Introduction

A frequent talking point among Eastern Orthodox apologists concerns a short work that St. Thomas Aquinas wrote in 1263 or early 1264, known as the Contra errores Graecorum. The claim is that St. Thomas bases his entire refutation of Eastern Orthodoxy on a mass of forgeries. The conclusion drawn from this (supposed) fact is that the medieval Latin synthesis on the papacy, the Filioque, and the other points disputed with the Greeks was founded on forgeries rather than on a genuine study of the Fathers. The same claim then becomes the explanatory framework for the unions of Lyons II and Florence, which remain an embarrassment for the Orthodox.

In this article I want to focus especially on the Filioque, since it is a particular interest of mine and, in my opinion, was regarded as the more important dogmatic question at both Lyons II and Florence.

In reality, this narrative is a fabrication on several different levels, and nowhere more so than on the composition of the Contra errores Graecorum itself. As the scholarship of the last century has decisively shown, the Contra errores Graecorum is nothing like a florilegium (i.e., an ancient “quote mine”) against Orthodoxy, and to call many of its quotations “forgeries” does no justice to their origins, least of all in the case of the Trinitarian texts.

Further, as a supposed disproof of Catholicism the objection is self-defeating. These apologists betray their ignorance of how inauthentic texts were used in the patristic era and in the Byzantine East, and the same standard would just as easily refute the Church of the first millennium and the Byzantines of the second.

Finally, the idea that the Eastern Orthodox at Florence were chiefly convinced by forgeries is a fairy tale. Both sides at Florence did put forward some inauthentic texts in the debate on the Filioque, but the great majority of the texts cited were authentic. In fact, when explicitly commenting on what convinced them, the Greek bishops pointed to the lengthy excerpts from authentic texts, against the claims of Mark of Ephesus (which could hardly be verified). To explain the defection of the Eastern bishops and the ensuing union by the small number of forgeries is delusional.

I. Spurious texts in the councils and in Byzantine controversy

NOTE. The examples that follow are given ad hominem in the classical sense: they show the disastrous conclusions that follow from discrediting doctrines, councils, and the like on the basis of the inference the apologists draw. None of them is meant to discredit the doctrine in whose service the text was cited. They are meant to show that the inference from “spurious texts were used” to “the doctrine is false” cannot be drawn by anyone who accepts the first seven councils and the later Byzantine tradition.

1. The Apollinarian forgeries

The first example of dubious texts entering a theological dispute comes from the Council of Ephesus (431). At its first session a florilegium of sixteen patristic extracts was read. Two of them were Apollinarian writings under orthodox names: one read as Pope Julius comes from a letter of Timothy the Apollinarian, and one read as Pope Felix is an Apollinarian fragment. Another famous example from the same dispute concerns the origin of St. Cyril’s celebrated formula, “one incarnate nature of God the Word,” which came from a tract of Apollinarius lying in the Alexandrian archive under the name of St. Athanasius. These forgeries were not exposed by modern scholarship but a century after the dispute by Leontius. [1]

2. The Dionysian corpus

The corpus of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite first appears in controversy at the Collatio of 532, where it was cited by the Severians. Some contemporary Orthodox pretend that concern over the origin of the Dionysian corpus is a modern invention; in fact there were doubts about its authorship at the very moment it first appeared. Hypatius of Ephesus objected to the quotations as soon as the Severians produced them, arguing that they could not be genuine, since St. Cyril never cites them. [2] The corpus was nevertheless received by both East and West, and quoted by the Lateran Synod of 649, by the Sixth and Seventh Councils, by St. Maximus, by St. John Damascene, and by many others. How, then, are we to receive a corpus whose authorship is, at the very least, dubious on both intrinsic and extrinsic grounds? The Encyclopedia of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, in its article on Pseudo-Dionysius, states the following: the Dionysian writings “lose none of their credibility owing to the ‘problem’ of authorship; they rise or fall in Orthodox esteem on the basis of their content alone.” [3] This is a good principle, and it should apply equally to texts of dubious origin used in the East and in the West.

3. Constantinople III

The history of Constantinople III (680–681) is a complete mess. The council was almost entirely taken up with questions about the authenticity of texts. The trouble began when the official acts of the Fifth Council, held in the same city roughly a century earlier, were suspected of having been falsified in a Monothelete sense. After a great deal of investigation, a monk named George confessed that, at the instigation of Macarius of Antioch, he had falsified every copy of the Fifth Council that came into the patriarch’s hands. Macarius’s own patristic florilegium was then found to consist of mutilated extracts, and he was condemned. What makes the affair stranger still is that recent scholarship has argued that the documents the council denounced as forgeries were in fact authentic, so that the council’s own proof of forgery was unsound to some degree. [4]

4. The Quinisext Council and the “Apostolic” Canons

One of the most egregious examples of the use of forgeries comes from the Council in Trullo (691–692), also known as the Quinisext Council. Ironically, the council accepted the eighty-five canons “handed down to us in the name of the holy and glorious Apostles” (can. 2) while accusing the Apostolic Constitutions of having been corrupted by heretics. In reality, the Apostolic Constitutions is a compilation of fourth-century Syrian liturgical and canonical material from a variety of sources, and the same is true of the Apostolic Canons, which is exactly why the Canons were attached to the Constitutions: they came out of the same ecclesiastical community and were gathered for the same purpose. Some may accuse me of relying on “modern scholarship,” but here, as with the Cyrillian texts and the Dionysian corpus, the objection is ancient. That is why the Gelasian decree lists the Apostolic Canons among the apocrypha. The example may look minor, but these canons are the foundation of the Byzantine canonical tradition. If we are to throw out everything built on texts of dubious authorship, the whole Byzantine canonical tradition goes out with it.

Another ironic instance concerns the canons on clerical continence. To support their practice of not binding priests to perpetual continence, the fathers of Trullo appealed to a canon of the Council of Carthage, claiming to stand in line with the North African discipline. Yet when we look at the sources, the African canons say the opposite. The Council of Carthage of 390, received into the African Code of 419, decreed that bishops, priests, and deacons be “continent in all things,” and called this “what the Apostles taught and antiquity itself observed.” [5] Some chalk this up to an atrocious misreading of the canons, but it is far more likely that the text was mangled in translation, whether by accident or on purpose. This dubious text became the foundation (together with other spurious material) of a distinctive Greek practice that has lasted more than thirteen hundred years.

And this is not even the best part. Why did I call this “ironic”? If you are paying attention, you may have noticed that the mangled version of the Carthaginian canon, as the Greeks read it, said that bishops as well as priests and deacons needed to remain continent only at certain times. Their own source, in other words, supported the continued use of marriage by bishops too. Yet their legislation refused to go that far and denied the concession to bishops, as remains the practice to this day. The fathers of Trullo did not even follow their own dubious texts when they legislated. [6]

5. Nicaea II

An oft mentioned example occurred at the Second Council of Nicaea. The pseudo-council of Hiereia had cited a litany of dubious texts, and its florilegia were “riddled with fragments of dubious attribution and genuineness,” [7] something the contemporary enemies of iconodulia rarely mention. Nicaea II, with this in mind, made a genuine attempt to avoid the same risk in its own citations. The Seventh Council insisted that whole books, and not loose extracts, be produced in session, precisely because Hiereia had worked from sheets of doubtful texts. Yet the precaution was not completely successful, and a number of dubious texts slipped through, among them the pseudo-Basilian letter to Julian the Apostate, read as Basil’s. (As I said above, it would be far too rash to proclaim all such texts “forgeries” with absolute certainty.)

6. Photius, St. Andrew, and Constantine

While many Byzantines are quick to point out the use of forgeries in support of the papal dogma, there are plenty of examples of Byzantines doing the same thing in order to oppose the authority of the Bishop of Rome.

First, at the Photian council of 879–880, letters of Pope John VIII were read in a Greek version heavily redacted to remove the passages unfavorable to Photius and the council. Francis Dvornik, who is more than fair to Photius, says that the letters “were changed, with the consent of the legates,” and that “John VIII protested against the changes made in his letters by the Greeks.” [8]

Second, one of the chief difficulties for Constantinople was that the see of Byzantium was not an apostolic see but a later foundation. A legend was therefore produced in which the Apostle Andrew founds the see and ordains Stachys its first bishop, circulating under the name of Dorotheus of Tyre. Dvornik showed that these episcopal lists were compiled around the turn of the ninth century, which is probably not a coincidence. The legend became a standard tool in the hands of Byzantine polemicists and went a long way toward shaping their ecclesiology of the see of Constantinople and its relation to Rome. [9]

Third, one of the most ironic examples is the use of the Donation of Constantine in the East. Orthodox polemicists often cite the Donation as one of the forgeries on which the papal dogma was supposedly built. Yet in the East the Donation of Constantine was received into the Byzantine canonical tradition in the twelfth century and used to argue for the claims of Constantinople as the New Rome. [10]

7. The azymes

The controversy over the azymes (the use of unleavened bread in the Eucharist) does not get much attention today, but it was a major point of dispute in earlier eras. A tract under the name of St. Athanasius and fragments attributed to St. John Damascene, both titled On the Azymes (De azymis), circulated in the centuries after 1054 to supply some sort of patristic support for the Eastern position against the West.

8. Lyons and Florence

There were plenty of shenanigans surrounding Lyons II and Florence on both sides, extending in some cases to the mutilation of manuscripts in order to destroy the other side’s evidence (although, to my knowledge, the only well-documented instances are Greek). After Lyons II, Patriarch John Bekkos had to defend his unionism against the great majority of Greeks who opposed him. He focused above all on the Filioque and produced many texts from the Fathers. In one case an “old codex” (old from the perspective of 1280!) of St. Gregory of Nyssa was found to have had the word ἐκ scraped off with a knife, at the very place where Gregory speaks of the Spirit as from the Son. When the matter was brought before Bekkos’s synod, it ordered that the gap be left empty and the facts recorded, since it would not be safe to write the word back in. [11]

Something similar came to light after the Council of Florence. In the middle of a textual dispute, Mark of Ephesus claimed that the Latin codices of St. Basil had been falsified, while admitting that four or five manuscripts in Constantinople itself carried the same reading. The Latins, for their part, knew their manuscript’s history well enough: it had been brought from Constantinople the year before by Nicholas of Cusa, it was a parchment book far older than the schism, and it bore no mark of alteration. To test the claim, Bessarion (a Greek, and later a cardinal) examined the manuscripts present at the council. Of the six copies there, five had the Latin reading, among them the ninth-century Marcianus gr. 58. [12] Then, upon returning to Constantinople, he searched the libraries of the monasteries and found that the copies written after the controversy began lacked the Latin reading, while the older ones had it. Beyond this, in the monastery of Christ Pantepoptes he found two old codices from which the words had been removed, one by a blade and the other by ink. [13]

(More on this later).

