Per Caritatem

As mentioned in the previous post, in Marion’s more recent work, St. Thomas escapes all three characteristics of onto-theo-logy. Regarding the first characteristic, viz., inscribing God within the domain of metaphysics, Thomas is “acquitted” because for him (unlike Scotus and Suarez) esse commune (common or created being) is the proper object of metaphysics. Hence, God only factors into the consideration of metaphysics in an indirect way, viz., as the causal principle (Creator) of common/created being. For Aquinas in contradistinction from the thinkers mentioned above, God and creatures are not conceived under a common univocal concept of being.

Regarding the second characteristic, viz., that the “God” establish a causal foundation of all the common entities (which turns out to be a reciprocal founding of sorts), Thomas is likewise “not guilty” because of the distinction he makes between esse commune and esse divinum. Esse as used in these two designations is not understood univocally (either metaphysically or predicatively), but analogically. That is, the “esse” in esse commune is received from God and is common to all created beings—beings that are esse/essence composites. In contrast, the “esse” of esse divinum has only one referent, viz., God who is the “act of being” and whose esse is identical to his essence. Thomas, then, given this distinction, upholds God’s transcendence. Though it is the case that Aquinas’ doctrine of analogy names God as the efficient cause of common being, he escapes the second characteristic of Heidegger’s critique because his understanding of causality in creation is asymmetrical. In other words, God (the “ground” of esse commune) does not stand in a reciprocal relation to his creation. Rather, the dependency is “one-way”—creation is wholly dependent upon God for its being and intelligibility, but God is in no way dependent on creation for either.

Regarding the third characteristic, Marion highlights two arguments of St. Thomas’ against the idea of God as causa sui. The first appeals to a logical contradiction that such a claim would involve. That is, given that nothing can cause itself, God cannot cause himself because God would have to exist prior to and in some way distinct from himself (p. 56). Secondly, (and Marion thinks that this argument is more significant), in order to maintain his transcendence as efficient cause (in the redefined Thomistic sense), God must “withdraw Himself from causality.” In other words, God exercises causality toward beings but he himself is not part of this causality—a causality extended only to created beings whose existence and essence are distinct and composite. Created, composite beings receive their esse from God whose esse and essence are identical. Stated in a slightly different manner (and basically the argument of the De ente), given that all created beings are esse/essence composites, there must be a first whose esse is his essence and hence whose esse is both wholly other from created esse and the principle (Creator) of created esse, lest we have an infinite regress. In this schema, causality only applies to created beings and clearly does not apply to God [pp. 56-57].

Marion ends the article by suggesting that even though Aquinas privileges being (ipsum esse) instead of the Good (as in the Dionysian tradition), there is still a way in which this may be interpreted such that Aquinas is exonerated from the onto-theo-logy charge. At this point many Thomists have concluded that Marion seems to suggest that we read Aquinas as promoting a radical apophaticism—God is esse in name only. In other words, because God’s esse is so wholly other than created being, it can be revealed or known only as unknown. As Marion explains, “this pure esse reveals itself in principle as unknowable as the God it names. God known as unknown—this implies that his esse remains knowable only as unknowable, in sharp contrast to the esse that metaphysics has essentially set in a concept to make it as knowable as possible” (p. 63). A few lines later, Marion writes, “[Thomas] does not think God in a univocal way according to the horizon of being. Or simply: the esse that Thomas Aquinas recognizes for God does not open any metaphysical horizon, does not belong to any onto-theo-logy, and remains such a distant analogy with what we once conceived through the concept of being, that God proves not to take any part in it, or to belong to it, or even—as paradoxical as it may seem—to be. Esse refers to God only insofar as God may appear as without being—not only without being as onto-theology constitutes it in metaphysics but also well out of the horizon of being, even as it is as such (Heidegger)” (p. 64). Such an interpretation would suggest that given the radical transcendence and incomprehensibility of God’s esse, Thomas’ naming of God ipsum esse should be taken as a negative name without any conceptual content; hence, Thomas’ understanding of the divine names, as well as his doctrine of analogy should be understood in a radically apophatic way. However, others[1] have argued that on Marion’s read Thomas’ doctrine of analogy, as well as the divine names, function phenomenologically and indeed reveal something truly (yet not exhaustively) about God. In other words, following Denys, the divine names are a kind of “iconic speech” that unfolds and discloses God to us in the context of the liturgy. Here (idolatrous) predication of God in the sense of defining God is ruled out and in its place a new discourse springs forth—the discourse of praise as the proper response to Him who makes Himself known as Goodness, as Love, as Gift.

Notes
[1] See e.g., Morrow, Derek J. “Aquinas, Marion, Analogy, and Esse: A Phenomenology of the Divine Names?” International Philosophical Quarterly, Vol. 46, no. 1 (March 2006): 25-42.

Since I am scheduled to present on this topic for one of my classes at UD, I thought that I would revisit Marion’s take on St. Thomas as reflected in his article, “Thomas Aquinas and Onto-theo-logy.”[1]

***

In this article, Marion retracts a good deal of his former criticism of St. Thomas as found in God Without Being. Specifically, he withdraws his former claims that Aquinas’ naming God ipsum esse¬ makes an idol out of being, and that Aquinas is guilty of onto-theo-logy. So what is meant by onto-theo-logy? According to Heidegger onto-theo-logy characterizes the Western metaphysical tradition and is expressed as an attempt by philosophy to use conceptual systems in order to control and master Being (as well as God). Marion is sympathetic to Heidegger’s critique, yet he sees Heidegger making an idol out of Being. For the purposes of this article, Marion highlights three foundations at work in onto-theo-logy.

First, there is the Gründung, i.e., “the conceptual foundation of entity as such by being.” Whatever serves as the conceptual foundation—be it “God” or whatever—must be inscribed within the domain of metaphysics. That is, it itself must become thinkable as an entity (or according to a [univocal] concept of entity). To illustrate his point, Marion turns to one of the ways (there are other ways as well) in which Descartes exemplifies this Gründung. In Descartes, being is defined on the basis of thought. Consequently, being grounds entities conceptually, “to be is to think or to be thought” (esse est cogitari aut cogitare). All entities, including the “first” or “highest” rely on this foundation through being (p. 41), and all entities including the “highest” or “first” are thought according to a (univocal) concept of being. In sum, the first characteristic of onto-theo-logy amounts to inscribing God (as subject or object) within the domain of metaphysics and making God subject to a univocal concept of being.

