Per Caritatem

In chapter one of his book, The Challenge of Jesus:  Rediscovering Who Jesus Was and Is, written for a lay audience, N.T. Wright enumerates four reasons for the need to continue to wrestle with the historical question of Jesus.  His second reason for engaging in historical study of Jesus is, as he says, “out of loyalty to Scripture” (p. 17).  Wright then notes that ironically to some (theological) liberals as well as conservatives, such a reason seems out of place.  For some, whom I would call “extreme” liberal scholars, Scripture has no authoritative role, and in no way presents us with a Jesus who performed miracles and called individuals to die to self and live for God.  Thus, for these scholars, Wright’s desire to be loyal to Scripture seems archaic and even absurd.  However, Wright also points out that the conservative response to the extreme liberal position on these issues is equally misguided, and I would add arrogant and short-sighted.  As Wright explains,

The proper answer to that [extreme liberal] approach is not simply to reassert that because we believe in the Bible we do not need to ask fresh questions about Jesus.  As with God so with the Bible; just because our tradition tells us that the Bible says and means one thing or another, that does not excuse us from the challenging task of studying it afresh in the light of the best knowledge we have about its world and context, to see whether these things are indeed so.  For me the dynamic of a commitment to Scripture is not “we believe the Bible, so there is nothing more to be learned” [hence, the arrogance mentioned above], but rather “we believe the Bible, so we had better discover all the things in it to which our traditions … , which have supposed themselves to be “biblical” but are sometimes demonstrably not, have made us blind (p. 17).

Personally, I find Wright’s balanced approach quite refreshing.  He is one of the few cutting-edge biblical scholars who is able to stand firmly for and articulate well an orthodox Christian position all the while genuinely appreciating the scholarly contributions of those with whom he disagrees (whether extreme liberal or ultra conservative scholars).  Moreover, Wright is willing and able to criticize those within his own camp for their complacency, arrogance and reactionary posture.  Though it was of course necessary for orthodox Christians to speak out against the modernist, reductionist portrayal of Jesus as just one of many “failed Jewish revolutionaries” and a man really no different from other radical religious types, we must also be aware of tendencies in the opposite direction, tendencies which in effect negate Jesus’s genuine humanity and which portray Him as a kind of “demigod, not really human at all, striding through the world as a divine, heroic figure, untroubled by human questions … aware of himself as someone outside the whole system, telling people how they might escape the wicked world and live forever in a different realm altogether” (p. 24).  Wright continues by pointing out that large segments falling within the orthodox camp (evangelicals and conservatives across denominational boundaries) have embraced this demigod, superhero version of Jesus, have undervalued and given little attention to the created order (which is seen as a kind of a sinking ship that must be abandoned anyway so why care for it now), and have paid little attention to the humanity of the Scriptures (a clear reactionary stance to the errors of extreme liberalism).  Paradoxically, both liberal and conservative extremes continue to instantiate Enlightenment-inspired dualisms, refusing to allow the tensions of human-and-divine (not human or divine) to coexist.  At the risk of employing a somewhat hackneyed and over-applied phrase, I find Wright’s closing words “prophetic” and hope that God will give us ears to hear.  “Woe betide us if, in our commitment to winning yesterday’s battles against reductionist versions of Christianity, we fail to engage in tomorrow’s, which might be quite different” (p. 25).  If Christianity hopes to make an impact, for example, on the universities to which we are sending our children, we’d better follow Wright’s example and support those within the Church who are called to the hard, rigorous, spiritually challenging work of academic study. Otherwise, we have no right to complain about those “liberal” ideas being taught to our young people.  Likewise, perhaps we ought to expect to learn a thing or two from those with whom we vehemently disagree and be prepared to modify and expand our own position given that the “subject matter,” viz., Jesus, cannot be exhausted.

