By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In Balthasar’s retelling of the history of Western metaphysics, he discerns a dialectical relation between the dialogico-dualistic world of myth and the monological world of philosophical reason. It is only when a distinctively Christian metaphysic comes on the scene—a metaphysic in which a (Triune) God existing a se freely creates and allows his creatures to participate analogously in the (created) being which He gives—that the dialectic between a mythico-dualistic and a philosophico-monistic concept of being can be overcome (p. 17).
For Balthasar, the relationality of the Persons of the Trinity is given accent, and is reflected in his description of God’s nature “as a series of absolutely free reciprocal relations (perichoresis) where an infinite self-donation is perfectly coincident with an infinite self-possession.” Given that each member of the Trinity manifests a reciprocity of both infinite distance and infinite presence, the one divine nature subsists “in an utterly non-static, non-univocal manner: God is ‘One’ as a dynamic relationality where infinite ‘distance’ is coincident with an infinite communion” (p. 18). Here the intratrinitarian relations, displaying both infinite presence and distance, become the archetype for the infinite distance between God and creation. In other words, the intratrinitarian relations as it were open up a “space” for the world. This open space is not an area of non-being within the trintaritarian relations, but instead is the “strictly positive reality of the distance required for truly interpersonal communion. It is the mystery of the abyss of infinite love where there is never a ‘boundary’ or a ‘limit’, but an excessus and an ecstasy that can ground the reality of the world as ‘not God’ in direct proportion to the depth of the world’s incorporation into God” (p. 19).
As one would expect, Balthasar’s doctrine of God as articulated above informs his understanding of revelation. Rather than a static moment in an otherwise changing world of flux, “revelation is to be viewed as the dynamic transformation of the temporal structure of our existence through an incorporation of that existence into the very heart of the trinitarian relations” (p. 20). Against all models of revelation that ultimately manifest an ahistorical set of hermeneutical assumptions in their attempts to understand the relation between the temporal or historical and the eternal, Balthasar begins with the “assumption that the historical realm should not be viewed as an oppositional metaphysical principle to the realm of the atemporal. Rather, the realm of the historical opens up to the event-like, incarnated nature of all truth” (p. 21). Jesus, as the concrete universal, overcomes the temporal/eternal dialectic. It is in the drama of his concrete, historical life that the “temporal structures find their inner completion” (p. 20).
Notes
Larry Chapp’s essay, “Revelation,” is published in The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs Von Balthasar. Eds by Edward T. Oakes, SJ and David Moss. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004): 11-23.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
Larry Chapp in his essay, “Revelation,” provides an excellent discussion of Hans Urs von Balthasar’s theology of revelation [1]. Chapp begins by setting forth what he discerns as von Balthasar’s most basic assertion concerning revelation, viz., “in revelation we have a sovereign divine action pro nobis that makes God known to his creatures in a manner that they can apprehend [2]. It is God who speaks in revelation and it is humanity who listens and responds” (p. 11). Divine revelation of course employs human language and conceptual categories; yet, these structures are taken up into a divinely constructed Gestalt which gives it a depth that transcends the merely human while simultaneously embracing the human. With the revelation of Christ, “we have an utterly unique event without parallel that judges all human expectations rather than being judged and tamed by them. Interestingly, showing great similarities with Barth (and one might add, John Calvin) on this point, Balthasar affirms the self-authenticating nature of revelation, i.e., “that revelation carries within itself its own theological warrant” (p. 11). Balthasar’s orientation to revelation is integrally connected to his view of rationality or “engraced reason.” In stark contrast to the trends in nineteenth century liberal theology, Balthasar embraced the historical particularity of revelation as a conduit of truth and rejected the idea of “religious interiority as the only possible locus for revelation” (p. 12). In light of Balthasar’s strong criticism of modernity’s autonomous reason, is he best characterized as adopting a precritical form of rationality or perhaps he falls more in line with postmodern views of reason? Chapp resists reducing Balthasar to either and suggests that Balthasar’s position embraces the best elements of both. For Balthasar, the only proper way to reflect on revelation is “from within the horizon of faith” and by means of an “engraced form of thinking.” Moreover, Balthasar rejects the claim of liberal-critical theology to be able to judge revelation from a so-called neutral or objective pou stō, and shares the postmodern suspicion of (distinctively modern) meta-narratives. Balthasar’s concerns, however, are neither deconstructive nor does he desire to do away with all notions of universality. Rather, he desires “to establish a unique trinitarian-christological concept of truth as the manifestation of divine ‘glory’—a glory whose analogue is the earthly concept of ‘beauty’, where the aesthetic intelligibility of the object resides precisely within its structures and not ‘behind’ or ‘in front of’ the object of contemplation. Thus, revelation is the authentic universal precisely in and through the historical particularity of the divine ‘superform’ that is concretely manifested in the life, death, and Resurrection of Jesus” (p. 14). Only in the revelation of Christ, who is the authentic “concrete universal,” are we able to overcome the alienation produced by various false dialectics that appear and reappear in the history of Western philosophy.
Not only is revelation self-authenticating as it shines forth God’s glory, it also involves us in a dramatic encounter with the Triune God. One does not establish the universal claims that revelation makes on human beings by first agreeing upon a set of neutral, rational principles by which revelation can then be judged (again, Calvin says something very similar) [3] Rather, the universalism of revelation “is based upon the self-evident credibility of the self-manifestation of divine love. The truth of revelation is universal, not because it fits into the transcendental categories of a univocal concept of reason, but precisely because it dialogically and dramatically confronts humanity with a concrete choice that involves a response from the very depths of our humanity” (p. 15).
Notes
[1] Chapp’s essay is published in The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs Von Balthasar. Eds by Edward T. Oakes, SJ and David Moss. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004): 11-23.
[2] Love Alone: the Way of Revelation. Trans. not named. (New York: Herder & Herder, 1969), pp. 7-8.
[3] For example, in Institutes, I.vii.2, Calvin writes, “As to their question […] How can we be assured that this has sprung from God unless we have recourse to the decree of the church? – it is as if someone asked: Whence will we learn to distinguish light from darkness, white from black, sweet from bitter? Indeed, Scripture exhibits fully as clear evidence of its own truth as white and black things do of their color, or sweet and bitter things do of their taste” (emphasis added). Regarding the question, “How can we be assured that this is from God?” Calvin seems to say that this is like asking, “How do you distinguish between white and black, sweet from bitter—those things carry their attributes within themselves.” In section 5, Calvin writes, “It is not right to subject it [Scripture] to proof or reasoning.” In other words, Calvin is stressing that there is no higher authority to which we can appeal for truth. If you need a proof to establish the authority of Scripture, then the authority of Scripture depends on that proof. It depends then at least on another authority in order to show it as authoritative. In sum, Scripture as self-attesting or self-authenticating means that Scripture carries within itself its own justification.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
I recently received word that my submission to the upcoming Patristic, Medieval, and Renaissance Conference at Villanova (Oct. 19-21) has been accepted (see abstract below). I also found out that two of my friends will be presenting papers as well (Mike Vendsel and Joel Garver), which means that I can hardly wait for this event. If anyone has any ideas on how to get the best prices on airline tickets via online services, please let me know.
St. Augustine on Text and Reality (and a Little Gadamerian Spice)
One way of viewing the organizing structure of the Confessions is to see it as an engagement with various texts at different phases of St. 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. This essay attempts 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. In the final section, I bring Augustine into conversation with Hans-Georg Gadamer in an attempt to highlight a number of hermeneutical continuities shared by premoderns and postmoderns. After comparing and contrasting premodern and modern hermeneutical orientations, I conclude that Augustine’s approach to Scripture contrasts sharply with a (strict) modern grammatico-historical biblical methodology, whereas premodern hermeneutics share a number of continuities with Gadamarian and postmodern emphases. Lastly, in light of Gadamer’s famous statement, “all of life is hermeneutics,” perhaps we could read Augustine’s life as affirming this claim. In other words, a close look at Augustine’s life reveals the decisive ways in which pre-judgments, interpretative traditions, and a dynamic/analogical rather than a static/univocal understanding of the text (and reality) affected Augustine’s spiritual and intellectual vision—observations which Gadamer would no doubt heartily affirm.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
Here is my contribution to the meme inspired by
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
A discussion of my guest post at the church and postmodern culture is underway. The focus of the discussion is D.C. Schindler’s essay, “Surprised by Truth: The Drama of Fundamental Theology.” Please join us, if you are so inclined.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In the prologue of his book, Truth is Symphonic, Balthasar depicts creation as God’s symphony. Symphony of course literally means, “to sound together.” As Balthasar so elegantly describes it, “[f]irst there is sound, then different sounds and then we hear the different sounds singing together in a dance of sound” (p. 7). In order to compose a symphony well, it is necessary for the composer to have an intimate knowledge of each instrument. For example, s/he must be familiar with the instrument’s construction, range, and timbre so that the part written for each particular instrument not only properly corresponds to its capabilities, but also allows each particular instrument to realize its full potential. Yet, there is more. The composer must also hear how each part will sound as the different parts dance together simultaneously and form one sound. From a different angle, we might highlight the fact that the “orchestra must be pluralist in order to unfold the wealth of the totality that resounds in the composer’s mind” (p. 7).
Next, Balthasar compares the world to an orchestra tuning up just prior to the performance: “each player plays to himself, while the audience takes their seats and the conductor has not yet arrived. All the same, someone has struck an A on the piano, and a certain unity of atmosphere is established around it: they are tuning up for some common endeavor. Nor is the particular selection of instrumentation fortuitous: with their graded differences of qualities, they already form a kind of system of coordinates. The oboe, perhaps supported by the bassoon, will provide a foil to the corpus of strings, but could not do so effectively if the horns did not create a background linking the two sides of this counterpoint. The choice of instruments comes from the unity that, for the moment, lies silent in the open score on the conductor’s podium—but soon, when the conductor taps with his baton, this unity will draw everything to itself and transport it, and then we shall see why each instrument is there” (pp. 7-8).
