelian paradigm, yet this worldview was considered too laden with teleological notions and mystical “movers” exerting force over objects so as to keep them in motion. Then there were those who preferred the Cartesian account of the universe as a mechanistic, clock-work system. Descartes himself thought that he was doing the Church a service with his mechanistic theory and other writings, as he believed that his findings helped to support the position of a rational universe. However, Descartes’ mechanistic framework (as Hume rightly observed) actually works completely contrary to foundational doctrines of the Christian faith (e.g. God’s providence).

Combing the music and philosophy of science snippets, it seems that we have to admit that our paradigms (scientific or otherwise) have been “wrong.” Why could we not think of these different worldviews (i.e., Aristotelian or Cartesian or Newtonian etc.) in a way similar to how we view the divine/human element in Scripture, i.e., God is the Lord of history over these various and changing (scientific) worldviews, and He (knowing the end from the beginning) knows what paradigm will best comport with the corresponding conceptual categories of a certain period in history, thus allowing (ordaining?) that paradigm to basically “prevail,” which in turn provides a certain unity and explanatory power necessary for that time period. Such a suggestion seems to me to harmonize with our idea of God as incomprehensible and with e.g. a Poythress-inspired kind of multiperspectivalism. Stating this in a colloquial manner, given our inability to “wrap our minds around” this Triune God, his revelation, the Truth etc., God—who of course has known this from the “beginning,”—has accommodated us accordingly.

What is postmodernism? This is no doubt not an easy question. On the one hand, given its name, we might say that post-modernism is a reaction to modernity. The term “post-modern,” however, was not originally coined in philosophy, but was first used in architecture in the 1950’s by Charles Jenks in his, The Language of Post-Modern Architecture. The title itself at first has an odd rings to it, as language has to do with signification. But perhaps it is not so strange if we consider Jenks’ point to be that edifices necessarily “speak.” In his book, Jenks celebrates the death of modern architecture. His criticism is not that the buildings were destroyed by the communities that erected them for aesthetic reasons, but rather because they attracted crime. Hence, the insight is that human beings could not really exist in these buildings (neither in the structure nor in the theory). The buildings are inhuman—they do not speak, and thus they do not provide meaning/significance. In effect, they rest on the principle of immanence and are produced for “efficiency.” People will eventually reject such rigid environments that are no doubt “rational” but have the smell of death. (Here I can’t help but think of the apartment buildings –доми—in Russia that consist in pre-made concrete squares). The building are “rational,” yet they do not give people any meaning. In contrast, consider pre-modern architecture, in which the structures overflow with meaning. (Again, I think of the beautiful churches in Russia—церкви и соборы—that scream transcendence). With these building, definite patterns of behavior are suggested. Consequently, one does not have to invent meaning ex nihilo, whereas the modern, “rational” buildings demand that one create meaning. The modern buildings are not transcendent; they point only to their own sufficiency. In contrast, pre-modern church buildings point beyond themselves and overflow with transcendence.

So does Jenks suggest that we start building pre-modern structures again? No. Jenks acknowledges that many new construction practices have been introduced and that history itself won’t allow us to capture times past. Rather, he suggests that we build buildings that e.g., use modern materials and innovations, which simultaneously negate modernity through perhaps an eccentric shape or something that communicates “openness” and not just closed-in space.

Relating this back to a more straightforward philosophical focus, there is of course “good” and “bad” postmodernism. “Bad” postmodernism simply becomes a kind of game and language is no longer taken seriously. “Good” postmodernism, such as what we find in Jean-Luc Marion, embraces finitude and sees creation as iconic. In fact, Christian thinkers like Marion are doing an excellent job engaging positively and meaningfully with the postmodern movement, and in so doing Christianity is given a voice in circles that would otherwise prefer that that voice be silenced.

In the final chapter, “Applied Radical Orthodoxy: A Proposal for the Emerging Church,” Smith reflects upon the connections between tradition and postmodernism by way of a closer look at Radical Orthodoxy. Instead of abandoning particular, determinate confessional identities, Smith argues that a “persistent postmodernism” will issue in embracing and proclaiming “thick” confessional identities and distinctives (116-117). Here Smith is speaking against those versions of postmodernism that seek to promote a “religion without religion” and are consequently both a-historical and dis-incarnational. In distinction from this “quasi-postmodernism,” Radical Orthodoxy, in many ways embodies what Smith presents as a “third way” between radical, religious skepticism and over-confident, Cartesian-inspired objectivity. Smith’s mediating path—what he calls, “confessional realism,”—affirms both the reality of knowledge and truth, yet rejects a modern construal of objectivity (119-120). Along with Radical Orthodoxy, which begins with a strong affirmation of incarnation and as a result takes both tradition and history seriously, Smith as well calls for a “radical” affirmation of particularity with respect not only to time but also to space (and hence a sacramental worship and imagination). Instead of a disdain for history and embodiment that often characterized modernity, the postmodern church “must recover elements of ancient ritual and practice, for it is liturgy that honors our fleshiness” (136). This incarnational affirmation of liturgy, which presupposes embracing a holistic (rather than a Cartesian reductionistic) anthropology, is not, however, a call to a “nostalgic traditionalism,” but rather a retrieval of particular (Christian) tradition that is creatively re-harmonized in a distinctively postmodern key.

