Per Caritatem

I finished the last “batch” of corrections from my primary and secondary readers and now my MA thesis is “officially” completed. If you are interested in obtaining a copy, you can download the thesis, Either/Or: Either Rationality in Submission to and Defined by the Other or (Ir)rationality as Autonomous and Self-Defined, in PDF format.

In chapter two of his book, The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, Bruce Ellis Benson observes that we tend to think that a musical composition is finished when the piece (in its “final” version) is written down. However, there are a number of assumptions that we should question in connection with such a conclusion. For example, why assume that a process of revisions always leads to a better version, much less to the “perfect” version? Beethoven was known for ceaselessly revising and offering a number of variants for musical passages and entire sections. Even if we grant that his revisions generally improved his work, we should not necessarily conclude that they always did so. Beethoven himself often commented that his works contained a number of imperfections that he simply had to let stand given his duties and other commitments. Thus, as Benson points out, there are number of “nonartistic” reasons for compositions reaching a “completion” stage. “[T]he vicissitudes of life have a way of deciding something is finished—whether or not the artist is of the same opinion” (p. 68).

Is there a sense in which a composition becomes “fixed” and definite, or is it the case that even for the composer there is a certain “indefiniteness” and indeterminacy involved in his or her work even when the composition is “finished”? Arguing for the latter, Benson notes that though it is the case that composers have “reasonably” definite intentions, “it would be impossible for their intentions to encompass all of the details of any given piece”(p. 67). In other words, often or perhaps most of the time, the composer himself is unsure exactly how he wants the every aspect and detail of the work to sound until the piece is actually played with a specific group and very particular instrumentation. Mozart, for example, would at times perform different versions of the same work to a group of friends in order to seek their input as to which is preferred. Benson proffers a number of other examples, which I will forego for brevity’s sake.

There is also the additional complication of the performer “rightly” interpreting the composer’s intentions. To illustrate, Benson quotes Edward Cone who comments on the difficulties performers face in playing Chopin’s music, “The performer’s first obligation, then, is to the score—but to what score? The autograph or the first printed edition? The composer’s hasty manuscript or the presumably more careful copy by a trusted amanuensis? The composer’s initial version or his later emendation? [and so on]”[1] (p. 70) To be sure one might give good reasons for choosing and preferring one version over another. But still we must recognize that performers, conductors and arrangers play a role in the process of composing, i.e., composing a work that is already “finished.” Yet, as we stated earlier, composers certainly have some definite intentions, but how extensive those intentions are is another question (as Benson asks, using Husserlian language—are they “vague” or “distinct” intentions?). Composers can and do, for instance, change their minds about certain works over a long period of time. Likewise, composers may not even be aware of a lack of determinacy until the work is performed. Though dealing with verbal content, Benson cites a passage by Hirsch that is applicable to musical content, “Determinacy does not mean definiteness or precision. Undoubtedly, most verbal meanings are imprecise and ambiguous, and to call them such is to acknowledge their determinacy: they are not univocal and precise. This is another way of saying that an ambiguous meaning has a boundary like any other verbal meaning, and that one of the frontiers on this boundary is that between ambiguity and univocality”[2] (p. 74). We tend to associate boundary with precision, so “what does it mean for an ambiguous meaning to have a ‘boundary’”? (p. 74). As Benson points out, boundaries can of course be conceived differently. For example, they can be thought as rigid and inflexible or in a more flexible and bending way. This more flexible conception is the model for which Benson argues in terms of the “boundaries” of a musical work.

Notes
[1] Edward T. Cone, “The Pianist as Critic,” in The Practice of Performance Studies in Musical Interpretation, p. 244.
[2] E.D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation, pp. 44-45.

Bruce Ellis Benson in his book, The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, argues that instead of choosing between Werktreu[1] or a kind of musical anarchy, we should look to the past where we find a way of conceiving music composition as an event in which the composer and performer become “co-creators.” Using Gadamar as a way to help us to begin thinking about models of music composition, Ellis writes, “Gadamer claims that an ideal dialogue has what he calls the ‘logical structure of openness.’ I think there are at least two aspects to this ‘openness.’ First, the conversation often brings something into the open: it sheds new light on what is being discussed and allows us to think about it (or, in this case, hear it) in a new way. Second, the dialogue is itself open, since it (to quote Gadamer) is in a ‘state of indeterminacy.’ In order for a genuine dialogue to take place, the outcome cannot be settled in advance. Without at least some ‘loose-play’ or uncertainty, true conversation is impossible” (p. 15). As Benson notes, Gadamar of course realizes that this is the “ideal” for conversations and that they do not always flesh out in this manner. Likewise, in stressing “openness,” Gadamer is not suggesting that dialogues are without rules. Rather, “the rules are what allow the conversation to take place at all. In effect, they open up a kind of space in which dialogue can be conducted” (p. 15). Though rules are essential for a dialogue to occur, they can be overly restrictive or more on the “open” and “flexible” side and “are themselves open to continuing modification” (p. 15). Though today we tend to think of classical music as not particularly open, Benson shows that historically this view is relatively new and in fact is only one way, not the way to view composition. For example, in the 1800s there were two characteristic ways of conceiving composition and these were exemplified by Beethoven and Rossini. Though no doubt these composers represent two different styles of music, the deeper significance lies in the differing ways that they understand the nature of musical compositions, the role of the performance in expressing them, and the relation between the artist and the community (p. 16). As Benson explains, “Beethoven saw his symphonies as ‘inviolable musical “texts” whose meaning is to be deciphered with ‘exegetical’ interpretations; a Rossini score, on the other hand, is a mere recipe for a performance’ (Carl Dahlhaus, Nineteenth-Century Music, p. 9 [Benson, p. 16]. In other words, Beethoven’s view is the more recent, innovative view that has come to characterize how we think of classical music as Werktreu, whereas Rossini’s conception was significantly more flexible, allowing the performer to participate in the creative process. Moreover, for Rossini, “it was not the work that was given precedence; rather, the work (and thus the composer) was in effect a partner in dialogue with performers and listeners” (Ibid., pp. 16-17).

A number of interesting parallels might be drawn in relation to Biblical hermeneutics.

Notes
[1] A rather strict faithfulness first to the work and second to the composer.