Second, we have the Begründung. That is, “the foundation of entities by the supreme entity according to efficient causality.” Here we have a reciprocal grounding between the “first entity” and all other entities. That is, there is a reciprocal grounding between whatever serves as the “first entity” (e.g., Pure Act) and all other beings, and this grounding reciprocally perfects/establishes both the first entity and all other entities. E.g., according to Aristotle, beings “are” to the extent that they are in act. The “Unmoved mover” of Aristotle’s system is of course “Pure Act.” Here we find a kind of mutual “grounding” principle. That is, the Unmoved mover is not only the final cause toward which all beings move, but is established in a preeminent way by the (same) principle by which beings “are,” viz., by the principle of actuality (“to be is to be in act”). This principle founds the Unmoved mover as highest being, that is, as Pure Act, just as it establishes all other beings in so far as they are. Or returning to Marion’s Cartesian example, the ego as preeminent being thinks itself as res cogitans and therefore grounds its own existence. Likewise, it also “grounds in reason” the other entities “which are, only insofar as they are thought by it” (pp. 42-43). In sum, the “God” (or highest being) functions as the (efficient) causal foundation for all entities. This founding relationship is reciprocal, i.e., the “God” grounds beings and beings ground/establish God.

Third, there is the self-grounding of the ground or the causa sui. That is, “the foundation of the conceptual foundation by the efficient foundation” (p. 42). The preeminent being is defined by its function as causa sui. Here you have a supreme being that “grounds by grounding itself through itself” (p. 42). In other words, the conceptual foundation is grounded in the (efficient) causal foundation, which in the case of our Cartesian example is the ego or res cogitans. In sum, the “God” founds itself, just as it founds all other beings.

In the next post, we shall see how (according to Marion) Thomas escapes all three characteristics of onto-theo-logy.

Notes
[1] As found in in Mystics: Presence and Aporia eds Michael Kessler and Christian Sheppard, (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago, 2003), pp. 38-74.

I rarely blog on topics of this sort, but I have to say that I was extremely disappointed at the uncharitable and highly inaccurate presentation of Calvin (as well as Luther) by G.K. Chesterton in his book, St. Thomas Aquinas. After reading Chesterton’s summation of Calvin, I have to wonder whether he himself ever read a word of Calvin’s own writings or if he merely relied on caricature criticisms passed on from others—caricatures that persist to this day.

For example, in a chapter condemning Manicheanism (and rightly so), Chesterton makes Calvin seem like a closet Manichean who held that God created evil as well as good. Speaking of Calvinism he says that it teaches that “God had indeed made the world, but in a special sense, made the evil as well as the good: had made an evil will as well as an evil world” (p. 83). Chesterton goes on to say that both Calvinism (as well as old Manicheanism) “had the idea that the creator of the earth was primarily the creator of the evil” (p. 83). There are a number of other passages and grossly inaccurate assertions made by Chesterton, but these two suffice to give one a “feel” for Chesterton’s picture of Calvin and Calvinism.

In Calvin’s Commentary on Genesis, he explicitly writes against certain individuals who reasoned that God must have created Satan evil in order to explain why he tempted Adam:

“Many persons are surprised that Moses simply, and as if abruptly, relates that men have fallen by the impulse of Satan into eternal destruction, and yet never by a single word explains how the tempter himself had revolted from God. And hence it has arisen, that fanatical men have dreamed that Satan was created evil and wicked as he is here described. But the revolt of Satan is proved by other passages of Scripture; and it is an impious madness to ascribe to God the creation of any evil and corrupt nature; for when he had completed the world, he himself gave this testimony to all his works, that they were very good. Wherefore, without controversy, we must conclude, that the principle of evil with which Satan was endued was not from nature, but from defection; because he had departed from God, the fountain of justice and of all rectitude” (emphasis added).

Not only does Calvin strongly deny that God is the creator of evil, but he also affirms the goodness of original creation and even implies a kind of Augustinian response as to how we are to understand Satan’s “fallen” condition.

Likewise, in Calvin’s Institutes, he makes a point to distinguish between our original creation and our postlapsarian condition. “[W]e cannot clearly and properly know God unless the knowledge of ourselves be added. This knowledge is twofold, – relating, first, to the condition in which we were at first created; and, secondly to our condition such as it began to be immediately after Adam’s fall […] certainly, before we descend to the miserable condition into which man has fallen, it is of importance to consider what he was at first. For there is need of caution, lest we attend only to the natural ills of man, and thereby seem to ascribe them to the Author of nature; impiety deeming it a sufficient defense if it can pretend that everything vicious in it proceeded in some sense from God, and not hesitating, when accused, to plead against God, and throw the blame of its guilt upon Him . […]Seeing, therefore, that the flesh is continually on the alert for subterfuges, by which it imagines it can remove the blame of its own wickedness from itself to some other quarter, we must diligently guard against this depraved procedure, and accordingly treat of the calamity of the human race in such a way as may cut off every evasion, and vindicate the justice of God against all who would impugn it” (I.xv.1; emphasis added).

There are of course certain currents in Calvin that not only lend themselves to misinterpretation but likewise are in need of correction, which later Protestant scholastics who were significantly more versed in scholastic philosophy and theology such as J. Zanchi (and even contemporaries of Calvin, e.g., Vermigli) addressed, clarified, and even modified (e.g., clarifying that evil can only have an accidental cause). However, what Chesterton writes in the above citations strike me as blatantly false and make Calvin out to be something that he is not.

“O Lord Jesus Christ, many and various are the things to which a man may feel himself drawn, but one thing there is to which no man ever felt himself drawn in any way, that is, to suffering and humiliation. This we men think we ought to shun as far as possible, and in any case that we must be compelled to it. But Thou, our Savior and Redeemer, Thou who wast humbled yet without compulsion, and least of all compelled to that humiliation in the imitation of which man discovers his highest honor; ah, that the picture of Thee in thy humiliation might be so vivid to us that we may feel ourselves drawn unto Thee in lowliness, unto Thee who from on high wilt draw all unto Thyself” (Søren Kierkegaard, Training in Christianity, p. 150).