In God’s symphonic performance, that is, his revelation, “it is impossible to say which is richer: the seamless genius of his composition or the polyphonous orchestra of Creation that he has prepared to play it” (p. 8). Prior to the Incarnation, the world orchestra, tuned to their own version of A, produces at best a cacophony of sounds. Yet, when the true A comes, the entire orchestra must tune to Him who brings unity to this display of diversity and plurality in a non-tyrannical way. From this analogy, we see that the diversity of the created order, or as Balthasar calls it, the “pluralism of the world” is not something to despise, but rather allows for the greatest manifestation of the fullness of divinity. However, the world should not expect to find its unity within itself, as its unity is found in Him whose origin is other-worldly. Balthasar then adds a specifically vertical or relational dimension to the analogy, as he explains that the purpose of the world’s plurality is “not to refuse to enter into the unity that lies in God and is imparted by him, but symphonically to get in tune with one another and give allegiance to the transcendent unity. As for the audience, none is envisaged other than the players themselves: by performing the divine symphony—the composition of which can in no way be deduced from the instruments, even in their totality—they discover why they have been assembled together. Initially, they stand or sit next to each other as strangers, in mutual contradiction, as it were. Suddenly, as the music begins, they realize how they are integrated. Not in unison, but what is far more beautiful—in sym-phony” (p. 9).
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
I recently came across an informative essay by Peter J. Leithart entitled, “Trinitarian Anthropology: Toward a Trinitarian Re-casting of Reformed Theology,” and wanted to share some of Leithart’s findings [1]. Having spent a good deal of time this summer reading von Balthasar, I was struck by the amazing similarity between Balthasar and Edwards in their thinking on the Trinity and beauty.
In the second section of his essay, Leithart turns to Jonathan Edwards and highlights the fecundity of Edwards’ Trinitarian theology. Beginning with Edwards’ treatment of God’s self-communication and love, Leithart points out Edwards’ Augustinian influenced belief that God is love implies a plurality of persons within God. As Edwards explains, “[t]hat in John God is love shows that there are more persons than one in the deity, for it shews love to be essential and necessary to the deity so that his nature consists in it, and this supposes that there is an eternal and necessary object, because all love respects another that is the beloved” (p. 61) [2]. God of course has no need to express his love outside of the Trinitarian relations and in no way comes to self-actualization through creation. Yet, the eternal self-giving among the Persons of the Trinity is the archetype for creaturely self-giving and is the background for God’s self-communication to His creatures. Turning again to Edwards we read, “[a]s there is an infinite fullness of all possible good in God, a fullness of every perfection, of all excellency and beauty, and of infinite happiness. And as this fullness is capable of communication or emanation ad extra; so it seems a thing amiable and valuable in itself that it should be communicated or flow forth, that this infinite fountain of good should send forth abundant streams, that this infinite fountain of light should, diffusing its excellent fullness pour forth light all around” (p. 61) [3].
Leithart goes on to say that in addition to Edwards’ emphasis that “God as Trinity was inherently communicative, inherently loving, inherently ecstatic,” he also speaks of this pattern as “imprinted on the creation. Creation as a whole, and the divine-human relationship in particular, are echoes of the eternal music of Triune life. Emanation is inherent in the Trinitarian life: The Father outflows in love to the Son, and the Son returns to love the Father in the Spirit. And so it is with the creatures of this God” (p. 62). As Edwards puts it, “in the creature’s knowing … loving … and praising God, the glory of God is both … received and returned. Here is both emanation and remanation” [4]. In light of her union with Christ her Husband, the Church as bride participates “in the eternal flow of gift and return that is the Son’s life with the Father and Spirit” (p. 62). Redemption then is to be understood as social and interpersonal—a harmony manifest between the Triune persons and His people (which images the archetypal Triune Harmony) and a harmony among the people of God in their interpersonal relationships with one another. At this point Leithart turns to Edwards’ use of musical analogies in his explications of ecclesiology, eschatology, history and creation, noting their Trinitarian echoes and inspiration. As Robert W. Jenson has noted in his work on Edwards, singing serves as metaphor of choice for Edwards’ aesthetic descriptions [5]. For example, Edwards gives the following musical analogy for his idea of a societas in harmonia, “[t]he best, most beautiful, and most perfect way that we have of expressing a sweet concord of mind to each other is music. When I would form an idea of a society in the highest degree happy, I think of them sweetly singing to each other.” As Leithart observes, this perfect harmony awaits its eschatological fulfillment in the new creation, where, as Edwards says, the “spiritual proportion” will be a “very complex tune, where respect is to be had to the proportion of a great many notes together” (p. 62) [6].
Leithart then connects Edwards ideas of harmony with his Calvinistic belief that all creation is providentially guided and directed to its telos. “In explicit polemic against the Newtonian view of dead matter in empty space, Edwards spoke instead of creation as a place of harmony, where ‘the whole course of nature … [is] subservient to the affair of redemption.’ Indeed, ‘Every atom is managed by Christ … [7] This is ultimately an ontology (or “physics”) of love, in which gravity is conceived on the model of Trinitarian attraction and difference” (p. 62).
Lastly, Leithart fleshes out the various ways in which Edwards’ Trinitarian ontology founds his theological aesthetics. Beauty and excellence form centerpieces in Edwards’ view of aesthetics, yet these are defined in Trinitarian terms. According to Edwards, it is impossible for one alone to be excellent because “in such case, there can be no consent [i.e., harmony]. Therefore, if God is excellent, there must be a plurality in God; otherwise, there can be no consent in him” (p. 63) [8]. This musical image of “consent,” that is, harmony, is at the heart of Edwards’ theological (and explicitly Trinitarian) aesthetics. As Leithart explains, “[w]ithout a plurality of persons in God there would be no harmony because there would be no difference, and there would be no beauty because harmony is the keynote of beauty. Edwards concedes that simplicity can have a beauty, but he sees that as beauty of a very limited sort. By contrast, when ‘thousands of different ratios at once … make up the harmony,’ the beauty produced is ‘far the sweetest’” (p. 63) [9]. Summing up Edwards’ view, Leithart writes, “love is not love without an object, and therefore God’s eternal love implies some eternal plurality in his being. Similarly here, since beauty consists in love, beauty depends on the Trinitarian nature of God. Without a harmony of difference, a harmony of Father, Son, and Spirit, there would be no beauty in God” (p. 63). How’s that for a little theologizing with a hammer (or better with a finely tuned surgical tool) so as to re-configure the frozen image of Edwards the Puritan whose only contribution to theology was that ghastly sermon, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” Hats off to Leithart!
Notes
[1] Leithart’s essay is found in The Auburn Avenue Theology, Pros and Cons: Debating the Federal Vision. (Fort Lauderdale: Knox Theological Seminary , 2004): 58-71.
[2] As cited in Amy Plantinga Pauw The Supreme Harmony of All: The Trinitarian Theology of Jonathan Edwards (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), p. 37.
[3] Ibid. , p. 85.
[4] Ibid. , p. 41.
[5] The citations that follow are Leithart’s and are taken from Robert W. Jensen, America’s Theologian: A Recommendation of Jonathan Edwards. Oxford: OUP, 1988.
[6] Ibid., p. 20.
[7] Ibid. , p. 43.
[8] As found in Pauw, The Supreme Harmony of All , p. 58.
[9] Ibid., p. 83.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
As mentioned in part I, Vermigli and Calvin regularly appeal to St. Augustine (as well as other Church Fathers) and understand their position to be in line with Augustine, who defines a sacrament as the “sacrae rei signum, aut visibile signum invisibilis gratia” (“a sign of a holy/sacred thing, or a visible sign of invisible grace”). As Vermigli argues, “[j]ust as we are said to receive salvation through the words of God, not that salvation is concealed in those words […], but is contained through signification. Such comparison of divine words is appropriate, since in St. Augustine’s opinion sacraments are visible words” (Ibid. , p. 283). Augustine in fact makes his view even clearer when he says that the Apostle Paul “could have proclaimed [potuit praedicare] the Lord Jesus Christ by means of signifying [significando], in one way by his tongue, in another way by epistle, and in another way by the sacrament of His body and blood (De Trinitate III.4.10). Here, as Vermigli points out, the Lord Jesus is understood by St. Augustine as being signified by a sacrament of his body and blood. Augustine goes on to say in the passage, “since, of course, we neither claim that his [i.e., the Apostle’s] tongue nor the parchments and ink, nor the sounds which signify [significantes] that he brought forth [editos] with his tongue, nor the marks [signa] of alphabetical signs [litterarum] written together [conscripta] on small skins [to be; sc. esse] the body and blood of Christ, but we take in hand [sumimus] that only which has been received [acceptum] from the fruit of the earth and ceremonially consecrated [consecratum] by mystical prayer [prece mystica] for the purpose of [our] spiritual health in memory of the Lord’s passion for us, [and] that which although guided [perducator] by the hands of men to that visible appearance [visibliem speciem], is not sanctified so that it would be so great a sacrament, except by the Spirit of God working invisibly [operante invisibiliter]” (De Trinitate III.4.10). Vermigli then points out that “what we receive from the earth’s fruit is called the Lord’s body. So that it follows that bread remains there,” as it would not make sense to understand the earth as bringing forth accidents, and yet the bread is conjoined sacramentally to the Lord’s body (The Oxford Treatise and Disputation On the Eucharist, p. 284).