I recently finished a book by Philipp W. Rosemann, entitled, Understanding Scholastic Thought with Foucault, and would highly recommend it to anyone with both medieval and postmodern sensibilities. Among the many topics and theses that Rosemann engages, the following were particularly interesting: (1) the presentation of a paradigm in which we understand the Western philosophical tradition in terms of the broad structure of a mythos/logos dialectic and scholastic thought with its sophia/moria dialectic reflects a moment within that larger context, (2) a discussion of the text-centeredness of the Scholastic culture and the conviction that though both the text of the world and the text of Scripture are to be read in light of their God given intelligibility, they are not exhaustible; hence, the “openness” of Scholastic thought which leads to more and more commentaries which together help us to gain more insight on the whole, yet never with the view to comprehension (3) an explanation of how St. Thomas convincingly brings together Greek circularity and Christian linearity, (4) a Foucaultian take on the need to understand an episteme’s “outside” in order to understand the episteme, (5) the “witch-hunt” as an example of the way in which the Scholastic episteme “closed the circle” and became irrationality, (6) a discussion of the “openness” of the quaestio vs. the new literary forms of e.g., Suarez, (7) an alternative take on Descartes [following Marion] and Luther both in respect to negative theology and the desire to safeguard God’s transcendence.

The book is exceedingly well-written, the ideas are presented with clarity and appeal, and Rosemann provides a helpful appendix entitled, “The Library of the Medievalist Philosopher.”

In contrast with Auriole, for Ockham there is “no necessary relationship between salvation and grace-induced habits of love” (The Age of Reason, p. 37). This view is reflected in Ockham’s statement, “Quidquid Deus producit mediantibus causis secundis potest immediate sine illis producere et conservare,” i.e., “whatever God can produce by means of secondary causes, he can directly produce and preserve without them.” Just as God in his potentia absoluta was able to cause intuitive knowledge in the human mind of something that does not exist, he can also save people without infused habits of grace (Ibid., p. 37).

Ockham is said to have gone overboard in his desire to stress the radical contingency of creation, as well as all things ecclesiastical—churches, sacraments etc. As Ozment points out, Ockham founded his teaching on two traditional sources. First, he appealed to Augustine’s view of the church on earth as permixta, that is made up of both believers and unbelievers. Here what counts is not present grace, but ultimately the gift of perseverance which is given to the elect only (see, City of God, bk. 1, ch. 35). Secondly, Ockham based his teaching on the distinction between the potentia absoluta Dei and the potentia ordinata Dei, the absolute and ordained power of God. Below is a concise summary of Ockham’s understanding of this distinction:

“Sometimes we mean by God’s power those things which he does according to laws he himself has ordained and instituted. These things he is said to do by ordained power [de potentia ordinata]. But sometimes God’s power is taken to mean his ability to do anything that does not involve a contradiction, regardless of whether or not he has ordained that he would do it. For God can do many things that he does not choose to do […] These things he is said to be able to do by his absolute power [de potentia absoluta]” (Quodlibeta VI, q. I, cited by Dettloff, Die Entwicklung der Akzepations— und Verdienslehre, p. 282) [as found in Ozment, p. 38].

Here we should note that Ockham’s view of God’s absolute power does not involve God acting contrary to the law of non-contradiction. Secondly, the contrast between ordained and absolute power seems to be employed by Ockham to stress the radical contingency of everything that is not God, and to show that what God actually did chose to do in time could have been otherwise, as there were infinite possibilities that could have been ordained. As is well known, many have criticized Ockham’s view as overly speculative and ultimately detrimental to the church and faith. Since this view is common, I will discuss another interpretation that views Ockham’s theology within an Augustinian trajectory in its emphasis on the radical finitude of creation.[1] Pointing to recent scholarship on Ockham, Ozment writes, “Rather, than believing that God actually suspended the laws of nature and ignored the priestly sacramental system of salvation, despite his theoretical ability to do so, Ockham too taught that God normally saved people by grace-induced habits of love. Where he drew the line more indelibly than most, however, was at the suggestion that people were necessarily saved by such habits. That, he believed, was an insult to both human and divine freedom.” [For Ockham] … salvation could never finally be dependent upon qualities within individuals or upon assumed real connections between, God, grace, and the soul, even though God had elected to save people by infused habits of grace” (Ibid., p. 39). In the end, salvation depends squarely on the trustworthiness of God’s will and word. Here we have the wedding of Ockham’s philosophy and theology. That is, just as in matters of genuine knowledge, words as verbal conventions connected the human mind with reality, so too in matters soteriological, words expressed as covenants and promises connect the human being to God” (Ibid., pp. 39-40).

Though some claim that Ockham’s position results in a fideism that ultimately destroys the church, Ozment points out that Ockham’s view “was at least as conducive to the conservation of a vibrant ecclesiastical institution and spiritual life as a more generous view of the theological reach of reason and the metaphysical concept of the working of grace. If, as Ockham argued, revelation was the exclusive access to God, then much hinged on the example and credibility of its custodian; in the very contingency of the Christian church lay an urgent mandate to reform it, not to oppose it, and certainly not to seek alternatives to it” (Ibid., p. 40). Ozment ends the section on Ockham observing that in spite of his stated intentions, his position is Peligian. (Because I have discussed the Peligianism of Ockham’s position in a previous post, I won’t rehash it again).

Notes
[1] This is not to say that I accept or follow everything that Ozment says here, yet some points are worth considering.

Peter Auriole, O.F.M. (ca. 1280-1322) was strongly opposed to Scotus’ view of salvation and his emphasis on the covenant. Auriole, though working from the basic Thomistic position of the importance of the created habit of grace, took St. Thomas’ position to its extreme, and argued that the reason for God’s acceptance of an individual lay “‘in re,’ in the very nature of the one accepted and saved” (The Age of Reason, p. 36). In contrast to Scotus’ axiom that created beings have nothing intrinsic in them to make God accept them, Auriole’s claim was, “Caritas est ratio acceptationis ex natura rei et de necessitate,” i.e., “Love is the cause of divine acceptance by its very nature and of necessity” (Ibid., p. 36). According to Auriole, salvation is not a mere matter of covenants, but involves like attracting like (Ibid., pp. 36-37). Again, contra Scotus, for Auriole, whether from the point of view God’s ordained power (the execution of God’s will in time) or God’s absolute power (God’s will eternally considered), “acts of love intrinsically won divine acceptance” (Ibid., p. 37). As mentioned previously, Auriole’s view is considered an exaggerated and distorted take on Thomas’ position. Similarly, Ockham’s position was an extreme restatement of Scotus—a topic we shall engage in the next post.