In book IV.7, we encounter one among many of the powerful passages in Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov.  What takes place below is conversation between Alyosha Fyodovovich Karamazov and a poor peasant captain who was publically humiliated by Alyosha’s brother, Dmitri.  The captain’s son, Ilusha, a nine year-old schoolboy, had attacked Alyosha the previous day, hurling stones at him and even biting his finger to the bone.  Alyosha had been walking alone, when he suddenly saw a group of schoolboys throwing stones at one boy, whom he later found out was Ilusha, the captain’s son.  Horrified by the scene, Alyosha, a monk who loved children and whose heart broke at the sight of this violent and unjust act, ran to help the boy; however, to Alyosha’s surprise, the boy turned on him.  At once he confronted the boy, asking why he would attack an innocent man. His confrontation was not for the purpose of frightening the boy, as Alyosha was genuinely interested in the boy’s well-being. Unable to receive any answers Alyosha left the scene on a peaceful note but no doubt perplexed by the boy’s aggressive behavior.

Some time later while conversing with Katerina Ivanova, a woman involved in extremely complicated relationships with two of Alyosha’s brothers, Dmitri and Ivan Karamazov, Alyosha was informed that Dmitri, in a fit of rage, had recently attacked the peasant captain, dragging him out of tavern by his beard and beating him.  To make things worse, Ilusha, the captain’s son, as well as a group of Ilusha’s classmates, had been walking home just at that moment when Dmitri had the captain by the beard and witnessed firsthand the dreadful scene.  After hearing Katerina’s retelling of the story, Alyosha at once put the pieces together and understood why Ilusha had attacked him-he was after all a Karamazov, the brother of his father’s assailant.  Katerina also told Alyosha of the desperate situation of the peasant captain and his family and asked Alyosha to take two hundred rubles to the captain as a gift to help the family.  Alyosha, of course, was happy to comply so he took the money, thanked Katerina, and departed to the captain’s home.  After arriving at the captain’s abode and having been introduced to his family, many of whom were in poor health and suffering gravely, the captain asked Alyosha to accompany him on a walk.  The rest of the story is best told by Dostoevsky himself.

[The captain] “THE air is fresh, but in my apartment it is not so in any sense of the word. Let us walk slowly, sir. I should be glad of your kind interest.”

“I too have something important to say to you,” observed Alyosha, “only I don’t know how to begin.”

“To be sure you must have business with me. You would never have looked in upon me without some object. Unless you come simply to complain of the boy, and that’s hardly likely. And, by the way, about the boy: I could not explain to you in there, but here I will describe that scene to you. My tow was thicker a week ago — I mean my beard. That’s the nickname they give to my beard, the schoolboys most of all. Well, your brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch was pulling me by my beard, I’d done nothing, he was in a towering rage and happened to come upon me. He dragged me out of the tavern into the market place; at that moment the boys were coming out of school, and with them Ilusha. As soon as he saw me in such a state he rushed up to me. ‘Father,’ he cried, ‘father!’ He caught hold of me, hugged me, tried to pull me away, crying to my assailant, ‘Let go, let go, it’s my father, forgive him!’ — yes, he actually cried ‘forgive him.’ He clutched at that hand, that very hand, in his little hands and kissed it…. I remember his little face at that moment, I haven’t forgotten it and I never shall!”

“I swear,” cried Alyosha, “that my brother will express his most deep and sincere regret, even if he has to go down on his knees in that same market-place…. I’ll make him or he is no brother of mine!

“Aha, then it’s only a suggestion! And it does not come from him but simply from the generosity of your own warm heart. You should have said so. No, in that case allow me to tell you of your brother’s highly chivalrous soldierly generosity, for he did give expression to it at the time. He left off dragging me by my beard and released me: ‘You are an officer,’ he said, ‘and I am an officer, if you can find a decent man to be your second send me your challenge. I will give satisfaction, though you are a scoundrel.’ That’s what he said. A chivalrous spirit indeed! I retired with Ilusha, and that scene is a family record imprinted forever on Ilusha’s soul. No, it’s not for us to claim the privileges of noblemen. Judge for yourself. You’ve just been in our mansion, what did you see there? Three ladies, one a cripple and weak-minded, another a cripple and hunchback and the third not crippled but far too clever. She is a student, dying to get back to Petersburg, to work for the emancipation of the Russian woman on the banks of the Neva. I won’t speak of Ilusha, he is only nine. I am alone in the world, and if I die, what will become of all of them? I simply ask you that. And if I challenge him and he kills me on the spot, what then? What will become of them? And worse still, if he doesn’t kill me but only cripples me: I couldn’t work, but I should still be a mouth to feed. Who would feed it and who would feed them all? Must I take Ilusha from school and send him to beg in the streets? That’s what it means for me to challenge him to a duel. It’s silly talk and nothing else.”