This effectual, sacramental signification that occurs in the Supper is of course no common signification, but is that by which the believer’s relationship with Christ is strengthened and nourished. The power and efficaciousness that the signification obtains derives from God and is a Trinitarian affair. By effectual signification Vermigli means the exhibere of Christ. As McLelland notes in his introductory chapter, here perhaps Martin Bucer and Calvin were at times more clear as they are at pains to stress the bread and wine as signa exhibitiva and a real presence. Both Melanchthon and Bucer in the Wittenberg Concord of 1534 employ the phrase, “signa exhibitiva,” e.g., “the bread and wine are signs, signa exhibitiva, which being proferred and taken, the body of Christ is proffered and taken at the same time. We read something similar in H. Bullinger’s, First Helvetic Confession of 1536, which states, “symbols by which the true communication of his body and blood is present (exhibeatur) by the Lord himself (Ibid., p. xxxviii). Lastly, a nice Christological analogy flows from this Reformed position, viz., just as the natures of the elements (bread and wine) remain and are then sacramentally joined to the body and blood of Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit and hence are truly present in an unconfused way, not passing into one another, so too in Christ the human and divine natures truly coexist, yet unmixed and unconfused.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
Though I am still working through a good deal of Calvin, Vermigli, and others on the subject of the Eucharist and want to (re)emphasize that my thinking on this topic is still very much in progress, the following seem to me important additions to add to the on-going discussion of a Reformed view of the Eucharist. According to Vermigli (and it is understood by many scholars that Vermigli and Calvin were more or less in unison regarding their views of the Eucharist), Christ’s true flesh is given in the Supper,[1] but it must be received by faith and eaten (as Calvin claims) spiritually—a reference to the mode of our receiving. Yet, with his flesh Christ also gives a symbol (e.g., the bread) in which there is no substantial change. Some claim that such a position ipso facto severely diminishes our need for Christ’s humanity in the present life and is practically equivalent to affirming that Christ hung on the Cross only spiritually. Yet, it is entirely unclear to me how this follows unless perhaps one assumes the truth of transubstantiation. In fact, similar accusations were charged against Vermigli who in no way denies the reality of Christ’s sacrificial death on the cross and even affirms that Christ’s “body is eaten by the communicants, yet not in the same way that it hangs or is crucified” (emphasis added; The Oxford Treatise and Disputation On the Eucharist, 1549, p. 267) [2]. Vermigli goes on to say that “a sacrament is something heavenly that nature did not form, but through consecration comes to the bread, yet not so as to throw its own substance away” (Ibid., p. 273). In other words, Vermigli claims that the nature of the symbols (bread/wine) need not be transubstantiated in order for Christ’s true substance to be present. The latter, viz., Christ’s true substance, is present in the Supper and is conjoined to the symbols. Vermigli clarifies further, stating that the elements are indeed, as it were, altered, but the change is not in terms of species understood as accidents of the bread and wine, for the senses show that these do not change. Rather, by the power of the Holy Spirit, Christ’s substance is brought into a sacramental relation with the symbols. As Vermigli explains, “while this holy rite is proceeding, a sacramental dimension [ratio] is brought to the symbols through the institutions of the words of the Lord. That relation of signifying both the mystical body and Christ’s body itself is grounded not in the accidents of bread and wine but in their natures, through the coming of the Holy Spirit, who uses them as instruments” (Ibid. , p. 274). In other to avoid an equivocation, Vermigli makes the following distinction, if change is understood according to substance such that the substance itself must perish or be converted into some other substance, then he denies such a change. However, if one understands “that the substance is changed in a way that receives another quality and condition than it had before,” then he grants that it has changed (Ibid. , p. 274). So after the words of consecration, the elements obtain another quality and “a greater dignity, namely, a sacramental state, which they did not have before” via the power of the Holy Spirit (Ibid. , p. 275). In short, Vermigli (and Calvin) do not deny the presence of the body (and blood) of Christ in the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, but rather their dispute is with the mode of presence in which we receive the body and blood of Christ. Vermigli and Calvin hold that we receive Christ’s body and blood sacramentally through an effectual or sacramental signification by faith, and we receive the symbols of these realities via the senses. Accordingly, the body of Christ is present through sacramental signification. One might counter that if one claims that the same body is given which Christ offered on the cross, then it must follow (in the very same way) that Christ is truly and substantially in the sacrament. However, Vermigli rejects this argument and claims that one would be guilty of turning quid (“what”) into quale (“how”) [Ibid., p. 281]. Vermigli thus affirms that it is the same flesh given in the Supper, but here it is received through the instrument of faith. Hence, an unbeliever would not receive Christ’s body, because he lacks the instrument, viz., the gift of faith, by which the body of Christ is received.
Neither Calvin nor Vermigli see themselves as pure innovators in their understanding of the Eucharist and regularly cite the Church Fathers for support of their position. Part II will discuss an important passage by St. Augustine found in De Trinitate III.4.10 to which Vermigli appealed in his disputation on the Eucharist.
Notes
[1] See e.g. Calvin’s Institutes IV.17.7, where he writes, “I am not satisfied with the view of those who, while acknowledging that we have some kind of communion with Christ, only make us partakers of the Spirit, omitting all mention of flesh and blood. As if it were said to no purpose at all, that his flesh is meat indeed, and his blood is drink indeed; that we have no life unless we eat that flesh and drink that blood; and so forth.” Calvin goes on to describe the intimate nature of our relationship with Christ via union and participation in the Eucharist. “But ever since that fountain of life began to dwell in our nature, he no longer lies hid at a distance from us, but exhibits himself openly for our participation. Nay, the very flesh in which he resides he makes vivifying to us, that by partaking of it we may feed for immortality. ‘I,’ says he, ‘am that bread of life;’ ‘I am the living bread which came down from heaven;’ ‘And the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world’ (John 6:48, 51). By these words he declares, not only that he is life, inasmuch as he is the eternal Word of God who came down to us from heaven, but, by coming down, gave vigour to the flesh which he assumed, that a communication of life to us might thence emanate. Hence, too, he adds, that his flesh is meat indeed, and that his blood is drink indeed: by this food believers are reared to eternal life. The pious, therefore, have admirable comfort in this, that they now find life in their own flesh.” Hence, for Calvin, Vermigli and we might add Bucer, Bullinger and others of the Reformed tradition, our participation in the humanity of Christ is not something that simply has to do with a future salvation. Rather, the nourishment and life that we receive from our participation in Christ’s body in the Eucharist is a present and on-going grace gift.
[2] As cited in Peter Martyr Vermigli, The Oxford Treatise and Disputation On the Eucharist. Trans. and ed. by Joseph C. McLelland. Kirksville, Sixteenth Century Essays & Studies, 2000.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In part I, we discussed John 6:22-51 in order to better understand the context of the famous bread of life discourse. We now come to the concluding section of the passage, viz., verses 52-58. In verse 52, we again have echoes of the Israelites’ grumblings during the exodus, as the Jews in the current dialogue dispute among themselves in their attempt to grasp the meaning of Jesus’ words. In typical fashion, Jesus does not directly answer their question, but begins His response in verse 53, saying, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” Here Jesus refers to Himself as the “Son of Man,” which in Johannine theology denotes “both Jesus’ heavenly origin and destination [cf. e.g., 1:51; 3:13; 6:62] … and his ‘lifting up’ (substitutionary sacrifice) on the cross (3:14; 8:28; 12:34; cf. 6:53; 12:23; 13:31)” [Ibid., p. 86]. Köstenberger goes on to argue that here Jesus “speaks of the surrender of his ‘flesh and blood’—a Hebrew idiom referring to the whole person (cf. Matt. 16:17; 1 Cor. 15:50; Eph. 6:12; … Heb. 2:14)—unto death and of believers ‘eating and drinking’ of it as the bread that came down from heaven by which alone a human being can live” (Ibid., p. 216). Calvin adds that when Jesus emphatically accents, “the flesh of the Son of man,” He is addressing the Jews’ unbelief of Jesus’ heavenly origin, given that He resembled other men in the flesh. In other words, Calvin explains the meaning of verse 53 as, “[d]espise me as much as you please, on account of the mean and despicable appearance of my flesh, still that despicable flesh contains life; and if you are destitute of it, you will nowhere else find any thing else to quicken you” (Calvin’s Commentary on John, p. 265).
Verse 54 is yet again in no way an excessive use of repetition given our inclination to seek life outside of Christ. “Accordingly, as he lately testified that nothing but death remains for all who seek life anywhere else than in his flesh, so now he excites all believers to cherish good hope, while he promises to them life in the same flesh” (Ibid., pp. 265-266). Then in the last part of verse 54, we find an important connection between the one who feeds on Christ and the one who is resurrected “on the last day.” Calvin, appealing to St. Augustine, writes, “[i]t ought to be observed, that Christ so frequently connects the resurrection with eternal life, because our salvation will be hidden till that day. No man, therefore, can perceive what Christ bestows on us, unless, rising above the world, he places before his eyes the last resurrection. From these words, it plainly appears that the whole of this passage is improperly explained, as applied to the Lord’s Supper. For if it were true that all who present themselves at the holy table of the Lord are made partakers of his flesh and blood, all will, in like manner, obtain life; but we know that there are many who partake of it to their condemnation. And indeed it would have been foolish and unreasonable to discourse about the Lord’s Supper, before he had instituted it. It is certain, then, that he now speaks of the perpetual and ordinary manner of eating the flesh of Christ, which is done by faith only. And yet, at the same time, I acknowledge that there is nothing said here that is not figuratively represented, and actually bestowed on believers, in the Lord’s Supper; and Christ even intended that the holy Supper should be, as it were, a seal and confirmation of this sermon. This is also the reason why the Evangelist John makes no mention of the Lord’s Supper; and therefore Augustine follows the natural order, when, in explaining this chapter, he does not touch on the Lord’s Supper till he comes to the conclusion; and then he shows that this mystery is symbolically represented, whenever the Churches celebrate the Lord’s Supper, in some places daily, and in other places only on the Lord’s day” (Ibid., p. 266; emphasis added).