In agreement with Gadamer, Augustine did not conceive of biblical hermeneutics as akin to solving a math problem—a model which assumes a univocal, “flat” understanding of meaning (and reality) and denies an analogical, “symbolic” approach to meaning (and reality). In contrast with, e.g., a strict grammatico-historical hermeneutic (as instituted by B. Spinoza), the Church Fathers and medievals understood both Scripture and reality not “flatly” but multi-layered because both correspond to and reveal an Infinite Creator. As Henri De Lubac explains, the doctrine of the fourfold sense of Scripture—the historical, allegorical, moral or tropological and anagogical—“provided a framework of thought for numerous generations of Christians.” Interestingly, those who adopt a strict grammatico-historical “method” of interpretation tend to embrace only the literal or historical sense of Scripture. Likewise, those following this tradition claim to interpret Scripture in an “unbiased” manner, free from all prejudices and traditions. Postmoderns, of course, are very suspicious of such a claim. In contrast, as de Lubac indicates and Augustine seems to agree, the Church Fathers and medievals openly acknowledged their dependence on tradition and the interpretations handed down to the Church by the apostles and their successors. “Right from the beginning, in the first century of the Church’s existence, at the time of the very first generation of Christians, it was a matter of Scripture being read or the word of God being heard in the Church and interpreted by Tradition.” So we see that the Church from its very inception openly acknowledged her dependence on the interpretative authority of her leaders—Christ being the chief interpreter, who in turn instructed the apostles, and they in turn faithfully taught others. Moreover, neither the Church Fathers nor the medievals approached Scripture as just another human book or piece of literature to be studied or examined scientifically, much less as something to be dissected and treated atomistically. Rather, Holy Scripture was first and foremost understood as the very word of God, which having many parts is nonetheless, one story, written ultimately by One Author, and culminating in One Person, the Lord Jesus Christ. In other words, instead of approaching Scripture as a collection of divergent and contradicting accounts, the Christian comes to Scripture as a unified whole—whose unfolding drama is permeated with Christ.

Does this mean that the apostles, as well as the Church Fathers and medievals were biased and came to the Scriptures with their interpretative goal (i.e., Christ) already in mind? Here again, perhaps Gadamer has something to add to the “conversation.” In stark contrast to a modern aversion to prejudice or bias as a hindrance to “objectivity,” Gadamer presents a positive view of prejudices in his understanding of hermeneutics. According to Gadamer, all of us come to the text with our own prejudices or “horizons” and these biases are not be understood as solely negative or as necessarily closing off understanding. Though it is the case that our prejudices or presuppositions can and do set limits on our interpretative endeavors, it is not the case that our prejudices are unalterable nor are they always active in a negative, limiting way. Rather, they can and do often have a positive or productive function and actually help to promote understanding. Addressing this positive aspect of our prejudices, Gadamer writes,

“Prejudices are not necessarily unjustified and erroneous, so that they inevitably distort the truth. In fact, the historicity of our existence entails that prejudices, in the literal sense of the word [pre-judgment], constitute the initial directedness of our whole ability to experience. Prejudices are our biases of our openness to the world. They are simply the conditions whereby we experience something—whereby what we encounter says something to us. This formulation certainly does not mean that we are enclosed within a wall of prejudices and only let through the narrow portals those things that can produce a pass saying, ‘Nothing new will be said here.’”

Until we engage a text (with an openness to being changed by that text) we are often unaware of our biases. Thus, it is through our dialogic encounter with the text that are prejudices are made evident to us—i.e., we must be open or “made open” to having our presuppositions laid bare, as well as to having our presuppositions altered or done away with completely.

Although it is the case as de Lubac observes that “Christian exegesis is an exegesis in faith,” unbelieving “systems” of thought likewise involve prejudices and (unproven) presuppositions. Yet, differing worldviews can be compared, analyzed, and tested so as to see which claims conform to reality and experience. Faith and reason for Augustine (and many postmoderns) are mutually influencing harmonies, not dichotomous dissonances. Certainly, it is the case that “an exegesis in faith” presupposes faith—faith that is a gift of God (and Augustine of course would wholeheartedly agree). Those who have been given this faith will find Christ in the Scriptures; those devoid of such faith will not. As we have seen, this was in fact Augustine’s experience. That is, prior to the gift of faith and a totus homo conversion, he was neither able to “see” Scripture aright nor to appreciate its depths. Yet, after receiving the gift of faith, his attitude toward Scripture changed dramatically. Indeed for the Church Fathers, as well as the Augustine and the medievals (and for those who see with the eyes of faith today), “Jesus Christ brings about the unity of Scripture, because He is the endpoint and fullness of Scripture. Everything in it is related to him. In the end, He is its sole object. Consequently, He is, so to speak, its whole exegesis.”

In sum, Augustine’s approach to Scripture contrasts sharply with a (strict) modern grammatico-historical biblical methodology, whereas premodern “hermeneutics” share a number of continuities with postmodern emphases. Given our current post-modern context, Christians of the 21st century should appropriate this “Egyptian gold” and continue the Augustinian tradition of “plundering.” Lastly, if Gadamer is right and “all of life is hermeneutics,” then perhaps what I have presented as a whole is not as fragmented as at first it might appear. That is, pre-judgments, interpretative traditions and a dynamic/analogical rather than a static/univocal understanding of the text (and reality) have all played decisive roles in Augustine’s various encounters with texts and individuals. Moreover, as we have seen from Augustine’s story, in his unconverted, dis-ordered state, his life was an enigma, full of instability and unrest. Even the best education—which included reading the classical authors and philosophers—was ultimately ineffective, as it lacked the power to transform Augustine’s whole person. Yet, when Augustine’s will is brought into alignment with Christ through the gift of grace, his restless heart is at last brought to a “place” of repose. Hence, for Augustine that which brings unity and purpose to all texts (sacred and profane), all relationships, and to reality itself is Christ—Caritas and Veritas Incarnate.