Duns Scotus (ca. 1265-1308) was highly critical of St. Thomas’ position regarding the infused habit of grace. Scotus saw himself continuing the Augustinian tradition and in light of Augustine’s teaching on predestination, Scotus wanted to avoid any doctrine that seemed to suggest that God saved human beings because of something intrinsic within them. For Scotus, God’s freedom and omnipotence must not be compromised; consequently, Thomas’ idea of an accidental form of grace within the human soulsthat might obligate God to save those who, e.g., attempted to love him habitually, was unacceptable (The Age of Reason, p. 33). God’s will and God’s will alone was “primary in the definition of the Christian. What God decreed in man’s regard was far more important to his salvation than any quality of soul he might come to possess; people were saved only because God first willed it, never because they were intrinsically worthy of it” (Ibid., p. 33).

Though Ockham is famously associated with the principle of parsimony (the “razor”), Scotus had a razor of his own that he employed against Thomas’ doctrine of salvation, viz., nihil creatum formaliter est a deo acceptandum (“nothing created must, for reasons intrinsic to it, be accepted by God”). In other words, that which is created and finite can in no way determine that which is uncreated and infinite. “Every relationship God had outside himself was, by definition, absolutely free, contingent, unconditioned, in no way obligatory. From Scotus’ perspective, Aquinas bound God too closely to the church’s system of grace and tended to lose sight of the great distance that obtained between God’s eternal will and its execution in time through created orders and finite agents. Thomist theology seemed to run the danger of entangling the divine will in the secondary causation of the church, priests, sacraments, and accidental forms of grace” (Ibid., p. 33). St. Thomas, of course, did not teach that God was a debtor to human beings or to any other creature; however, he did claim that God was a debtor to himself and to what he had established and set in motion (which of course includes his ordained system of salvation) [pp. 33-34].

According to Scotus, God’ ordinations play only a secondary, not primary role in regard to things soteriological and were thus contingent through and through. For Scotus, we must distinguish between God’s will established from eternity and the means by which he executed his will in time—God will and eternal decree being primary. “Necessary divine relations existed only within the Godhead, there, in eternity, where Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, taking counsel with themselves, decided to create and save a portion of mankind. In eternity God had determined within himself everything that would be, including who would and who would not be saved; having so determined, he then, freely and wisely, but also secondarily, elected agents to execute his will in time. Means other than churches, priests, sacraments, and infused grace could have been chosen, for in eternity an infinite number of possibilities lay before him. Indeed, he was free to save people directly without any intervening agents. The choice of particular means to execute the divine will had nothing to do with any intrinsic value they possessed, and their importance continued to lie in their having been chosen by God. […] What counted first, for Scotus, was God’s pleasure: if God willed in eternity to save a person, it would be done; how it was accomplished remained secondary. To put the issue another way, for Scotus, in distinction from Aquinas and other contemporaries, people were beautiful to God because God first loved them; God did not first love them because they were intrinsically beautiful” (Ibid., pp. 34-35).

This difference between the way Scotus and Thomas understand the nature and role of secondary causes in matters soteriological also manifest (and understandable so) in their respective views of the sacraments. According to St. Thomas, the sacraments were “instrumental causes of grace and salvation” that both “contained and communicated grace”; hence, they were necessary to salvation. One can see the interconnectedness of Thomas’ system here, viz., just as in his epistemology, universals were really in re and in intellectu (as intelligible species), so also grace was really in the sacraments and in the human soul as an accidental form (Ibid., p. 35). Scotus, on the other hand, “identified with a tradition that explained the efficacy of the sacraments in terms of a covenant made by God. Sacraments work not because they intrinsically contain and convey grace, as a cause intrinsically contains and conveys its effects (Aquinas), but because God has agreed to be present with his grace when the sacraments are performed; they are conditiones sine quibus non for the reception of grace. Where Aquinas placed the secondary cause, the sacrament itself, in the foreground, Scotus placed the will of God. Sacraments were efficacious media of grace for both, but for Scotus they were emphatically subordinate to the divine will”[1] (Ibid., p. 35).

Ending this section, Ozment notes that though Scotus stressed the contingency of creation and the transcendence of God (both motivated by theological reasons that he felt needed to be addressed given his historical context), his intention had not been to debase or devalue the created order, but to define the nature of created things more accurately in light of eternity (Ibid., p. 36).

A question for Calvin scholars, are there not serious similarities between Scotus’ and Calvin’s view of the sacraments? Are there any scholarly works (in English or German) of which you are aware that trace Reformed covenant theology back to Scotus and the Franscican tradition? Perhaps Oberman does this to some extent; however, I have not read enough of his works to know whether that is the case or not.

Notes
[1] Interestingly, Ozment cites a passage from Thomas that again brings Peter Lombard into the picture—here in connection with a certain view of the sacraments that Scotus seems to adopt. Quoting the passage from St. Thomas as cited in Ozment in which Thomas states that not all theologians are agreed as to the nature and working of the sacraments and then describes a position differing from his own [Lombard’s view], we read, “God has covenanted that whoever takes a genuine sacrament will receive grace, not from the outward sign [i.e., not from the sacramental ritual and elements themselves], but from God. This opinion, which appears to have been held by the Master of the Sentences …”, p. 35.

As we observed in the last post, Lombard believed that it was the indwelling Holy Spirit—an uncreated love and habit not our own—who works in us without our aid or volition to produce our love for God. Luther sided with Lombard on this point and was a minority voice among the scholastics. St. Thomas comes along and strongly opposes Lombard’s position, “arguing that saving charity must be a voluntary act arising from a disposition man could call his own” (The Age of Reform, p. 32). Thus, for Aquinas, Lombard’s position makes human beings entirely passive, which does violence to a voluntary act—our acts of love must be our acts. “According to Aquinas, grace is in the soul as a reality connatural to man; […] Although its ultimate origin is divine, the love by which people love God and their fellow man in a saving way is created love, a truly human habit” (Ibid., p. 32).

Pulling from Aristotelian philosophy, Aquinas devised the following solution: grace is in the soul as an accidental, not a substantial form. According to Aristotelian philosophy, a substantial form is primary and speaks of that which makes a thing to be what it is. E.g., the substantial form of a human being is reason; hence, the definition, a human being is a rational animal. To be a human being entails rationality, as it is reason that differentiates humans from other animals. An accidental form, on the other hand, does not define what a thing is, though it accurately describes it. E.g., that a person is musical, though accurately describing an aspect of that individual, is nonessential to what that person is as a human being, viz., a rational animal.

