Per Caritatem

“Great are you, O Lord, and exceedingly worthy of praise; your power is immense, and your wisdom beyond reckoning. And so we humans, who are a due part of your creation, long to praise you-we who carry our mortality about us, carry the evidence of our sin and with it the proof that you thwart the proud. Yet these humans, due part of your creation as they are, still do long to praise you. You stir us so that praising you may bring us joy, because you have made us and drawn us to yourself, and our heart is unquiet until it rests in you.”

This opening paragraph of Augustine’s Confessions is well-known, particularly the last sentence regarding the restless or unquiet heart.  In the few but carefully crafted opening lines, we have a kind of introduction to the entire book, as well as a hint to one of the major themes, viz., the relationship between philosophy and revelation, reason and faith.  In other words, one might argue that two traditions, Christian and pagan, are brought together in this passage, though perhaps the latter only as a faint echo.   (However, in other parts of the Confessions, Augustine’s pillaging of the pagan tradition is made explicit (e.g., book VII). 

The Christian tradition is readily sensed in the opening passage, as we find paraphrases from the OT and NT running together as Augustine prays and praises his God.   So where do we hear the pagan echoes?  These can be heard in the famous line about the restless heart that runs in multiple directions and is fragmented and dis-ordered until it finds its rest in God.  In other words, in the background we have the (Platonic) idea of moving from plurality to unity-from the soul being tossed in many directions and restless, to being at rest.  Though what I suggest is merely implicit or barely audible in this opening passage, it becomes more explicit as the narrative unfolds.  For example, at the end of book I.31, Augustine writes, “[i]n this lay my sin, that not in him was I seeking pleasures, distinctions and truth, but in myself and the rest of his creatures, and so I fell headlong into pains, confusions and errors” (Boulding trans., p. 61).  Then in the opening paragraph of book II, we read, “I will try to give a coherent account of my disintegrated self, for when I turned away from you, the one God, and pursued a multitude of things, I went to pieces” (p. 62).  A dis-integrated self, movement away from the Truth (the Triune God) and a passionate pursuit of the things of the sense world are all packed into what Augustine wants to communicate with his image of a restless heart.  Those who are familiar with Plato’s Republic know that in that work, Plato defines justice as the harmony of the various parts of the soul (rational, spirited, appetitive), and here Augustine, though Christianizing this Platonic idea, seems to say something quite similar. Just as Plato suggests that inner dis-harmony is detrimental to the soul, so in a similar (but Christianized) vein Augustine says that when our loves are dis-ordered we are restless and our attempts at finding true rest in created things rather than the Creator proves futile-we fall to pieces.  So we see that from the very opening paragraph of the Confessions, Augustine is weaving together various melodies from various traditions, yet the harmony created is decisively Christian.

In case you are interested, the church and postmodern culture blog recently posted my mini-essay, A Gadamarian Critique of Hirsch’s Meaning/Significance Distinction. 

Part of Rousseau’s project is to try to create citizens who are both courageous (his “savage man” in the state of nature) and yet tolerant.  In book IV.viii of the Social Contract, Rousseau divides religion into two types:  (1) “religion of man,” “true theism,” or “natural divine right,” and (2) religion of the citizen (p. 127).  The religion of man has no particular ceremonies, rituals or dogmas, whereas the latter is permeated with these and considers all who do not subscribe to its beliefs and practices “infidel” and “barbarous” (p. 127).  The problem of the religion of the citizen for Rousseau is that it makes humans intolerant-what he wants are courageous and tolerant citizens, which is what his “natural religion” hopes to accomplish.  Rousseau also mentions a third type of religion, Roman Catholicism.  The problem with Roman Catholicism according to Rousseau (in a very Nietzschean key) is that it puts “man in contradiction with himself,” and hence promotes man’s alienation by forcing him to be both a citizen of the world and a citizen of heaven (or an other worldly world) (p. 128). 