Bibliography

Augustine. Confessions. Trans., Maria Boulding. Hyde Park: New City Press, 1997.

De Lubac, Henri. Medieval Exegesis (Vol. 1): The Four Senses of Scripture. Translated by Mark Sebanc. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998.

Gadamer, Hans-Georg. Philosophical Hermeneutics. Trans. and ed., David E.
Linge. Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1977.

__________________. Truth and Method. Trans. and revised, Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall. New York: Continuum, 2004.

Martin, Thomas F. “Book Twelve: Exegesis and Confessio.” As found in A Reader’s Companion to Augustine’s Confessions. Eds., Kim Paffenroth and Robert P. Kennedy. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2003), pp. 185-206.

The Word In-Excess

Now that we have traced Augustine’s journey to his conversion, I want to spend some time discussing Augustine’s more humble orientation toward Scripture and the ways in which his hermeneutical practices have much in common with certain postmodern sympathies, and conversely, the ways in which Augustine’s approach to Scripture contrasts with modern biblical hermeneutics. As we have examined the various texts and persons to which Augustine had been providentially directed, we have seen how each experience (however circuitous it may have been) enabled Augustine to move toward his destiny. Not only lust, but perhaps more significantly, pride in its diverse manifestations, proved to be a hindrance in Augustine’s ability to ascertain truth. However, now as a mature Christian—in fact a leader of the Church—Augustine the Bishop perceives a profound depth in Scripture, which allows for multiple levels of meanings and even multiple true interpretations. For example, in book XII, Augustine, after reviewing a number of possible true interpretations for Gen 1:1 and emphasizing that charity must be keep in view in regard to our hermeneutical endeavors, writes,

“[w]hat does it matter to me that various interpretations of those words are proffered, as long as they are true? I repeat, what does it matter to me if what I think the author thought is different from what someone else thinks he thought? All of us, his readers, are doing our utmost to search out and understand the writer’s intention, and since we believe him to be truthful, we do not presume to interpret him as making any statement that we either know or suppose to be false. Provided, therefore, that each person tries to ascertain in the holy scriptures the meaning the author intended, what harm is there if a reader holds an opinion which you, the light of all truthful minds, show to be true, even though it is not what was intended by the author, who himself meant something true, but not exactly that?”

Interestingly, though Augustine states that he and others strive after the author’s intention, yet he also claims that it is not only possible but quite acceptable that true meanings be revealed (by God himself) that go beyond the mens auctoris. Here we might bring Augustine “into conversation” with Hans-Georg Gadamer. As David Linge explains, for Gadamer, the meaning of a text is not simply restricted to the intention of the author, nor is interpretation solely construed as an attempt to replicate the author’s original intention. This reflects in part Gadamer’s understanding of the text itself as something living and dynamic. Moreover, the text cannot be approached as if it were a math problem in which one and only one answer is correct. Nor should one attempt to come up with a method or formula that when applied produces the same result each time—such a model has more in common with scientific experiments than with a living, breathing textual dialogue. In addition, a hermeneutical theory that restricts the meaning of the text to the intention of the author is riddled with seemingly insoluble difficulties. Highlighting the tensions of such a theory, Linge writes,

“The basic difficulty with this theory is that it subjectifies both meaning and understanding, thus rendering unintelligible the development of tradition that transmits the text or art work to us and influences our reception of it in the present. When meaning is located exclusively in the mens auctoris, understanding becomes a transaction between the creative consciousness of the author and the purely reproductive consciousness of the interpreter. The inadequacy of this theory to deal positively with history is perhaps best seen in its inability to explain the host of competing interpretations of texts with which history is replete, and that in fact constitute the substance of tradition.”

Some try to explain away the multiplicity of interpretations by claiming that there is a kind “meaning-in-itself” which is univocal, yet its significance for interpreters varies over time. This, however, is unsatisfactory as it is clear that interpreters within the same tradition in different historical epochs have disagreed not merely in the significance or application of the supposed univocal meaning of a text but in what they thought they saw in the very same text. Rather, than limit the meaning of a text solely to the author’s intention, Gadamer understands the text as having an “excess of meaning” upon which tradition builds.

Elucidating his position, Gadamer writes,

“Every time will have to understand a text handed down to it in its own way, for it is subject to the whole of the tradition in which it has a material interest and in which it seeks to understand itself. The real meaning of a text as it addresses the interpreter does not just depend on the occasional factors which characterize the author and his original public. For it is also always co-determined by the historical situation of the interpreter and thus by the whole of the objective course of history … The meaning of a text surpasses its author not occasionally, but always. Thus understanding is not a reproductive procedure, but rather always also a productive one… It suffices to say that one understands differently when one understands at all.”

At this point, some might object that such a view opens itself up to charges of relativism or a kind of hermeneutical anarchy. However, these conclusions do not necessarily follow—in fact, in no way did they follow for Augustine (and the premodern interpretative tradition) who, as we have seen, accepts the idea of a surplus of meaning beyond the intention of the author. For Augustine, the fact that we have a multitude of true interpretations and levels of meaning in Scripture indicates the infinity and incomprehensibility of the Referent to which these signs point—not that truth is relative or that there is no truth.

In the next post, we shall compare and contrast various aspects of premodern and postmodern biblical hermeneutics with those of modern practices.