When Jesus explains that His flesh (sarx) is true flesh and that His blood is true drink (σάρξ μου ἀληθής ἐστιν βρῶσις, καὶ τὸ αἷμα μου ἀληθής ἐστιν πόσις, v. 55 ), He draws attention to Himself as “the eschatological, typology fulfillment in relation to OT precursors” (Johnp. 216). Yet, there is more, as Calvin so beautifully explains, “when he declares that his flesh is truly food, he means that souls are famished, if they want [lack] that food. Then only wilt thou find life in Christ, when thou shalt seek the nourishment of life in his flesh. Thus we ought to boast, with Paul, that we reckon nothing to be excellent but Christ crucified; because, as soon as we have departed from the sacrifice of his death, we meet with nothing but death; nor is there any other road that conducts us to a perception of his Divine power than through his death and resurrection. Embrace Christ, therefore, as the Servant of the Father, (Isaiah 42:1, ) that he may show himself to thee to be the Prince of life, (Acts 3:15.) For when he emptied himself , (Philippians 2:7, ) in this manner we were enriched with abundance of all blessings; his humiliation and descent into hell raised us to heaven; and, by enduring the curse of his cross, he erected the banner of our righteousness as a splendid memorial of his victory. Consequently, they are false expounders of the mystery of the Lord’s Supper, who draw away souls from the flesh of Christ” (Ibid., pp. 266-267). Here we should keep in mind that Calvin is not saying that this passage speaks directly of the Lord’s Supper, as the Lord’s Supper had not even been instituted at this point in the Johannine narrative. Yet, Calvin neither denies that what is said in John 6 is symbolically “represented, and actually bestowed on believers, in the Lord’s Supper” nor does he rule out a depth to the text that would allow for multiple dimensions to be brought forth at a later time in redemptive history. For example, Calvin is neither ignorant of nor does he condemn St. Paul’s interpretation of the manna in 1 Cor 10:1-5 [1]. Regarding these two seemingly opposed interpretations, Calvin repeatedly highlights the fact that Christ and St. Paul are dealing with different audiences and must speak accommodatingly to those audiences and with regard to the specific problems at hand. For example, in St. John’s gospel, Christ is dealing with unbelief and with those who were concerned only with satisfying physical needs. Hence, Christ in his comparison of the present unbelief of the Jews with the Israelites of old emphasizes how both groups because of their lack of faith were only able to see according to their own preconceived notions. St. Paul, however, is dealing with a different issue in 1 Corinthians. The Corinthians had become arrogant and were testing God with their candidly sinful behavior. Consequently, St. Paul appeals to certain aspects of the Israelites’ story to urge the Corinthians to repent. As Calvin acknowledges, in 1 Cor 10:1-5 St. Paul presents a correspondence between the eating and drinking in the wilderness wanderings and the sacraments of the Lord’s Supper. In addition, without denying the temporal advantages of the blessings of food and drink given by God to sustain his people, St. Paul speaks of a (hidden) spiritual dimension in relation to these outward signs. Though these spiritual dimensions, viz., the spiritual eating and drinking, are not found explicitly in the OT text, St. Paul, given his status as an apostle and under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, re-interprets (that is, gives a new meaning to) these events in light of the progress of redemptive history. Here we have what we might call an exclusive hermeneutical apostolic (and divine) privilege [2].
Returning to our discussion of the immediate text (in John 6), the first part of verse 56 reads, “[w]hoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood,” is as Calvin says, “another confirmation; for while he alone has life in himself, he shows how we may enjoy it, that is, by eating his flesh; as if he had affirmed that there is no other way in which he can become ours, than by our faith being directed to his flesh. For no one will ever come to Christ as God, who despises him as man; and, therefore, if you wish to have any interest in Christ, you must take care, above all things, that you do not disdain his flesh” (Ibid., pp. 267-268). Then in the last part of verse 56, we encounter the language of abiding, viz., our abiding in Christ and his abiding in us. This mutual indwelling mentioned here foreshadows what will be discussed at length in John 15 regarding the believer’s union with Christ. Then in verse 57 we read, “As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever feeds on me, he also will live because of me.” Here the intimacy of Jesus’ union with the Father is presented as the archetypal image of our union with Christ from whom and through whom we obtain eternal life. Calvin adds that in this verse Christ “now comes to speak of the principal cause, for the first source of life is in the Father. But he meets an objection, for it might be thought that he took away from God what belonged to him, when he made himself the cause of life. He makes himself, therefore, to be the Author of life, in such a manner, as to acknowledge that there was another who gave him what he administers to others. Let us observe, that this discourse also is accommodated to the capacity of those to whom Christ was speaking; for it is only with respect to his flesh that he compares himself to the Father. For though the Father is the beginning of life, yet the eternal Word himself is strictly life. But the eternal Divinity of Christ is not the present subject; for he exhibits himself such as he was manifested to the world, clothed with our flesh.” Calvin goes on to state regarding the words, “I live because of the Father,” that “[t]his does not apply to his [Christ’s] Divinity simply, nor does it apply to his human nature simply and by itself, but it is a description of the Son of God manifested in the flesh. Besides, we know that it is not unusual with Christ to ascribe to the Father every thing Divine which he had in himself. It must be observed, however, that he points out here three degrees of life. In the first rank is the living Father, who is the source, but remote and hidden. Next follows the Son, who is exhibited to us as an open fountain, and by whom life flows to us. The third is, the life which we draw from him. We now perceive what is stated to amount to this, that God the Father, in whom life dwells, is at a great distance from us, and that Christ, placed between us, is the second cause of life, in order that what would otherwise be concealed in God may proceed from him to us” (Ibid., pp. 268-269).
Ridderbos sums up the thrust of this passage (vs. 53-58) well when he describes St. John’s focus as highlighting “the offense of Jesus’ death on the cross,” the intimate union between Jesus and believers, and “the reality of the incarnation; in other words, in all this we are dealing not with the mystery of the sacrament but with the mystery of christology” (The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary, p. 237).
Notes
[1] Calvin acknowledges that St. Paul’s interpretation of the manna and the rock cannot be obtained from what we might call a strict grammatico-historical reading the OT text. He then gives a similar example of this kind of (re)interpretation as exhibited by Christ himself in his explanation of the brazen serpent as a “spiritual sacrament (John 3:14) and yet not a word has come down to us as to this thing, but the Lord revealed to believers of that age, in the manner he thought fit, the secret, which would otherwise have remained hid” (Calvin’s Commentary on 1 Corinthians, p. 315).
[2] A second paper would be required in order to give a detailed exegetical explanation for this passage (1 Cor 10:1-5). Suffice it say that Calvin’s view is “that the reality of the things signified was exhibited in connection with the ancient sacraments. As, therefore, they were emblems of Christ, it follows, that Christ was connected with them, not locally, nor by a natural or substantial union, but sacramentally. […] Regarding St. Paul’s words that the Israelites of old “ate the same spiritual food” and “drank the same spiritual drink” which was Christ (1 Cor 10:4), Calvin says that though this clearly predates Christ’s incarnation, nonetheless, those who ate in faith ate true spiritual food and were nourished, as ultimately, “their salvation depended on the benefit of his [Christ’s] death and resurrection. Hence, they required to receive the flesh and the blood of Christ, that they might participate in the benefit of redemption. This reception of it was the secret work of the Holy Spirit, who wrought in them in such a manner, that Christ’s flesh, though not yet created, was made efficacious in them. He [St. Paul] means, however, that they ate in their own way, which was different from ours, and this is what I have previously stated, that Christ is now presented to us more fully, according to the measure of the revelation. For, in the present day, the eating is substantial, which it could not have been then — that is, Christ feeds us with his flesh, which has been sacrificed for us, and appointed as our food, and from this we derive life.” Perhaps Calvin’s explanation here gives evidence that his Eucharistic understanding (contra D. Farrow) does in fact include eschatological dimensions that transcend time—in this particular instance, as it were, extending backward. Regarding the natural question of how we are to understand an unbeliever’s participation in the sacraments of old, Calvin states that those Israelites who did not eat with faith invalidated the possibility of an effectual partaking because the instrument by which Christ is received, viz., faith, was absent. As Calvin explains, “the manna, in relation to God, was spiritual meat even to unbelievers, but because the mouth of unbelievers was but carnal, they did not eat what was given them”(Calvin’s Commentary on 1 Corinthians, p. 319-320).
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
During the academic year, I spend a good deal of time reading, studying, and contemplating various philosophical issues and theological topics as understood in the broader Christian tradition—an activity by which my faith is greatly benefited and strengthened. For example, in one of my courses last semester, we read book IV of St. Thomas’ Summa Contra Gentiles, which includes Thomas’ explication of and arguments for, among other things, transubstantiation. Yet, as a Protestant, it is also important to me to have some focused time studying these kinds of subjects from within my own (Reformed) tradition. Given that one of my summer goals is to spend some time reflecting on the Lord’s Supper as understood and articulated by the Reformed tradition, I have been reading John 6 (a frequently appealed to text in discussions of the Eucharist), as well as a number of commentaries on the bread of life discourse and wanted to share some of my findings thus far. This is still very much a study in progress and I am not holding dogmatically to every aspect of what I present below; however, it has been exceedingly helpful to dig into the text a bit and get a better feel for the narrative from a redemptive historical perspective.
Beginning in verses 22-25, we have a group of people, viz., the “crowd” who, having been miraculously fed by Jesus in the earlier part of the chapter, is now seeking Him out again. When they find Jesus on the other side of the sea, they ask him as to when He had arrived there. Interestingly, Jesus answers their question by addressing the deeper issue of what He discerned as their misguided intentions for seeking Him. Jesus brings to their attention that they have sought Him because He had fed them with the loaves and had satisfied their immediate hunger. Yet, Jesus urges them not to labor for food (βρῶσιν) that perishes “but for the food that endures to eternal life” which He will give them (Jn 6:27). In context, Jesus is not speaking of the Eucharist, but is contrasting the (eternal) life that He is and will give to His people with the food that perishes. The “crowd” then asks Jesus what works they must do in order to do the “works of God” (τὰ ἔργα τοῦ θεοῦ, v. 28)? Jesus responds by saying, ‘This is the work of God (τὸ ἔργον τοῦ θεοῦ), that you believe in him whom he has sent’” (v. 29). Here Köstenberger in his commentary on St. John writes, “[i]n light of the Jewish emphasis on ‘works of the law,’ Jesus’ answer is nothing less than stunning: God’s requirement is summed up as believing in ‘the one he has sent,’ that is, the Messiah. This contrasts with people’s apparent confidence that they are able to meet the demands of God” (John, p. 208). The “crowd,” which is increasingly evidencing its Jewishness, asks for a sign that they may “see and believe” Jesus’ claims—ironically (yet not altogether surprisingly as we have all experienced the persistence of unbelief), they ask for a sign subsequent to their just having been fed miraculously by Christ) [1]. These Jewish voices in the crowd then mention the fact that their fathers were given manna or what they call, “bread from heaven,” during their wilderness wanderings. Jesus is quick to correct them, stating that it was the Father, not Moses, who fed the Israelites and that it is the Father who now gives the “true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is he who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world” (Jn 6:32-33). Here Jesus makes clear that the Father is the gracious giver of both “breads,” and that He, viz., Jesus, is the “true bread,” who “comes down from heaven and gives life to the world” (v. 33). The “crowd” responds to Jesus by saying, “give us this bread” (v. 34)—words that strongly echo those of the Samaritan woman who had also misinterpreted Jesus’ claims (cf. Jn 4:15; “give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water”). As Köstenberger observes, “[t]hroughout the dialogue the Jews see Jesus in light of their preconceived notions and are entirely motivated by physical concerns” (Ibid., p. 210).