“He will beg your forgiveness, he will bow down at your feet in the middle of the marketplace,” cried Alyosha again, with glowing eyes.

“I did think of prosecuting him,” the captain went on, “but look in our code, could I get much compensation for a personal injury? And then Agrafena Alexandrovna* sent for me and shouted at me: ‘Don’t dare to dream of it! If you proceed against him, I’ll publish it to all the world that he beat you for your dishonesty, and then you will be prosecuted.’ I call God to witness whose was the dishonesty and by whose commands I acted, wasn’t it by her own and Fyodor Pavlovitch’s? And what’s more,’ she went on, ‘I’ll dismiss you for good and you’ll never earn another penny from me. I’ll speak to my merchant too’ (that’s what she calls her old man) ‘and he will dismiss you!’ And if he dismisses me, what can I earn then from anyone? Those two are all I have to look to, for your Fyodor Pavlovitch has not only given over employing me, for another reason, but he means to make use of papers I’ve signed to go to law against me. And so I kept quiet, and you have seen our retreat. But now let me ask you: did Ilusha hurt your finger much? I didn’t like to go into it in our mansion before him.”

“Yes, very much, and he was in a great fury. He was avenging you on me as a Karamazov, I see that now. But if only you had seen how he was throwing stones at his schoolfellows! It’s very dangerous. They might kill him. They are children and stupid. A stone may be thrown and break somebody’s head.”

“That’s just what has happened. He has been bruised by a stone to-day. Not on the head but on the chest, just above the heart. He came home crying and groaning and now he is ill.”

“And you know he attacks them first. He is bitter against them on your account. They say he stabbed a boy called Krassotkin with a penknife not long ago.”

“I’ve heard about that too, it’s dangerous. Krassotkin is an official here, we may hear more about it.”

“I would advise you,” Alyosha went on warmly, “not to send him to school at all for a time till he is calmer. and his anger is passed.”

“Anger!” the captain repeated, “that’s just what it is. He is a little creature, but it’s a mighty anger. You don’t know all, sir. Let me tell you more. Since that incident all the boys have been teasing him about the ‘wisp of tow.’ Schoolboys are a merciless race, individually they are angels, but together, especially in schools, they are often merciless. Their teasing has stiffed up a gallant spirit in Ilusha. An ordinary boy, a weak son, would have submitted, have felt ashamed of his father, sir, but he stood up for his father against them all. For his father and for truth and justice. For what he suffered when he kissed your brother’s hand and cried to him ‘Forgive father, forgive him,’ — that only God knows — and I, his father. For our children — not your children, but ours — the children of the poor gentlemen looked down upon by everyone — know what justice means, sir, even at nine years old. How should the rich know? They don’t explore such depths once in their lives. But at that moment in the square when he kissed his hand, at that moment my Ilusha had grasped all that justice means. That truth entered into him and crushed him for ever, sir,” the captain said hotly again with a sort of frenzy, and he struck his right fist against his left palm as though he wanted to show how “the truth” crushed Ilusha. “That very day, sir, he fell ill with fever and was delirious all night. All that day he hardly said a word to me, but I noticed he kept watching me from the corner, though he turned to the window and pretended to be learning his lessons. But I could see his mind was not on his lessons. Next day I got drunk to forget my troubles, sinful man as I am, and I don’t remember much. Mamma began crying, too — I am very fond of mamma — well, I spent my last penny drowning my troubles. Don’t despise me for that, sir, in Russia men who drink are the best. The best men amongst us are the greatest drunkards. I lay down and I don’t remember about Ilusha, though all that day the boys had been jeering at him at school. ‘Wisp of tow,’ they shouted, ‘your father was pulled out of the tavern by his wisp of tow, you ran by and begged forgiveness.’”