Augustine and St. Paul: A Conversion (of the Whole Person) to Christ

Early in book VIII, Augustine writes that he no longer desired “greater certainty” about God, “but a more steadfast abiding” in Him. “I was attracted to the Way, which is our Savior himself, but the narrowness of the path daunted me and I still could not walk in it” (p. 184). Augustine then describes what continued to keep him from a more steadfast abiding, viz., his “bondage to a woman.” In other words, Augustine’s intellect had in a sense found a (temporary) resting place, but his will had not. When we finally reach the famous garden scene, we find Augustine in a state of spiritual turmoil—on the one hand, longing to embrace Christ more intimately, yet lacking the power to do so. As Augustine’s struggle becomes so great that he can no longer conceal his inner chaos, he bursts out in tears and pleads with God to forgive his sins. Then, while sitting in the garden (clearly an image of the garden) weeping, he hears the voice of a child singing, “tolle lege, tolle lege.” Augustine interpreted this as a command from God himself, so he opened St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans and read the first passage on which his eyes fell, “[n]ot in dissipation and drunkenness, nor in debauchery and lewdness, nor in arguing and jealousy; but put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provisions for the flesh or the gratification of your desires [Rom 13:13-14]” (p. 207). Having read these words, Augustine had neither desire nor need to read further. “No sooner had I reached the end of the verse than the light of certainty flooded my heart and all dark shades of doubt fled away” (p. 207). Whatever happened in this encounter with St. Paul—and everything points in the direction of a super-natural conversion—Augustine is now able to embrace Christ fully, not only granting intellectual assent to various teachings about Christ, but with his heart and will he now gives himself in humble submission to live for Christ. Here again, we have a (providential) encounter with a text and ultimately with a Person, and this time Augustine is forever changed. From this point on, Augustine’s attitude toward Scripture exhibits great humility, as he realizes the impossibility of circumscribing an infinite God within finite means (e.g., signs).

Bibliography
Augustine. Confessions. Trans., Maria Boulding. Hyde Park: New City Press, 1997.

In book VII of the Confessions, Augustine recalls his indebtedness to the “Platonists” for helping him gain the ability to apprehend God as non-corporeal. As Augustine himself explains, he had held that that which was not extended did not exist; hence, whatever is must be in some way material. However, after his reading of the Platonists, he realized that there is an entire realm of immaterial beings to which he had previously been blinded.

“For as my eyes were accustomed to roam among material forms, so did my mind among the images of them, yet I could not see that this very act of perception, whereby I formed those images, was different from them in kind. Yet my mind would never have been able to form them unless it was itself a reality, and a great one” (p. 159)

In other words, what the Platonists helped Augustine to realize was that the power by which one conceptualizes is itself not extended. That is, Augustine reflects on reflection itself and concludes that the mind is not extended but immaterial. This breakthrough when applied to God allows Augustine to move beyond corporeal categories, which in turn enables him to gain insight into understanding God’s omnipresence. If God is immaterial, then he is not extended in space. If God is also all-powerful, (which for Augustine is undisputed), then by virtue of his power, God is omnipresent. As a result, one of Augustine’s major intellectual roadblocks has been removed.

Interestingly, however, Augustine seems to indicate that it was only by God’s grace that he was enabled to see these truths of the Platonists. Not only was Augustine directed to positive aspects of the Platonists’ teachings, he was also given insight by God as to the shortcomings of the Platonists. A famous passage in Confessions VII is worth lingering on, as it is both puzzling and illuminating. Here Augustine says that he read in certain books of the Platonists (though not in the exact same words, yet the same concepts were taught) that

“[…]in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God; he was God. He was with God in the beginning. Everything was made through him; nothing came to be without him. What was made is alive with his life, and that life was the light of humankind. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never been able to master it; and that the human soul, even though it bears testimony about the Light, is not itself the Light, but that God, the Word, is the true Light, which illumines every human person who comes into this world; and that he was in this world, a world made by him, but the world did not receive him. But that he came to his own home, and his own people did not receive him; but to those who did receive him he gave power to become children of God; to those, that is, who believe in his name—none of this did I read there” (p. 170).

What is odd about this passage is that Augustine quotes almost word for word from the Fourth Gospel and states these concepts are also found in the Platonists. On the one hand, one might interpret Augustine’s comment as his correlating, e.g., Plotinus’ teaching on the Divine Mind with St. John’s teaching on the Word, or his differentiating the human soul from the Light with Plotinus’ idea that the human soul is distinct from the World Soul. Yet, on the other hand, when combined with other passages quoted by Augustine, which he claims were also found in the Platonists, it seems a bit of a “stretch” that what Plotinus and other Neoplatonists had in mind have any deep resonance with what Scripture seems to emphasize about Christ. For example, Augustine also quotes from St. Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians, and claims that in the writings of the Platonists he read that

“the Son, being in the form of God the Father, deemed it no robbery to be equal to God.” Regardless of whether what we have here is anything more than a formal similarity between the Platonists and St. Paul, Augustine is clear that he did not, however, encounter in the works of the Platonists Christ’s self-emptying and his taking the “form of a slave,” nor his “being made in the likeness of men” and humbling himself in obedient submission to the point of death, “even death on a cross” (p. 170).

Augustine goes on to enumerate other teachings of the Christian faith not found in his reading of the Platonists—that God the Father raised Christ from the dead and exalted him, that every knee should bow and confess him as Lord, that Christ died for the wicked, that these things are hidden from the “wise,” and that Christ forgives sins. Then with Romans 1 in the background, Augustine highlights the ethical and epistemological implications of “those who are raised on the stilts of their loftier doctrine,” i.e., the philosophers (p. 171). Of these Augustine says, “even if they know God, they do not honor him as God or give him thanks; their thinking has been frittered away into futility and their foolish hearts are benighted, for in claiming to be wise they have become stupid.” Continuing the Romans 1 motif, Augustine explains how the so-called wise men became idolaters. Regarding these idolatrous acts, Augustine states, “these I found there [in the writings of the Platonists], but I did not eat that food. […] I disregarded the idols of the Egyptians, to which they paid homage with gold that belonged to you, for they perverted the truth of God into a lie, worshipping a creature and serving it rather than the creator” (p. 172). Here we note Augustine’s ability to discern “Egyptian gold” from “Egyptian idols.” Yet, in spite of this intellectual progress, he, by his own admission, had yet to fully embrace Christ the mediator with his whole being. This “totus homo” conversion comes in book VIII, to which in the next post.

Bibliography
Augustine. Confessions. Trans., Maria Boulding. Hyde Park: New City Press, 1997.