9. Gregory Palamas

In the Palamite controversy one of the texts most often cited by Gregory Palamas and his party was a homily on the Annunciation ascribed to St. Athanasius. It supplied the language about the realities “around God” that served the distinction of essence and energies. Palamas cites it in his letters, in the Hundred and Fifty Chapters, in the Antirrhetics, and in the treatises on the procession, and it is quoted twice in the synodal Tome of 1351. The homily is a seventh-century pseudepigraphon, “now almost unanimously recognized as spurious.” [14] Here we have one of the key articulations of the doctrine resting on a “forged” text.

Conclusion

The point of this section is not to disparage or disprove any of the doctrines mentioned, which should be obvious enough from the fact that I hold many of them. What the examples show is that the unqualified assertion “if doctrine x is supported by forgeries, then it is false” is simplistic and self-defeating. Many of the qualified versions of the assertion fail as well. In several of these cases the forgeries were not merely incidental but quite fundamental to the formulation and defense of the doctrine (St. Cyril, Palamas, the azymes, the laws on priestly continence, the role of Constantinople, etc.).

II. Were the Greeks deceived by forgeries?

At Florence the texts of the Fathers were debated at length in the sessions of March 1439, with John of Montenero speaking for the Latins and Mark of Ephesus for the Greeks. The Orthodox apologists argue that the Greeks were won over by a great number of Latin forgeries. If that were really the case, we would expect at least a majority of the texts Montenero cited to be of dubious origin.

Fr. Thomas Crean, O.P., has done exactly this work, tallying the authorities Montenero read in the March sessions, sixty-one testimonies in all, and checking them against the authenticity judgments of the Clavis Patrum. Of the twenty-nine Latin authorities, twenty-two are indisputably authentic, three inauthentic, two disputed, and two unidentified. Of the thirty-two Greek authorities, twenty-nine are authentic (counting the fifth book Against Eunomius as the ancient witness it is, and taking St. Jerome’s version of Didymus at face value), two inauthentic, and one unidentified. That is fifty-one authentic testimonies against five inauthentic and five disputed. [15] By modern standards such a rate of inauthentic texts would be troubling; by medieval standards it was a remarkable feat, and very few florilegia could boast such accuracy. What is also notable is the accuracy with which it cited texts from original manuscripts, rather than from other florilegia wich often included interpolations, glosses, and bad translations (as we shall see later in the case of Nicholas of Crotone).

On the Orthodox account we would expect a high rate of inauthentic texts, wildly out of proportion to the authentic ones. Yet, we see the opposite. Not only is there a mere handful of inauthentic texts, but, relative to the era, there are far fewer than one would expect, with the remaining texts quoted with precision often from the most ancient condices they could find with a clear chain of custody. Consider the total number of inauthentic texts presented: are we really to believe that the Greek bishops would have capitulated at sixty-one texts but not at fifty-six? From this consideration alone it is incredible to me that anyone would dream of making the claim.

Among the disputed points the most attention has gone to the aforementioned Against Eunomius III, 1, which makes an interesting case study. The variant used by the Latins is attested in manuscripts well before the schism, some of them from regions outside any Latin influence. The exact origin of the variant is still debated, and most scholars hold that it is not from St. Basil himself. But, as I said before, it is an early interpolation in a text that was read, studied, and taught in the East for centuries before the schism. Quite a few of the “forgeries” are cases exactly like this, minor manuscript variants present long before the schism, which hardly support the grandiose claims of the Orthodox apologists.

When we look at the testimonies of the unionist Greeks, the reason they joined the Latins was not isolated discrepancies among manuscripts but the fact that so many of the testimonies simply could not have been forged: to forge them one would have had to create whole homilies, commentaries, and chapters. These men, many of them humanists with experience of manuscript variation, understood perfectly well that small corruptions and insertions happen. But when they studied these texts they saw that the arguments for the Filioque drawn from the Fathers went far beyond anything such variants could account for. Bessarion famously said that if all such passages were removed from the books of the Latin Fathers there would be “nothing left but blank pages.” [16] To claim that these men were convinced by isolated insertions or corruptions is absurd, since they deliberately sought out the long passages that could not have been corrupted.

III. St. Thomas and the Contra errores Graecorum

The popular picture of the Contra errores Graecorum is that St. Thomas sat down one day to write a book refuting the Greeks and filled it with whatever texts came to hand. This is far from the truth. The work was written at the request of Urban IV, who sent St. Thomas a libellus (a florilegium) compiled by Nicholas of Durazzo, a Greek by birth, and asked for his assessment of it. The libellus was troubling because many of its quotations contained language offensive to Latin ears, especially in the way they spoke of the Trinity. St. Thomas accordingly sets himself two tasks in his prologue: first, to explain how these seemingly erroneous statements can be understood in an orthodox sense; second, to show how the same authorities can be used to teach and defend the Catholic faith.

It would be a complete distortion to imagine that St. Thomas collected these quotations himself in order to deploy them against the Greeks, or that he authenticated them on his own authority. The work is a commentary on a florilegium, nothing out of the ordinary before the modern era, and in works of this kind the fault obviously lies not with the commentator but with whoever compiled the quotations in the first place.

This is universally recognized by the scholars who have studied the Contra errores Graecorum. The title itself, which St. Thomas did not give the work and which was attached to it decades after his death, is something of a misnomer. As Hyacinthe-François Dondaine, who edited the text for the Leonine edition, puts it, the title “purely and simply misreads the intention of the author.” Antoine Dondaine called the work “less a treatise against the Greeks than an inquiry into the Libellus.” Mark Jordan describes it as “an occasional commentary upon a missionary polemic. It is not itself a polemic.” Martin Hubert writes that “this piece of writing, poorly named Contra errores Graecorum, is the benevolent examination of a libellus.” [17]

This is obvious from even a cursory look at the work’s content and context. Lost for centuries, the original libellus of Nicholas of Durazzo was brought to light by Pietro Antonio Uccelli in 1869, and Dondaine, comparing the two texts, found that of St. Thomas’s 205 citations of the Greek Fathers, 200 come from the libellus. [18] If this were a polemical work of St. Thomas’s own (rather than a commentary on a florilegium), it would be incredible that he did not bring forward the many citations of the Fathers that he regularly employs on these topics, as he does in every one of his polemical works. Funnily enough, of the five authorities he did supply from his own stock, none is a forgery. [19]

This is confirmed by a quick reading of the text itself (which, to my astonishment, none of these people seem actually to have done). In the epilogue St. Thomas sets out a series of criticisms of the very work the Pope had asked him to comment on; he faults, for instance, the translation of many passages in the Libellus. His distrust is confirmed by a simple historical observation. As students of St. Thomas know, he is one of the most consistent authors in the history of the world. You can read texts on the same topic written decades apart and he will give the very same patristic quotations. From this simple fact we should be able to gather whether St. Thomas trusted this work or not. We would expect him to pick up a few quotations from the libellus and begin using them in his other works, as we see so many times when St. Thomas gets hold of a new source (after his Roman period, for example, when he gained access to many new texts, or in the compiling of the Catena). If St. Thomas trusted the genuineness of the 200 quotations he reproduced from the libellus, we would expect to see at least some of them turn up in his later works on the same topics, right? Yet we see almost nothing of the sort.

In fact, we have one instance that should put every other interpretation to rest. In Summa contra Gentiles IV, 24, written at the very time he was writing the Contra errores, St. Thomas has an excursus in which he demonstrates the doctrine of the Filioque from the Greek Fathers. If St. Thomas were really composing a polemical tract in the Contra errores, rather than a simple commentary, it would have been nearly impossible for him to avoid the dozens of quotations in the Contra errores attributed to the Greek Fathers. Yet not a single citation from the Libellus appears in that passage.How much clearer could it be?

I can go even further. In De potentia q. 10, a. 4, St. Thomas quotes St. Cyril’s synodical letter to Nestorius from the acts of the councils, together with the declaration of the Fifth Council on the authority of the Fathers. The sentence of Cyril also stands in the libellus. Yet St. Thomas quotes it in a completely different translation, that of the Collectio Casinensis, rather than in the version of the libellus he had used shortly before. [20]

All of this could be gathered even without a detailed textual study of the libellus. The Dominicans Échard and De Rubeis had already answered, in the eighteenth century, that these texts were collected by someone else and handed to St. Thomas for his commentary, [21] and the collection itself would not be rediscovered for more than a century.

St. Thomas understood quite well that texts can carry critical errors, and he did the best he could with the tools he had to root them out and avoid misattributions. Besides the remarkable work done in Rome gaining access to conciliar collections and works of the Fathers that were not commonly read, St. Thomas showed flashes of critical genius in his judgment of particular works: his rejection of the Augustinian authorship of the De spiritu et anima and of the De ecclesiasticis dogmatibus, his being the first to identify the origin of the Liber de causis in Proclus, and his correctly naming Theophylact rather than St. John Chrysostom as the author of certain texts on which the libellus erred. [22] In the Catena the same critical sense is on display, carefully and methodically distinguishing the Fathers’ own words from glosses. Elsewhere he recognizes faulty translations from the Greek (especially in the works of St. John Chrysostom) and remedies them, and in order to study the Fathers he had a number of Greek commentaries translated into Latin. [23]

Here, too, we can praise the genius of St. Thomas on another point that few have given him credit for. The first part of the Contra errores is almost entirely taken up with critical explanations of the texts of the libellus. Dondaine notes that the passages St. Thomas singled out in this section as doubtful in their phrasing turn out almost all to be corrupted in some way (by translation, by gloss, etc.). Without knowing it, his theological judgment had picked out what was spurious. [24] Far from being ashamed of this work, Catholics should be glad of the genius of the Common Doctor in pulling off this superhuman feat.

As noted above, Nicholas of Durazzo was a Greek by birth. His libellus was prepared for the Byzantine emperor and written in Greek. The irony should not be lost on any reader that the supposed “Latin forgeries of St. Thomas” were written by a Greek, for Greeks. When the work came to Pope Urban IV he evidently had his suspicions about it (interestingly, there is no record of the Greeks suspecting the work, only the Latins), and he sent it to St. Thomas for review, as both Dondaines and Plested note. [25]

IV. Forgery, pseudepigraphy, and scholarship before criticism

In the remainder of this article I go into more detail about the strange origins of the libellus. We will see that modern scholarship has argued, convincingly in my view, that the core of the libellus comes from a late eighth-century Roman collection, and that its Filioque section goes back to a mid-seventh-century collection gathered in the time of St. Maximus the Confessor by the Greek and Palestinian monks around him which had been translated from Greek into Latin, then back into Greek, before being translated back into Latin by a translator with very little skill, and even less skill at sourcing, distinguishing glosses, etc.. I also explain in some detail why the charge of “forgery” is not so simple after all.