Then in verses 35-40, Jesus answers the Jews, saying, “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never cast out. For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day.” In the passage above, Jesus answers with the first of seven “I am” (ἐγώ εἰμι) claims found in St. John’s gospel—words that Jewish ears would hear as a claim to deity in light of Ex 3:14. Jesus’ identification of Himself as the bread of life is meant to inform the Jews’ misunderstanding in verse 34, where they seem to focus only on the possibility of satisfying physical needs. In stating that those who come to Him will never hunger and those who believe will never thirst (v. 35), Jesus is offering more than his Jewish hearers expect (as was the case with the Samaritan woman), as He is offering them Himself and with this gift comes eternal life and spiritual nourishment.
In verses 41-42, we see a parallel between the grumbling Israelites in the desert and the present crowd that grumbled in disbelief at Jesus’ claims here to be the bread of life come down from heaven. Here again we encounter the repeated phrase of Jesus’ “coming down from heaven,” which seems to emphasize the other-worldliness of Jesus’ origin. Then Jesus highlights, as He did in the previous passage, that no one can come to Him apart from the gracious activity of the Father in drawing him or her to Christ.
In verses 47-51, Jesus gives a more detailed explanation of the differences between the OT manna as understand by his current Jewish audience and the bread He now offers. “Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes has eternal life. I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” As Calvin notes, some infer from this passage that to believe in Christ is the same as to eat Christ’s flesh; however, Calvin believes that such an inference is ill-founded. According to Calvin, “these two things differ from each other as former and latter; and in like manner, to come to Christ and to drink him, for coming to him is first in order. I acknowledge that Christ is not eaten but by faith; but the reason is, because we receive him by faith, that he may dwell in us, and that we may be made partakers of him, and thus may be one with him. To eat him, therefore, is an effect or work of faith” (Calvin’s Commentary on John, p. 260).
In verses 48-49, Jesus continues to highlight differences between the manna (as misconstrued by the Jews in the present dialogue) and the bread that He offers. Commenting on verse 49, Calvin says that it is only in Christ and Christ alone that individuals find “that food by which they are fed to spiritual life.” Calvin then, anticipating a potential difficulty with what Jesus says here in John and what the Apostle Paul says in 1 Cor 10, explains that “what is here said does not relate to the manna, so far as it was a secret figure of Christ; for in that respect Paul calls it spiritual food, (1 Corinthians 10:3). But we have said that Christ here accommodates his discourse to the hearers, who, caring only about feeding the belly, looked for nothing higher in the manna. Justly, therefore does he declare that their fathers are dead, that is, those who in the same manner, were devoted to the belly, or, in other words, who thought of nothing higher than this world. And yet he invites them to eat, when he says that he has come, that any man may eat; for this mode of expression has the same meaning as if he said, that he is ready to give himself to all, provided that they are only willing to believe” (Ibid., pp. 260-261; emphases added).
Regarding Jesus’ repetitive use of phrases describing Himself as the bread of life or living bread (e.g., vs. 48, 51), Calvin says that these are not superfluous and are needed due to our tendency to seek (pseudo) life outside of Christ who “alone is sufficient to give life. For he [Christ] claims for himself the designation of bread, in order to tear from our hearts all fallacious hopes of living” (Ibid., p. 261). Then turning to the second part of verse 51, Calvin says that the word “eat,” is employed to exhort us to faith, “which alone enables us to enjoy this bread, so as to derive life from it.” Then attending to the last part of verse 51, viz., “the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh,” Calvin states that Jesus’ ability to bestow life most likely refers to His divine essence. This divine life was, as it were and speaking imperfectly, “placed in his flesh that it may be drawn out of it. It is, undoubtedly, a wonderful purpose of God that he has exhibited life to us in that flesh, where formerly there was nothing but the cause of death. And thus he provides for our weakness, when he does not call us above the clouds to enjoy life, but displays it on earth, in the same manner as if he were exalting us to the secrets of his kingdom. And yet, while he corrects the pride of our mind, he tries the humility and obedience of our faith, when he enjoins those who would seek life to place reliance on his flesh” (Ibid., p. 262).
Addressing a possible objection that because Christ’s flesh was liable to death, it cannot give life and that it does not belong to the nature of flesh to impart eternal life, Calvin writes, “though this power comes from another source than from the flesh, still this is no reason why the designation may not accurately apply to it; for as the eternal Word of God is the fountain of life, (John 1:4) so his flesh, as a channel, conveys to us that life which dwells intrinsically, as we say, in his Divinity. And in this sense it is called life-giving, because it conveys to us that life which it borrows for us from another quarter. This will not be difficult to understand, if we consider what is the cause of life, namely, righteousness. And though righteousness flows from God alone, still we shall not attain the full manifestation of it any where else than in the flesh of Christ; for in it was accomplished the redemption of man, in it a sacrifice was offered to atone for sins, and an obedience yielded to God, to reconcile him to us; it was also filled with the sanctification of the Spirit, and at length, having vanquished death, it was received into the heavenly glory. It follows, therefore that all the parts of life have been placed in it, that no man may have reason to complain that he is deprived of life, as if it were placed in concealment, or at a distance.” Lastly, Calvin notes that the word “give” has multiple senses in this passage. “The first giving, of which he has formerly spoken, is made daily, whenever Christ offers himself to us. Secondly, it denotes that singular giving which was done on the cross, when he offered himself as a sacrifice to his Father; for then he delivered himself up to death for the life of men, and now he invites us to enjoy the fruit of his death. For it would be of no avail to us that that sacrifice was once offered, if we did not now feast on that sacred banquet” (Ibid., pp. 262-263).
Before moving to the next large passage, we should mention an observation by Köstenberger, viz., the use of the Greek word, ἡ σάρξ (sarx) in verse 51 for “flesh.” According to Köstenberger, the “fact that the term used for Jesus’ body is “flesh” σάρξ (sarx), rather than σῶμα (sōma) [more commonly used in relation to the Lord’s Supper]) [2] seems to caution against a sacramental or Eucharistic understanding of these verses. The term likely harks back to 1:14” [Καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν]—a verse that emphasizes the Incarnation and Jesus’ tabernacle-ing with us (John, p. 215). How far one would want to take Köstenberger’s observations regarding the use of sarx over sōma is another question, but it is an interesting point that might be worth following out.
Notes
[1] Köstenberger adds, “[t]he crowd’s emphasis on ‘seeing’ as the basis for ‘believing’ represents inferior faith at best in the context of the Johannine narrative [cf. 20:29] … The question ‘What are you going to perform?’ is a common OT expression of incredulity (Job 9:12; Eccles. 8:4; Isa. 45:9).” [John, p. 208].
[2] E.g., in 1 Cor 11:24, St. Paul in the context of explicitly discussing the Lord’s Supper, quotes Jesus’ words, “This is my body which is for you, do this in remembrance of me” (τοῦτο μού ἐστιν τὸ σῶμα τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν τοῦτο ποιεῖτε εἰς τὴν ἐμὴν ἀνάμνησιν”). Likewise, in 1 Cor 11:27-29, when St. Paul warns against profaning the body of the Lord and gives the exhortation to discern the body, he uses σῶμα not σάρξ.
Bibliography
Calvin, John. Commentary on the Gospel According to John, Vol. 1. Grand Rapids: Baker, 2003.
Köstenberger, Andreas J. John. Grand Rapids: Baker, 2004.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
The fourth Balthasarian thesis is one of my favorites, viz., that “[m]ystery is convertible with truth.” Though the Gestalt includes the appearance or surface of being (that which is immediately accessible to us), it is more than this surface: “it is the coincidence of appearance and being, taken both in their unity and in their difference” (p. 595). In other words, since the Gestalt has an immanent-transcendent character with respect to being, mystery and manifestation go hand in hand and “are in reality interdependent aspects of a single thing.” Furthermore, this allows for a positive rather than negative view of mystery: “it is not the withdrawal of being from the illumination of reason, or simply that which, as exceeding the intellect, is not given to it. Rather, it is for Balthasar precisely the givenness of being, that is mysterious, insofar as the generosity at the heart of the act of manifestation is the reason for the mystery” (p. 595). Here we see that it is just in the grasping of the Gestalt that its transcendence manifests. In other words, this account of the Gestalt presents us with an object that is both intelligible and mysterious and allows for a kind of open aspect to truth. Moreover, Balthasar’s view of truth as mystery does not equate to irrationality. “[T]he ever-more character of a thing is a positive presentation of its intelligibility, and the more directly the mind has access to this presentation, the more wonder-fully clear will its mystery be. From this understanding of being’s self-revelation, mystery is due not to the finite mind’s deficiency, as Aquinas implies, but to its power and perfection” (p. 596). Schindler concludes by noting an integral connection between the third and fourth theses. “If truth did not occur most properly in something distinct from the soul, there would be no way to avoid making truth and mystery opposites in principle,” for if grasping truth is understood as intentional identity, then there is no room for excess or distance. Given the allowance or embrace of excess on Balthasar’s view, we are able to understand the intellect itself as “a kind of desire, and at the same time a kind of self-gift, insofar as its act comes to a close beyond itself, and this generous desire cannot simply take the form of a will to closure precisely because it is set on what is essentially open in in its intelligibility” (p. 596).