During his time with the Manicheans, Augustine began to grow increasingly dissatisfied with their teachings and had accumulated a number of questions that none of his fellow Manichees were able to answer adequately. His friends, however, assured him that when Faustus arrived, he would be able to sufficiently address and respond to Augustine’s questions. Yet, when Augustine met Faustus and had the opportunity to engage him on various issues, he found Faustus wanting. Indeed, Faustus lived up to reputation as a gifted orator, but his content had no substance. This marks another significant turning point in Augustine’s journey. In fact, as he looks back on this event, he again sees God’s providential care and guidance. As Augustine explains, God himself had been teaching him to listen with a spiritually attuned ear and to recognize that God alone is the (true, inner) teacher of truth.

“I had already learned under your tuition that nothing should be regarded as true because it is eloquently stated, nor false because the words sound clumsy. On the other hand, it is not true for being expressed in uncouth language either, or false because couched in splendid words. I had come to understand that just as wholesome and rubbishy food may both be served equally well in sophisticated dishes or in others of rustic quality, so too can wisdom and foolishness be proffered in language elegant or plain.”

Augustine has clearly made progress at this point, as he is less attracted by mere external adornments, and continues to long for that which truly feeds his soul—whether it be served in sophisticated or rustic dishes. Augustine’s thirst for content over form (as conveyed in his judgment of Mani), however, should not be taken as a wholesale dismissal or repudiation of the importance of articulate rhetorical style.

In light of Faustus’ inability to answer Augustine’s questions, Augustine entertains for a brief period of time Academic skepticism, and as a result, considers the possibility that perhaps truth cannot be obtained. Yet, he does not seem to take the skeptical position too much to heart, as he continues to wrestle with theological questions (e.g., God’s omnipresence, the nature of evil etc.) and even longed to discuss the scriptures with someone who knew them well. After a brief teaching stint in Rome, Augustine moves to Milan and there meets this “someone,” viz., Bishop Ambrose, whom God will use to help Augustine overcome the many false views that he had acquired through the Manichean teachings on Scripture. As Augustine himself admits, he first came to hear Ambrose with less than virtuous motives; however, as he sat under Ambrose’s teaching he began to be drawn in not only by his rhetorical skill but likewise by the weightiness of his content. Describing his experience of listening to Ambrose’s orations, Augustine writes:

“[A]s his words, which I enjoyed, penetrated my mind, the substance, which I overlooked, seeped in with them, for I could not separate the two. As I opened my heart to appreciate how skillfully he spoke, the recognition that he was speaking the truth crept in at the same time, though only by slow degrees. At first the case he was making began to seem defensible to me, and I realized that the Catholic faith, in support of which I had believed nothing could be advanced against Manichean opponents, was in fact intellectually respectable.”

What proved to be a particularly important breakthrough for Augustine was Ambrose’s explanation of the figurative or “spiritual” interpretation of Scripture. The Manichees had interpreted a number of texts from the Old Testament in a strictly literal sense, which caused serious problems in Augustine’s understanding of God’s nature and character. Now that Augustine had (through Ambrose) gained this new hermeneutical approach to Scripture, many of his former objections and misunderstandings were swept away. Although now Augustine has more or less repudiated his Manichean beliefs and has significantly less “intellectual” excuses for rejecting the Catholic faith, his flirtation with skepticism rears its head and allows him to remain at a distance from a more intimate embrace of Christianity. One of his chief stumbling blocks—itself a hangover from his now abandoned Manichean worldview—is Augustine’s inability to conceive of God as immaterial. This barrier will be removed in his encounter with the writings of the Platonists, which will be covered in the next post.

Bibliography
Augustine. Confessions. Trans., Maria Boulding. Hyde Park: New City Press, 1997.

One way of viewing the organizing structure of the Confessions is to see it as an engagement with various texts at different phases of Augustine’s life. In the early books of the Confessions, Augustine describes his dis-ordered state, which resulted in his inability to read any text (sacred or profane) properly. Yet, following his conversion, his entire orientation not only to texts, but to reality as a whole is changed. In this series of posts, I attempt to trace the winding paths that lead up to Augustine’s conversion through his various encounters with texts (and individuals) and to examine his struggles both intellectual and spiritual along the way.

Prior to his joining the Manichees, Augustine had come across one of Cicero’s works, the Hortensius. Having been educated in the liberal arts and himself a rhetor, Augustine was trained to appreciate eloquent writing and speech. Yet, this emphasis on eloquent style was often to the neglect of content, as the goal of acquiring eloquence was not to further some higher end, but to promote selfish ambition and advance his career. In fact, Augustine seems to indicate that his pride and love of form hindered him from appreciating (and perceiving) the rich depths of Scripture given its simple style. However, as Augustine reflects on these events, he sees God’s providential hand cultivating in him a hunger and thirst for that which lasts, for the eternal. Interestingly, when he reads Cicero, which contained an exhortation to philosophy, Augustine, who was then unconverted, describes this experience as a turning point in his pilgrimage.

“The book changed my way of feeling and the character of my prayers to you, O Lord, for under its influence my petitions and desires altered. All my hollow hopes suddenly seemed worthless, and with unbelievable intensity my heart burned with longing for immortality that wisdom seemed to promise. I began to rise up, in order to return to you. My interest in the book was not aroused by its usefulness in the honing of my verbal skills […]; no, it was not merely as an instrument for sharpening my tongue that I used that book, for it had won me over not by its style but by what it had to say.”

Here Augustine indicates that his encounter with Cicero’s work, was unique in that the content “won him over.” Instead of seeking to acquire more polished skills as a rhetor, Augustine perceived that his reading of Cicero had deeply affected him—his desires were changed and he now longed for eternal things and saw his former pursuits as worthless. Alluding to his likeness to the prodigal son, Augustine marks this event as the beginning of his return to God. Though Augustine understands his reading of Cicero as the commencement of his ascent to God, we must keep in mind that Augustine’s return journey was one of winding and arduous paths. In fact, whatever change occurred in Augustine as the result of his introduction to Cicero (and there is no reason to doubt that a change indeed took place), it was not sufficient to prevent him from joining the Manichean sect, and as we have mentioned, remaining with them for nine years.

Bibliography
Augustine. Confessions. Trans., Maria Boulding. Hyde Park: New City Press, 1997.