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Introduction

Earlier this week, I released a video titled “A Thorough DEBUNKING of Redeemed Zoomer.” In this video, I discuss a number of different problems with Richard’s understanding of schism, his arguments against the papacy, and certain statements he has made on Mariology.

Many found the schism section especially helpful, even certain Protestants (although for the opposite reason). One of Richard’s common themes is his opposition to other Protestant groups on the grounds that they are schismatic. He argues that the traditional Protestant view of schism did not allow for the division of the Church on grounds of corruption in doctrine and morals. Along with this, he views schism as an inherited sin that affects not only the progenitors of the schism but also those who remain in the body they formed. Therefore, in the Presbyterian world, members of groups like the OPC, PCA, EPC, and others would be required to join the mainline denomination of which Richard is a member, the PCUSA. In the Anglican world, members of groups like the ACNA or the Continuing Anglican churches would need to join the Episcopal Church. You get the point.

The response to this from Catholics and Protestants alike is obvious: if this is really the case, then the Protestant Reformation itself is unjustified. Therefore, the only consistent way of holding to what Richard teaches is to join the Roman Catholic Church (since this would be the proper ecclesiastical body in the West). Therefore, the Protestants reject the premises in order to reject the conclusion, while Catholics positively draw out the conclusion from Richard’s premises.

Richard’s Distinction

Yet Richard has a response to this objection. To resolve it, he distinguishes between two situations: that of those who have not been unjustly excommunicated and that of those who have. He likens the latter to the Apostles, who remained joined to the Old Testament Church until they were unjustly excommunicated by the Sanhedrin (there are plenty of exegetical and theological problems with this analogy, but I will let it pass for the sake of argument). Someone who is unjustly excommunicated may leave the body that excommunicated him and start a new group; but unless this happens, it is a grave sin to split the Church, even where there is severe moral and doctrinal decay.

Now, there are two ways of responding to Richard’s distinction. First, we can deny that the unjustly excommunicated are licensed to set up a new hierarchy and form a new ecclesiastical body. (In my video, I quoted St. Augustine to this effect, since Richard frequently uses him as an authority on this matter, although other arguments could be cited as well.) Second, we can deny that this was an instance of unjust excommunication. This can be done in two ways. First, we can argue that the excommunications that did happen were just, on the grounds of the truth of Catholic doctrine on the individual matters for which the Reformers were excommunicated. While this is true, it is not an effective way of arguing the point against those who deny Catholic doctrine. Second, we can argue historically, establishing that the schismatic acts took place before the excommunication. From this, we can draw the same conclusion from his own principles. Those who set up a rival ecclesiastical structure without having been unjustly excommunicated are schismatics; now, most of the Reformers set up rival ecclesiastical structures without being personally excommunicated; therefore, most of the Reformers (on Richard’s principles) are schismatics. Now, as he has stated elsewhere, those adhering to these structures in whatever generation are likewise schismatics; therefore, the Protestant communities are schismatic.

Who Was Actually Excommunicated?

The assumption that each of the Reformers was personally excommunicated comes from a misunderstanding of how ecclesiastical censures actually function. Such censures are not declared simply because someone holds an error or does something gravely wrong, but only in particular circumstances, as determined by the ecclesiastical judge. Therefore, oddly enough, only a handful of Reformers were declared excommunicate (e.g., Luther, Bucer, Henry VIII). Moreover, in Bucer’s case, the excommunication was declared because of his refusal to submit to the ecclesiastical process (which established formal contumacy, quite apart from his doctrinal errors).

In a word, his argument is corrosive to the Protestant Reformation. Nearly every group that came from the many Reformers who were not personally excommunicated would fall under his definition of “schism.” Maybe the Lutherans are left standing? Yet even this runs into insoluble difficulties.

As canonists and theologians commonly teach (which I will explain in more detail later), an excommunication cannot be personally declared against a social body. It would be unjust, for example, for the pope to attempt to place all of England under major excommunication. There are certain lesser penalties where this might be just with a proportionately grave cause (e.g., interdict, although it seems this has been abused more often than it has been justly imposed), but major excommunication is not one of these censures.

What would Richard’s distinction prove if we granted both the doctrinal error that the unjustly excommunicated can form rival ecclesiastical structures and the error of fact that the Reformers were unjustly excommunicated? It would prove that the men who were personally excommunicated could form rival ecclesiastical structures, but that nobody could join them, since those who would join them had not been personally excommunicated. If at this point you are eager to mention latae sententiae excommunications, be patient; I will explain later why they do not help Richard’s case.

The Hussite Objection

Yet to all of this, Richard has a response. At the Council of Constance, he says, the Hussites were excommunicated for the Utraquist heresy (i.e., teaching that lay communion in both kinds is necessary by divine law). Now, in the condemnations, both Hus and his followers were excommunicated. Further, the Reformers held the Utraquist heresy. Therefore, they were excommunicated the moment they began to preach it.

There are two responses to this, one historical and the other canonical.

The Historical Response: The Church of England

First, the history of the Church of England seems to have slipped Richard’s mind. While the continental Reformers preached the Utraquist heresy from the beginning, the same cannot be said of the Anglicans. Under Henry VIII, the Church of England was not only not Utraquist; it specifically rejected the Utraquist heresy as one of the grounds for its refusal to have communion with the continental Reformers. The most famous example of this is the Six Articles of 1539, which punished Utraquists with death or imprisonment.

From what Richard concedes, we can construct an argument. The Church of England established a rival ecclesiastical structure before any personal excommunication was declared (e.g., by the 1531 acknowledgment of Henry as Supreme Head, the 1532 Submission of the Clergy, and the 1533 Act in Restraint of Appeals); further, schismatic acts are inherited by anyone who adheres to the rival ecclesiastical structure in perpetuity; therefore, anyone who adheres to Anglicanism, in any generation, is a schismatic.

The Canonical Response: Ipso Facto Excommunication

Second, we can also treat this as a canonical matter. Here, Richard and his followers confuse two things: a declared personal excommunication and an ipso facto excommunication. This is quite significant for his argument. The very foundation of his justification of the Protestant Reformation is that the Reformers were “kicked out” by an unjust excommunication and that, therefore, their formation of rival ecclesiastical structures was justified. When we keep in mind the nature of ecclesiastical censures, we see that his appeal to Constance and to ipso facto excommunications is nonsensical.

An ipso facto excommunication is incurred by one who pertinaciously commits a certain offense. It supposes culpability and is established in the internal forum before any declaration by the Church. There are two important corollaries of this that allow us to see why even mentioning such excommunications is nonsensical. First, there is no “social” effect in the external forum until it is declared. The individual who incurs an ipso facto excommunication is said (in the old canonical terminology) to be toleratus (i.e., tolerated), rather than vitandus (i.e., to be avoided), until a judicial process has judged him guilty of the crime and declared the excommunication.

Pope Martin V (who approved the condemnation of the Hussites at Constance) declares the following in Ad evitanda scandala:

Henceforth no one will be obliged, under the pretext of any sentence or ecclesiastical censure generally promulgated by law or by man, to avoid the communion of any person, in the administration or reception of the Sacraments, or in any other matters sacred or profane, or to eschew the person, or to observe any ecclesiastical interdict, unless a sentence or censure of this kind shall have been published by a judge, and denounced specially and expressly…

The entire foundation of Richard’s position that an unjustly excommunicated person may start a rival ecclesiastical structure is the effect that excommunication has in foro externo (i.e., the excommunicated are, in his words, “kicked out”). Yet in the case of an ipso facto excommunication, we see that those who violate generally promulgated censures (as holding to Utraquism would) are not “kicked out”; they are to be tolerated until sentence is specifically declared against them.

Note. There are certain effects in the external forum vis-à-vis one’s own obligations when conscious of the censure, and in the authority of a judge when the offense is notorious. Yet neither of these two is relevant to the question at hand, which concerns the social relations of the excommunicated.

Second, he draws a specific distinction between unjust and just excommunication. He does not seem to realize that this distinction has no place when discussing ipso facto excommunications. How could it? For such a censure to take effect, one would need to hold an error pertinaciously or to commit some act with pertinacity. Therefore, there is no such thing as an unjust ipso facto excommunication, since all those who fall under such a censure firmly adhere to error. Further, in his mind, these ipso facto excommunications did not even take effect, since he denies that any of the Reformers were pertinacious.

The Dilemma

We can construct the following dilemma: either the Reformers were justly excommunicated ipso facto, or they were not excommunicated at all. There is no third option, since ipso facto excommunications touch only the pertinacious and no personal excommunication was declared in this case. If the former, then, by Richard’s standards, the formation of rival ecclesiastical structures was schismatic, since they were justly excommunicated. If the latter, then, by Richard’s standards, the formation of rival structures was schismatic, since there was no excommunication at all.

Note. Since the original censures were general and undeclared, under Martin V’s Ad evitanda they left the Reformers tolerati, and no one was obliged to avoid them. For Richard to state that such a general censure left them “kicked out” is an abuse of language.

No Excommunication of Social Bodies

Lastly, as I mentioned above, corporate excommunications of social bodies have long been recognized as unjust, well before the Council of Constance and as far back as the early Church, as St. Augustine declared against Bishop Auxilius in a letter that was included in Gratian. The same is taught commonly by canonists and theologians. In fact, Innocent IV (who wrote on the same topic in his canonical commentaries) established this as law in the decretal Romana ecclesia, in the section beginning Ceterum:

We altogether forbid a sentence of excommunication to be pronounced against a corporation or college, wishing to avoid the peril to souls that could follow, since it would sometimes happen that the innocent were entangled in such a sentence; but let it be promulgated only against those of the college or corporation who are established to be culpable.

In his canonical commentaries, he gives two reasons for this. First, the frequency with which the innocent mix with the guilty in such groups (e.g., if you condemned “the Hussites” personally, many who are not pertinacious would be included). Second, the fact that the group is perpetual, extending beyond the members who originally sinned.

General Sentences Are Not Personal Sentences

Unfortunately, Richard understands a general sentence in canonical form as equivalent to a certain “social excommunication” in which each person who falls under the general sentence receives a declared personal excommunication. Therefore, with this supposed, the conclusion he draws would obviously follow in his framework. Yet this is not at all how such a general sentence works.

Even if a specific condition is given (e.g., “those holding,” “followers,” etc.), the sentence remains general and non-personal until it is declared (and so falls back under what was said above about ipso facto excommunication). St. Alphonsus gives the example of an excommunication declared for arson against “Peter and his accomplices.” In such a case, even if the involvement of the accomplices was notorious, one would not be bound to avoid them as vitandi; they would remain tolerati, since “accomplices” is a universal or general condition: “only Peter is to be avoided, not the others, even if they are notorious, because as to them the sentence is only general” (Theologia moralis, lib. VII, cap. II, dub. I, n. 134). Therefore, Busenbaum concludes (quoted by St. Alphonsus) that “in Germany Catholics safely communicate with those who are notoriously heretics, and consequently excommunicated, because they are not excommunicated by name and publicly denounced” (ibid.; cf. Suárez, De censuris, disp. 9, sect. 2, nn. 4–5).