From one perspective Rousseau’s civil religion shares much in common with Hobbes’ view, as both men find the “two heads” generated by Christianity to be problematic, as they lead to sectarianism.  As mentioned above, the problem with the religion of the citizen is intolerance, so Rousseau must re-fashion this religion so that his chief goal of tolerance is met.  According to Rousseau what is needed for the proper religion are not particular dogmas of faith (excepting those that promote a certain kind of morality useful for Rousseau’s project), but instead this religion must make citizens love their duties.  As Rousseau explains, “[t]here is, therefore, a purely civil profession of faith, the articles of which are for the sovereign to establish, not exactly as religious dogmas, but as sentiments of sociability without which it is impossible to be a good citizen or a faithful subject” (p. 130).  Rousseau goes on to say that this religion does not produce piety or love of God, but “sentiments of sociability” (one can even be banned for unsociability rather than impiety) (p. 131).   In sum, Rousseau gives us a religion quite similar to that which Spinoza espouses in the Theological Political Tractatus in which the only dogmas that are allowed are those that serve morality.  Rousseau, however, makes quite explicit that intolerance has no place in his religion. 

When we turn to Rousseau’s “Savoyard Vicar,” we also find an account of religion with a moral trajectory-something very similar to the civil religion set forth in Rousseau’s Social Contract. (This is not to identify the vicar with Rousseau; the character is fictional, yet the general account given harmonizes with what Rousseau says in the Social Contract).  In the Emile, we find the vicar promoting a religion that on the surface gives the impression that will plays a prominent role (as in Christianity).  For example, in his discussion of the will, the vicar rejects the modern doctrine of inertia and advocates a more pre-modern view in which the will serves as the source of movement (pp. 272-274).  With the doctrine of inertia, one can then do away with the need for (1) the soul as the cause of motion, and (2) God as the first cause.  By eliminating these two features, one is poised to develop a religion that promotes tolerance (again, cf. Spinoza).  So what the vicar wants to do is to re-insert premodern ideas that speak against the modern doctrine of inertia, all of which give the appearance of the primacy of the will.  However, as we read on, we begin to question the character of the will being presented.   For example, of the vicar’s second article of faith, we read, “[i]f moved matter shows me a will, matter moved according to certain laws shows me an intelligence” (p. 275).  By affirming an intelligence that moves according to laws, the vicar cancels the effectiveness of the will and in essence does away with freedom.  Here it seems that we have a modern notion of movement according to laws of nature which does not require a first cause. 

In article three, we are told (with no argument given) that man is “free in his actions and as such is animated by an immaterial substance” (p. 281).  The idea is that the body (material) is passive and the will (immaterial), which moves the body, is active.  So we have two substances in the vicar’s account.  This then allows the vicar to assert that we have some kind of immortality; however, the vicar is quick to qualify his claims.  “My limited understanding conceives nothing without limits.  All that is called infinite escapes me.  What can I deny and affirm, what argument can I make about that which I cannot conceive?  I believe that the soul survives the body long enough for the maintenance of order.  Who knows whether that is long enough to last forever?” (p. 283).  So the vicar is only willing to go so far-he allows for the possibility of the soul surviving the body, but will not claim that the soul/will is eternal. Having made this move, the vicar can easily promote a religion without eternal punishment, and this, of course, harmonizes perfectly with a religion of tolerance.  Anticipating Kant, the vicar emphasizes the limitations of human knowledge, calls eternal punishment into question, and wants humans to think that they are free and in some sense not simply material beings; yet, he also has to keep things “watered down” such that people will not take this seriously enough to be willing to “force” their views on others.

The complexity of discerning the correct authorial voice in this work is exceedingly difficult; however, as the narrative unfolds, we read a footnote that seems to establish a clear distinction between Rousseau and the vicar.  The footnote reads, “This is, I believe, what the good vicar could say to the public at present” (p. 295).  Overall, the vicar is more hostile to modern skepticism and materialism than Rousseau.   So why does Rousseau have a fallen priest promote this rather ‘thin’ religious teaching?  Here we find a connection between what was said in the Social Contract regarding the legislature as a kind of “god” who via laws re-fashions humans.  Similarly, in the vicar’s discussion, he emphasizes that religion is able to convince people of things which philosophy cannot because of the absence of divine authority in the latter.  Philosophy, of course, is supposed to appeal to reason alone and this, as many in the Western tradition have highlighted, is insufficient to motivate people to obey the law.  So, in contrast to Rousseau, the vicar is crafted as having significantly more hostility toward philosophy and the science of the day which was so shot through with materialism.  Likewise, the vicar’s view is presented as a kind of common sense position with regard to metaphysics and physics, and his real concern is clearly with morality.  This concern with morality is where we see an overlap between the vicar and Rousseau.  In short, the vicar presents a view that although manifesting distinct differences, is quite compatible with Rousseau’s teaching in the Social Contract (as well as the Reveries), however, he, as it were, dresses it up religious garb.

