On to the next essay!

Cynthia

Thanks for your interaction and participation in the ABC (Augustine Blog Conference!). This summer, while lecturing on Augustine’s Confessions, I came across a number of interesting passages that might at least hint at a way that a (certain kind of ) Augustinian could address some of your questions from a strictly theological point of view. In the Confessions Augustine the narrator (in framing the pear theft story) wants us to make the connection between Adam and Eve’s desire for autonomy and Augustine’s. When young Augustine broke the law and stole the pears, he thought that he would show himself to be truly free and unconstrained. However, as Augustine the narrator reflects on the many ways in which sins and vices perversely imitate God’s attributes, he sees that the young Augustine was anything but free. E.g., at II.14, we read, “all those who wander far away and set themselves up against you are imitating you, but in a perverse way; yet by this very mimicry they proclaim that you are the creator of the whole of nature, and that in consequence there is no place whatever where we can hide from your presence” (p. 71, Boulding tr.). On the one hand, he seems to say that those who rebel and turn from God attempt to set themselves up as god and hence imitate him albeit perversely. On the other hand, paradoxically and in spite of themselves, their imitations proclaim God as the true Creator and themselves as a image (though tainted) of this Creator. A few lines later, we read, “With regard to my theft, then: what did I love in it, and in what sense did I imitate my Lord, even if only with vicious perversity? Did the pleasure I sought lie in breaking the law at least in that sneaky way, since I was unable to do so with any show of strength? Was I, in truth a prisoner, trying to simulate a crippled sort of freedom, attempting a shady parody of omnipotence by getting away with something forbidden? How like that servant of yours [Adam] who fled from his Lord and hid in the shadows” (II.14; p. 71). If we interpret the idea of Augustine’s doing something forbidden—doing whatever with this “shady parody of omnipotence” as a kind of perverse imitation of what God is like, then perhaps we can see how the fall affects our vision and understanding of God. Recall in the opening paragraph of book I where Augustine asks, “how can I call on or praise God, if I don’t know him?” With regard to the passage at hand, we might re-phrase the question as, “how can I imitate properly what I don’t really understand?” Perhaps there is a sense in which we have some knowledge of God, yet because of our sinful postlapsarian state, we suppress and pervert that knowledge? It is interesting the Romans 1:19-22 comes us so often in the Confessions and that Augustine constantly refers to this passage (often in paraphrased bits). St. Paul in Romans 1:19-22 says: “For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse. For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Claiming to be wise, they became fools”. So maybe an Augustinian could claim that in some sense even pagans know the Christian God, but they willingly suppress that knowledge (Augustine seems to make suggestions like these in book VII with regard to the Platonists). Because they willingly suppress the knowledge of God, they are thus as St. Paul says, “without excuse”. Perhaps such a view could help to explain why virtuous certain pagans are (thought to be from a limited human perspective) excluded from heaven.

As to which reading I prefer, I don’t really have a preference, as I am not familiar with the many and varied Augustinian positions on these topics that I am sure are present in the literature.

Thank you for your rich and detailed post. The musical analogy is excellent! Your remarks go a long way toward corroborating that what Augustine has in mind by divine illumination is a good deal more substantial epistemologically than the mere ontological dependence of human cognitive powers and their acts on God’s creative and concurrent causation.

It would be interesting to unpack the claim that it is the light of Christ shed in our minds that enables us to know and claim knowledge of anything–particularly in connection with the pagan philosophers. Specifically, does the light of Christ shed in a knower’s mind also illuminate Christ Himself, so that He too is known?

Though I don’t want to lean too heavily on the illumination metaphor, when I walk into a dark room and switch on the light, I then know not only the contents of the room but also that there is a light source illuminating it. On this more “transparent” understanding of divine illumination, it might be argued, a pagan philosopher whose intellect is divinely illuminated also knows the source of the illumination–viz., Christ. But then the philosopher wouldn’t really be pagan after all, contrary to the supposition that he/she is.

On the other hand, perhaps, as you suggest at one point, Augustine has a less “transparent” conception of divine illumination, according to which God simply implants in both pagan and non-pagan minds innate concepts and principles enabling people to know and claim knowledge of anything, even though they needn’t know the Christian God as the ultimate source of these concepts/principles.