How does all this relate to St. Thomas’ solution? Utilizing the example above, in order to become a musical person, I would need to acquire the habit of becoming musical through instruction, practice, etc. Yet, whether or not I do in fact become musical, I am still a human being because my becoming musical is nonessential (and hence accidental) to my being a human being. Similarly, grace exists in the human soul just as the habit of becoming musical exists in person (accidentally). “With the infusion of supernatural grace an individual receives the essential foundation, an initial disposition, basic instruction, as it were, in how to order his life in obedience to God. He must still exercise the grace he has received in order to become ‘expert’ in the art of loving God and man. For Aquinas, the infused habit of grace is that without which one could never become a Christian and enter heaven; one may be without grace, but not a ‘Christian man.’ Aquinas further believed that once the habit of grace had been inculcated it could never be completely lost, even though it might for long periods of time go unexercised” (Ibid., pp. 32-33). Again, Thomas being the master of the via media offers his solution, viz., grace is an accidental, not a substantial form of the soul which is “really, but accidentally” present.

In the next post, we shall discuss Scotus’ reaction to Thomas’ view of the infused habit of grace.

This is “part I” of a series that will discuss several medieval theories of salvation and will include: Augustine, Aquinas, Scotus and Ockham. I will eventually get back to the Oberman/nominalism discussion, but Ozment is proving a delightful “distraction.”

***

Beginning with St. Augustine, who is arguable the most influential (Western) theologian, we have the view that human beings are fallen through and through. However, Augustine also is quick to point out that human beings have not always been characterized by sinfulness. Prior to the fall, Adam and Eve were able not to sin (posse non peccare), yet after the fall they become not able not to sin (non posse non peccare). Interestingly, Ozment paints a picture of Augustine’s view that seems to resonate with classical and Greek views of reason being the key to an ordered life (e.g., think of the Platonic view of the tripartite soul). “In Paradise, man was a model of willed self-control. Augustine suggested that even sexual intercourse occurred without lust, the organs of reproduction activated by calm rational volition, not by uncontrollable passion. The classical ideal of man and the Christian view of his original perfection were here joined: habitual order reigned over prelapsarian man, who has reasoned control over his faculties. […] The Fall reversed everything; thereafter fallen man lost his self-control and become a ‘slave to lust.’ He now obeyed and enjoyed the world, his desires having become the rider and his will the horse, and God was to all intents and purposes forgotten” (The Age of Reason, p. 26).

Moving into the schoolmen of the 12th and 13th centuries, we find the idea of the “loss of a special grace (donum superadditum), which God had given Adam in addition to the other gifts of creation and which made it possible for him to gain special insight into himself, his maker and the world” (Ibid., pp. 26-27). This special grace gift had helped prelapsarian human beings to be able, so long as they willed in harmony with it, to live as God had commanded. However, once Adam and Eve transgressed God’s law and “fell,” they lost the donum superadditum and became unable to confirm their minds and wills to God, even when desire to do so was present (Ibid., p. 27).

As Ozment emphasizes, for Augustine the great advantage of Christianity over Platonism centered on the healing power of the sacraments, which the Platonists did not know. “Christians did not contemplate truth at a distance, […], but grasped it directly by faith; nor did they look for strength to a deity who remained beyond this world, but found it in one who had become flesh and dwelt among men. The power to heal the will and restore man to self-control was tangibly present in the Incarnation of Christ and the sacraments of the Christian church. […] As the continuation of the power of the Incarnation, the church had the authority to forgive sin; its revelation enlightened man’s mind; its sacraments, ‘the medicine of immortality,’ healed his will. Later scholastics described the sacraments as a gratia gratum faciens, a power that really changed life. Sacramental grace became the equivalent in the present life of the lost supernatural aid that had specially assisted Adam in living a life ordered to God in Paradise” (Ibid., p. 28).

We see Augustine continue in his conviction and high regard for church authority in the Donatist controversy, viz., in his conclusion that the efficacy of the sacraments is not dependent upon the moral state of the priest. Thus, the sacraments work ex opere operato (“by virtue of their objective performance”), not ex opere operantis (as a result of the moral worth of the performing agent). In addition, Augustine was a strong advocate of supralapsarian predestination (see City of God, books 11 and 12). Given his beliefs on predestiation and original sin, Augustine was engaged in controversies with Pelagius who taught that human beings have the natural moral ability to merit grace. During the 5th and 6th centuries a number of church councils met and in agreement with Augustine’s teachings, as well as Scripture, condemned Pelagianism (e.g., Carthage [418], Ephesus [431], Orange [529]—however, Orange may be considered more a victory for semi-Augustinianism as certain views held by Augustine on irresistible grace and reprobation from eternity were rejected) [Ibid., p. 29].

According to Ozment, the teaching of the medieval church required three things to make fallen human begins righteous again: (1) an infusion of healing grace, which involves a “reliance on the church and its sacraments,” (2) ethical cooperation with God’s grace, (3) “the remission of guilt incurred by sin by priestly absolution” (Ibid., pp. 29-30). Foundational to the process of restoration were the sacraments of baptism and penance. “The grace of baptism was believed to neutralize the individual’s responsibility for original sin […], while the grace of penance gave aid against persisting actual sins” (Ibid., p. 30). Moreover, baptism not only “neutralized” original sin, but washed away present sins and weakened the baptized person’s inclination to sin, an inclination that remains in this life. Given that fact that our proclivity to sin is a continual problem, the sacrament of penance was added, which dealt with sins after baptism, present sins and also weakened one’s tendency to sin, yet of course did not eradicate it. Thus, returning again and again to the sacrament of penance for strength and assurance was part of the medieval Christian’s fabric of life.

In light of the teaching on infused grace, a major debate prior to Pelagian centered debates centered on the question of how divine grace could be present in a human soul. “If medieval philosophers had problems conceiving the existence of a universal within a particular, there were even greater difficulties for theologians who tried to imagine godly purity within a finite sinful creature” (Ibid., p. 31). Interestingly, the often overlooked medieval figure, Peter Lombard, set the trajectory for this debate. In book I, distinction 17 of his Sentences, Lombard asks, “If the love by which we are saved a created habit of our soul, or is it the very person of the Holy Spirit dwelling within us?” (Ibid., p. 31). In other words, is it the power of the indwelling Holy Spirit who heals and saves us or “is that which heals and saves a person part of his own nature, something that he himself has developed as his own possession?” (Ibid., p. 31). According to Lombard, the answer must be the Holy Spirit. Interestingly, when the young Luther penned his commentary on Lombard’s Sentences, he, in contrast with the majority scholastic voice of the day, explicitly sided with Lombard (Ibid., p. 31).