Once in a while, it’s nice to throw in a non-philosophical/theological post or two.  I was tagged by MM at Theology of the Body blog, so here’s my response to the quirk meme, which requires me to list six of my personal quirks and peculiar to me personal actions etc.

1.   I regularly drink Kroger brand (a US grocery store brand that is sort of equivalent to a generic, no-name brand) sparkling water.

2.  When at home, I always drink my coffee in my coffee mug that I bought in Prague-it has a freestyle modernish picture of the Charles Bridge on it with a red sky, white stars, and green water and has the word “PRAHA” written near the top (which means “Prague” in Czech).

3.   I cannot lecture without making hand gestures at least once during the course of the lecture.

4.   I tend to find one way to drive to a commonly traveled destination (e.g. grocery store, school, local parish etc.) and rarely ever veer from that particular route.

5.   When I point with my index finger, my pinkie comes out about halfway and is bent at a 90 degree angle.

6.   I always order my salad dressing on the side and always (unless I forget) ask for egg-beater substitutes when the option is available.

I now tag:  Ben Myers, Joel Garver and Dan McClain.

Scotus stresses that the primary adequate object of our intellect is the transcendental concept of being, an imperfect and indeterminate concept, though a concept determinable to more perfect concepts. Here it seems Scotus’s modal distinction plays a crucial role. As Peter King explains,

[t]he modal distinction reflects a reality within a given intrinsic mode, and there is no conception of the mode apart from the reality of which it is a mode.  Hence, the modal degree of being does not point to a real factor different from being itself that could be the foundation of composition in God (”Scotus on Metaphysics,” in the Cambridge Companion to Duns Scotus, pp. 56-57).

For Scotus, formal and modal distinctions mark out real, non-mind dependent differences within one being/thing.  These distinctions are real in the sense that they exist in the thing prior to the activity of the mind; however, the things distinguished cannot exist apart from each other.  Hence, the formal distinction is often said to be less than a real distinction because it applies to a single thing rather than distinguishing two independently existing beings (e.g., Socrates and Plato); yet, it is more than a mere conceptual distinction, as a formal distinction is not simply the result of the activity of the mind but corresponds to distinct realities in the (one) thing.  The foundation for intelligibility of the distinction, in other words, is based in the thing itself (ex parte rei), not in the mind. Among Scotus’s examples of formal distinctions, we have the distinction between the soul and its faculties (intellect and will) and the distinction between the Persons of the Trinity and the divine essence.   With these examples, we can begin to make sense of Scotus’s claim that formal distinct entities are really identical (yet formally non-identical) because they cannot actually exist apart from the same individual but only as united with that individual.  Yet, as King notes, “real identity does not entail complete sameness” (p. 22).

A modal distinction is likewise “real” in the broad sense noted above; yet, as a distinction, it has a status less than that of a formal distinction.  Again, the modal distinction, like the formal distinction reflects the realities themselves and is not simply a distinction in reason.  According to King, “[t]he core intuition behind Scotus’s modal distinction is, roughly, that some natures come in a range of degrees that are inseparably a part of what they are, and that this is a fact about the way things are rather than about how we conceive of them” (p. 25).  By way of analogy, consider how the same color (pink) can have different degrees of brightness (hot pink).  A particular color remains that color whether or not its degree of brightness differs; thus, degrees of intensity do not serve as differentia between colors.  Rather, these degrees of intensity are what Scotus calls “intrinsic modes,” and these modes tell us how each thing exists (p. 25).  To say then that God’s intrinsic intensity of being (and his alone) is infinite is to claim (among other things) that God can know or cause an infinite number of things simultaneously (as both infinite knowledge and infinite power would be required for such an act).