Do you see textual, philosophical, or theological reasons to prefer a more or less transparent reading of Augustine’s conception of divine understanding?

Best to you,

Peter

In De Trinitate, XIX.24, Augustine writes (with Rom 1 clearly in mind), “And those distinguished philosophers of the heathen who have been able to understand and discern the invisible things of God by those things which are made, have yet, as is said of them, ‘held down the truth in iniquity;’ because they philosophized without a Mediator, that is, without the man Christ, whom they neither believed to be about to come at the word of the prophets, nor to have come at that of the apostles. For, placed as they were in these lowest things, they could not but seek some media through which they might attain to those lofty things which they had understood; and so they fell upon deceitful spirits, through whom it came to pass, that ‘they changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things.’ For in such forms also they set up or worshipped idols. Therefore Christ is our knowledge, and the same Christ is also our wisdom. He Himself implants in us faith concerning temporal things, He Himself shows forth the truth concerning eternal things. Through Him we reach on to Himself: we stretch through knowledge to wisdom; yet we do not withdraw from one and the same Christ, ‘in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and of knowledge.’”

Here Augustine, while in no way eschewing the unbelieving philosophers, nonetheless points out a critical defect, viz., they philosophized without Christ. Though the findings of these philosophers are valuable and should be engaged by believers, yet, because they reject Him in whose image they are made, Augustine seems to suggest (appealing to St. Paul) that their knowledge becomes idolatrous. As paradoxical as it sounds, unbelievers, on Augustine’s account, are both, shall we say, “knowing-but-not-knowing”. Though analogies, of course, are imperfect, could the following perhaps provide a way to begin to think about this “knowing-but-not-knowing”? Imagine a symphonic piece as it appears on the conductor’s full score. In other words, what we see are all the various instrumental parts (i.e., the linear melodic lines of the flute, violin, cello etc.), yet written such that we simultaneously see the harmonic or vertical relationships of the parts. Then imagine that everything except the highest melody line, e.g., the flute line, is covered up such that we can only examine and analyze the flute line. One could study the melodic line of the flute and arrive at brilliant and insightful observations regarding, e.g., its intervallic relations and melodic patterns. One’s findings would no doubt be true; however, in light of our knowledge of the conductor’s full score, we are inclined to say that the observations regarding the flute line, though true, have only scraped the surface. That is, the vertical, harmonic structure is overlooked entirely. Likewise, the way in which each movement interrelates from beginning to end and how the “thick” harmonic layers create consonances and dissonances—goes completely unnoticed. This seems analogous to what Augustine suggests is the case with brilliant, but unbelieving philosophers. Their “surface” findings are penetrating and true as far as they go, and for this reason (among others) believers can and should learn from their insights.

Of course for further Scriptural support of his epistemology, Augustine appeals in De Magistro to John 1:9, where we read, “The true light, which illumines human beings, was coming into the world,” and concludes that Christ is the reason that anything is truly intelligible to human beings. That is, ultimately, it is the light of Christ shed in our minds that enables us to know and claim knowledge of anything. Thus, Christ is in effect the only true Teacher. Human teachers lack the power to teach; they simply point us to the true Teacher. E.g., in De Magistro xi.38 Augustine writes, “Concerning universals of which we can have knowledge, we do not listen to anyone speaking and making sounds outside ourselves. We listen to Truth which presides over our minds within us, though of course we may be bidden to listen by someone using words. Our real Teacher is he who is so listened to, who is said to dwell in the inner man, namely Christ, that is, the unchangeable power and eternal wisdom of God. To this wisdom every rational soul gives heed, but to each is given only so much as he is able to receive, according to his own good or evil will” (p. 95). A few paragraphs later, having discussed at length that we are not taught by external signs, but rather by the internal Teacher, Christ, Augustine concludes his dialogue with his son Adeodatus as follows, “Now I have warned you that we must not attribute to them [i.e., words] a greater importance than they ought to have, so that now we should not only believe but also begin to understand how truly it is written by divine authority that we are to call no one on earth our teacher, for One is our teacher who is in heaven (cf. Matt. 23:10). What is meant by ‘in heaven’ he will teach us, by whom we are admonished through human agency and by external signs to be inwardly converted to him and so to be instructed. To know and to love him is the blessed life, which all proclaim that they are seeking but few have the joy of really finding. But I should like you to tell me what you think of my whole discourse. If you know that what I have said is true, and if you had been interrogated at every point, you would have answered that you knew it to be true. You see, then, who taught you; certainly not I, for you would of your own accord have given the right answer each time I asked. If, on the other hand, you do not know that what I have said is true, neither I nor the inward teacher has taught you. Not I, because I have never the power to teach anyone; and not he, because you have not yet the power to learn” (xiv.46, pp. 100-101).