Part II will focus on St. Thomas’ reaction to Lombard’s position, as well as an explication of Thomas “solution” utilizing Aristotelian philosophy.

1. Aristotle— a “rational animal”
2. Nietzsche—the “yet undetermined animal” (Thus Spoke Zarathustra)
3. Dostoyevsky’s underground man—“an ungrateful biped” (Notes from the Underground)

I would love to expand this list to include 10-20 philosophical/theological “definitions” of a human being, so please send your comments (and if possible, please cite the work in which you found the definition). Also, I would be interested in which definition you believe to be the best and why.

Nate, a seminarian who hopes to be a future pastor in the Lutheran church, directed me to an excellent article in First Things on Luther by David S. Yeago entitled, “The Catholic Luther.”

To whet your appetite, here is a passage summarizing the reading that Yeago offers: “This reading of Luther’s development suggests that the Western schism, far from being the appropriate historical outcome of principled theological disagreement, was instead a tragic chapter of accidents. There are no historical grounds for believing that the schism was the necessary outcome of Luther’s theology of grace. On the contrary, on the one occasion when Luther’s theological proposals received a halfway careful hearing from a representative of the Roman Church, at his meetings with Cardinal Cajetan in Augsburg in 1518, the conclusion reached was that his doctrine of justifying faith was not obviously heretical or in clear opposition to the tradition of the Church. While Cajetan only understood Luther’s views imperfectly, and regarded them as temerarious and mistaken, he was ready to recommend that they receive further discussion and consideration before a final judgment was reached.”

In light of the predominant psychological portraits of Luther as a melancholy monk fixated on his own salvation and obsessed with his sins, we tend to forget that he was a doctor of theology and a learned theologian. As Ozment notes, “[b]etween 1509-10, when he wrote his commentary on Peter Lombard’s Sentences, and the indulgence controversy of 1517, Luther was an exceedingly active scholar. He read deeply in Aristotle’s Physics, Metaphysics, and Ethics. In addition to sermons and letters, he wrote lectures on the Psalms (1513-15) and on St. Paul’s letters to the Romans (1515-16) and to the Galatians (1516-17). Preparation for these lectures required extensive reading in medieval biblical commentaries” (Age of Reform, p. 232). In addition, he annotated works by St. Augustine, Tauler, and Gabriel Biel, and edited part of an anonymous mystical treatise which later came to be known as the German Theology (Ibid., p. 232). Given his formal training and his writing and teaching experience, the young Luther was not one unacquainted with the intricacies of the medieval theological tradition and “did not enter the indulgence controversy of 1517 as an innocent” (Ibid., p. 233).

In his work, Disputation Against Scholastic Theology, Luther engaged in the debates over the nature of justification and questions centering on the extent of a human being’s natural knowledge of God. According to the traditional teaching of the medieval church, one entered a state of grace by God’s initiative—as a gift of God and not by human works. This infusio gratiae was the foundation for human cooperation and necessarily preceded meritorious works. “In the technical language of the medieval theologian, faith formed by acts of charity (fides caritate formata) received eternal life as full or condign merit (meritum de condigno)” (Ibid., p. 233). The late medieval nominalists (or Ockhamists), however, made significant changes to the traditional understanding. Motivated by a desire to preserve what they saw as a threat to human freedom, the Ockhamists asked, “if man loved God simply because God moved him to do so by a special internal grace, did he really love God freely? Was not free choice also a measure of a meritorious act? Impressed by man’s ethical resources, Ockhamists believed that God’s natural gifts of reason and conscience had not been eradicated by the Fall. […] With such concerns in mind, Ockhamists asked: If God rewards good works done in a state of grace with eternal life as a just due, could he not also be expected to reward good works done in a state of nature with an infusion of grace as an appropriate due? Had God in fact not promised to do precisely that? Ockham and Biel answered these questions in the affirmative: in accordance with God’s gracious goodness (ex liberalitate Dei), he who does his best in a state of nature receives grace as a fitting reward (meritum de congruo) [Ibid., pp. 233-34]. Thus, the salvation schemata for the Ockhamists becomes, (1) doing one’s best on the basis of natural moral ability, (2) receiving an infusion of grace as a fitting reward, (3) doing one’s best with the aid of grace, (4) receiving eternal life as one’s just due. Strangely, Ockhamists did not view this as Pelagian, but rather as an indication of God’s willingness to value human effort. Nonetheless, in spite of their refusal to be labeled Pelagian, the Ockhamists were one voice in teaching that “God meant for people to acquire grace as semimerit within a state of nature and to earn salvation as full merit within a state of grace by doing their moral best” (Ibid., p. 234). This was the position that Luther condemned in his Disputation Against Scholastic Theology, claiming that human beings (in light of the Fall) have no natural moral ability to choose the good—a conclusion that he reached on the basis of studying Scripture and the works of St. Augustine.

Many scholars have brought attention to Luther’s stringent attack on Aristotle’s Ethics, particularly Aristotle’s understanding of moral virtues which one acquires by performing virtuous acts (Ibid., p. 235). Given Luther’s severe condemnation of Aristotle, many have argued that Luther was opposed to any use of Aristotle’s teachings in the realm of theology. However, as Ozment notes, “the Disputation of 1517 did not focus primarily on the inappropriateness of Aristotelian philosophy, but rather on the Pelagianism to which Luther believed its theological application led: scholastic error disturbed Luther more than scholastic method. That being said, Luther is still critical of any position that seems to imply that works are necessary for and contribute to one’s salvation—whether performed inside or outside a state of grace. This, however, should not be understood as Luther denying the importance of good works. For Luther, good works do accompany salvation, but are to be understood as signs or fruit of a redeemed life.