At least two important conclusions follow from what I’ve sketched above by way of King’s comments:  (1) God’s simplicity is upheld, and (2) God and creatures are in fact diverse and not merely different-if the latter were the case, God’s transcendence would be weakened because “there would be some real factor common to God and creatures” in light of Scotus’s univocity (of the concept) of being thesis (p. 56).   However, this is not the case.  Again, turning to King, we read:

although formal distinctions may introduce real complexity, they only introduce real composition when they are combined as genus and differentia.  In this case, there are elements united as potency (genus) and act (differentia), making up a composite.  But unless distinct elements are so related, they will not produce composition in the relevant sense, and so there need be no composition introduced by the formal distinction (p. 56).

In other words, Scotus’s univocity of being thesis does not construe being as a common genus shared by God and creatures.  Rather, we begin with the most indeterminate concept of being as that which is not repugnant to existence. As this imperfect concept becomes more precise (more perfect), we find that it has intrinsic modes (e.g. either infinite or finite), which refer to real aspects of being, viz. a being’s intrinsic intensity.  For Scotus, however, there is only One Reality that corresponds to the concept of infinite being, the Triune God.  Every other existent being falls under finite being; hence, the two realities are diverse.  In sum, the transcendental concept of being, while being a unified concept, picks out or refers to realities which are diverse, and is set forth as a disjunctive proposition:  Being is either finite or infinite.  Here Scotus exhibits a non-Parmenidian impulse and resists the urge to press all of reality into One unity.  In other words, Scotus is comfortable with a reality that ends up reflecting many diversities-diversities which of course find their ultimate unity in relation to God.

At 10.14.21 Augustine turns to discuss emotions that are stored “in” memory.  Here his emphasis is that we can recall being sad and yet not feel sad in the process. The recollection of these emotions, then, is the notion, not the passion itself.  This shows that the faculty that is able to do this is thus differentiated from the emotions themselves (cf. Conf. 10.14.21; p. 251, Boulding trans.).  If I can recall sadness and not be sad, then mind transcends emotions just as it transcends sense and other images.  Additionally, in this section and other places in book X, Augustine makes a number of statements about the relationship between mind and body. After discussing the fact that he can recall a past sadness or pain while being presently happy and vice versa, he says:

There is nothing strange about this where the previous experience was one that simply involved the body, for the mind is one thing and the body another, it is therefore unremarkable if in my mind I joyfully recall some former bodily pain” (10.14.21; p. 250).

Does Augustine really mean that the body is one thing and the mind another thing?  Perhaps not, but one can see why some scholars have tended to stress the continuities between Augustine and Descartes, this (the mind/body relation) being simply one example of an at least seeming similarity.

To make things worse, a few paragraphs later at 10.16.25, Augustine states, “the person who remembers is myself; I am my mind” (p. 253, cf. 10.17.26; p.254).  Here we are left wondering what kind of relationship exists between body and mind, as Augustine could easily be interpreted as promoting a kind of substance dualism (where substance dualism means simply a real distinction between soul and body) along the lines of Plato’s teaching in the Phaedo.  Given his Christian commitments, it is likely that Augustine presents a more integrated view elsewhere or perhaps makes corrections or qualifications to his views in his Retractiones; however, it is difficult not to interpret his view of the mind/body relation in Confessions X as dualistic and resembling a Platonic or Cartesian understanding.

As Augustine continues his discussion of memory, he investigates the “contents” of our memory, inquiring as to what exactly we find “in” our memory.  Perhaps the most obvious answer is memories of events and so forth that have happened in one’s past-historical recollections (e.g., I remember when I heard Ambrose preach; I remember when my friend died).  Historical recollections, however, are only one aspect of memory. Augustine also speaks of memories of smells, sounds, tastes etc. (Conf., 10.8.13; Boulding trans., p. 245). Memory, as Augustine describes it is a “huge repository,” with “secret and unimaginable caverns,” that houses “all these things, to be recalled and brought out for use when needed” (10.8.13; p. 245).  As mentioned above, in addition to recalling historical facts, we have memories of our sense experiences.  The sensory impressions that we receive (smells, tastes etc.) are somehow turned into images of these various sense-impressions, are stored this “repository,” and then are recalled by us when occasions demand (10.8.13; p.245).