The following statement from Lateran IV has been interpreted in the same way: “We excommunicate and anathematize every heresy raising itself up against this holy, orthodox and catholic faith which we have expounded above. We condemn all heretics, whatever names they may go under.”

It is also important to recall that Innocent IV, who issued a decree on the injustice of corporate excommunication (and explained it in more detail in his canonical commentaries), became pope around 30 years after Lateran IV, and that the same principle had been included in Gratian a century before. Therefore, any other interpretation that could be given is completely unfounded.

The same holds for the bull Decet Romanum Pontificem of 1521, which declared Martin Luther “and others who follow him in the obstinacy of his depraved and damnable purpose” to fall under “the sentences of excommunication, of anathema, of our perpetual condemnation and interdict… and the other sentences, censures and punishments which are inflicted by canon law on heretics.”

It is incredible to me that Richard chooses this strange argument about Utraquism rather than quoting the clear sentences in the excommunication of Luther. Yet, for the aforementioned reason, even this does not prove his case.

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EDIT. I explain more about the relevance of the eating-sex parallel and the vices of certain modern treatments here and here.

Introduction

The phrase “Perverted Faculty Argument” entered the English-speaking world through a brief debate that took place in the American Ecclesiastical Review in 1928–1929 between four Catholic priest-theologians: E. J. Mahoney, John A. Ryan, John M. Cooper, and Henry Davis.

In the early twentieth century, among certain novel strains of Catholic moral theology, the argument was quite unpopular. While these authors held to the moral conclusions drawn from the argument, they denied the validity of the argument itself. The debate of the late 1920s provides us with a particular iteration of this dispute, with the fullest treatment coming from one of the greatest moralists of the era, Henry Davis.

While the phrase itself was first introduced to the English-speaking world in this debate, the argument goes back much further. Its classical formulation is found in St. Thomas’s treatment of fornication in the Summa contra Gentiles (III, c. 122). Among the later scholastic authors, as in many areas, the formulation became more definite: they clarified the sense of the terms, drew forth certain conclusions, applied the argument to more problems, set out the sequence of the argument in greater detail, and answered objections.

Unfortunately, much of the modern discourse surrounding the Perverted Faculty Argument has lost the “bite” that previous generations of scholastics had when treating the argument. Among many moderns, key distinctions are lost, the foundation of the argument is obscured, and the principles are applied wrongly. This concerns not merely those who would count themselves opponents of the argument, but even its defenders.

In this article, I want to gather in one place the many distinctions that are often invoked by traditional authors when explaining the argument and its relevance. It is important to note that these distinctions are not ad hoc. Each of them flows naturally and necessarily from the principles employed to make the argument, when the argument and its sequence are properly considered in light of the entire moral system in which it is employed. Therefore, what might seem arbitrary to the beginner is not arbitrary whatsoever, but carefully worked out from higher principles, even if the application of these principles to the distinction remains latent.

NOTE. This is an article about moral theology. More than that, it is an article about moral theology related to an argument that is most often applied to sexual morality. If you struggle with scrupulosity, or will be scandalized in some other way by reading this article, then don’t read it. Curiositas is a vice.

Misconception 1. The Term “Faculty”

The first misconception concerns the term “faculty.” If you look at the argument given by St. Thomas in SCG III, cap. cxxii, there is a conspicuous absence of the term “faculty.” In fact, when you look through the chapter, the phrase that is used is emissio seminis, i.e., the emission of seed (the genus for the act, whether it be solitary, fornicatory, or conjugal). The argument is not actually about the “faculty” of a person, but about the act that follows from this faculty. What is the ordination inherent in the operation of a faculty?

This is a clarification that was given by Fr. Davis during the dispute in the American Ecclesiastical Review:

It appears to the writer to be of the utmost importance to distinguish between the faculty and the use of it, or the act. In contraception, it is the act that is frustrated, but the faculty is used. The misuse of the faculty consists in the abuse or frustration of the act.

In this way, we see how silly many of the objections to the argument are that are concerned with non-acts, or with something outside the ordination of the act considered in itself. Celibacy does not fall under the Perverted Faculty Argument because it is a non-act: the faculty is simply not used. Periodic continence (NFP) does not fall under it either for a similar reason. On the days the couple abstain, the faculty is not used; on the days they do not abstain, they perform the natural act in its integrity, and its infertility on that day is accidental to the act (as I will explain below). Therefore, the act must be judged from the intention of the couple and its circumstances. The argument couldn’t be used against either of these and has nothing to say about them. Since the argument concerns the operation of the faculty, the only cases in which it could be applied concern the proper or improper operation of the faculty based on its orientation, not the non-operation of the faculty.

Misconception 2. The Finis Operis

It is important here to distinguish between the finis operis and the finis operantis. The first concerns the “end of the work” and the latter the “end of the worker.” When we say the “end” or “purpose” or “orientation” of the act, we are not concerned with the good that is being sought psychologically or experientially by the individual when he operates. Rather, by the “end” or “purpose” or “orientation” of the act, we are speaking about the intrinsic order that is present in the work. This principle is immediately justified from the order of finality present within things, which is available to natural reason.

In this way, we see that objections from the individual intention of the operator fail. For example, someone may object to the argument on behalf of a couple who perform the marital act without any intention of generating a child. This is not a case in which the Perverted Faculty Argument applies and confuses the finis operis and finis operantis. The act may be sinful due to a failure as to its circumstances or an improper finis operantis like any other act, but the finis operis is not improperly ordered. Therefore, each case must be judged individually.

Misconception 3. Not the “Only Rule”

It is common for many (even many priests) to believe that the Perverted Faculty Argument is the only thing relevant to sexual morality. Therefore, they conclude that if there is not the complete use of the sexual organs outside of the proper vas, then it must always be considered at least a morally unobjectionable practice when done with one’s spouse. Yet this misunderstands the purpose of the argument.

The Perverted Faculty Argument is able to judge the species of the act. It is not able to judge whether such an act was done with the proper circumstances and end, which may render the act morally vicious. For example, there is the well-known condemnation by Bl. Innocent XI of the proposition that sexual union for pleasure alone is free of all fault and venial defect. This has nothing to do with the “perverted faculty”; it has to do with the finis operantis when performing the act.

The argument is not an exhaustive, one-size-fits-all argument that can determine whether any act is virtuous or vicious. It merely concerns one aspect of this question. We can take an example to clarify this: marital relations with a pregnant wife. Some may object that the Perverted Faculty Argument must be against the teaching of the Fathers and the older theologians insofar as they condemned relations with a pregnant wife as either a mortal or a venial sin (whether universally, or in most cases).

Yet this leaves out a third option, which is in fact the case. These Fathers and theologians didn’t justify their sentence on this issue by an appeal to the finis operis, but by something else, e.g., the finis operantis, the danger to the child, etc. The Perverted Faculty Argument is giving you one fact about the act, i.e., whether it is or is not against the finis operis, not whether an act should be approved as moral in individual cases (which requires that the act be integral in all of its causes).

The fact of the matter is that the counsels and precepts given by the Fathers and many moralists on a variety of moral issues touching the marriage bed are dependent on factors besides the finis operis. This is an excellent point brought out in all its details by Fr. William A. Wallace, O.P., in his work The Role of Demonstration in Moral Theology. The greatest moralists are able to distinguish clearly between (a) the judgment of moral science concerning what is to be done per se by the virtuous man in such and such circumstances, which reaches the individual case only as an individuum vagum; (b) the judgment of prudence concerning this singular act here and now; and (c) those rules that are true only ut in pluribus (for the most part) developed through generations of pastoral work by moralists and directors of souls.

When we read an author and hear his judgment on a question, it is important to distinguish which judgment he is making, in order not to misapply what is being said as to the certitude and universality of his judgment.

Misconception 4. Per se vs. per accidens

As I mentioned above, when we are using the Perverted Faculty Argument, we are considering the question from the perspective of the finis operis. There are certain factors that can be added to this ordination that are per se and others that are per accidens. For example, if we consider the copulation of two men, their copulation removes the finis operis per se and in principle. The copulation is such that its order to procreation is removed. Yet, if we consider the copulation of a man with his sterile wife, their copulation does not attain its end due to some defect that is per accidens to the act. The act that they perform is still, intrinsically, essentially, and in principle, ordered towards procreation. It is the type of act that results in procreation. Yet, due to some defect in one of the agents (i.e., sterility), the act does not attain its effect.

To put it another way, when we give the Perverted Faculty Argument, we are not merely arguing in a consequentialist manner (whether or not such an act has its effect). Rather, we are arguing from the essential and intrinsic character of the act and its per se ordering to its end. If the act retains its essential and intrinsic character and its per se ordering to the end, failing due to something that is per accidens (sterility, pregnancy, etc.), then the argument does not apply to the question at hand. We are considering the finis operis, i.e., the end of the very operation or work which is done. Questions of circumstance, the intention of those entering upon copulation, etc., are not relevant here.

In this way, you can see how most of the rejoinders related to copulation between the married concern something that is per accidens. When we combine this with the clarification that the argument does not provide an exhaustive norm of Catholic sexual morality, and is concerned with the finis operis rather than the finis operantis, most of the objections are easily dissolved.

This also occurs in the contrary case. One of the arguments given against fornication is that it is per se contrary to the end of procreation insofar as the good of procreation also includes the raising of children, not merely their generation. Now, the governance of children requires a certain determinate and stable bond between the couple in order to raise them properly. Therefore, where this is absent, the act is per se contrary to the end of procreation.

To this argument, many object that such a case is not universal insofar as a woman may, perhaps, be very wealthy and hire tutors and caregivers who are able to govern the children she has through fornication.

In response to this, St. Thomas emphasizes that this argument isn’t taken from the case of individual goods distributively taken, but from the good of the species (ST II‑II, q. 154, a. 2). Now, when it concerns the good of the species, exceptions are merely accidental to our consideration of the morality or immorality of the act. Therefore, even in the case where the bad effect may be mitigated in some way per accidens, the immorality is still clear from what follows per se from the act.

This is what was said in the contrary case about the sterile or pregnant wife. It is not necessarily immoral to engage in acts whose finis operis is intrinsically ordered towards its end simply because something per accidens removes the acquisition of this good. In the same way, it is not moral to engage in acts whose finis operis is intrinsically ordered towards a contrary end simply because something per accidens removes the evil effect.

Misconception 5. “Beside” the End

Unfortunately, many commentators will describe the argument as follows: “using a faculty for anything other than its natural end is sinful.” This is not the principle from which the argument proceeds. It would obviously be more than absurd to argue that using a faculty for anything other than its natural end is sinful. Unfortunately, this formulation (as false as it is common) has led to two disastrous effects: (a) many Catholics imbibe certain oddities about the moral life, especially concerning the marital use, and (b) many opponents of the Church are given an opportunity to mock Catholic teaching.