Near the end of the “Savoyard Vicar,” we are told in a footnote that “fanaticism is more pernicious than atheism” (p. 312); thus, we must at all costs avoid religions that promote intolerance.  In spite of that, Rousseau also admits that there are certain aspects of “fanaticism” that are worth keeping (e.g., courage).  Yet, Rousseau is of course concerned to control the fanaticism of the modern soul. Thus, in Rousseau’s account, humans in the state of nature are painted as good (contra Hobbes), and they are free, that is, not dependent on others (no conflicts with sovereigns here).  Hobbes, in contrast, attempts to control the nastiness of humans by stressing their fear of death.  That is, according to Hobbes, humans naturally fear death and this fear itself breeds fanaticism in religion.  Rousseau presents a decidedly more optimistic of humans in the state of nature and emphasizes (e.g., in the Reveries) the “sweetness of existence”-even in the midst of persecution.  For Rousseau, the state of nature represents a “wholeness” that is the antithesis of the alienation that comes with society and its vanity, and this picture of integrated man (this is man who has his place in the whole of nature and has not elevated the part over the whole, as is the case according to Rousseau with dogmatic rather than “natural” religion) is the polar opposite of what we find in fanaticism. 

Scotus makes a distinction between natural law in the strict and extended sense.  A natural law in the strict sense is either a precept that is (1) per se nota (a self-evident, analytic proposition)-its truth is evident from the meaning of the terms or, (2) a precept that can be demonstrated from self-evident propositions.  In addition, natural laws in the strict sense are transhistorical and transcultural and can never be revoked or altered.  In contrast, natural law in the extended sense consists in precepts that exhibit a kind of objective and reasonable consonance or harmony (convenientia) in relation to the necessary or strict natural laws. The natural laws in the extended sense, however, can be revoked by the proper authority (e.g., God) and when the right circumstances are in place.  In addition, natural laws in the extended sense do not follow deductively from the natural laws in the strict sense. 

With regard to the distinction between natural law in the strict and extended senses, Scotus is attempting to give a reasonable account of the changing dispensations presented in Scripture.  In other words, rather than dismiss the accounts of bigamy or of God’s command to Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, Scotus treats these events as true, literal, historical happenings that must be reasonably explained or else God’s character might be called into question.  (Clearly, there might be other hermeneutical moves that Scotus could have made, but those are not the focus of this discussion; however, if you want to suggest them, feel free to do so in the comment section).

As was mentioned above, natural law in the extended sense does not have the same kind of necessity and unalterability as is the case with natural law in the strict sense.  Rather, the knowledge of natural laws in the extended sense is similar to prudence in that these laws cannot be deduced with necessity from other propositions.  Yet, Scotus does not deny but rather defends the idea that divine rationality still grounds the truth of natural laws in the extended sense.  Things get interesting when we come to cases in which a new command from God seems to contradict a prior divine command.  For example, the divine command given to Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, seems to violate the previously given divine law, “Thou shall not kill.”    These are the kinds of situations with which Scotus is wrestling, as he asks, “what do we do with the fact that there are cases in which it seems that God either commands or allows murder, adultery, and bigamy, all of which are offenses against commandments in the second table?  In other words, the question of whether God can dispense with his prior commands becomes an issue.  Here Scotus’ distinction between natural law in the strict sense (necessary and unalterable laws) and natural law in the extended sense provides a way to give a reasonable account for the changes that also safeguards the character of God (and takes the changes at face value).  Clearly, God cannot dispense with natural laws in the strict sense (as these are universal and necessary) without denying his own fundamental rationality.  Thus, if natural laws in the extended sense can in fact be dispensed with, then they must possess a different kind of logical status-which is exactly what Scotus claims. 