Regarding views of certain schoolmen (viz., Pierre d’Ailly and Robert Holcot) as to the relationship between reason and revelation, Luther was also more or less critical. For Luther, both d’Ailly and Holcot were attempting to “manipulate revelation with reason, to conform the thoughts of God to the thoughts of men. […] Here again Aristotle was singled out as the root of an effort to rationalize faith out of existence; hence, the infamous snort, ‘The whole of Aristotle is to theology as darkness is to light (thesis 50).’” This statement should not be understood as a wholesale rejection of reason or even of Aristotle, but rather as a urging to guard against imposing a strict syllogistic logic on Scripture. As Luther himself views the articles of faith as “not against dialectical truth [Aristotelian logic], but rather outside, under, above, below, around, and beyond it” (non quidem contra, sed extra, intra, supra, infra, citra, ultra omnem veritatem dialecticam) [Ibid., p. 238]. Interestingly, on this particular point, Ozment notes that d’Ailly and Holcot are in reality closer to Thomas’ position on the relationship between reason and revelation than to an Ockhamist’s view of the limits of reason, and ironically, Luther’s position strikes a more Ockhamist tone. Yet, it is also important to emphasize that when Luther spoke highly of Ockham, it was in reference to Ockham’s philosophy, not his theology. Quoting Luther—“Ockham alone understood dialectic, that it involves defining and distinguishing words, but he was no preacher” (WATr 1, no. 193 (1532), in Scheel, Dokumente zu Luthers Entwicklung, no. 223, p. 87, as cited in Ozment, p. 238).

In chapter 6 of Steven Ozment’s excellent book, The Age of Reform, he discusses the “mental world of Martin Luther.” In the first section, Ozment argues against Erik Erikson’s primarily psychological reading of Luther (fixating on his supposed oppressive childhood and things of this sort), and instead interprets Luther in terms of the cultural and religious influences of his day. Rather than the dubious psychological account presented by Erikson of a Luther “brooding over paternal disapproval and vocational self-doubt,” Ozment argues that the medieval religious culture, particularly the monastic life “proved to be the tyrant” for Luther (p. 229).

Ending the section, Ozment writes, “Luther’s suffering was no less real because a religious culture rather than an oppressive childhood induced it. Nor was its resolution any less real because is proved ultimately to be theological in nature. In the culture of the premodern world, what is religious and theological cannot be distinguished from what is emotional and psychological in terms of the less and the more real. It is an age when reality wears a tonsure. For this reason we must take the young theologian Luther as seriously as young man Luther” (p. 231). If this is a topic of interest, I would highly recommend reading Ozment’s book and in particular chapter 6. I have here given a rather slim summary of Ozment’s argument. In the chapter, he gives numerous examples from Erikson’s book, showing the utter absurdity of his psycho-historical interpretation. I do not take Ozment to be dismissing in toto the effects of strained familial relationships, personal struggles, and so on in regard to Luther, but rather, his criticism seems to be with the general methodology and presuppositions that fund the psycho-historical approach.

More on Luther from Ozment and Oberman in the days to come…

Reading through my last section of notes in preparation for the final lecture of my summer intro to philosophy course, I was struck with the hero and villain motif that pervades the history of Western philosophy, particularly the villain part. For example, for Kierkegaard, Socrates was the hero, whereas for Nietzsche Socrates (Plato) was the great nay-sayer who invented the “other worldly” realm. Heraclitus, on the other hand, was one among many heroes for Nietzsche; however, Aristotle didn’t hold Heraclitus in the highest esteem. Descartes of course was the bad guy that ushered in the modern period, and as Radical Orthdoxy tells us Scotus and the nominalists prepared the way. Moving into more theological circles, Aquinas, according to many Reformed thinkers turns into a villain of sorts. But, then again, Luther, according to some RC thinkers was really the devil who divided the church…well there was that earlier division in 1054, but we won’t mention that. Of course Protestants are schismatics twice over in the eyes of the Eastern church, who also have their villains, viz., Augustine. VT, well, what can I say, all of the above are bad guys (except Augustine, that is, the “mature” Augustine who finally shed his Neoplatonic leanings). I suppose there is a kind of “reaping what you sow” at work here—as a good friend recently pointed out, if you simply mention VT’s name in a favorable manner in certain circles, you have basically committed academic suicide—he has become “that name one ought not utter (at least with positive connotations of any sort).” On the bright side, perhaps gaining the status of villain more or less guarantees that you will be remembered.

(This was meant as a humorous post—hopefully, no one will be offended by it, as that is not my intention).

It is commonly argued that the young Luther was a mystic, but then later, after dealing with the radical elements of the Reformation, he changed his position. Heiko Oberman, however, disagrees, pointing to numerous works of Luther over a large span of years and showing a continuity in his thought regarding mysticism, though of course with changes here and there. For example, Luther did not rule out “high mysticism” as impossible but rather cautioned against its dangers. For Luther, drawing from his spiritual (not “literal”)[1] exegesis of Leah and Rachel, accessus has priority over raptus—i.e., justification by faith through the incarnate and crucified word has priority over raptus by the uncreated word (the latter being that which was characterized by dangerous speculations not tethered to the Word). Commenting on 2 Cor 12:2 which reads, “I know a man in Christ who fourteen years ago was caught up to the third heaven—whether in the body or out of the body I do not know, God knows” (ESV), Luther writes, “who would consider himself so clean, that he would dare to pursue this, unless he is called, and like the Apostle Paul, lifted up by God.” As Oberman observes, “there is here transition here from ‘rare’ to ‘dare,’ […]; yet this transition is not so unexpected and is understandable in the light of the fact that in the prologue of the most important nominalistic Sentences commentaries, the Apostle Paul is introduced on the basis of II Cor. 12 as an exception to the rule de potentia ordinata according to which the status of the viator is contrasted with that of the beatus in that he is not yet a comprehensor, not yet face to face with God, and hence without immediate knowledge of God. Though Luther employs the concept of the potentia ordinata of God, so characteristic for nominalistic theology; in his commentary on Genesis, he gives it a Christological point instead of its primary epistemological meaning: the potentia ordinata is here not primarily the order established by the inscrutable free God who could as well have established another order, but it is clearly the order of redemption in Jesus Christ, established out of God’s mercy to provide sinful man with a refuge from danger” (The Dawn of the Reformation, p. 139)

Notes
[1] As Oberman notes, to insist on the literal sense (sensus litere) is for Luther to read Scripture as an unbeliever (consider Spinoza as a case in point)! Reading Scripture with the understanding of faith (sensus fidei) excels the sensus litere (p. 147).