The more accurate formulation of the principle from which the argument proceeds would be as follows: “any operation that frustrates the proper good to which the operations of the faculty are ordered is sinful.” In this formulation, the malice is not found in acting in any way that is beside the ordinary use of the faculty, but in eliciting an operation of the faculty that contradicts or excludes the good to which the operations of the faculty are ordered.

Sylvester of Ferrara clarifies this quite well:

“From this reply it is to be noted that the total reason why fornication (or any emission of seed from which the generation of offspring, or its fitting upbringing, cannot follow) is a sin, is not to be taken to be that whenever the use of some part of the body is not according to the order of nature, it is then a sin; for it is plain that this is not universally true in the use of the hands and feet. Rather, one must add that such a disordered use be of such a kind that an evil of nature follows from it: namely, that the good of nature is either wholly taken away by it, or impeded.” (In C. Gent. III, c. 122)

When we have an act whose end is that good ordered by nature, we have an act that is good according to its species; when we have an act whose end is contrary to the good ordered by nature, we have an act that is evil according to its species. Between these lie the acts that are “beside” the end, and this can be distinguished into those acts that are praeter naturam and those acts that are merely instrumental. Unfortunately, many modern exponents of this argument have not kept these apart.

First, there is the case where the natural operation of the faculty is elicited, but in a mode that departs from the natural mode without defeating the end. This is what the scholastics call praeter naturam, beside nature, and it is not simply indifferent. Most say that such acts are somehow against the good of man, yet lightly. Therefore, many theologians give what may seem to be “odd” judgments concerning the position in which one engages in copulation. They say that it is unnatural as to mode insofar as it is beside nature and somehow departs from the natural order; therefore there is something of the character of evil to it, yet it is lightly evil. Yet, since it is not contrary to the grave good that is sought by nature in such acts, it follows that (a) it is not gravely evil (i.e., not a mortal sin), and (b) it can be justified by a sufficient reason. The example commonly given is the change of position in copulation with a woman who is pregnant. In such a case, there is sufficient justification to change the position for the health of the child and to engage in the act more easily. Therefore, they do not mark such changes with the censure of sin, but say that there is some adequate justification for the deficiency of mode.

Second, it is possible that a part be used purely as an instrument for something else, its natural operation being set aside altogether (as when we use our hands to walk on, or our tongue to lick a stamp). Here the act is indifferent according to its species, rendered good or evil by the agent’s end and the circumstances. This is Ferrariensis’s own solution to the objection from walking on the hands: reason may use any part of the body as an instrument even for a use other than that for which nature instituted it; what it may not do is elicit the natural operation of the part in a way contrary to the end of that operation. Some of the cases frequently brought forward as “contrary to the end” are actually instances of something being used instrumentally. For example, in the case of eating foods that have zero calories, the mouth is being used instrumentally for the sake of taste. Therefore, the act should be judged from circumstance and end.

A related case, but not the same one, is the principle of totality: the hands are for the sake of the good of the whole man, and so a hand may be cut off in order to save the life of the body. Why the same reasoning cannot be applied to emission for the sake of the health of the body, or to save someone’s life, we will gather later when we treat the good to which generation is ordered.

One caution should be added here. Some say that when the organs are excited so as to prepare for the marital act, they are being used “instrumentally.” This is not accurate. The preparation for the marital act is not a use of the organs beside their natural operation; it is the beginning of the natural operation itself, and it is licit precisely because it is ordered to that act. Objections drawn from such preparation therefore cannot be invoked against the argument.

This distinction between those acts that are contrary to the good towards which the operations are ordered vs. those that are beside, instrumental, or according to that good is quite important for setting out fair parallel cases to which the same argument applies. Often, parallels will be sought with nutrition. The act of eating is for the sake of the preservation of the body of the person. For an act of eating to be gravely contrary to the good towards which the operation is ordered, the act of eating would have to, by its very nature, induce the removal of this end. Fr. Davis gives the example of the person who eats a large quantity of sand so as to remove his natural life. Cases like chewing gum (not an act of nutrition), eating food for the sake of pleasure alone (concerned with the finis operantis), and the other common examples that are stated are in no wise akin to the case of the misuse of the sexual faculties. In order to be parallel, it would have to be the case that the act is per se contrary to, and excludes, a grave good to which the acts of the faculty are ordered.

Here we are able to better understand what exactly would need to be verified in a proper counterexample, i.e., the act is a use of a faculty which excludes the grave good of human nature to which it is ordered per se. If you use your teeth to rip open a package, you are not excluding a grave good of human nature to which the teeth are ordered per se, but using the faculty instrumentally and the use participates in the morality of the principal act. If a man copulates with his pregnant wife, the act is not per se excluding the good of offspring, but is excluded by something outside the act and attached to it per accidens.

Misconception 6. The Good Intended

When we are considering the Perverted Faculty Argument in the case of generation, the good that is intended by the act is generation, i.e., the conservation of the species by the creation of new life. This good is a grave good, surpassed among the goods of nature only by the good of life itself (which is violated contrarily by murder).

This is one issue where the modern defenses of the principle are weakest. Many speak of acts of generation as if they were ordered towards the good of the individual (as, e.g., nutrition is) rather than rightly regarding the act of generation as ordered towards the good of the species. Therefore, it often happens that its defenders are deprived of some of the strongest arguments for refuting objections, and of the grounds for explaining the gravity of sexual sins.

If we were merely to explain the evil of sexual sins on the grounds of the individual good, then we would have no other grounds for opposing them than we have for any other sin against temperance, which cannot adequately explain the universal prohibition that the natural law gives against such acts.

This leads us to two corollaries of note.

First, anything contrary to the end in sexual matters is gravely sinful. For a grave sin is a violation of a grave good. In the cases where a grave good is violated, e.g., blasphemy, the entire genus of the sin that is contrary to the acquisition of this good is grave and does not suffer lightness of matter. Therefore, the only cases wherein sins against such a precept are considered light are (a) when there is some mitigating factor in the will or intellect, or (b) when the fault concerns something accidental to the act (e.g., the mode, certain light circumstances, the finis operantis, etc.).

NOTE. The gravity of the act is not being taken from the exclusion of good in general, but from the exclusion of a grave good in particular. Therefore, in cases where the good that is excluded is light (e.g., a small lie), the act will likewise be lightly sinful.

Second, there is no exception that can justify the violation of this precept. As I mentioned above, there are certain cases where the goods of the part may be sacrificed for the goods of the whole, e.g., a limb is amputated in order to save the entire body to which it is ordered. In the case of generation, the act is not ordered to the good of the individual, but to the good of the species. Let’s take two examples to illustrate this point. First, a man is told that he will die unless he procures an emission of seed. Second, a man is told that he will die unless his hand is cut off. In either case, the act that is being done is contrary to a certain good, yet the Christian conscience recoils from the first case, while in the second case it ordinarily approves of the act as reasonable. Why? In the first case, the good that is being violated is the good of the species, which is not at the disposal of any individual, whereas in the second case, the good that is being violated is the good of the individual, which may be sacrificed for a higher good of the same individual.

The study of moral theology begins with a consideration of the ultimate end of man. Therefore, many problems in moral theology are solved by meditating on our ultimate end and on how our acts are ordered towards this end. In fact, we may extend this and be so bold as to affirm that every problem in moral theology is solved by such a consideration. The entire concatenation of the supernatural organism, which moral theology studies, is ordered towards, as St. Thomas notes, “the rational creature’s advance towards God,” who is the rational creature’s last end (ST I, q. 2, prol.).

This consideration of the end, and of how we are ordered towards it, is especially illuminating in solving the problems that arise in our consideration of sin, which is to be considered as the act that deviates from our ultimate end. In these notes, I hope to help the reader’s understanding of this on two points that are often difficult to grasp.

First, I will explain the distinction between the notions of imperfection, venial sin, and mortal sin from the perspective of how one may intend the ultimate end.

Second, I will explain, in light of the same, how we are to consider the problem of whether the unbeliever sins in all that he does (or, to the contrary, whether he may in certain deliberate acts be free from sin).

In my opinion, the teaching of certain heretics on these two points derives from the same root, namely their doctrine of the ultimate end, as does the distinction on these points wherein the schools differ from one another.

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Introduction

Often, Catholic theologians will use arguments derived from one of the spiritual senses of Scripture in order to demonstrate a Catholic dogma. As an example, we can look at the commonly cited text of Ezekiel that has been used since the patristic era in order to argue in favor of Our Lady’s perpetual virginity: “This gate shall be shut, it shall not be opened, and no man shall pass through it: because the Lord the God of Israel hath entered in by it” (Ezek. 44:2). The “gate” is taken for the Blessed Virgin, and the “entering in” of the Lord God is the conception of Our Lord. Therefore, the statement that “no man shall pass through it” is taken as an assertion of her perpetual virginity. St. Thomas himself makes this text the sed contra of his article on whether the Mother of God remained a virgin after the birth of Christ.1

Another famous example is an argument in favor of Our Lady’s Assumption, which quotes the Psalm: “Arise, O Lord, into thy resting place: thou and the ark, which thou hast sanctified” (Ps. 131:8). The ark is identified with Our Lady and the Lord is taken for Christ. Therefore, the arising into the resting place is taken for Our Lord taking Our Lady into his resting place, which is identified with her Assumption into heaven. Ven. Pius XII records this very argument in the constitution defining the Assumption.2

A third example is the sacrifice of Melchisedech. Genesis records that Melchisedech, king of Salem and priest of the most high God, “bringing forth bread and wine,” blessed Abraham (Gen. 14:18). The Council of Trent teaches that Our Lord, “declaring himself constituted a priest forever according to the order of Melchisedech,” offered his body and blood to the Father under the species of bread and wine at the Last Supper, so that the sacrifice of the Mass was prefigured by the offering of Melchisedech.3 The bread and wine of Genesis are taken as a figure of the Eucharistic sacrifice.

I can give countless examples of this move taken by scholastic theologians, dogmatic theologians, magisterial texts, and exegetes.

In response to these citations, an interesting objection has taken shape among Protestant apologists in response to Roman Catholicism. Rather than dealing individually with each use of the spiritual sense, they give a certain universal principle in the words of St. Augustine against the practice of demonstrating dogmas in this mode (which is quoted by St. Thomas):

The multiplicity of these senses does not produce equivocation or any other kind of multiplicity, seeing that these senses are not multiplied because one word signifies several things, but because the things signified by the words can be themselves types of other things. Thus in Holy Writ no confusion results, for all the senses are founded on one—the literal—from which alone can any argument be drawn, and not from those intended in allegory, as Augustine says (Epis. 48). Nevertheless, nothing of Holy Scripture perishes on account of this, since nothing necessary to faith is contained under the spiritual sense which is not elsewhere put forward by the Scripture in its literal sense. (Summa theologiae I, q. 1, a. 10, ad 1)

The letter of St. Augustine to which St. Thomas refers is his letter to Vincent the Rogatist (Epistle 48 in the old numbering, Epistle 93 in the numbering now in use). The Donatists had claimed that the Church was prophetically said to one day only exist in Africa on the basis of the words of the Canticle, “where thou feedest, where thou liest in the midday,” taking “midday” for the hot southern lands they inhabited. St. Augustine replies: “But who would not most impudently attempt to interpret in his own favor something set down in allegory, unless he also has manifest testimonies by whose light the obscure things may be illuminated?”