Lastly, we arrive at the fifth thesis, viz., that “[k]nowledge is essentially non-possessive.” In affirming that the locus of truth is in the Gestalt, we are also acknowledging that the various aspects that make up and come together in the “event” of truth, form their unity primarily beyond the intellect (though the mind does in some immanent sense “take in” the truth). The point being that the immanent unity of intellect and thing known is a “participated unity” shared with the Gestalt. “[I]t takes this unity into itself precisely by transcending beyond itself into the Gestalt. But if this is the case, then the very act of appropriation is an act of expropriation: the mind, one might say, leaves its own home, its mother and father, in order to cleave to its object and become one with it. The identity that the mind thus achieves with the thing that it knows is therefore not an elimination of its difference from it, but instead an appropriation of that difference as difference. It is just this that allows us to say that a knowledge of truth is the real-ization of mystery. In a word, it is not only the will that represents the soul’s movement beyond itself, but reason, too, is essentially ecstatic (p. 596). Schindler then discusses three implications of this notion of ecstatic reason. First, it involves affirming a “moment of ‘discontinuity’ in the operation of the intellect.” Here we might highlight the Balthasarian insight that surprise and wonder are “intrinsic elements of genuine thought […] And once we see that a moment of discontinuity is intrinsic to the completion of understanding, we can say that discontinuity, as such, is not in principle a threat to rationality” (p. 597). Second, if reason is by nature ecstatic, then the ecstatic movement of the will is in no way opposed to the “natural movement of the intellect. Third, “knowledge thus acquires an essentially non-possessive form.” Since, for Balthasar, truth resides primarily in the objective Gestalt (not in the soul), we have a more paradoxical (but not irrational) account of knowledge. Given that the adequatio constituting truth is located in the “freer space of the Gestalt,” one need not be anxious about “holding all things together in one’s own mind in order to safeguard rationality; instead, truth is held together for the individual soul, and so it can entrust itself much more openly and confidently to the more encompassing reality of truth and truth of reality. One enters into knowledge and so one need not keep it nervously for oneself. It is thus that the act of knowledge is itself, in its very structure, a generous act. To know is a very precise, indeed perhaps the most profound, way to love” (pp. 597-598).
In conclusion, we have seen that in Balthasar’s view, truth is not understood as intentional identity in the soul. Instead, his non-possessive concept of knowledge locates truth in the Gestalt and allows for a construal of will and reason as ecstatic by nature. Moreover, Balthasar is able to overcome the problems that arise from a traditional reading of Aquinas, viz., a conception of the will that when logically carried out moves us toward irrationality or a possessive view of knowledge which would collapse the analogy of being into simple identity [1]. Balthasar avoids these pitfalls “by making intelligence an act that preserves the difference of analogy and thus leaves room for an eternity of wonder and surprise as a restful end rather than a ceaseless chase” (p. 598). For Balthasar, inherent to reason itself is a “moment of discontinuity” which allows for a positive view of mystery and makes every truth (not just the truth of God) mysterious in some sense. Both the glory of beauty and the drama of truth are, as Schindler emphasizes, “intrinsically necessary to the rationality of truth.” So does love in the end “trump reason?” Perhaps the best answer is sic et non. That is, “if truth is a transcendental, and love is the meaning of being, to say that love trumps reason is to say that truth trumps truth.” […] In the end, the absolute supremacy of love is precisely what makes reason ultimate because it is what allows reason to embrace the very totality that remains, even in the embrace, ever-greater than reason” (p. 599).
Notes
[1] See Part III for a detailed explanation of these claims.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
[In order to avoid an excessively long post, I have decided to make theses four and five a separate post (part VI), which will conclude the series].
Here we begin with the third Balthasarian thesis, viz., that “the ‘locus’ of truth is the concrete Gestalt. As Schindler is aware, it at first seems odd to speak of a transcendental relation with two termini. However, we must keep in mind that according to Balthasar, the act of the understanding is not simply that of the soul acting on a passive object. Rather, it is a “co-act, a single act that is shared between the asymmetrical and irreducibly different activities of the soul and object operating in conjunction with one another. Being—as love—is not a static fact but gives itself, makes itself known, in its manifestation to the soul, a manifestation that is in fact possible only through the appropriately attentive, and reciprocally generous, engagement on the part of the soul that knows. The intelligible manifestation, then, is not due to the object or the subject alone, nor is it the mere addition of their respective activities, but is rather the single fruit of their encounter or reciprocal interaction. Balthasar calls this fruit the Gestalt (p. 593).
A Gestalt is not reducible to the sum of its parts but is rather a whole that exceeds its parts. This is the case because it manifests as a “distinct ‘third’ in relation to the knowing soul and the thing known.” Yet, a Gestalt is also simultaneously “itself a part that makes concretely manifest a greater whole” (p. 593). Given that this “third” has its own reality and resists reduction, it is a fitting object for the intellect. For Balthasar, in contrast with the conventional reading of Aquinas where the locus of truth is in the soul, the Gestalt is in part the fruit of the “soul’s perceptive and cognitive activity, and thus has an intelligibility that is ‘more’ than the material being by itself, but this Gestalt nevertheless—because truth terminates in some respect beyond the knower—has a concrete existence ‘independent’ of the knowing soul. To say that the Gestalt is thus irreducibly distinct from the soul means that the soul can ‘appropriate’ it only by going beyond itself ‘into’ the meaning” (p. 593). Here we see that in the very act of understanding (not just in the act of the will), the soul must move beyond itself to the extramental object. Balthasar adds that the Gestalt designates both the reality of the being as it is in itself and the appearance of this being; yet, he is adamant (which distinguished him from Kant) that the “appearance is always only of being. Here Balthasar seeks to safeguard the excess quality of the Gestalt. That is, “[t]he reality that comes to manifestation in the Gestalt is a reality ‘beyond’ the manifestation. The non-appearing depth of being cannot be juxtaposed to the appearance as one thing next to another, because the appearance is of nothing other than those very depths; but neither can they be simply identified with one another. No matter how immediate our relation to being may be, this relation is nevertheless always mediated by some ‘appearance’. It is in this sense that we speak of a Gestalt as being an expression of the whole in the part: the Gestalt is the particular, and thus finite, manifestation of a depth that transcends it, and every Gestalt therefore possesses an intelligibility that is inexhaustible to the extent that the difference between being and appearance cannot be eliminated. [Might we think, analogously of course, of Jesus as the Gestalt par excellence? If so, are there similarities here with Marion’s claim of Jesus as the preeminent saturated phenomenon?]. In sum, the Gestalt, as the locus of truth, as a ‘third’ distinct from the knower and the known, is at once more than and less than each of them taken in isolation” (p. 594).
In affirming the Gestalt as the locus of truth, Balthasar is able to maintain a connection between truth, goodness, and beauty due to his more unified view of the aspects of volition and perception. As Schindler explains, by making the Gestalt the place of truth, Balthasar’s view safeguards the ontological dimension of truth because it does not allow truth to be reduced to either subject or object. Instead, Balthasar’s account highlights the “transcendental character of truth, as a property of being, which includes both subject and object in their relation. Moreover, locating truth in the Gestalt holds together its relation to the other transcendentals. If truth had a merely intentional existence, and the transcendentals were distinct not in re but in ratione, truth would be identified specifically in terms of its separateness within its circumincessive relation to goodness and thus to being. […] This real identity is found in the Gestalt” (pp. 594-595).
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In the third section of his essay, Schindler begins by mapping out five theses of Balthasar’s philosophy that will help us to better understand Balthasar’s non-possessive concept of knowledge. First, “love is the meaning of being.” Here we should underscore that for Balthasar love is not first and foremost restricted to an act of the will, but has a broader application which includes “the meaning of being as a whole” and “all of the transcendentals in their circumincession.” Thus, what we have in Balthasar is not voluntarism because in the supremacy that he gives to love he does not (as was the case with some medieval thinkers) “identify the order of love with the order of the will as distinct from, say, the order of intellect” (p. 589). Instead of love being simply a moral matter, uniting love and being brings to the fore the beauty of love, i.e., the aesthetical dimension of love.
But just what does it mean to say that love is the meaning of being and that love is, as it were, the “ground” of all the transcendentals? Here one should not expect a comprehensive definition of love, yet it is possible to venture a decent description of love as articulated by Balthasar. Turning to the Epilogue of Balthasar’s trilogy, Schindler explains that the idea of love and being co-inciding says that “being is, not just act, but the simultaneously generous and receptive act that the word ‘gift’ designates. Such a gift accounts for the transcendentals, not only in their distinctness, but simultaneously in their interpenetration. Thus, being manifests itself with a generous and inviting radiance; in other words, being is beautiful, or in more theological terms, it is glorious (herr-lich “lordly”). This inviting manifestation of beauty sets off a “drama” that calls for a response in freedom. “[T]he result of this drama is what Balthasar calls being’s ‘self-saying’ (sich-sagen), the full articulation of its meaning in an intelligible form. Because this revelation passes, as it were, through the moment of gratuitous self-presentation and the trial of dramatic action, truth, in Balthasar’s understanding, can be characterized not only as aj-lhqeia (dis-closure), but also as emeth (trustworthiness, fidelity), which brings together both the Greek and the Jewish traditions” (p. 590). In short, in Balthasar’s construal we find a mutual reciprocity and interdependence of all these “moments” of being (beauty, goodness, truth), and love is understood not so much as an act of being but as what being is, which of course includes its activities. Thus, love as “groundless” yet “all-grounding” serves as the “foundation” of the transcendentals (p. 591).