Next, Augustine points out that memory can distinguish things that are not actually being experienced.  For example, he says, “when I am sitting quietly in the dark, I can bring up colors in my memory if I wish, and distinguish white from black and any others I select” (10.8.13; pp. 245-46).  The same is true with the other senses (sound, taste, smell etc.).  One can, for instance, distinguish between honey and grape juice without tasting, feeling or smelling either of the two.  In addition, Augustine speaks of having the sky, earth and sea “readily available” to him via memory (10.8.14, p. 246).  That is, he doesn’t have to be at the sea or actually looking up into the sky to identify and differentiate the two. Likewise, he can draw upon these stored images to create imaginary pictures that resemble things that he has experienced (10.8.14; p. 246).  As he discusses this faculty of memory, it is clear that Augustine finds it beyond his ability to fully comprehend.  For example, he writes,

This faculty of memory is a great one, O my God, exceedingly great, a vast, infinite recess.  Who can plumb its depth?  This is a faculty of my mind, belonging to my nature, yet I cannot myself comprehend all that I am.  Is the mind, then, too narrow to grasp itself, forcing us to ask where that part of it is which it is incapable of grasping?  Is it outside the mind, not inside?  How can the mind not compass it? (10.8.15; pp. 246-47).

Augustine then turns to non-imagistic memories. Here he speaks of memory in connection with his liberal arts education.  In contrast with the images of sense impressions described above, Augustine says the things in his memory that he received via his liberal education are “the realities themselves.”  These realities include his knowledge of grammar, logic, mathematics, kinds of things, etc. (10.10.17; p. 248, cf. also 10.12.19; p. 249).   As he explains, “through no bodily sense whatever have I made contact with the realities themselves, for I have never seen these realities anywhere except in my own mind.  What I have stowed away in my memory is not the images of these things but the things themselves” (10.10.17; p. 248, italics added).  Here Augustine seems to suggest that there are certain concepts or innate ideas that are implanted in our minds and stored in our memory, as we do not learn these “realities themselves” by way of sense experience.  After stating that these realities did not enter his memory through any of the five senses, Augustine then asks a series of questions, and seems to favor a kind of Christian version of Plato’s doctrine of recollection and innate ideas.

From what source and by what route did they enter my memory?  I do not know, for when I learned them I did not take them on trust from some stranger’s intelligence but recognized them as present in my own, and affirmed them as true, and entrusted them to my memory for safekeeping so that I could bring them out again when I wished.  This means that they were there even before I learned them, but not remembered.  Where and why did I recognize them and say, ‘Yes, that’s how it is; that is true,” [...] Surely because they were already in my memory, but so remote, so hidden from sight in concealed hollows, that unless they had been dug out by someone who reminded me, I would perhaps never have been able to think about them.  We are therefore led to conclude that when we learn things which are not imbibed through the senses as images, but are known directly in their own reality inside the mind, as they are in themselves, and without the intervention of images, we are collecting by means of our thought those things which the memory held, but in a scattered and disorderly way (10.10.17-11.18; p. 248).

In some respect this sounds like recollection from a previous life.  If he held that (and he probably did not, given his Christian commitments), he comes to clearly reject it later in favor of the idea that the soul is created immediately.  In other words, God creates our souls ex nihilo with these innate principles.