* Page numbers are from chapter 5, Smith, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism? Taking Derrida, Lyotard, and Foucault to Church

I consider myself neither a Thomist nor a Scotist; however, I do find many of Thomas’ arguments compelling. Because most of my philosophical study of the medievals thus far has been under Thomists, I would be interested in hearing from some Scotists. As I said in a previous post, my course work next Fall will include a doctoral course on Scotus’ metaphysics, but at this point my knowledge of Scotus is very limited. Nonetheless, I do enjoy engaging these issues.

*******
St. Thomas’ real distinction of essence and existence is that nothing in the order of essence counts for existence. In a sense, we might say that this is the key to his argument for God’s existence—if nothing in its “whatness” counts for why it exists—then we have to answer the why. Scotus approaches things differently. He speaks in terms of a “formal” distinction. That is, the divine ideas (creatibles) are formally not really distinct from the divine essence—i.e., they differ in thought only. Thus, there is not a real distinction because that would introduce composition in God. So the “creatibles” are formally distinct from the divine essence. Scotus is concerned to safeguard the unity and simplicity of God, and yet establish the patterns or natures that are to be created.

Because Scotus holds a univocal concept of being, a problem arises, viz., what accounts for the fact that this rose differs from that rose? So Scotus must come up with something that will account for the differences of things. Here we are not speaking of differences between e.g., a human being and a dog, but between say two human beings (i.e., individuals within the same species). In other words, how do we distinguish Plato from Socrates? We can distinguish formally between kinds, but what about individuals in the same species? Aristotle says that these are distinguished by matter under dimensions (or “signate matter”). St. Thomas says that what distinguishes individuals is their signate matter (the quantity which is the principle of potency and is the first accident). So in St. Thomas’ account we have things (i.e., physical composites) that are distinguished from other things in the same species by quantity of matter in different locations. (I.e., the “flesh, blood, and bones” are in different locations in regard to Socrates and Plato).

Scotus, on the other hand, makes a different argument and introduces his “haecceitas” (“thisness”). The distinction is not material, but the primary distinction is formal. There is a form of “thisness” that makes this rose to be this rose and not that rose (or that makes Socrates to be Socrates and not Plato). So the form of the “thisness” accounts for the individuality and individual characteristics. We must distinguish individual x from individual y within the same species because being is univocal. In light of his formal distinction, Scotus is able to come up with the notion of “haececeitas.”

In addition, singularity cannot be accounted for by signate matter/quantity. Why? Because quantity is an accident. Quantity as an accident depends on substance. In other words, Scotus is saying that you cannot have an accident (quantity and matter) accounting for an existing substance. Accordingly, given that the nine accidents are posterior to the substance and depend upon it, then quantity yields no solution. I.e., quantity cannot be that which differentiates within the species.

According to Scotus, in knowing the “whatness” of the nature (i.e., the quiddity), I do not know this being. For example, in knowing the reality of a desk, I do not know this desk—and the “thisness” is what Scotus wants to account for. Hence, since quantity as an accident cannot account for the “thisness,” then we have to have a formal difference. That is, each desk differs from every other desk in terms of a form—the form of “thisness.” So it is not merely the question of substantial form that differentiates among species (e.g., rational or non-rational), Scotus adds something else—a formal difference within the species that accounts for the difference. Thus, with Scotus we have a plurality of forms—a substantial form that accounts for “whatness” and haecceitas that accounts for “thisness.” (N.b., St. Thomas encountered a problem when he claimed the univocity of forms in the Condemnations of 1277).

Given that in Scotus’ account there is the form of haecceitas, this raises the question as to in what sense can there be a formal nature. In other words, by making the form utterly individual, then in what sense can we talk about the universality of things? According to the “traditional” Catholic rendition, Ockham will take this idea and run with it.

According to what I have been taught by a traditional Thomist, one would want to ask Scotus the following: Did the pre-Scotistic account simply say that quantity alone was the differentiating factor? The traditional Thomist answer is “no.” Quantity was the accident applied to the matter of the substance. So quantity is only one part of the distinction, and it is quantified matter. Matter is intrinsic to being a human or tree etc. To be human or a tree is precisely to have matter, which always exists under the dimension that is its nature. That is why there is no such thing as material potency that does not have dimension. It is then not the case that you have an accident determining substance, but the matter is the nature of the thing. So says the traditional Thomist, Scotus fails to distinguish between determinate and indeterminate dimensions. The determinate dimensions are not what makes one an individual because these change. But having indeterminate dimension is precisely part and parcel of being an individual substance. Thus, the answer from Thomas to Scotus–quantity is intrinsic to material potency.