Having discussed Boulez’s tendencies to control to the point of creating a perceptual sense of disorder (recall that Boulez is a promoter of “total serialism,” a compositional method that organizes music according to mathematical patterns), Begbie then turns to Cage, who at first seems to offer a more promising way. Cage, of course, with his chance music thinks that we should abandon the desire to control and let the sounds be themselves. Yet, as Begbie observes, this way ends up leading down a path similar to Boulez’s. “To be sure, here music is ‘freed,’ in a sense but the cost is an evacuation (or near evacuation) of the notion of music as constructive, of the idea that human shaping could be fruitful and enriching. The dialectic between human will and nature’s constraint is thus effectively dissolved” ( Theology, Music, and Time, p. 194). Whereas Boulez’s over-control results in a destruction of intelligibility on the perceptual level—and correlates well with the modernist view of humanity’s relation to the world, viz., one of control and mastery), Cage’s absolute freedom alternative practically does away with human creating (or better, re-creating). “It is one thing to spurn the worst of humanity’s aggressive imposition on the natural order, it is quite another to suppress any conception of human forming altogether. Further, we might add, Cage’s stress is very much on the ‘randomness’ of the extra-human world, not on its inherent order” (Ibid., pp. 194-95).

Then Begbie goes on to discuss an additional similarity between these two seemingly opposite takes on composition, viz., both share a discomfort with temporal constraint or better with certain kinds of temporal constraint. Noting that this unease is perhaps related to the composers’ failure to “present a convincing dialectic between human embeddedness and otherness in relation to the non-human world, with associated doubts about nature possessing its own distinctive integrity,” Begbie then spells out exactly which kind of temporality they wish to throw out, viz., “directional temporal continuity. As with many of their contemporaries, any goal-oriented, teleological dynamic (so characteristic of tonal music) is not only avoided but subverted—tensions and resolutions, clearly marked out sections, development, opening and ending frames, and so forth. More than this, Boulez sought to abolish any sense of metre or rhythmic regularity either in the large scale or in the smallest details” (p.195). Cage as well “rebelled” against temporality by empoloying what has come to be known as “vertical time music.” “Common to vertical time music is the restraint (or evasion) of temporal differentiation within the entirety of a piece of music. Cage is not prepared to see sounds as participants in some kind of progression from beginning to closure, because for him each instant is equally related to each other instant. No event can be more significant or valuable than any other” (p. 195).

Though Boulez would not want to associate his music with Cage’s chance music, both end doing away with goal-oriented time, organic thematic developments and harmonic and rhythmic relationships. Citing a passage from Edward Cone, Begbie highlights the irony of the Boulez-Cage paradox, “When chance music plays the major role in the writing of a work [e.g., as in Cage] […] logic […] can take only an accidental role. The same is true of music written according to a strictly predetermined constructivistic scheme [e.g. as in Boulez] […]. In neither case can any musical event be linked organically with those that precede and those that follow; it can be explained only by referring to an external structure—in the one case the laws of chance and in the other the predetermined plan. The connections are mechanistic rather than teleological; no event has any purpose—each is there only because it has to be there ( “Analysis Today,” in Paul Henry Lang (ed.), Problems of Modern Music, p. 38, italics added) [Begbie, p. 196]. The irony here is that in spite of Cage’s strong emphasis on absolute freedom, necessity is actually lurking in the nearby bushes. As Begbie explains, “the struggle to be free of a supposedly oppressive teleological system (such as tonality) would seem to come close to resulting in two kinds of (oppressive?) necessity, the one the necessity of a particular mathematical system, the other the somewhat bland necessity of ‘the way things happen’” (p. 196).

This post was inspired by a comment and question that Byron at “Nothing New Under the Sun,” made to one of my recent Dostoyevsky posts. Byron asks, “Does Dostoyevsky agree with his narrator?” The question has been gnawing at me ever since, so I decided to read up on some the relevant critical views on the subject. Though I am no Dostoyevsky expert, the following position presented by Joseph Frank in essay simply entitled, “Notes from the Underground,” is rather persuasive (which means I should nuance my previous posts). So thanks, Byron, for asking this question, as through it my understanding of Dostoyevsky has benefited.

After discussing a number of views of various literary critics, and pointing out Dostoyesky’s own hints at what he is doing in his footnote 1[1] of the text itself, Frank sums up his take in the following paragraph:

“Notes from the Underground has been read as the psychological self-revelation of a pathological personality, or as a theological cry of despair over the evils of ‘human nature,’ or as a declaration of Dostoyesky’s supposed adherence to Nietzsche’s philosophy of ‘amoralism’ and the will to power, or as a defiant assertion of the revolt of the human personality against all attempts to limit its inexhaustible potentialties—and the list can easily be continued. All these readings, and many more, can plausibly be supported if certain features of the text are singled out and placed in the foreground while others are simply overlooked or forgotten. But if we are interested in understanding Dostoyevsky’s own point of view, so far as this can be reconstructed, then we must take it for what it was initially meant to be—a brilliantly Swiftian satire, remarkable for the finesse of its conception and the brio of its execution, which dramatizes the dilemmas of a representative Russian personality attempting to live by the two European codes whose unhappy effects Dostoyevsky explores. And though the sections have a loose narrative link, the novella is above all a diptych depicting two episodes of a symbolic history of the Russian intelligentsia” (pp. 219-220).

This is not, however, to say that aspects of Dostoyesky’s own life and experience are not present in his fictional character. “As the underground man belabors his own self-disgust and guilt, was not Dostoyevsky also suppressing his self-condemnation as a conscience-stricken spectator of his wife’s death-agonies, and repenting of the egoism to which he confessed in his notebook?” (p. 219).

Notes
[1] As Frank points out, in footnote 1 of Notes from the Underground, Dostoyevski provides a clue to his audience as to the “satirical and parodistic nature of his conception.” However, the strength and passion Dostoyevsky’s character overpowers or clouds the nature of the work as a satirical parody, which often results in a straightforward reading.

In his fascinating book, Understanding Scholastic Thought With Foucault, Philipp W. Rosemann illustrates how even the “letter,” i.e. the textual base in medieval studies, is affected by paradigm changes. As Rosemann explains, the German philologist, Karl Lachmann, pioneered an editorial method that has by and large determined the form of ancient and medieval texts as found in contemporary editions. The goal of the Lachmannian method is to “eliminate all the mistakes that are inevitable in the transmission of handwritten texts as copies, and so on. What the Lachmannians are trying to do is establish families of shared mistakes in the manuscript tradition and thus, by identifying the genealogical order in this tradition of copies, return to the source” (p. 11). As Rosemann observes, the presuppositions behind this approach is that “what counts in the history of a text is just the original in its pure identity; the differentiation this textual identity necessarily undergoes is an history of errors that should be overcome” (p. 11). Interestingly, due to both practical and theoretical reasons, contemporary editors have altered the Lachmannian method. On the practical side, the difficulties in trying to establish precise family groups of textual errors is virtually impossible, as the family types tend to negatively influence and corrupt one another. Theoretically speaking, “the Lachmannian method is founded upon a quest for lost origins, a quest that contemporary philosophy would denounce as being vain and imaginary. Why attempt to surmount the historical multiplicity of different readings of an original text, different readings that, after all, testify to the historical life of the original? What are the advantages of re-establishing the flawless identity of a text that, in its authentic form, may have remained totally insignificant?” (pp. 11-12). In contrast, contemporary editorial practices allow the diversity of texts to speak by producing editions that present us (in so far as it is possible) with the original text and the text’s historical development. That is, “they attempt at once to reconstruct the original identity of the text, and to preserve the difference of its historical expressions” (p. 12). Thus, in contrast with the goal of the Lachmannian approach, which tries to get back to the “pure: and “untainted” original, contemporary editorial practices view the diversity of the texts in a positive light, which supports Rosemann’s thesis that paradigm shifts affect even the “letter.”