At 10.12.19, Augustine continues his discussion of these non-imagistic realities stored in the memory, and here distinguishes between images and the truths themselves. He first notes that principles of mathematics/number are not experienced via the senses.  We of course learn about them by way of language; hence, the senses are involved (sounds of spoken names of numbers, marks on a page).   However, as Augustine explains, “the sounds are one thing and the truths themselves something else.  The words sound one way in Greek and differently in Latin, but the truths are neither Greek nor Latin, nor spoken entities of any kind” (10.12.19; p. 249).  Even though the sounds and signs of languages differ, the truths to which these signs point are common among all people, as they are implanted in all.  Augustine adds that mathematical (geometric) lines drawn on a page and seen with his “fleshly eye” represent something completely different, viz. truths known by all “without a physical representation of any kind being involved.  One recognizes them within oneself.  With all my bodily senses I have apprehended the numbers of things as we count them; but the principle of number is something entirely different, and without it we could not think mathematically at all.  This principle is not an image of the things counted, and therefore has a much more real existence” (10.12.19; pp. 249-250, italics added).

I recently re-read book X of Augustine’s Confessions for a class that I am teaching this Fall.  Since it’s likely that I will have very little time to blog this Fall, I have decided to start a mini-series based on my summer study of Augustine and memory.

To set the context for book X, let’s do a brief and cursory review of the previous nine books.  In books I-IX, Augustine gives an account of his life.  He begins with his earliest childhood and moves through his adolescent and early adult wanderings (I-VI).  Then we have his encounter with the Platonists (VII), the famous Garden scene in which he tells the story of the transformation of his will (VIII), and finally the account of his baptism (IX).  Book X, then, brings us to the present, to Augustine’s life as Bishop of Hippo.  One can also think of book X as an account of the mind’s journey to God (as dualistic as that might sound, he seems to describe it as a very non-bodily kind of activity).   Also, throughout the book (X), Augustine re-iterates themes that he had introduced in book I (e.g., what is God’s nature, how can we seek after God if we don’t know him).

In 10.6.8, he asks, “What am I loving when I love you?” (Conf., Boulding translation, p. 242).  This question leads Augustine to an inner exploration of himself (his mind and its faculties) in order to find out what he loves when he loves God.  First, Augustine attempts to understand what the mind is, which is difficult because we typically start our inquiries with what’s closest to us, corporeal objects.  Though he concludes that he is not loving anything bodily or sensory when he loves God, nonetheless, he writes: “And yet I do love a kind of light, a kind of voice, a certain fragrance, a food and an embrace, when I love my God” (10.6.8; p. 242).  However, he is quick to add that these semblances of light, food etc. are found in his “inmost self, where something limited to no place shines into my mind, where something not snatched away by passing time sings for me, where something no breath blows away yields to me its scent, where there is savor undiminished by famished eating, and where I am clasped in a union from which no satiety can tear me away” (10.6.8; p. 242).   So in order to “find” God, who is immaterial, Augustine turns inward. Interestingly, or perhaps paradoxically, even though God is above imagination and sense, Augustine’s only way of describing God is by way of sense.  For example, “You called, shouted, broke through my deafness; you flared, blazed, banished my blindness; you lavished your fragrance, I gasped, and now I pant for you; I tasted you, and I hunger and thirst; you touched me, and I burned for your peace” (10.27.38; p. 262).

Why, we might ask, should one take this inward journey?  Why not begin with the extra-mental world and seek the cause of the effects we encounter in the world? Augustine, perhaps given his Platonic leanings, wants to find something that will provide him with a more stable starting point than the ever-changing world of sensory experience.  Perhaps we could even say that he turns to his mind because he seeks immediate rather than mediated knowledge, as the former is in his estimation, more secure and certain.   Rather than travel to admire mountains, oceans and stars, and “leave [oneself] behind” (10.8.15; p. 247), Augustine turns inward, seeking a journey “closest” to himself, which he believes affords the greatest certainty.  Having concluded that nature, though pointing to God, cannot be identified with God, he now begins his examination of memory (10.6.9; p. 242). Given that in books I-IX Augustine has just finished a selective re-telling of his life up to the present-a re-telling dependent of course on his own memory-a discussion of memory at this point makes sense with regard to the overall structure of Confessions.

In part II, I shall discuss what Augustine claims are the “contents” of our memory.