We have been lucky to discover several previously lost diaries of French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre stuck in between the cushions of our office sofa. These diaries reveal a young Sartre obsessed not with the void, but with food. Apparently Sartre, before discovering philosophy, had hoped to write “a cookbook that will put to rest all notions of flavor forever.” The diaries are excerpted here for your perusal.

October 3: Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.

October 4: Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux suggested paprika.

October 6: I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese) is bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of cigarette, some coffee, and four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged, but my journey is still long.

October 10: I find myself trying ever more radical interpretations of traditional dishes, in an effort to somehow express the void I feel so acutely. Today I tried this recipe:

Tuna Casserole
Ingredients: 1 large casserole dish
Place the casserole dish in a cold oven. Place a chair facing the oven and sit in it forever. Think about how hungry you are. When night falls, do not turn on the light.

While a void is expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its inapplicability to the bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize that the food denied him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish? I am becoming more and more frustated.

October 25: I have been forced to abandon the project of producing an entire cookbook. Rather, I now seek a single recipe which will, by itself, embody the plight of man in a world ruled by an unfeeling God, as well as providing the eater with at least one ingredient from each of the four basic food groups. To this end, I purchased six hundred pounds of foodstuffs from the corner grocery and locked myself in the kitchen, refusing to admit anyone. After several weeks of work, I produced a recipe calling for two eggs, half a cup of flour, four tons of beef, and a leek. While this is a start, I am afraid I still have much work ahead.

November 15: Today I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a live beaver, challenging the very definition of the word cake. I was very pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but could not stay for dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement yet, and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.

November 30: Today was the day of the Bake-Off. Alas, things did not go as I had hoped. During the judging, the beaver became agitated and bit Betty Crocker on the wrist. The beaver’s powerful jaws are capable of felling blue spruce in less than ten minutes and proved, needless to say, more than a match for the tender limbs of America’s favorite homemaker. I only got third place. Moreover, I am now the subject of a rather nasty lawsuit.

December 1: I have been gaining twenty-five pounds a week for two months, and I am now experiencing light tides. It is stupid to be so fat. My pain and ultimate solitude are still as authentic as they were when I was thin, but seem to impress girls far less. From now on, I will live on cigarettes and black coffee.

Arguably Thomas Kuhn’s The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962) has been one of the most influential publications in the 20th century in regard to the philosophy of science, with of course far-reaching implications in many other realms. In fact, one might say that Kuhn’s work paved the way for science’s taking serious the findings of other disciplines (e.g., sociology, ethics, aesthetics) and has forced us to once again question the idea of “neutral” facts. In our evaluations of scientific theories, we must never forget that scientists are human beings and have their prejudices and presuppositions—just as we all do.

Though difficult to precisely define as used by Kuhn, a Kuhnian paradigm can be understood as an agreement among a certain group of scientists in regard to certain concrete solutions to central problems in one’s particular field. To put it differently and more broadly, one might also think of a paradigm as a type of worldview, for it involves both agreement and commitment to the paradigm. As Kuhn points out, science is not simply concerned with so-called “neutral” facts, nor is the scientist free from his/her presuppositions. If this is the case, then holding one paradigm over another is largely influenced by one’s educational background, training, values and many other factors that fund one’s worldview. Consequently, Kuhn suggests that he notion that science is merely an “objective” activity in which one comes to the “facts” and makes his/her conclusions in a “neutral” fashion is in actuality illusory and should be rejected.

In bringing our attention to the various sociological (and other) factors related to the forming of scientific theories, Kuhn claims that those holding the former prevailing paradigm tend to hold not “disinterestedly” to their view, but instead, “tenaciously” and often in spite of the “facts.” As Kuhn explains, the older scientists who resist the proposal of a new paradigm by the younger scientists (i.e., those not so tightly bound to or invested in the former paradigm) have a great deal to lose by rejecting their old paradigm and are faced with something more than a a mere “scientific” dilemma. Ethical issues, funding for research, and issues of one’s reputation are also aspects that must be factored into the “why” one chooses one paradigm over another.

In my opinion, Kuhn’s rejection of and calling into question so-called “neutral” facts is one of his most powerful contributions. The notion of a “fact” completely lacking in normative interpretation would simply constitute a meaningless fact (or as Van Til likes to say a “brute fact”). In reality, all facts are both theory-laden and involve human interpretation. It is simply impossible to have knowledge of facts apart from human interpretation. Given this situation, how can we fail to conclude that knowledge necessarily involves interpretation? As Reformed theologian, John Frame explains,

“We have no access to reality apart from our interpretative faculties. To seek such access is to seek release from creaturehood. We cannot step outside of our own skins. […] It is better to recognize frankly that all statements of fact are interpretations of reality and that all true interpretations are factual. When we speak of ‘checking out the facts,’ we are talking about comparing ideas (interpretation) of which we are unsure with ideas (interpretations) of which we are more sure. But we never dig deep enough to reach some ‘bedrock’ of pure factuality—facts undefiled by any interpretative activity. Such facts, by definition, could not be known at all, because knowledge itself is always interpretation” (The Doctrine of the Knowledge of God, p. 72.).