The second thesis is the claim that “[t]ruth is simultaneously an object of intellect and will.” Here the idea is that truth is inseparable from all the other transcendentals, which in the case of goodness, e.g., would mean that “goodness is part of the intrinsic structure and meaning of truth as truth (and vice versa). If this is the case, it follows that the will is intrinsic to the intellect as intellect (and vice versa)” (p. 591). In some ways this is similar to Aquinas; however, it is not simply an affirmation that the will and intellect mutually influence one another. Such an affirmation creates the picture of a successive kind of interaction between intellect and will in which we have an act of the intellect which then makes possible an act of the will and so on. As we saw in a previous post, this conception leads to an infinite regress, which Aquinas attempts to solve by positing God as the first who initiates this motion. Balthasar, however, takes a different approach. He too attempts to resolve the regress by appealing to a causal principle distinct from the will-intellect reciprocal causal nexus. But rather than positing God as this principle, Balthasar looks to the so-called lost or forgotten transcendental, viz., beauty. For Balthasar, beauty is what brings truth and goodness together, yet it remains a distinct order. Hence, “[b]eginning with beauty allows a starting point that transcends the orders of intellect and will, as distinct from them, and yet for all that remains a real relation in the (material) world […] Secondly, precisely because of its concreteness, this starting point allows us to affirm a genuine simultaneity of intellect and will, rather than merely a successive reciprocity which would leave the two orders essentially extrinsic to one another” (p. 592). In other words, rather than an account that understands the reciprocal relationship between will and intellect in terms of successive acts, Balthasar’s picture is one in which both intellect and will are incapable of completing their respects acts apart from one another.
At this point we can begin to glimpse how this concept of the simultaneity of truth and goodness in beauty contributes to the discussion at hand. If truth and goodness as transcendentals mutually and essentially include one another (and yet are “safeguarded” by beauty), then “it follows that the definition of goodness is essentially part of the definition of truth. But this suggests, in turn, that the operation of the will that is designated by the order of goodness would essentially be a part of the operation of intellect designated by the order of truth.” In light of what we have just said above, we are justified in going beyond both Aristotle and Aquinas and claiming that the act of the intellect terminates not simply in the soul but also in the thing. Likewise, the act of the will terminates both in the thing and in the soul. Following Francis Kovach’s findings, this suggests that beauty, which unites goodness and truth, is “unique insofar as it seems to represent a transcendental with two termini (p. 592). Yet, Schindler also adds that in uniting goodness and truth, beauty transforms both “by granting them each the character of beauty, i.e., of being an act with two termini, a character that each possesses in a manner appropriate to it.” In short, we have a relation of circumincession between the acts of the intellect and the will with each manifesting dual termini. As a result, the act of intellection must seek its terminus not only in the soul but beyond it as well (p. 593).
The next post will cover the third, fourth and fifth theses.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
As noted at the end of the previous post, Schindler wants to explore a more paradoxical reading of Aquinas on the will-intellect relation in order to avoid seemingly irresolvable tensions that arise from a conventional interpretation [see Part II for a detailed explanation of the problems highlighted by Schindler]. At this point, Schindler brings Balthasar into the conversation and suggests that Balthasar’s vision of the transcendentals, being, and love would harmonize well with a re-reading of Aquinas’ texts in which the appropriative aspect of knowing is relativized. Moreover, Schindler rejects the claim of certain scholars that Aquinas and Balthasar are fundamentally opposed and believes that his project as outlined above shows that at the deepest level the two thinkers are in unity (p. 586). In other words, the assumed dissonance between Aquinas and Balthasar has more to do with trying to bring the two together on the basis of a conventional interpretation of Aquinas.
So that we might see more clearly the significance of Balthasar’s contribution, Schindler sets forth a number of logical implications (not claims from Aquinas himself) that ensue from a traditional reading of Aquinas where we have what Schindler calls a possessive view of knowledge. First, according to Aquinas, in the beatific vision, the soul does not “take God into itself intellectually,” but is instead raised up to God by means of grace. Though this account solves one problem, it creates another, viz., it leaves us with an irrational account of the soul’s vision of God because the intellectual vision of God is presented as “a movement exactly the contrary of the soul’s natural exercise of intelligence” (p. 586). Here we have knowledge and supernatural vision seemingly “collapsing into contradiction.” Yet, from another perspective, we have the possibility of “the analogy of being collapsing into identity.” That is, as Thomas explains, it is by God’s grace that the human intellect is elevated so that it can experience the beatific vision. Aquinas also holds that the knower becomes one with the known in act. So if we follow this out consistently, in the beatific vision, the Christian becomes one form (deiformes) with God. In light of what Thomas has affirmed in regard to the imperfect unity of the will, it appears that Aquinas would have to claim that this deiformity eliminates all difference. “It would seem necessary for it do so if Aquinas had rejected love as the essence of beatitude precisely on account of the abiding difference, and thus the incompleteness of the unity it entails. Moreover, if it were true that, in spite of the assimilation to God that this created grace enables, God still remained in some sense ‘more’ than the soul, then the logic of Aquinas’s position would require him to affirm love as the ultimate act, because the act of will is nobler than the act of intellect whenever that to which the soul relates is higher than the soul. But to affirm this would, in turn, require a radical reconsideration of his philosophical anthropology […]. If we were to deny that God remained forever greater than the soul, on the other hand, then the analogia entis would founder into a substantial identity between the soul and God, which, as Aquinas would say, is ‘repugnant to the faith’” (p. 587).
Schindler then proceeds to spell out more specifically the problem in Aquinas’ philosophical anthropology mentioned above. In part, Aquinas had affirmed the superiority of the intellect over the will in the absolute sense in order to avoid voluntarism. We have also seen that for Aquinas, following Aristotle, knowledge is understood as an act in which the soul and the intelligible form of an object become one. Knowledge in this context means to comprehend or fully possess, as that which is known is appropriated into the knower with no remainder. “[T]his implies that the use of the will in relation to anything not possessed by the soul, anything that ‘exceeds’ the soul, is irrational.” Accordingly, anything affirmed on the basis of authority cannot be considered an “intrinsically rational act, even if one has good reasons for giving one’s assent. In this case, because the revelation which is the object of faith cannot be possessed in its truth in the manner generally accorded to reason, there will always remain something fundamentally irrational, or at least ‘a-rational’, about faith” (pp. 587-588). In other words, a possessive view of knowledge as outlined in a conventional reading of Thomas lands one in a fideistic concept of faith. “By the same token, the love for God that transcends the possession of God in knowledge, whether we consider it in via or in fine, will itself, from this perspective, be non-rational per definitionem precisely because it is ordered to an object that exceeds reason’s grasp. Unless we modify what we mean by reason, we can avoid an ultimate irrationality only by collapsing into the comprehensive possession that the analogy of being does not permit” (p. 588).
Lastly, Schindler highlights the ways in which knowledge as immanent possession threatens the positive value of mystery. First, on the conventional reading of Thomas on the acts of the powers of the soul, with the exception of angels, the created order must be evacuated of all mystery. If I am intentionally identical with something, then it cannot be mysterious to me—after all, I fully possess it. One might counter that matter remains a mystery since only the intelligible species is one with the intellect. However, as Schindler explains, matter would at best be a “negative mystery, an unintelligible darkness.” That is, if one grants that the human being because of his/her immaterial soul reigns supreme in the (material) created realm, then there is no “worldly truth” that exceeds the human being. “I cannot participate in a truth that exceeds me, because truth after all has its ‘locus’ in the soul: it cannot exceed me because […] I contain it. That which is contained cannot be mysterious” (p. 588).
So what about the divine essence? Thomas of course strongly affirms that the divine essence exceeds the human intellect in intelligibility and can neither be contained nor comprehended by the human intellect. Does this not suggest that the divine essence is essentially mysterious to the human intellect? Indeed it does; however, thus conceived, we have yet to move beyond a negative sense of mystery. That is, “[t]hough this mystery arises from an excess of intelligibility rather than an absence ( as in the case of matter), it nevertheless remains in a significant respect a negative mystery with respect to the human soul, insofar as the mystery is due precisely to the soul’s deficiency. If knowledge is the possession of truth, mystery can only be what is not (yet) possessed. But this entails a dialectical relationship between knowledge and mystery: what is known is not mysterious, and what is mysterious is not (yet) known. To make progress in knowledge, then, is just so far to conquer mystery, except insofar as one uncovers more to be taken into intellectual possession. What we lose, in this case, is a depth dimension in both knowledge and mystery. Truth, evacuated of any essential mystery, becomes flat” (p. 589).
Schindler believes that there are resources in St. Thomas’s works that are able to address these problems. However, to accomplish this task necessitates abandoning what Schindler has called the conventional interpretation of Thomas and opening up a space for a non-possessive concept of knowledge. Such a concept is provided in Balthasar’s understanding of reason and love and their relation to truth. The following post will begin to trace out the basic features of Balthasar’s philosophy in relation to the subject at hand.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
Although Balthasar has been criticized for offering a theological cure to a philosophical malady, Schindler maintains that Balthasar’s philosophical position is actually more adequate than certain traditionally accepted views on the relation of the will and intellect. In order to demonstrate his claim, Schindler examines a number of texts from Thomas’ works and highlights a tension in the traditional interpretation of Thomas’ decision to privilege the intellect over the will.