The difficulty presented here is obvious. If it is true that the literal sense is that “from which alone any argument can be drawn,” then countless arguments we give for dogmas from the spiritual senses of Scripture are null.

How do Catholic theologians respond? While some may expect them to deny this principle (chalking up the statements of Ss. Augustine and Thomas to a minor error), such is not the case. Catholic theologians universally accept this principle. In my research, I have not found a single one who rejects it. But I have also not found a single one who accepts it without qualification, i.e., that the axiom is true of the spiritual sense considered in itself and known from the text alone, and that it ceases to apply as soon as the spiritual sense has been made certain by some other means.

In order to answer this question in greater detail and vindicate the axiom in its traditional sense, we need to consider in greater depth the nature of the spiritual senses and of dogmatic argumentation.

What Are the Spiritual Senses?

In order to resolve this question properly, we must first determine what is meant by the “spiritual senses.” This phrase, “spiritual sense,” is composed of a generic term, “sense,” and a specifying term, “spiritual,” which distinguishes it from the “literal sense.”

On the notion of the ‘sense’. A “sense” is a meaning, that is, what a sign signifies. To see what this involves, we can follow the doctrine of St. Thomas in the opening lectures of his commentary on Aristotle’s On Interpretation. Words are signs. What they signify first and immediately are what Aristotle calls the “passions of the soul,” which St. Thomas explains to be the conceptions of the intellect, that is, what we ordinarily call concepts or ideas. These conceptions are likenesses of things. Therefore words also signify things, but mediately: they signify the conceptions of the intellect immediately, and through these conceptions they signify the things of which the conceptions are likenesses. The concept is something that formally resides in the soul. Yet, by a manner of speaking, “sense” is frequently taken for something that formally resides in the signs that are produced by man in order to communicate the concepts that reside in the soul, whether written or oral (i.e., written or oral words). The “sense” is the relation or referentiality that these signs have towards those conceptions of the intellect insofar as they are artificially formed in order to signify these concepts.

It is to be noted (following St. Thomas) that these signs do not directly or immediately signify things in reality, but directly and immediately signify the ideas or concepts of these things as they exist in the understanding. Our words signify our ideas or concepts, which themselves are intentional beings that have the same nature as external things, but with a distinct mode of existence (real esse vs. intentional esse). Therefore, the “sense” of a word can either be taken as the property of the word to conventionally refer to such-and-such a nature (immediately as it exists in the intellect and mediately as it exists in reality), or it can be taken for the very nature itself as it exists in the intellect.

On the literal sense. Since the specifying term of the phrase “spiritual sense” is the term “spiritual,” we can determine the notion from the opposite which adequately distinguishes the genus, i.e., the term “literal.” This is especially important due to a common misunderstanding about the term “literal” in relation to Scripture. The “literal” is that which is related to the “letter,” which is why literal exegesis is sometimes referred to as exegesis ad litteram, i.e., “to the letter.” The “literal,” in contemporary English, is often taken for the exegesis of a certain passage that excludes certain literary devices, e.g., a metaphor is “non-literal” insofar as it speaks with a certain literary device which takes the word outside of its ordinary signification. For example, if we were to refer to Christ as the “Lion of Judah,” many would state that this is speaking in a way that is not “literal.”

Yet, in theology, we speak otherwise. That which is ad litteram is that which the letter is intended to signify concretely, i.e., in the context in which it was written, not abstractly, i.e., taken without the context. St. Thomas says as much when he treats the sense of the term “the arm of God”:

The parabolical sense is contained in the literal, for by words things are signified properly and figuratively. Nor is the figure itself, but that which is figured, the literal sense. When Scripture speaks of God’s arm, the literal sense is not that God has such a member, but only what is signified by this member, namely operative power. Hence it is plain that nothing false can ever underlie the literal sense of Holy Writ. (Summa theologiae I, q. 1, a. 10, ad 3)

It is for this reason that theologians will often distinguish between the “proper literal sense” (when words are taken properly and in their ordinary sense) and the “improper literal sense” (when words are taken improperly and their ordinary signification is changed by some literary device). To give one example, when there are disputes over whether the first chapters of Genesis should be taken in their ordinary historical sense or in some other literary genre, the dispute is not over whether the first chapters are “literal,” but over whether the literal sense is proper or improper.

As a corollary to this, we can more exactly state the dogma concerning the inerrancy of Scripture. It is Catholic dogma that Scripture teaches no falsehood, whether historical, scientific, or theological. Yet, it is not Catholic dogma that Scripture teaches no falsehood if each of its words is taken merely in the proper literal sense, e.g., if “God’s arm” is not taken as a figure of speech. Therefore, the dogma can be plainly stated as “no falsehood underlies the literal sense,” as long as the “literal sense” is taken indeterminately so that it may be taken properly or improperly.

Positively, how ought we to take the term “literal sense”? The literal sense is what is signified by the letter (whether properly or improperly). We can gather an important clarification from the extensive description of “sense” that was stated above. The word is a certain sign that immediately signifies the idea or concept existing in the mind of the author, which signifies real being through the mediation of what exists in the intellect (since the nature of the intentional being and real being are the same). Therefore, the term “literal sense” can be taken in the two ways in which the idea of “sense” was considered above. First, it can be taken for the very relation of signification that the word has towards the intellectual intention. Second, it can be taken for the intellectual intention that is signified by the word. We can illustrate it with the following chart:

Therefore, for our definition, we can simply describe the literal sense as the “significatory relation of words towards the concept or idea.”

On the spiritual senses. Now that we have the description of the “literal sense” out of the way, we can now move on to determining the “spiritual senses” of Scripture. While the literal sense is the sense of the letter signifying the nature (immediately, as it exists in the intellect; mediately, as it exists in reality), the spiritual sense is the sense of the reality insofar as it signifies some other reality. In order for there to be a sense, there needs to be a sign, a signification, and a reality. The sign is the thing which signifies; the signification is the order of sign to thing signified; the thing signified is the reality to which the sign is ordered. In the case of the spiritual sense, the thing which signifies is the reality itself that the letter speaks of, rather than the words that are the conventional signs; the signification is the intention of God to order these realities to other realities of which they are signs; the thing signified is the reality which the first reality is meant to be a sign of.

It is to be noted carefully what the sign is in the spiritual order. St. Thomas says that “the things signified by the words can themselves be signs of other things.”4 The things in question are the concrete things, persons, and events of which the letter speaks: this gate of the sanctuary which the prophet saw, this ark which David carried into Jerusalem, this priest Melchisedech who met Abraham. It is not the nature of a gate in the abstract that signifies the Blessed Virgin, for then every gate in the world would be a figure of Our Lady. It is the gate of Ezekiel’s vision, that particular thing with its particular history, which God has ordered to signify her.

Let’s take the example of the “gate” which is taken by Fathers and Theologians to be the Blessed Virgin. In the case of the literal sense, the word “gate” is the sign, the signification is the convention whereby we name gates with the term “gate,” and the thing signified is the gate of the sanctuary of which the prophet speaks, conceived by the intellect. In the case of the spiritual sense, rather than starting with the word, we begin with the reality. Therefore, the sign is that gate itself, the signification is the connection willed by God between that gate and the Blessed Virgin, and the thing signified is the Blessed Virgin.

Hence, we can compare the order of signification between the two senses like this:

On the connection between the two senses. Here, theologians draw the consequence that the spiritual senses are “based on the literal sense.” We can easily see this by considering the chart used to compare the two senses above. The thing that is signified by the literal sense becomes the sign in the order of the spiritual sense. Therefore, in order to even have the spiritual senses, we need to begin by deriving the literal sense of the passage. I cannot understand that the Blessed Virgin is the thing signified by the “gate” of Ezekiel unless I am able to understand what the term “gate” signifies in the first place. Therefore, in the chart, “the thing signified by the letter becomes itself a sign” connects the “thing signified” in the order of the literal sense to the “sign” in the order of the spiritual sense.

As a corollary, it is to be noted that every passage has a literal sense. This is common among both the Fathers and Theologians. It is common for many to misunderstand the spiritual senses of Scripture as if some passages are to be interpreted as to the literal sense and other passages are to be interpreted as to some spiritual sense. Yet, this is a false understanding that has led to many errors among contemporaries. Every passage has a literal sense (otherwise, the words would be empty), and this literal sense is true (whether taken properly or improperly depending on the context). It is misguided to speak as if some passages had a literal sense and others a spiritual sense insofar as the literal sense is said to be the foundation or basis for the spiritual senses. Since the spiritual senses consider the significatory value of the realities which are signified by the letter, it would be impossible to speak of spiritual senses if there were not a literal sense underlying the spiritual senses.

Although, the diversity of speaking can often obscure this truth. Let’s say we were to consider the conquest of Canaan. Some say that this conquest is not to be taken “literally.” This can be taken in two ways, one committing an error of doctrine and the other committing an error of fact.

The first sense in which this can be taken is to say that the literal sense of the passage is that the Israelites conquered a certain land and that this conquest is false, never having occurred in reality, arguing that we ought merely to take what is signified by the words (i.e., the conquest which never happened) and interpret this spiritually (e.g., the conquest of sin in the life of the believer), holding that what is signified by the letter is false, yet what is signified by the false reality is true. This is a doctrinal error insofar as it denies the dogma of inerrancy.

The second sense in which this can be taken is to say that the literal sense of this passage (due to some literary form) is something besides a certain conquest of a land occurring in reality. These exegetes would argue that the intention was never false insofar as the intention was never to write a historical account of a certain conquest. They would hold that what is signified by the letter (taken in its literary form) is not false, but that the letter was intended to signify some spiritual reality (such as, e.g., a parable would be primarily intended to communicate some spiritual reality). Directly, this commits no doctrinal error, but only an error of fact insofar as it can be scientifically established that the intention of the sacred writer was to communicate something that did historically occur in reality. Yet, indirectly, this error has doctrinal implications insofar as the exegetes who interpret this passage contradict the decree of Trent and Vatican I (which is formally disciplinary, yet fundamentally doctrinal) and the teaching of various Popes of the last century (for more about this particular question, cf. my video on the topic here).