Similarly, as Kuhn observes, people decide what the facts are in conjunction with their system of interpretation. This being the case, there is no significant difference between determining what the facts are and determining the best system of interpretation, but rather these are the same process seen from different perspectives (Ibid., p. 72). Here we should note that the use of “fact” in this context is synonymous with “statement of fact.” The point being that in making a statement of fact one is in effect offering an interpretation of reality; hence, the two cannot be differentiated in any significant way [1]. Thus, Kuhn rightly brings to our attention that the idea of some kind of pure knowledge of fact untainted by our interpretation is simply illusory, and he emphasizes that scientists, whose work involves more than simply “observing” but likewise consists in analyzing and evaluating “facts,” are not exempt.

This being the case, then we cannot affirm that scientific theories simply report the “pure observed data.” By nature such theories go beyond the “data.” For example, take the issue of origins as set forth by evolutionary theorists. Another Reformed apologist, Dr. Greg Bahnsen, highlights the tension by asking how questions of origins are supposed to fit within the realm of empirical science. In other words, in what way is the methodology of science equipped to deal with events that are neither recurring nor repeatable under experimental control? It would appear more accurate to say that regarding the matter of origins as presented in the evolutionary theory, we have a theory based not on “facts” but on speculation. The scientist may reply that the study of present materials and processes allows one to extrapolate backwards in order to determine what “must have” occurred. However, as Bahnsen points out, this is a departure of science’s own basic methodology. In operating this way, the scientist is not observing but speculating on the course of historical development. She in no way demonstrates experimentally, but rather (as David Hume so clearly brought to our attention)assumes the uniformity of nature, and in so doing assumes that processes observed today have always operated as they do at present. Thus, as Bahnsen time and again emphasized, her pretending to answer questions about origins by extrapolating the observable present into the unobservable past is to reason in a vicious circle. Here it seems that we must conclude that such an approach can in no way be said to uphold the supposed descriptive role of science.

Frame, Bahnsen and Kuhn though no doubt disagreeing on a number of important issues, would certainly be in unision regarding the claim that scientists—as is the case with all living, breathing, embodied human beings—operate on the basis of pre-commitments and presuppositions that influence and even to a large degree determine the way that they “see” the so-called “objective facts.” As Frame explains,

“What we ‘see,’ ‘hear,’ ‘smell,’ ‘taste,’ and ‘feel’ is influenced by our expectations. Those expectations do not come from just sense-experience but from theories, cultural experience, group loyalties, prejudice, religious commitments, and so forth. Thus, there is no ‘purely empirical’ inquiry. We never encounter ‘brute,’ that is, uninterpreted, facts. We only encounter facts that have been interpreted in terms of our existing commitments. Often, then, scientists do not recognize data that contradict their theories. But even when they do, they do not immediately accept such data as refutations of the theories in question. An apparent contradictory datum constitutes a ‘problem’ to be solved in terms of the theory, not a refutation of it. Only when the problems multiply and alternative theories begin to look more promising will the scientist abandon his theory for another” (Ibid., p. 117).

Notes
[1] Frame emphasizes that this is not to say that facts understood as states of affairs are thus identical with one’s interpretations of them. It is, however, to assert that facts understood as “statement of fact” are indeed interpretations (100).

In chapter four, “Power/Knowledge/Discipline: Foucault and the Possibilities of a Postmodern Church,” of his book, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism? Taking Derrida, Lyotard, and Foucault to Church, James K.A. Smith engages what has become a Foucaultian slogan, “power is knowledge”—again de-mythologizing many of the popular (evangelical) mis-understandings leveled against Foucault. As Smith explains, “for Foucault, at the root of our most cherished and central institutions—hospitals, schools, businesses, and, yes, prisons—is a network of power relations. The same is true of our most celebrated ideals; at root, Foucault claims, knowledge and justice reduce to power” (85). Foucault’s claim that “power is knowledge,” is not meant to suggest that power and knowledge are identical. Rather, as Smith observes, Foucault is pointing to an inextricable relationship between the two. “What counts as knowledge, is not neutrally determined. Instead, […] it is constituted within networks of power—social, political, and economic” (85). In other words, what Foucault sees fueling our institutions and ideas are “power-knowledge” relations—a conclusion to which arrives not in a priori fashion, but by way of his genealogical method of analyzing concrete instances. As Smith engages various passages from Foucault’s writings, what comes to the surface is that Foucault’s understanding of the nature of power seems to involve power as a form of control. Moreover, for Foucault, institutions such as the modern penitentiary are in effect microcosms or mirrors reflecting society as a whole with both sharing the same goal—“disciplinary power aimed at normalization” (94). As is the case with his analysis of Derrida and Lyotard, Smith is not uncritical of Foucault. For example, Smith states that at bottom Foucault is deeply modern in his commitment to an Enlightenment conception of autonomous freedom, and that this (in part) drives his suspicion of institutions of discipline. Yet, in spite of these criticisms, Smith finds Foucault’s analysis of the “role of discipline in formation” quite convincing (99). Appropriating the “gold” in Foucault’s findings, while leaving his presuppositions regarding “negative freedom” by the wayside, Smith points us to biblical conceptions of power and discipline that instead of leading to a nonconformist stance directs us to “an alternative conformity through a counterformation in Christ, a transformation and renewal directed toward conformity to his image” (101). Moreover, Foucault has helped us to see that structural or formal mechanisms of discipline are at work in all our institutions—whether designated “secular” or “sacred.” However, instead of casting all discipline in a negative light, we should consider the telos to which these disciplines are directed. The Christian telos is directed toward “glorifying God and enjoying him forever”—in other words, the beatific vision. On the other hand, disciplinary forms that direct us away from being renewed image bearers of God and toward, e.g., production and consumption as our final telos, are in fact mis-directed (102). [The distinction between “structure” and (mis)direction strikes me as a Dooyeweerdian influence]. Here Smith makes a nice connection with the previous chapter on Lyotard and the role of narrative. That in which we consider the telos of human beings to consist is dependent upon the “ultimate story we tell of what human beings are and what humans are called to be” (103). Thus, what constitutes proper human formation is in the end inseparable from and even determined by the particular founding narrative that we confess as true (103).