If we take the examples of bigamy/polygamy in the Old Testament, where God seems to have dispensed with the command “do not commit adultery,” as this is part of broader understanding of marriage as monogamous, then according to Scotus we must (1) examine the ends to be served in marriage and (2) see whether there are historical circumstances that cause one of the ends to frustrate the other in a way that the higher or essential end is thwarted.  As Scotus argues, there are two (independent) ends/goods served in marriage that are hierarchically arranged:  (1) the procreation and proper rearing/educating of children, and (2) a protection against or means to avoid fornication.  (Whether these, particularly the second, are satisfying is another question).    If historical circumstances arise such that the procreation of children, which is the higher of the two ends, will not be fulfilled, then the lesser end (in this case fidelity) may be dispensed with in order to bring the higher end to completion.  Scotus, however, is clear that such a judgment to serve the higher end at the expense of the lower must be done in accord with right reason and that such a judgment occurs because of our fallen state-i.e., the circumstances evincing these decisions are negative and not ideal.  Moreover, there must be some divine approval or authoritative confirmation of the judgment; hence, right reason alone is not sufficient. 

For Scotus, we have a general order in which sets of suitability relationships obtain, and this is the (created) sphere in which right reason ranges. Scotus’ claim is that God can dispense from the natural law in the extended sense and that this is not contradictory because these precepts do not follow necessarily from God’s nature.  Moreover, having shown that natural laws in the extended sense are of a different logical status than natural laws in the strict sense, Scotus is not only able to show that God does not act in a contradictory manner in allowing dispensations, but Scotus is also able to preserve God’s freedom because God’s relation to the world is a contingent, not a necessary relation.  Here it seems to me that Scotus’ teaching on synchronic contingency plays a crucial role.  That is, with respect to the entire created order which now is, it is possible that it might not be.  In other words, God did not have to create the world, but freely out of his own goodwill and pleasure, choose to do so. Contrary to Aristotle’s teaching of diachronic contingency in which once X occurs the possibility of its opposite is ruled out, Scotus’ teaching says that in the instant that one thing is, the possibility of its opposite is not lost but continues.  Thus, we see that the natural laws in the extended sense are true, but it is also the case that they could be otherwise.  This, so it seems, can only be the case in a Christian universe in which God freely creates and in which all forms of necessitarianism must be dismantled.  A proper (Christian) understanding of divine freedom is thus the common thread weaving not only these two teachings of Scotus together in harmonious unity, but a number of his other teachings as well. 

Jeremy Begbie, in his book, Resounding Truth:  Christian Wisdom in the World of Music, presents a nice definition of theology, viz., theology is “the disciplined thinking and rethinking of the Christian gospel for the sake of fostering a wisdom that is nourished by, and nourishes, the church in its worship and mission to the world” (p. 19).  Begbie then begins to unpack each part of his definition.  With regard to “disciplined thinking and rethinking,” Begbie emphasizes that theology involves intellectual effort; however, the intellectual activity in view is not a kind of detached, merely cerebral endeavor that fails to affect our willing and acting. Rather, this theological thinking touches every aspect of our humanity and is “inextricably bound up with story (the narrative shape of faith), symbols of various sorts (such as the sacraments), and practical action in the world” (p. 19).  Second, by “of the Christian gospel,” Begbie means “the announcement that in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, the Triune Creator, the God of Israel, has acted decisively to reconcile the world to himself.  Here is theology’s raison d’être and its loadstar-theology is not a free-floating speculation, but it is disciplined by this gospel and seeks to interpret the whole of reality from this center” (p. 20).  The theologian then ultimately has to answer to his God-a God who is living and personal and actively engaged in the lives of his creatures.  Given that the heart of Christian faith centers on union with the Father through the Son by way of the Holy Spirit, true Christian theology then cannot be done apart from prayer, worship, and submission to Scripture.  Third, by “for the sake of fostering a wisdom,” Begbie wants to stress the practical orientation of theology. Here Begbie appeals to the wisdom literature of the Bible in which to become wise “means being able to discern what is going on in specific, down-to-earth situations and to judge what it is right to say and do in those situations in a way that is faithful and true to God” (p. 20).  Lastly, with the phrase, “nourished by, and nourishes, the church in its worship and mission to the world,” Begbie speaks to the importance of the communal dimension and ecclesial context of theology.    ”Theology that seeks a wisdom true to gospel, [...] cannot take flight from this community [the visible Church]-fallen, compromised and shabby as it is and always has been. [...] Theology’s first calling, I would contend, is to help build up the people of God, to shape the Christian community for the sake of its worship and mission to the world” (pp. 20-21).