Presumably, according to Augustine’s account when we know something, it is a result of Christ implanting in our minds this knowledge and moving us from darkness to light (a kind of Christianized Platonism of sorts?). Augustine does not deny that external signs or human teachers serve as means or pointers, however, he is adamant that all external means lack the power to transform ignorance into knowledge. Thus, all knowledge is a divine gift that comes through grace—in both the believer and the unbeliever (“common” or non-salvific grace).

Couldn’t an Augustinian appeal to this idea of “common” grace extending to unbelievers as well—e.g., God giving grace to the unbelieving Aristotle so that he could bring us so many insightful truths? Doesn’t Thomas say something in this “general neighborhood”? E.g. De potentia, q. 1 a. 3 arg. 6 Praeterea, II Timoth. II, 13, dicitur: fidelis Deus, qui se ipsum negare non potest. Negaret autem se ipsum, ut dicit Glossa, si promissum non impleret. Sicut autem promissum Dei est a Deo, ita omne verum est a Deo: quia, ut dicit Glossa Ambrosii I Cor. XII, 3, super illud: nemo potest dicere, dominus Iesus, omne verum, a quocumque dicatur, a spiritu sancto est. Ergo non potest facere contra aliquod verum. Faceret autem contra verum, si faceret aliquid impossibile. Ergo Deus non potest facere aliquid impossibile in natura. In other words, “all truth, by whomsoever it is spoken, is from the Holy Spirit.” Aquinas’ version of the Augustine’s, “all truth is God’s truth.”

p.s I’m not necessarily presenting this as my current own position (though I resonate with many aspects of it), but I would like to hear arguments from the “objectors” as to why it would be absurd.

Best wishes,
Cynthia

If Aquinas’s illuminationism amounts to nothing more than the tepid observation that “all creaturely knowing is ultimately in, through, and of God,” then such “illuminationism” is bland at best and highly Pickwickian at worst when compared to what thinkers in the Augustinian tradition have in mind when they speak of divine illumination. If Milbank’s reading boils down to this, then so much the worse for it.

Peter

In response to Jonathan, I’m extremely suspicious of Milbank and the Cambridge Phantasists when they are interpreting medieval philosophers. As garrett noted, I’m following Pasnau’s interpretation on Thomas and some other aspects of this story. I think the danger of Pasnau’s interpetation is not that it makes too little of divine illumination in Thomas, but rather that it makes too much of it. Here’s a passage (responsio of ST 1a, q. 79, a. 4) that I think shows the very restricted notion of illumination at work in Thomas:

“Wherefore some held that this intellect, substantially separate, is the active intellect, which by lighting up the phantasms as it were, makes them to be actually intelligible. But, even supposing the existence of such a separate active intellect, it would still be necessary to assign to the human soul some power participating in that superior intellect, by which power the human soul makes things actually intelligible. Just as in other perfect natural things, besides the universal active causes, each one is endowed with its proper powers derived from those universal causes: for the sun alone does not generate man; but in man is the power of begetting man: and in like manner with other perfect animals. Now among these lower things nothing is more perfect than the human soul. Wherefore we must say that in the soul is some power derived from a higher intellect, whereby it is able to light up the phantasms. And we know this by experience, since we perceive that we abstract universal forms from their particular conditions, which is to make them actually intelligible. Now no action belongs to anything except through some principle formally inherent therein; as we have said above of the passive intellect (76, 1). Therefore the power which is the principle of this action must be something in the soul. For this reason Aristotle (De Anima iii, 5) compared the active intellect to light, which is something received into the air: while Plato compared the separate intellect impressing the soul to the sun, as Themistius says in his commentary on De Anima iii. But the separate intellect, according to the teaching of our faith, is God Himself, Who is the soul’s Creator, and only beatitude; as will be shown later on (90, 3; I-II, 3, 7). Wherefore the human soul derives its intellectual light from Him, according to Psalm 4:7, “The light of Thy countenance, O Lord, is signed upon us.”