From time to time, I suppose it’s a good idea to post a non-philosophical thing or two. So here’s another music-sharing post. Since the recording quality on the jazz tunes from a previous post was so poor, I had to “redeem” myself with three additional tunes. These are from my folk/blues/Green “Eric Clapton” stratocaster days.

1. Psalm 107 (lyrics and music/Nielsen).
2. Enamel (lyrics and music/ Currie).*
3. Finn’s Lullaby (lyrics and music/Currie).*

Band: Peculiar People
Vocals: Madeleine Currie (Grace Currie, background vocals #3)
Rhythm and lead guitar: Cynthia R. Nielsen (*Nick Holovaty, rhythm guitar #2)
Piano: Kostya Gusikin
Bass: Alex Petersen
Recorded: Moscow, Russia (1997)

Jean-François Lyotard was one of the first to attempt a “definition” of postmodernity as “incredulity toward metanarratives [grand reçits, big stories].” Of course Christianity claims to be the metanarrative par excellence. This being the case, it is often asked, “How can postmodernity and Christianity possibly be harmonized?” According to James K.A. Smith in his provocative book, Who’s Afraid of Postmodernism? Taking Derrida, Lyotard, and Foucault to Church, a harmonization is possibile, but first we must understand what Lyotard means by “metanarrative.” The incredulity that postmoderns exhibit toward “big stories,” does not involve a rejection of narratives, myths, or grand totalizing claims about the nature of reality. Rather, the problem with distinctively modern “metanarratives” as explicated by Lyotard in his work, The Postmodern Condition, is that they fail to acknowledge their own narrative nature. “Lyotard very specifically defines metanarratives as universal discourses of legitimation that mask their own particularity; that is, metanarratives deny their narrative ground even as they proceed on it as a basis. […] The problem with [modern] metanarratives is that they do not own up to their own mythic ground” (Smith, p. 69). In other words, the postmodern critique involves the proclamation that all knowledge is a narrative or myth of some sort. Given this understanding of a distinctively modern metanarrative, Smith suggests that Christians ought to embrace Lyotard’s critique. As Smith explains, the reason that this harmonization is essentially consonant rather than dissonant is that the Christian faith (particularly the Dutch Reformed Tradition—but one might also cite Radical Orthodoxy here) does not claim to be legitimated by an appeal to “a universal, autonomous reason, but rather by an appeal to faith (or, to translate, myth or narrative),” postmodernism does not indicate a rejection of the Christian metanarrative but instead “represents a retrieval of a fundamentally Augustinian epistemology that is attentive to the structural necessity of faith preceding reason” (Smith, pp. 68, 72).

What do I have to add—Молодец! Я сосласна! I highly recommend Smith’s book—he does an excellent job of “demythologizing” the common (evangelical) misunderstandings of postmodernism and in more or less “conversational” language.

[The title of this post is dedicated to James G. : )].

The paragraphs below are a brief introduction to certain aspects of Cornelius Van Til’s teaching on God’s revelation of Himself in special revelation (written or verbal) and natural or general revelation of God via the created order [1]. Though Van Til distinguishes between special and general revelation, he is, however, careful to qualify this distinction, describing it as two aspects of God’s one revelation that imply each other. That is, from the beginning natural and special revelation were designed to work together, with natural revelation serving as the necessary context for special revelation [2]. According to Van Til even in the original, prelapsarian state of our first parents, supernatural revelation was absolutely necessary, as natural revelation was in a sense “incomplete” without the former.

“It is of prime importance to observe that even in paradise man was never meant to study nature by means of observation and experiment without connection with positive super-natural thought communication given to him by God. Nature could not be observed for what it actually is except in relation to history, and history cannot be seen for what it is at any stage except it be viewed in relation to its final end. And only by direct supernatural revelation could man have an adequate notion of this end” [3].