Section four, “The Indifference to Be,” is perhaps one of the most important sections of chapter three. In light of what he sees as an inherent connection between the Being/being framework and idolatry, Marion attempts to outwit Being by its own rules—which in essence means to outwit onto-theo-logy and the “ontological difference.” The phrase “ontological difference” is a reference to Heidegger and speaks of the difference between Being (as such) and beings. One aspect of the “difference” between Being (as such) and a being is that the former a dynamic process and is therefore not a being, yet the history of Western philosophy on the Heideggarian read has ossified/static-ized Being and made it a being (e.g., pure act, highest cause etc.), which is why Heidegger gives his critique as he does. This dynamic process (Being) reveals itself differently in different epochs and allows particular beings to manifest/appear as the beings that they are. Being as such then seems to provide the condition for the possibility of beings appearing. [This is my understanding of “ontological difference” as used in this context. However, as I have stated before, my knowledge of Heidegger is very basic, and I welcome criticisms and corrections to what I have said here].

In order to outwit Being, that is, to break out of the horizon of Being, we must find a new rule whose difference is not that of “ontological difference” and consequently, whose difference does not refer at all to the horizon of Being (which would involve us in the idolatrous gaze). Ontological difference has a built-in reflexivity and it is this very (idolatrous) reflexivity that Marion wants to avoid. This other difference turns out to be biblical revelation. In other words, Marion employs that which is “foolishness to the Greeks” to outwit the (wordly) logic of Being. E.g., appealing to two texts from St. Paul (Rom 4:7 and 1 Cor 1:26-29) and one from St. Luke (the prodigal son), Marion shows how biblical revelation is indifferent to Being. To elucidate what is meant by this, Marion writes, “one must distinguish, in fact, between two extremely different points. Incontestably, biblical revelation is unaware of ontological difference, the science of Being/beings as such, and hence of the question of Being. But nothing is less accurate than to pretend that it does not speak a word on being, nonbeing and beingness” (p. 86). Marion appeals to these texts because all of them speak about being (or ousia) in one way or another. Though Marion admits that some might be frustrated with his interpretation of these texts, he asks the reader to exercise patience and see his argument through to the end.

For the sake of brevity, I shall engage only one text, viz., Rom 4:17. In this text we read that Abraham was made “the father of us all, as it is written, ‘I have made you the father of many nations,’ facing Him in whom he believed, the God who gives life to the dead and who calls the non-beings as beings” (p. 86). As Marion observes, we see St. Paul seemingly employing the language of the philosophers when he speaks of a movement from non-being to being. The Greeks of course were very much concerned with the possibility or rather impossibility of this transition; however, the transition that Paul has in mind does not depend on any human conception, nor is it solved by a movement of a being from potency to act. Instead, the transition comes to the (non)beings from the outside. As Marion puts it, the transition is an “extrinsic transition” and “does not depend on (non-)beings but on Him who calls them” (p. 87). Of course Marion does not mean that these “dead” individuals do not actually exist. Rather, his emphasis is that in the eyes of the world, they are non-beings. In contrast, God is indifferent to the world’s (ontic) determination of being and nonbeing. God’s call in fact “does not take into consideration the difference between nonbeings and beings” (p. 88)—nonbeings are called as if they were beings.

In the texts from St. Paul that Marion examines, we find that nonbeings (ta mē onta) do not mean that or those who are not, and as a result nonbeings in the context of revelation do not play according to the logic of Being and do not submit to the horizon of Being. (The same of course is true of beings (ta onta). Marion highlights an interesting point in the 1 Corinthians 1:26-29 passage, viz., that the wisdom of the world goes against its own logic. That is, it calls the brethren nonbeings, though strictly speaking they, as humans, exist. But as Paul points out, the “world” contradicts itself because it founds itself or is founded not as a result of the fold of Being but on its own works and therefore boasts in itself before God. So even in spite of itself, the “world” when bedazzled by the light of God, becomes so distracted that it, being revealed as a “forger of itself,” “acknowledges that its funding does not lie in ontological difference, but in the pretension to ‘glorify itself before God’” (p. 94). In the end, what counts here as to the debate between beings and nonbeings has little to do with ontic or ontological difference, but rather with the two opposing boastings—one which is founded on itself and one which boasts in the Lord because of God’s call (p. 94). Consequently, we now see how “being and nonbeing can be divided according to something other than Being” (p. 95).

Later in the chapter (after giving his interpretation of the parable of the prodigal son), Marion identifies this “something” as the “gift.” The “gift” not only outwits the Being game, but it makes possible Being/beings in the first place—it “gives Being/beings” (p. 100). As Marion explains, “[t]he gift crosses Being/being: it meets it, strikes it out with a mark, finally opens it, as a window casement opens, on an instance that remains unspeakable according to the language of Being—supposing that another language might be conceived. To open Being/being to the instance of a gift implies then, at the least, that the gift may decide Being/being. In other words, the gift is not at all laid out according to Being/being, but Being/being is given according to the gift. The gift delivers Being/being. It delivers it in the sense first that the gift gives Being/being and puts it into play, opens it to its sending, as in order to launch it into its destiny. The gift delivers also in that it liberates being from Being or, put another way, Being/being from ontological difference” (p. 101). This gift in fact is inextricably linked with charity/love itself, “which gives and expresses itself as gift” (p. 102). In sum, being is not a being because (the horizon of) Being has provided the condition by which it can become manifest [or said slightly differently, a being is not a being because of the “ontological difference”], rather a being is a being because it has received a gift (e.g. the “call”) from Love Himself.

In chapter three, section three, “Being or Else (the Good),” Marion enters the debate concerning the issue of the primary name for God, which St. Thomas claims (based on Ex 3:14) is ens and Dionysius claims is bonum. Marion links agape with bonum because certain texts of the Denys (Dionysius) seem to justify such a connection. Hence, the debate between ens and bonum is likewise a debate between ens and agape (1 John 4:8, ho theos agapē estin). We should here emphasize that when Dionysius privileges Goodness as the first divine name, he is not simply replacing one category for another, which would be to replace one conceptual idol with another. In fact, Goodness as the first name for God speaks against any categorical statement concerning God. As Marion explains, Dionysius “does not pretend that goodness constitutes the proper name of the Requisite [aitia=cause], but that in the apprehension of goodness the dimension is cleared where the very possibility of a categorical statement concerning Gxd ceases to be valid, and where the reversal of denomination into praise become inevitable. To praise the Requisite as such, hence as goodness, amounts to opening distance. Distance neither asks nor tolerates that one fill it but that one traverse it, in an infinite praise that feeds on the impossibility or, better, the impropriety of the category. The first praise, the name of goodness, therefore does not offer any ‘most proper name’ [contra Thomas and ipsum esse as ‘maxime proprie’ name of God] and decidedly abolishes every conceptual idol of ‘God’ in favor of the luminous darkness where Gxd manifests (and not masks) himself, in short, where he gives himself to be envisaged by us” (p. 76).