Why do we have the spiritual senses? Here, we are able to consider another angle that clearly shows exactly why theologians formed the common axiom. This is also a point that quite a few moderns have not adequately understood.

Many believe that the spiritual senses cannot be used as the foundation for an argument because these senses are human (an “application”) and not intended by God. This cannot possibly be further from the truth. According to the common teaching of theologians, the spiritual senses are true senses. They are truly intended by the Holy Spirit as much as the literal sense is. Catholic theologians affirm that in the same act that the Holy Spirit willed to express x reality by a certain sign, so also did the Holy Spirit will that x reality itself be a sign for another reality. Ven. Pius XII teaches the same: “For the things which were said or done in the Old Testament were so wisely ordered and disposed by God that past things prefigured in a spiritual manner those things which were to come in the new covenant of grace”; and he commands that “this spiritual sense, intended and ordered by God himself,” be set forth by Catholic exegetes with the diligence the dignity of the matter demands.5

The difference between the two orders concerns the origin of signification. Our words are signs by convention. We invent words that are able to be signs of natures. Conventional signification implies some sort of dominion over the sign since conventionality requires a “creative” act. The inventor of words creates the words and establishes their significatory value towards the thing signified.

This is the exact basis for the distinction between the two orders and will resolve the difficulty quite easily. We can create words, we do not create natures. Natures are created by God and by God alone. We can invent the significatory value of words, but we cannot imbue realities with a significatory value that orders them to other realities, but only by way of “appropriation” (e.g., we appropriate a black cat as a bad omen). Therefore, the case of God and creatures towards signification is radically different. We make conventional signs that conventionally signify, God makes natural signs that naturally signify. Therefore, properly speaking, only Scripture has spiritual senses; human compositions do not, properly speaking, have spiritual senses. This is the express teaching of St. Thomas:

The spiritual sense of Sacred Scripture is taken from this, that things running their course signify something else, which is grasped through the spiritual sense. But things are so ordered in their course that such a sense can be taken from them by him alone who governs things by his providence, who is God alone. (Quodlibet VII, q. 6, a. 3)

John of St. Thomas draws out the reason. Men too use things to signify, as a branch before the door signifies wine for sale; but to designate things to signify in the mystical manner belongs only to him whose it is to order things to a supernatural end, “because he alone can hand down certain and determinate signs with respect to such an end, as is clear from the fact that only God, or one by his authority, can institute the Sacraments, which are signs of grace.”6 Here is a chart comparing the two:

It is to this doctrine that we draw the corollary concerning the demonstrative character of the spiritual senses. The reason why the spiritual senses cannot be used demonstratively isn’t a judgement on the reality of the spiritual senses (they exist as intended by the Holy Spirit). The reason why the spiritual senses cannot be used demonstratively concerns the knowability of the spiritual senses. When we consider the literal sense, we have access to the signification of the signs presented before us since they are established by human convention. Therefore, of itself, the literal sense can be made certain. Yet, the same cannot be said of the spiritual senses.

The spiritual senses concern a free act of God above nature, constituting such-and-such a thing to have significatory value towards another reality. This is neither gathered from the words of Scripture, nor from the things. It is not gathered from the words since the words terminate their signification in the reality signified by the literal sense. It is not gathered from the things since this is a free act of God that is above the nature. Now, that which is freely willed by God above the natural order is only known through Divine Revelation. Yet, the spiritual sense goes beyond the literal sense of the passage insofar as it terminates beyond what the letter signified; therefore it follows that the spiritual senses are not made certain by the text which contains them.

This is precisely the reason St. Thomas himself gives when treating this question. In the seventh Quodlibet he is asked whether the fact that no efficacious argument can be drawn from the spiritual sense does not show that this sense has less authority. He answers:

It is not on account of a defect of authority that an efficacious argument cannot be drawn from the spiritual sense, but from the very nature of the likeness on which the spiritual sense is founded. For one thing can be like many things; whence, from that thing, when it is set forth in Sacred Scripture, one cannot proceed to any one of those things determinately, but there is a fallacy of the consequent. For example, the lion on account of some likeness signifies Christ and the devil; whence from the fact that something is said of a lion in Sacred Scripture, no process of argument can be made in Sacred Scripture to either of them. (St. Thomas, Quodlibet VII, q. 6, a. 1)

The reason, then, is not the authority of the sense but the indeterminacy of the sign which can signify a multiplicity of things. The nature upon which God builds the spiritual sense is determined by him to signify a number of different things, and the text does not tell us which of the many he intends. Sylvius states this quite clearly:

[The reason] is not that one sense is of greater authority than the other, but because for the most part it is more easily and more certainly established to us which sense is the literal than which is the mystical. For the literal is sometimes known from the words alone and from the native signification of the vocables, sometimes from the collation of other Scriptures and from the doctrine of the Church; but the mystical cannot be known from the words and the signification of the words, but only from other Scriptures and from the doctrine of the Fathers and of the Church, for it is not signified immediately through the words but through the things signified by the words. (Commentarii in Primam Partem, q. 1, a. 10)

How does this not necessarily lead us to conclude that the Protestant contention against various Catholic theologians is true? In order to understand this, it is important to make two notes.

What was demonstrated in the above demonstration was that the text in which the literal sense is expressed cannot make certain the spiritual sense which the reality signified in the text itself signifies. Yet, if you keep in mind that the spiritual sense is truly intended by the Holy Spirit, this does not mean that demonstration cannot occur either through a different medium or in a different mode.

First note. In a different medium, because the connection between the thing signified by the word and the reality which it itself signifies can be made clear by some other authority. For example, let’s say we considered the text of the ark and its relationship to the Assumption. The literal sense of the text itself does not allow us to certainly conclude that the reality of the ark has a signification towards Mary in the text. Yet, this does not mean that there could not be some other medium which does make this connection. This follows from the fact that the spiritual senses are real senses intended by the Holy Spirit. Therefore, the connection is something that can be revealed to us as any other free act of God above nature and within the extensive object our intellect can be revealed to us.

Like any other revelation, we would fall back on the tract de locis in order to determine how exactly we determine and judge whether something is revealed. The Protestant critique is correct if we were to take that such a connection was made certain by the text itself, but if we were to make the connection by some other means (e.g., another text of Scripture), then the same critique would be fallacious.

It is for this reason that the very Fathers and Theologians who quote this axiom in other parts of their works use the spiritual senses of Scripture to establish matters of faith. Often, this is in the context of gathering the spiritual senses of various prophetic texts whose signification has been made clear by their fulfillment in the New Testament. Our Lord himself and the Apostles do this quite frequently against those who do not accept their authority.

You may object that Our Lord and the Apostles were Divine Legates, therefore they had the authority to declare these matters by an act of Divine Revelation.

To this, the qualification “against those who do not accept their authority” is to be carefully considered. Our Lord and the Apostles would argue fallaciously against those opponents who did not accept their authority if no certain argument under any circumstance could ever be drawn from one of the spiritual senses. Yet, we see them freely drawing from such senses where the signification had been made clear. Therefore, the axiom that “no certain argument can be drawn from the spiritual senses” concerns the spiritual senses and the text considered in itself, not the cases in which the spiritual sense had been made certain through some other means.

Second note. In a different mode, because not all arguments are meant to draw the conclusion in a certain or necessary way, but may be a dialectical argument that draws the conclusion in a probable manner. Now, while the text does not indicate the spiritual sense in the letter so as to certify the precise spiritual sense intended by the Holy Spirit, the same cannot be said for certain probable arguments that are drawn in order to confirm a doctrine or theological opinion.

The Accommodated and Consequent Sense

Here, it is important to disambiguate the spiritual sense from two other “senses” of Scripture: the accommodated and consequent sense. Among moderns, a great deal of confusion has arisen over not distinguishing these “senses” properly.

First, the accommodated sense is the human application or appropriation of scripture towards some fitting object. This is frequently done in liturgical documents, especially about the lives of the saints (e.g., when certain texts of scripture are applied to confessors, doctors, virgins, etc., in the liturgy). The accommodated sense arises when a reader applies the words of Scripture to some matter that the Holy Spirit did not intend, either in the words or in the things, on account of some likeness that the reader himself perceives. Such applications may be pious and fitting, but they are not senses of Scripture at all, because the signification comes from the one applying the text and not from the author of the text.

There is no (direct) demonstrative value to the accommodated sense since it is not a sense intended by the Holy Spirit, but by man. As John of St. Thomas teaches: “The accommodated sense is not properly an expository sense, but by an allusion of one thing to another it applies to one what is said of another through some likeness, which is done according to the judgment of the speaker and not according to the sense set down and intended by the author of Scripture, whether in the words or in the things.” And therefore, he says, it “neither explains nor proves anything from Scripture, nor confirms a truth, but only makes an allusion of one thing to another.”7 The Benedictines of Salzburg go so far as to say that it does not yield even a probable theological argument, since it rests on a merely human judgment and the sacred words concur only materially.8 Ven. Pius XII warns exegetes in the same sense: “Let them religiously beware of setting forth other transferred significations of things as though they were the genuine sense of Sacred Scripture.”9

In many cases, when the Protestant says that the Catholic is arguing from a sense he has invented, he is describing the accommodated sense, and against that the axiom of Augustine holds without any qualification whatsoever. But the spiritual sense, as the theologians define it, is by definition intended by God; and so the axiom’s application to it must be qualified, as we have seen.

Second, theologians will also speak of the “consequent sense.” The “consequent sense” concerns those immediate conclusions that are drawn from Sacred Scripture. These only have value as theological conclusions, as I have extensively argued here.

The following chart lays out the whole division:

How the Theologians Have Answered

In the introduction to this article, I said that the theologians universally accept the axiom in a qualified sense. It remains to show this.

The axiom is affirmed without exception. No Catholic theologian I have found denies that, of the spiritual sense considered in itself and taken from the text alone, no efficacious argument can be drawn. Bañez, whom the later authors cite as the classic treatment, puts it as his first conclusion. Zumel sets out the same authorities and adds St. Jerome, who, reporting those who saw the Trinity in the three measures of meal, said: “A pious sense indeed, but never can a parable and the doubtful understanding of enigmas profit unto the authority of dogmas.”10 Suárez: the spiritual sense “is more obscure, and of itself does not avail for the confirmation of dogmas, unless it be authentically explained elsewhere, according to St. Thomas, I, q. 1, a. 10.”11 This is also commonly taught by Medieval theologians, who I hardly need to cite.