Here we should perhaps backtrack and state that for Van Til there are a number of crucial presuppositions necessarily involved in his concept of Christian revelation. The first is that Christian revelation is based upon the presupposition that God is “absolute and absolutely self-conscious,” and was so before He created the world. Secondly, human beings are created in the image of God, which is understood as a corollary derived from the idea of God as absolutely self-conscious [4]. That is, God as “original” is perfectly self-sufficient in Himself and does not need to create in order to come to self-consciousness. Human beings, however, are derivative and dependent beings, and as such were created to imitate and reflect God. Epistemologically speaking, we might say that human beings are to think in self-conscious submission to God’s thoughts as revealed in special revelation (verbal or written). In fact, human self-consciousness is itself revelatory of God, as it imitates God’s absolute self-consciousness. Prior to the “Fall,” Adam and Eve embraced their own self-consciousness as the “immediate, but wholly derivative starting point,” and likewise understood God’s absolute self-consciousness as the “remote but wholly ultimate starting point” of all knowledge [5]. Thus, Adam and Eve in their pristine state did not seek absolute comprehensive knowledge, but understood that their finite knowledge was true because it was based on God’s comprehensive knowledge [6].

Notes
[1] With the phrase “general revelation,” Van Til stresses the “fact that this revelation is accessible to all men and valid for all men even though only believers interpret it [in an ultimate way] truly.” This statement must of course be qualified and interpreted in light of Van Til’s teaching on common grace which allows for believers to know rightly “after a fashion” or in a surface way. With the term “natural revelation,” Van Til indicates “where this revelation may be found, that is, in the created order” (Introduction to Systematic Theology, p. 75).
[2] For example, Van Til writes, “in the first place, it is a fact that man in paradise did get such information [i.e., direct, verbal revelation from God], and that it was to him of the highest significance. This revelation pertained particularly to the highest reaches of development that God had in store for man. The tradition of this naturally carried on, and man was responsible for it. In the second place, the revelation was originally given as a supplement to the revelation that God had directly deposited in nature and in man. Together they brought to Adam the knowledge of the whole plan of God with respect to man. From reflection on the created universe as such, therefore, man could not have learned the full plan for him, especially as it pertained to his future. In fact it would have been impossible for man in paradise to study nature out of relation to the special supernatural communication of God with respect to it. Revelation in nature is but a limiting concept, a concept incomplete without its correlative as found in supernatural communication” (Introduction to Systematic Theology, p. 96).
[3] Ibid. , p. 68.
[4] Ibid. , pp. 62-63. As Van Til explains, “man’s creation in God’s image involves (a) the fact that man’s ideal of knowledge should never be that of the comprehension of God, and (b) the fact that man’s knowledge is nevertheless true. […] Nothing could be added to his [God’s] store of knowledge in any process of time. In accordance with his plan, […] all finite things were made. Hence, all knowledge that any finite creature of God would ever have, whether of things that pertain directly to God or of things that pertain to objects in the created universe itself would, in the last analysis, have to rest upon the revelation of God” (Ibid. , p. 63).
[5] Ibid. , p. 70.
[6] A few pages later, Van Til writes, “in paradise man would naturally know the true state of affairs as to his subordination to God. He would never start from himself, or, as it is termed in modern times, from ‘experience’ as from something that is known to himself whether or not God exists. He would not, as modern theology in general and modern psychology of religion in particular do, begin with the ‘native witness’ of the ‘religious consciousness’ in order to argue from it as from an independent something about the existence or the nature of God.” Van Til then explains what he understands to be two critical mistakes of “rational theology.” First, “it is taken for granted that the religious consciousness, as it exists after the entrance of sin, is normal.” Secondly, “it is taken for granted that the consciousness of man in general, and therefore, the ‘religious consciousness’ in particular, can be used as an ultimate starting point from which to begin an argument about the existence and the nature of God. In contrast to this, Adam in paradise actually was normal, and therefore did not think that he was ultimate. Hence he recognized that he could have no rational theology unless he had a true psychology; that is, he could learn nothing from himself about God unless he knew and recognized himself as a creature made in God’s image” (Introduction to Systematic Theology, p. 73, emphases added).

A couple of noteworthy passages spoken through Soren Kierkegaard’s persona, Johannes Climacus.

“But if the God and man are absolutely different, this cannot be accounted for on the basis of what man derives from the God, for in so far they are akin. Their unlikeness must therefore be explained by what man derives from himself, or by what he has brought upon his own head. But what can this unlikeness be? Aye, what can it be but sin; since the unlikeness, the absolute unlikeness, is something that man has brought upon himself. We have expressed this in the preceding by saying that man was in Error, and had brought this upon his head by his own guilt” (Philosophical Fragments, pp. 46-47).

“One should not think slightingly of the paradoxical; for the paradox is the source of the thinker’s passion, and the thinker without a paradox is like a lover without feeling: a paltry mediocrity” (Ibid., p. 46)

* Kierkegaard, Søren. Philosophical Fragments, 2nd ed. Princeton: PrincetonUniversity Press, 1962.