Below is another section from the paper that I am writing for the conference at Baylor. I am particularly happy with the working definition of improvisation as applied to jazz that ends this section. Comments and criticisms are of course welcome.

*******

Unfortunately, in some circles the term “improvisation” has a number of negative attachments associated with it—e.g., lacking in intellectual rigor, purely affective, and non-calculated. Contra this pessimistic and mistaken construal of improvisation, I would argue that jazz improvisation requires just as much skill, creative genius, and intellectual stamina as written compositions, and that the latter in fact is not without improvisatory elements. In addition to the well-known fact that improvisation broadly construed pervades all types of music—from Gregorian chant, to Baroque music, as well the majority of non-Western expressions of music which are by and large not notated, Begbie observes a second possibility fueling this negative view of improvisation as somehow intellectually substandard is perhaps due to an overly rigid distinction that we in the Western musical tradition tend to make between improvisation and composition. As mentioned already, improvisation is often understood as non-calculated, free-flowing and as lacking in intellectual rigor. Composition, in contrast, is thought to be more or less inflexible, rule-governed and by nature, given its high degree of musical notation, purposely without spontaneity. However, both views are misleading and set up sharp distinctions that do not correspond to what takes place in actual music making and performance. First, improvisation as expressed in jazz involves a high degree of prepared and calculated musical ideas. Jazz musicians are known to spend numerous hours every day practicing ii-V-I and other patterns in all twelve keys so as to be “ready” for any harmonic sequence that might present itself. Second, there is significantly more flexibility in the performances of various musical scores in the traditionally classical sphere than one may think. E.g., conductors may decide to arrange a certain piece differently for various occasions and depending upon the musicians available to him/her. Likewise, musicians play the same written scores differently—otherwise, why would one prefer one musician or orchestra over another when each is performing the same musical work? (There are numerous other examples that one could cite to counter the mis-characterization above).

With these overlaps in mind, one might suggest that notation is the crucial difference between composition and improvisation. However, as Begbie points out, “it seems odd to claim that composition only happens when musicians write music down.”[1] Not to mention the fact that jazz musicians commonly use written arrangements for both large and small ensembles. In light of this apparent “dead end,” Begbie offers the following as a possible way to differentiate composition and improvisation,

“A more promising way forward is to take composition to refer to all the activity which precedes the sounding of the entire piece of music, everything which is involved in conceiving and organizing the parts or elements which make up the pattern or design or the musical whole: and improvisation to mean the concurrent conception and performance of a piece of music, which is complete when the sound finishes.”[2]

With the above conception, composition entails all the musical activity (both mental and physical) that takes places prior to the performance of the piece as a whole, whereas improvisation consists in simultaneous composing and performance. Christopher Small captures aspects of this idea and adds additional dimensions in his analogy of Western classical music being similar to a journey taken by a composer who then returns to tell us of his experience. No matter how fascinating the journey was, “we cannot enter fully into the experience with him because the experience was over and he was safely home before we came to hear of it.”[3] In contrast, improvisation is more like our being invited to accompany the composer and experience his journey with him. Though we would not want to push this analogy too far given what we have alluded to as the prepared or calculated elements involved in jazz improvisation, it does rightly emphasize the sense of experiencing the “present” in improvisation, i.e., rather than highlighting product or result, the accent is on process and activity, as “conception and performance are interwoven to a very high degree.”[4] In a footnote, Begbie makes the following astute comment on Small’s journey analogy,

“If this is so, then a clear difference between composition and improvisation concerns the application of ‘problem-solving’ techniques. In the compositional approach, in general, problem solving is complete before the performance. Success is judged, in large part at least, by how well the performance represents a perfect execution of ideas and interpretation. In improvisation, problem-solving is undertaken within the performance itself: ‘the emphasis is upon the creative, investigative approach to an unformulated musical situation’”
(Prévost, Edwin“Improvisation: Music for an Occasion,” p. 181).[5]

Harmonizing all that we have said thus far, I offer the following as a working definition of jazz improvisation: that present, spontaneous, and even mystical creative activity that purposely and re-creatively utilizes prepared and hence thoroughly familiar musical ideas of the past in order to produce a delicately balanced experience of the dialectical interplay of freedom and form, particularity and universality, oneness and alterity. (One can of course anticipate the Trinitarian allusions that I hope to develop…).

Notes
[1] Theology, Music and Time, p. 183.
[2] Ibid., p. 183.
[3] Small, Music-Society-Education, p. 176, as cited in Begbie, Theology, Music and Time, p. 183.
[4] Begbie, Theology, Music and Time, p. 184.
[5] Ibid., fn. 14, p. 183.

Сегоднья–День рождения мой! (Today is my birthday!)

Given my love of mystery, I of course can only tell you that today I am thirty-something. After all, there are three things that you should never ask a woman:

(1) Are you pregnant?
(2) Have you gained weight?
(3) How old are you?

[N.b., Regarding #2-3, it is always, always wise to shoot low].

Of course the other day my students made me feel like I might be on my way to being old when I brought in a few lecture series sets on various topics of interests that certain students had mentioned–the sets were in cassette tape format–and they acted as if cassettes were some kind of ancient relic–saying, “Perhaps, I could find a cassette player at a pawn shop.” Likewise, when I recently used an example of a polaroid to better explain a concept in Locke, I saw a number of puzzled faces and realized that I needed to explain and what a polaroid was. Those students of course failed. (If you are one of those students and happen to be reading this, I have not turned the grades in yet. Thus, there is still time to check my Amazon.com wishlist and should the book(s) arrive in time, I, being fairminded and forgiving, will reconsider : ).