I think this passage shows Thomas melding Augustine and Aristotle in the way Pasnau has outlined: the agent intellect is the means by which God’s illumination comes to man, but that illumination is a power endowed upon the soul all at once, in the beginning. In this way, Thomas can still say that everything is known by illumination, without having to say that God makes a separate act of illumination for each discrete instance of a person’s knowing something.

@Garrett,

I was relying upon pasnau for the history because of my own lack of knowledge about dionysius the carthusian and others. I’d be very interested in finding out more about them, but at present I have no knowledge of them.

Garret asks about my cryptic reference (sorry, I was running out of space) to theological voluntarism, and suggests that Ghent was more the voluntarist than Scotus. Perhaps Garret is right. What I chiefly have in mind, besides the conventional interpretation of Scotus as the first theological voluntarist of note, is William Courtenay’s discussion (Capacity and Volition) of how Scotus completely redefined (even more so than Ockham) the traditional distinction between God’s absolute and ordained powers. According to Scotus, God’s potentia absoluta (whereby he can act contrary to the ordained order of things) was not a mere hypothetical power (as it was for most earlier thinkers) but was in fact an operationalized, absolutist form of power that God can and sometimes actually does exercise (as in the case of miracles), a form of above-the-law power, moreover, that canonists were quick to apply to popes and emperors. In regard to the much discussed distinction of powers, then, Ghent seems to have been more conservative and conciliarist than Scotus (according to Courtenay, at any rate). Thus, to amplify my comment about Scotus’s voluntarism, my point was to ask (and I’m asking genuinely here, for I don’t know the answer) whether Ghent might in fact have failed to integrate the natural and divine aspects of knowledge as fully as, say, Thomas did, and if not, whether the resulting, uneasy, unassimilated admixture of natural and divine elements helped provoke not only Scotus’s more naturalistic theory of knowledge (reflected, for example, in his infamous theory of univocity), but now the entire modern obsession with securing “epistemic certainty” in purely immanent or non-theological, non-supernatural terms.

Scott, lastly, asks if Aquinas or Milbank, are occasionalists, and the answer is a resounding “No.” As Damian points out, God and creatures are not (and cannot be) in competition with each other, which they clearly are in occasionalism. Malebranche, for example, expressly states that attributing real (efficient) causal efficacy to creatures is “pagan” because it attributes to the creature what belongs to the Creator alone, a statement that only makes sense within a framework that has already construed causal efficacy along competitive, “zero sum” lines (to use Milbank’s analogy). Occasionalism, in short, seeks to give God all causal power, but in doing so it effectively renders him powerless to make a creature that can truly share in his power. The God of occasionalism is a threatened God. I think a better way of thinking of matters is to say that not only does God cause the creature, but he also causes the creature’s causality, and he does so AS its causality. As to the question of panentheism, if all we mean by that is that God is in all things, then yes, Aquinas is a panentheist in this sense (ST 1, 8, 1, “Whether God is in all things?”). But as Thomas quickly qualifies, “God is in all things; not, indeed, as part of their essence, nor as an accident, but as an agent is present to that upon which it works.”

In reply to Gilson’s suggestion that debates about divine illumination are really debates about the efficacy of secondary causes, I have to demur.

The fact that God creates and sustains in being a secondary cause such as the intellect and its acts of knowing is a point of ontology. Indeed, if divine illumination consists merely in the fact that God is concurrent/sustaining cause of an intellectual faculty and its acts, then EVERY such faculty is “divinely illuminated” because it is sustained in being by God’s concurrent causation. That seems wrong, since the point of illumination isn’t ontological but epistemological: by illuminating with His light an intellectual faculty or an act of knowing it performs, God somehow produces certainty where before there wasn’t any. Divinely assured certainty certainly isn’t forthcoming merely from concurrent causation!

I worry that the reading of Aquinas proffered by Milbank and some of his followers overlooks these crucial distinctions.

Peter