For example, in ST I.82. 3, Aquinas distinguishes between absolute and relative ways of considering the superiority of the intellect over the will. The intellect-will relation understood absolutely has to do with the order of the powers considered in themselves, whereas to understand this association relatively speaks of a relation to a particular object. Following Aristotle, Aquinas holds that the soul is ordered to being, not simply as such, but under different aspects: (1) as intelligible (truth, the object of the intellect), and (2) as appetible (goodness, the object of the will) [p. 580]. Generally, the intellect precedes the will, as the will never acts without willing something. Moreover, Thomas understands the order of operations to consist first in an intellectual apprehension of the object via the soul’s (or more precisely, the agent intellect’s) act of abstracting the intelligible species. As the process of abstraction occurs, the soul and the intelligible form become one or “intentionally” identical. Thus, for Aquinas, the operation of the intellect terminates in the soul. “To put it another way, the adequation between mind and thing that defines truth in its essential sense presupposes a mode of existence of the thing that is capable of identity with the immaterial intellect” (p. 581). Each created entity (excluding angels of course) is a matter/form composite—the matter being the principle of individuation, and the form serving as the immaterial principle which allows the intentional identity to take place and which preserves the universal aspects of each particular object or being. The form of material things then is the proper object of the intellect and this “object resides in the soul that knows it rather than in the thing itself (even though it remains the case that what we understand, finally, is the thing in itself rather than simply our concept of it, as Kant would eventually hold): ‘For it is quite true that the mode of understanding, in one who understands, is not the same as the mode of the thing in existing: since the thing understood is immaterially in the one who understands, according to the mode of the intellect, and not materially, according to the mode of a material thing’ (STI.85.2.ad.2) [p. 581]. This account is not to suggest that Aquinas promotes a merely intentional view of being. For Aquinas, being is real and must be considered from two aspects, viz., “the formal character of its species and the act of being by which it subsists in that species” (De Veritate 21.1). The formal aspect of an entity which becomes one with the intellect via the abstractive process is not the real existence of the thing itself—the real existence of the entity is extramental. “It is just this existential ‘aspect’ of being that Aquinas connects with goodness. If truth exists primarily in the mind, goodness, for its part, exists principally in the things themselves” (STI.16.1) [p. 581]. Hence, in light of the appetite’s tendency outward, goodness is understood as being under the aspect of appetibility, which in turn means that the terminus of the will’s activity is in the existing thing. “While the soul ‘internalizes’ the truth of a thing by grasping it in the intentional order, to enjoy it requires the reality itself. For all of the profound intimacy with the being of things that truth denotes, the one thing that the knowing soul cannot internalize is the thing’s actual existence qua existence. The goodness of being lies outside the soul, and the soul must move to it in order to attain this goodness” (pp. 581-582). Now it becomes clearer on this traditional reading of Aquinas why the act of the intellect must precede the act of the will, viz., because the will must be moved by its object in order to move toward its object (p. 582). Summing up Aquinas’ basic will-intellect logic of operations, Schindler writes, “the soul relates to being first by taking it into itself intentionally as true and then moving beyond itself to being’s real existence as good” (see also, De Veritate, 1.2) [p. 582].
However much the above passage accurately pictures the will-intellect relation, Schindler is quick to add that even so Aquinas speaks of a reciprocal relation between the will and intellect. This reciprocity is due in part to the convertibility of truth and goodness as transcendental properties of being—in other words, it speaks of the circumincession of goodness and truth with being. Just as we have an archetypal eternal circle with the members of the Trinity, so too we have an ectypal circle of sorts with the objects and activities of the powers of the soul. “[T]he good and the true mutually include one another: while the good is true, because it is intelligible and contains an idea, the true is also itself a good—in fact, for Aquinas it is the most excellent good. But if the objects of the powers of the soul include one another, so do the activities of those powers: though it is true that the will can only act under a conception of its object, it is nevertheless true as well that the intellect can understand only because it is good to understand!—which is to say that (with a qualification that will be entered in a moment) there is no act of the intellect that is not willed by the will” (p. 582). Yet, if we affirm this reciprocal relationship between intellect and will, we seem to run into a regress problem. That is, “the will can will this act of the intellect only if it understands it as good, which means once again only as subordinating itself to an act of the intellect. But even that act must be itself willed. And so on” (p. 582). Aquinas, recognizes this problem and suggests that the way to bring the regress to an end is to give priority to the intellect ultimately because God as principial act of our human intellect “first moves our will and thus sets in motion all the rest”—this being the qualification mentioned above (p. 583).
In ST I.82.3, Aquinas provides an argument for the superiority of the intellect (in the absolute sense) over the will. First, Aquinas states that material being is the natural object of the soul. Material being is both true and good. Via the process of abstraction, material being is raised so to speak to an immaterial mode of existence, and as good it exists concretely in a number of composite manifestations (e.g., form/matter, essence/existence). Because simplicity and abstraction are nobler than complexity, truth is nobler than goodness. If pressed to give a reason why the simplicity and abstraction of the intellect’s object qualifies it as is nobler than the will, Aquinas seems to indicate that a universality is implied in the former and is excluded in the latter. Aquinas even goes so far as to say that the “idea of goodness is in fact nobler than its individual reality, presumably because this idea in its formality includes more than any particular instance of good” (p. 583).
In addition to the argument above, when discussing the final end of human beings, Aquinas states that unity absolutely speaking is not found in a thing as good but in a thing as true because the good lies in the real thing that exists extramentally. In the will’s pursuit of the good, it does not become one with the thing as does the intellect with its object, viz., the immaterial form. Thus, whereas the intellect finds a kind of resting place in the attainment of its object, the will is always in pursuit. For this reason, Aquinas (in contrast to the Augustinian/Franciscan tradition) held that a human being’s final end is an act of the intellect [STI-II.3.4]. As Schindler explains, “[i]f the union of love, rather than the unity of knowledge, were the essence of happiness, that happiness would perpetually remain something sought rather than attained, insofar as attainment, in its perfect sense, indicates the kind of possession that can occur only intellectually, and, as Aquinas puts it, the movement of the will refers to the pursuit of that attainment or the subsequent delight in it, but is not the attainment itself” (p. 583). Yet, even this account must be nuanced, as Aquinas also claims that “the union caused by love is closer [magis unitivus] than that which is caused by knowledge” [STI-II.28.1.ad 3]. However, in this context Aquinas is speaking of union not in terms of the intentional order but rather of the real order in which the union of love does in fact bring us closer to the thing. Even with these added complications, Aquinas still contends for (when considered absolutely) the intellect’s superiority over the will because of the intellect’s ability to possess its object (albeit through the process of abstraction), thus concluding that a more perfect union is found in the case of the intellect than of the will.
Schindler then highlights a rather surprising declaration on the part of Aquinas given what we have seen thus far. “Though the intellect is intrinsically higher than the will, and though the beatific vision consists essentially in the act of the intellect, Aquinas affirms that, in the particular case of the soul’s relation to God (and presumably its relation to those other immaterial substances, the angels), the will is higher. This particular case is the most basic one. There is clearly a tension here: the most fundamental relative case turns out to be the opposite of the absolute one. Aquinas says that the beatific vision, which is the soul’s relation to God, is essentially an intellectual act, and at the same time he says that the soul’s most excellent act in relation to God is an act of the will. It will not do to resolve this tension by affirming that this superiority of the will holds for the will’s relation to God in via, but not in fine. Such a qualification would succeed in dissolving the problem only if the soul were capable, finally, of appropriating the whole of God without remainder into itself in the sense of a total comprehension, so that there would in fact be no ‘beyond’ left to require the soul’s volitional movement above itself” (p. 585). Aquinas of course would never make such a claim, as he is at pains to uphold the Creator/creature distinction. Yet, Schindler is right to highlight the tension in Aquinas’ position, for even if Aquinas holds that in principle “reason is higher than love, it seems that this principle gets reversed in the end, and love turns out in fact to ‘trump reason’ after all. Nor is this merely a particular and accidental case. If it is true, as Aquinas also affirms, that this final state is that for which the human being was created, then we have an essential end that overturns our essential nature” (p. 585).
Schindler emphatically states that his purpose in highlighting this tension is not to undermine St. Thomas’ philosophy, but rather it is to point out the problems with the traditional reading of Aquinas on the intellect-will relation. To avoid the difficulties noted above, Schindler proposes a more paradoxical reading of Aquinas, which will constitute a substantial portion of the next post.
By Cynthia R. Nielsen
In the introductory section of his superb essay, “Towards a Non-Possessive Concept of Knowledge: On the Relation Between Reason and Love in Aquinas and Balthasar,” [1] David C. Schindler observes that determining whether the intellect or the will reigns supreme is a distinctively Christian problem. Though the Greeks no doubt thought deeply about the relationship between reason and virtue, the passions, appetite etc., reason was considered that to which all other aspects of the human being must be subordinated. Once we reach St. Augustine, who is generally considered the “author of the will” (despite the fact that one finds similar affirmations in Stoic thought), we meet with a “distinct notion of will as a spontaneous principle of action and thus as sovereign—in some respect—within its own order that the monarchy, as it were, of reason comes to require justification, if not critical reconsideration” (p. 578). Yet, as Schindler points out, understanding the will as “an irreducibly distinct power of the soul” necessitates that we order the will in relation to the intellect so that soul maintains its integrity. Scripture, of course, gives one many reasons for assigning primacy to the will (as the order of love) over knowledge (as the order of intellect) [2]. In fact, many Christian thinkers, especially those of the Augustinian line, have followed this path. Yet, one must also acknowledge that Scripture speaks of knowledge, knowing God, and even knowing the love that surpasses knowledge. In addition, there are stellar figures in the Christian tradition (e.g., St. Thomas Aquinas) who have emphasized the primacy of the intellect over the will. Those following this path argue that privileging the will over the intellect would have disastrous consequences, viz., “to the extent that the will exceeds the intellect in its exercise, it would be a-rational, if not outright irrational; in any event, it would be blind. And if the will were to exceed the intellect in its highest activity, the heart of human life would be opaque absurdity and chaos. Moreover, insofar as the will represents a ‘movement towards’, and thus a dynamism, rather than a completion, the absolutization of the order of the will would imply the rejection of the ultimacy of unity as a principle of the uni-verse, which would imply in turn the undermining, not only of epistemological, but eventually also of ontological coherence” (p. 579).
So where does Balthasar fall in this apparent divide between intellect and will? It would not be difficult to show that Balthasar accords a primacy to love; yet, Schindler claims that this is often misunderstood as being antithetical to the Thomist tradition, which privileges intellect over will. This then brings us to the thesis of Schindler’s essay, viz., though it is the case that Balthasar insists on the “absolute priority of love”, one should not read this as a “concession to voluntarism and the irrationality it entails, but is ultimately due to a significantly different notion of reason than is generally assumed, a notion of reason that is […] ultimately necessary to overcome irrationalism once and for all.” Schindler adds that the way in which the problem is typically presented actually makes “an ultimate irrationalism inevitable, even if one affirms, with Thomas, the supremacy of the intellect” (p. 579). As Schindler’s essay unfolds, he attempts to show how adopting Balthasar’s position would allow for a view that harmonizes the two seemingly opposed traditions (i.e., the tradition which gives primacy to the will in contrast with the tradition which holds the intellect as supreme).
Notes
[1] Published in Modern Theology 22:4 (October 2006): pp. 577-607.
[2] See, e.g., 1 Cor 13; 1 Cor 1-2; 1 John 4.