For the Denys, Gxd is the principle of beings from which both beings and existence itself derives. Moreover, this Gxd gives Being to beings but himself is greater and beyond the gift of Being that he gives. Being is a gift which is disclosed in the act of giving and this act is goodness, a goodness which in fact gives itself. [For the Dionysian tradition, the denomination “Goodness” allows for a Trinitarian vision of God—after all Christ as ultimate gift gives Himself on our behalf]. Moreover, for Dionysius the good is preferred because it extends not only to beings but to non-beings. According to Thomas, Dionysius goes this route because it takes “God” into view not only as efficient cause [the Creator of beings] but also as final cause and hence desirable even by non-beings (p. 78). [Question: Would those versed in the Dionysian tradition help me to understand what is meant by non-beings here?] For Thomas this becomes a question of whether the good indeed “adds” something and becomes primary or not. If not, then ens must be established as primary.

Thomas takes the second path and attempts to establish the primacy of ens. Thomas does this, according to Marion, by introducing a “new point of view”—a point of view that “limits one’s view to the measurements of the ens” and from this certain point of view, the ens becomes a “solid-point.” In other words, though convertible with the other transcendentals (one, good, and true), ens exhibits a primacy because “the ens finds itself comprehended in their [i.e. the transcendentals] comprehension, and not reciprocally.” Ens is both the “first term that falls within the imagination of the understanding,” and the primary and proper object of the intellect and is primarily intelligible because “everything is knowable only inasmuch as it is in actuality” (pp. 79-80).
In addition and somewhat summing up Marion’s point, “[t]he primacy of the ens depends on the primacy of a conception of the human understanding and of the mind of man. The primacy of the ens has nothing absolute or unconditional about it; it relies on another primacy which remains discreetly in the background. But it is this second primacy that one must question, since it alone gives its domination to the ens, to the detriment of the good (and of the Dionysian tradition)” [p. 80]. Ens as an object of the human intellect and hence as a representation seems a prime candidate for an idol. In fact, Marion does not see how Thomas’ doctrine of analogy can uphold God’s transcendence given that the “primacy of ens over the other possible divine names rests on primacy of human conception” (p. 81).

According to Marion, if theology is to be understood as a “science” that proceeds by the apprehension of concepts, then ens will be primary and the human being’s point of view normative as to method. However, if theology wants to be theo-logical, it must “submit all of its concepts, without excepting the ens, to a ‘destruction’ by the doctrine of divine names, at the risk of having to renounce any status as a conceptual ‘science,’ in order, decidedly nonobjectivating, to praise by infinite petitions” (p. 81). Thomas seems to attempt a both/and (maintaining both the primacy of ens as the first conception of the human understanding and a product of the faculty of imagination and a doctrine of divine names), which makes his view (as Marion sees it) idolatrous (see pp. 81-82).

Near the end of the section, Marion asks whether a new path, viz., agapē can “transgress Being” […] Can it manifest itself without passing through Being?” Again, Marion states that he does not want to simply substitute one divine name (goodness or agapē) for another (ens), rather in order to free Gxd from Being he will attempt to show “how the Gxd who gives himself as agapē thus marks his divergence from Being” (p. 83).

In section two, entitled, “Ontological Impediment,” Marion gives a fairly complex and detailed analysis of Heidegger’s onto-theology critique, pointing out both the insights and the shortcomings of Heidegger’s claims. (I have to say that given my very basic knowledge of Heidegger, I found this section extremely difficult and am not sure whether I have properly understood it. Hence, I welcome corrections). Having engaged and examined Heidegger’s position, Marion concludes that though Heidegger was correct in pointing out the onto-theo-logic that characterizes the Western metaphysical tradition, Heidegger himself does not escape his own critique.

Marion sees Heidegger as diminishing theology’s dignity by making it submit to the requirements of Dasein, which in the end for Marion means Being, as well as and the very ontology Heidegger himself criticizes. Heidegger wants to make a strict separation between philosophy and theology, the former constituting the science of Being (ontological science) and the latter an “ontic” science of faith, which studies a particular slice of reality (having the same standing as chemistry or mathematics) [p. 66]—it’s object is not Dasein or “God” but faith in Christ crucified. In other words, faith becomes an aspect or modality of philosophy and consequently remains a conceptual idol. “The invariant of Dasein appears more essential to man than the ontic variant introduced by faith. Man can eventually become a believer only inasmuch as he exists first as Dasein” (p. 68). In the end, theology as a mere ontic variant of Dasein remains subordinate to Dasein as such.

Second, according to Heidegger, it is valid and perhaps even preferred to speak of faith as “the experience of faith.” Yet, again faith must be understood according to the strictures or conditions of philosophy, particularly of Heidegger’s phenomenology, which means that faith cannot show itself or give itself as itself but is always filtered through Dasein (and the horizon of Being).
Marion, however, wants a theology that allows Gxd to reveal himself “without condition, antecedent, or genealogy” (p. 70). In other words, he asks, “why must revelation be determined by the strictures of a philosophy that says in order for Gxd to show himself he must do so as a being within the framework of Being? (p. 70). “Who then decides that that mode of revelation, about which the Bible emphasizes that it speaks […] ‘in many refrains, in many different ways’ (Heb. 1:1), should have to sacrifice, as a retainer fee, to Being?” (p. 71). Marion ends this section with a simple but profound question: “does the name of the Gxd, who is crossed because he is crucified, belong to the domain of Being?”