In St. Thomas, the notion of being is analogical. Consequently, Thomas rules out univocal predication between God and creatures. Scotus, on the other hand, claims that we can univocally predicate of God and humans. Thus, for Scotus, God is understood as the “Supreme Being” (infinite Being) whereas human beings are finite beings. According to St. Thomas, God is ipsum esse subsistens and “outside” of God there is nothing. No created being is pure “to be” itself, as God alone (who is not a “being”) holds this position. Created beings receive their being according to the limitation of their essence (n.b., Recall that this is Thomas’ correction of Avicenna’s existence as a tenth accident). These (created) beings have a present, past, and future and are finite beings. So we see that for Aquinas, the fundamental distinction is the Creator/creature distinction—viz., he distinguishes between God as subsistent “to be” verses the “is”, “was”, “will be” of all other beings (Socrates, Rover, etc.). In contrast, for Scotus the fundamental distinction is not subsistent “to be,” but Being itself. For Scotus, all beings from God down to the lowest atom are “beings. ” Hence, being is predicated of every one of them univocally. So there is the “infinite” being (God) and there are various finite beings (according to the “chain of being”)—all the way down to the non-being of nothing. Thus, according to Scotus, one can say that God is the infinite being and thus can predicate being of God in the same way that one predicates the being of Socrates, i.e., univocally. With Scotus, we do not have Thomas’ analogy of being, but the primacy of being—being that is univocal for both God and creatures. Being is the primary term predicated of God and the difference between creatures and God is that God is infinite being. One might say that this is a very Avicennian understanding yet from a completely different motivation. With Avicenna you have the Being/One that necessarily emanates and gives being to the different possible essences. In differentiation, Scotus, of course, wants to safeguard the very possibility of free creation. Thus, Scotus’ motivation is completely the opposite of Avicenna’s because he wants to say that God creates freely and that He gives being. Lastly, we might add that it is Scotus’ (not Aquinas’) understanding of being as univocal that leads to Heidegger’s onto-theology critique. Many have suggested that Heidegger’s whole understanding of Christianity is from a Scotus perspective. So Heidegger sees a problem with Scotus’ construal, viz., a conflating of the Creator/creature distinction because of Scotus’ acceptance of the univocity of being between God and creatures. This was not the case with Aquinas.

*This is one interpretation at least. No doubt there are other interpretations out there. Perhaps after I complete my coursework next semester (which includes a course on Scotus’ metaphysics), I will think otherwise.

It is often said that St. Thomas is simply a “baptized Aristotle.” Such a statement is both an overstatement and is highly problematic when one engages St. Thomas’ writings. No doubt Thomas follows Aristotle in significant ways, but he also purposely departs from the Philosopher on numerous points because of his [Thomas’] commitment to Christian doctrine. Whatever one thinks of St. Thomas’ teachings, I am convinced that his arguments are worth hearing and should be engaged rather than simply mis-characterizing him as a “baptized Aristotle.”

Starting with a bit of background information to “set the scene,” we note first one of the big “problems” in the Middle Ages, viz., creatio ex nihilo. Whether Latin Averroist or Avicennian in one’s orientation, the basic difficulty that continued to rise to the surface is, “how do we get something from nothing,” i.e., “how is it “rational” to hold that being comes from non-being?” Recalling that for Aristotle, energia/form is the principle of ousia (substance), i.e., the form is the prime principle which makes something “what it is/was to be,” but it is also the very existence of the substance. The Platonists, of course, were not happy with this view and offered the following critique, viz., if form does not exist in itself, then how can a non-existing substantial form account for existence? This highlights the aforementioned problem of how to get being out of non-being. This then led to Avicenna’s attempted solution. According to Avicenna, the One emanates being/existence in the mind as (1) a universal or (2) in the thing as a singular. Hence, being/existence comes from outside, i.e., from the One and existence is an accident – the 10th accident (speaking in terms of the 9 categories). Averroes, being the good Aristotlean that he was, of course objected and critiqued Avicenna’s view, viz., the idea of existence as a 10th accident. Averroes asks, “How can we have existence as an attribute or accident?” This would in effect cancel out the other nine attributes.

What is Thomas’ response? Thomas combines elements of Avicenna and Aristotle—i.e., he synthesizes and transforms both. From Avicenna, Thomas takes the idea that essence and existence are accidents coming from the “One” and combines this with Aristotle’s potency and act understanding—matter of course being the principle of potency and what endures in any change. However, with Averroes, Thomas rejects Avicenna’s idea of existence as the 10th accident. So Thomas will follow Aristotle and the others at certain points and depart with them on others. (Just like St. Augustine, who called this “pillaging the Egyptian gold”). For example, Thomas argues that essence itself is potential to existence—existence is received not as a 10th accident (contra Avicenna), but rather as the very actuality of the being itself. So Avicenna was wrong to say that existence is a 10th accident, but the idea that existence “comes from the outside” is correct. Thus, according to Thomas existence is the actuality and essence is the principle of potentiality. Existence is the act of that potentiality by which there is a concrete being (e.g., Socrates, Plato, etc.). Why does Thomas say this? Because in Aristotle, we were not able to account for actual existence (Aristotle did account for the “whatness,” but not the actual existence—this was the Platonist critique). But if we have existence received from outside, then how do we account for this? Thomas develops his answer and provides an argument in his philosophical work, De Ente et Essentia.

The heart of the De Ente argument and perhaps Thomas’ most important philosophical insight is that existence is the act of all acts. Form is the principle of act and matter is the principle of potency (Aristotle claimed that this was the case at the level of essence or “whatness”). The potentially of matter allows for the receiving of different forms. But this does not account for the “that by which” something is. That is, Aristotle does account for the “what” of something, but Thomas’ argument provides an answer for the “that by which”—this is crucial because Aristotle’s account could not yield a solution, as it lacked the conceptual resources of divine revelation.

In his argument Aquinas wants to address the issue of how in intellectuality there cannot be matter. Bonaventure had introduced “spiritual matter” in order to account for the movement from ignorance to knowledge (i.e., from potency to act). According to Aquinas, all our knowledge is from material (particulars) to universals. The senses give us everything particular, singular, and concrete. Because the mind is incapable of knowing anything particular and singular, it can only know singulars through universals. Thus, the idea is that there is no knowledge that the mind has that is not universal. Consequently, Thomas goes after Bonaventure’s argument regarding “spiritual matter” because it would disallow for knowledge. As Thomas points out, form is the act of matter at the level of essence, but form does not account for its own existence—it is the act of what exists. So if form is one thing, form must be united to being in some fashion or other before anything exists, or else we violate the principle of non-contradiction (i.e., we get being from non-being) and Parmenides would not be happy. In every form there is no necessity to exist. Existence must be united to it and must come to it, i.e., unless there is a being in whose essence is his existence. In other words, essence doesn’t account for existence, unless there happens to be a being whose essence is not composed of existence but whose essence is its existence. Thomas goes on to argue that if there is a being whose essence is his existence, then such a being can only be absolutely one, simple and unique.

In sum, Thomas solves the problem associated with creatio ex nihilo by combining Aristotle’s understanding of matter/form and act/potency for the level of essence (which Thomas knows is inadequate to address the problem of existence) with elements of Avicenna’s solution. However, Thomas doesn’t accept that existence is an accident and thus turns Avicenna’s accident into the very act by which all essences are the potential. So in every being there is an essence/existence, potency/ act composition, except for that being in whose essence is his existence, viz., the God of Exodus.

I have recently signed a document entitled “Presbyterians & Presbyterians Together.” If you are interested in reading or signing the document, it can be found at the following website, Presbyterians Together. The site also contains more information regarding the movement and what it hopes to accomplish.

I am in full agreement with John Frame (one of the signers), who writes,

“For many years I have felt that Presbyterians have wasted valuable time debating one another, time that could better be spent in worship, evangelism, and nurture. Pure doctrine is important, but total unanimity on every disputable issue is impossible, and that is not required by Scripture. So we need to be more careful about our priorities. We also need to take much greater care to be fair and gracious to one another when debates do arise. The principles expressed by the Presbyterians Together document give us biblical guidance in this area.”
– John Frame

It is encouraging to me to see a number of Presbyterian pastors and leaders who take seriously both unity and diversity, and in so doing imitate more accurately the original unity and diversity of our Triune God. If we as Presbyterians cannot find unity among our own demonination, why should we expect “outsiders” to listen to us with any degree of seriousness? Likewise, if we demand an impossible “sameness” and thus disallow for healthy diversity, how are we to be distinguished from secular movements that swallow up diversity and in so doing create idols in their own image? Lastly, if we somehow think that we can divorce the “how” in terms of our interactions with one another in theological discourse from the “what” of our albeit “correct” doctrine, we have to wonder whether that doctrine has really penetrated the innermost recesses of the whole person. Here Calvin instructs us well, “Doctrine is not an affair of the tongue, but of the life; is not apprehended by the intellect and memory merely, like other branches of learning; but is received only when it possesses the whole soul, and finds its seat and habitation in the inmost recesses of the heart” (Institutes, III.vi).

Brief Introduction

“Presbyterians & Presbyterians Together” is an inter-denominational grass-roots movement among Reformed pastors and leaders that desires to heal and move beyond the various rifts that seem to perennially surface in our tradition.

While we acknowledge that important and substantive issues need to be considered and worked-through, we want to do so in the bonds of peace, not in a context of mistrust, suspicion, and sectarianism. We do this all for the sake of Christ’s Gospel and our Triune God’s mission to a lost and broken world. God calls us in Christ, empowered by his Spirit, and guided by his Word, to proclaim and be a sign of his reign before the eyes of a watching world. Living as people shaped by that calling, we remain committed to truth and pursuing truth in love. It is in that spirit that we offer the petition of this document.