The reason is the knowability of the sense, not its authority. We have already heard St. Thomas and Sylvius on this. The Dominican Berthier states this quite clearly: the mystical sense “does not prove immediately and of itself. The reason is that it does not exist necessarily, but hypothetically, that is, from the free will of God; nor is it expressed by natural signs but by arbitrary ones, whose force of signifying no one can perceive unless the will of him who at his pleasure gave the signification becomes known to him from elsewhere.”12 Doronzo, in the last of the great manuals, gives the same account: the literal sense is “more manifest and more certain, since it does not require a revelation, as the typical sense does, in order to be known with certainty; and therefore, consequently, it is scientifically more efficacious and so more apt for theological argumentation.”13

Where the spiritual sense is made certain by another means, it yields a demonstrative argument. This is the key qualification given by the theologians, which I showed from the nature of the case above. Zumel gives it as his second conclusion:

When the Holy Spirit, either through the Apostles, or through the Prophets, or through the other sacred writers, has explained to us some place of Sacred Scripture in the spiritual sense, then from such a testimony and from such a sense of Scripture an efficacious argument may be taken for faith and morals; indeed, that spiritual place would have to be held by us as though it were literal. The reason for this conclusion is that such a sense would be intended by the Holy Spirit; and further, because that sense is now contained in Sacred Scripture, and Sacred Scripture is efficacious for proving the faith. And so that rule, “the mystical sense is not to be admitted as efficacious for the proof of any dogma,” is not always and everywhere to be observed. For if it is established from other places of Scripture that that mystical interpretation is intended by the Holy Spirit, or is according to the genuine and true sense of the passage, then indeed from such a mystical sense an argument can be drawn for establishing some doctrine. Whence Paul, in 1 Corinthians 9, from the text “Thou shalt not muzzle the mouth of the ox that treadeth out the corn,” proves that we are bound to support the ministers of the Church. St. Augustine plainly indicates this in the words just cited. For after he had said that it was impudence to adduce in one’s own favor something set down in allegory, he immediately excepts a special case from this general sentence, saying: “unless he also has manifest testimonies, by whose light the obscure things may be illuminated.” Therefore, when it can be established that such a mystical sense is the true sense of that letter, an argument is very well deduced from it. (ibid., concl. 2.)

Notice that Zumel finds the qualification in Augustine’s own sentence. The “unless” clause of the letter to Vincent is exactly what the Theologians develop this qualification from (for, if the argument holds good for one theological locus, i.e., the explicit testimony of a text of scripture, then it holds good for the other theological loci as well).

Sylvius makes the same point: “But where it has been established concerning the mystical sense of some Scripture, whether through another place of Scripture, or through the unanimous consent of the Fathers, or through the doctrine of the Church, then a firm argument can be drawn from that sense, since the mystical sense is also a true sense of Sacred Scripture, and intended by the Holy Spirit, and consequently of the same authority and certainty as the literal.” Reding makes it his third conclusion: “The mystical sense, if it be established that it is intended by the Holy Spirit, furnishes a firm theological argument; but because it is for the most part unknown from infallible authority, it can more rarely be suitable for demonstrative theological argumentation.”14 The anonymous Brevis tractatus de locis theologicis explains the same:

From the spiritual sense considered in itself an irrefragable argument can be deduced; but since we sometimes know only probably that a spiritual sense is contained in some text of Scripture, therefore from it we then draw only probable arguments; but if it is certainly established to us, from it we can argue efficaciously. And indeed Christ himself and the Apostles argued most efficaciously from it: Christ (John 3), from the lifting up of the brazen serpent in the desert, efficaciously proves his own lifting up on the cross, spiritually figured in that serpent; and Paul (1 Cor. 9), from the text ‘Thou shalt not muzzle the mouth of the ox that treadeth out the corn,’ proves that stipends are owed to the ministers of the Gospel.

Pesch warns that a false conclusion must not be drawn from the words commonly used by theologians:

[What Ss. Thomas and Augustine intend] is this: that it is not lawful to gather from the figures whatever possible likenesses one pleases and to argue from them. But it is another thing if Sacred Scripture teaches that some thing is a figure of another thing under this or that aspect… For as soon as it is certainly established that a past thing by divine institution figures a future thing under this or that respect, without doubt one may argue with absolute certainty that the thing and the aspect figured by the type are necessarily found in the antitype. (De inspiratione Sacrae Scripturae, n. 176)

And Doronzo:

From the same reason of its divine origin it follows that this sense has probative force, and that of itself apodictic, provided that its existence be certainly demonstrated, which cannot be done otherwise than from the revelation of God himself; thus, from the fact that, as the Apostle testifies, Melchisedech in his priesthood is certainly a type of Christ, it can be apodictically inferred that Christ, no less than Melchisedech, offered a sacrifice. (loc. cit., n. 386)

The means by which a spiritual sense is made certain are three. The authors are again unanimous in enumerating them. First, Scripture itself, when a later text declares the sense of an earlier one, as the New Testament declares the figures of the Old. Second, the definition of the Church, whether by a Pope or a Council. Third, the unanimous consent of the Fathers. The anonymous Thomist just quoted lists them in this order and calls the unanimous understanding of the Fathers “a firm argument.” Reding gives the same three, with the example of Romans 9 declaring Jacob and Esau to be figures of the Gentile and Jewish peoples, and the common consent of the Fathers establishing that the Synagogue was a type of the Church and Solomon of Christ. Buonpensiere, commenting on St. Thomas in the last century, lays down the rule in the same terms: that sense “is to be retained as certainly intended by the Holy Spirit which is declared in express words either in another place of Sacred Scripture, or by the definition of a Pope or Ecumenical Council, or by the unanimous consent of the Fathers”, and where a sense is not so supported it “remains within the bounds of probability.”15

What remains is a probable argument. This is the second note that I gave above and applies to those places where the sense is not certainly established. Zumel argues that, in such a case, the spiritual sense “is not superfluous, for it profits to persuade and to draw men to the good.” He goes further, and notes the practice of the Church:

We see that the Church and the holy Pontiffs, when they often prove matters of faith, use testimonies of Sacred Scripture in the spiritual sense, when the figure fits very well with the thing proposed and to be proved. For a figure well placed and explained has much strength in disputation, especially when the thing itself is established from other places of Scripture in the literal sense; therefore, when the thing figured has somewhere in Sacred Scripture a literal sense, the argument from the figure is an excellent one. (loc. cit.)

Reding classes such arguments, “resting at least probably on divine revelation,” as belonging to theology, “whether scientific or at least opinative.”16 Doronzo adds two cautions: not to suppose too easily that a typical sense exists at all, and not to extend an established type beyond the respect under which it was established. It is because of such uncertainties, he says, that St. Thomas “seems, to the surprise of some, to deny it all efficacy,” and that the modern theologian ought to use the argument from the typical sense “sparingly and safely.”17

The whole matter can be gathered into one chart:

Conclusion

From the spiritual sense of a text, considered in itself and gathered from that text alone, no demonstrative argument can be drawn, because the spiritual sense is a free ordination of God above the nature of things, which the text does not declare and which the likeness of the things does not determine. This is the common testimony of the Fathers and Theologians.

Yet, we ought to be careful not to transfer an axiom about the knowability of the Holy Spirit’s intention in a text to a denial of the Holy Spirit’s intention in a text. The spiritual sense is a true sense, intended by God as much as the literal, and where God has made his intention known by some other means (by another text of Scripture, the judgment of his Church, the unanimous voice of the Fathers, etc.) the argument from the figure is as firm as any argument from the literal sense. Where the intention is not certain, the argument from the figure remains a probable argument, of real weight in theology and of great use in persuasion, and the Church herself uses it as such.

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Introduction

One of the verses commonly used by Catholic apologists in defense of the Papacy is Luke 22:31–32. In this passage, immediately after the Last Supper and before the events of the Garden of Gethsemane, Our Lord says the following to St. Peter:

“Simon, Simon, behold, Satan demanded to have you, that he might sift you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith may not fail; and when you have turned again, strengthen your brethren.”

Protestant apologists often respond to the quotation of this passage with “so what?” At first glance, it can seem quite arbitrary for Catholic apologists to quote such passages about St. Peter and then, by a hidden line of reasoning, arrive at “therefore the Papacy” at the end of it. Some time ago there was a “Johannine Pope” meme going around which demonstrated Ephesian supremacy by simply quoting verses about St. John. The implication is that the Papal methodology amounts to quoting any and every verse about St. Peter and then assuming a chain of reasoning it cannot substantiate.

In my opinion, Catholics should be sensitive to what is legitimate in this criticism. Frequently it is not made clear how these texts are being employed, or what precise line of reasoning would lead us to a conclusion as large as “the Papacy is true.” In order to properly construct an argument, the inference must be clear to the reader. That is a basic rhetorical and logical axiom.

Yet, as is often the case, the Protestant opponents of the Catholic case are not fair to the Catholic position either. They do not carefully research the exegesis of these passages, nor the explicit reasoning found in the manuals, polemical works, journal articles, monographs, and commentaries that would illuminate how we get from x to y. This does not require that the Protestant agree with that line of reasoning. It requires only that, for proper and fruitful disputation, such research actually be carried out. The inference has in fact been stated, ex professo and repeatedly, for the better part of seven centuries. To pretend as if our use of these texts only proceeded by a hidden line of reasoning without any real substantiation is defamatory.

Inflating the burden of proof

Another point in the dispute over “Papal proof-texting” that I believe gets misunderstood by critics of the Papacy concerns the burden of proof. A common line of argumentation employed by the Protestant critic of Catholic exegesis is simply to elevate that burden past anything the subject matter can bear.

We see crude forms of this everywhere in religious disputation. A famous example is the Muslim question, “Where does Jesus say, ‘Bow down and worship me’?” The demand presupposes that a doctrine can be proved only by a text in which the doctrine is verbally recited; yet, it is not incompossible that Christ both ought to be worshipped and that he did not say this in so many words. That Christ is to be adored follows demonstratively from the fact that He is God together with the fact that God alone is to be adored; and the first of those is established from what Scripture ascribes to Him, not from the verbal recitation demanded from our opponents.

Protestant apologists run a more respectable version of the same manoeuvre when they demand explicit scriptural testimony to each Papal prerogative taken singly, along with the succession and the location of the Roman Pontiff. This line of argumentation overlooks three facts that complicate the matter.

First, if we are disputing concerning the divine institution of the Church, then we cannot argue for an “abstract papacy,” but only one that concretely exists. Concretely, the Papacy that exists is the Papacy that holds Vatican I and will always hold certain dogmatic claims wholly incompatible with Protestantism. It follows necessarily that if the Papal office belongs to the divine constitution of the Church at all, then the “Vatican I Papacy” is true (or else divine revelation is false, supposing Christ to be a divine legate). There is no other Papacy except the concrete form in which it now exists.

There is a certain illusion in Protestant and Orthodox polemics that there exists some “third way” here—the Vatican I Papacy, a mitigated Papacy, and no Papacy—and that one may retreat to the middle term in order to save face before the vast historical witness to the Papal prerogatives. It is worth separating two very different things that go under that name.

The first is a mitigated Papacy understood as a human construct within the constitution of the Church: a primacy that grew up by custom, conciliar arrangement, or ecclesiastical law, and which may therefore be modified or dissolved. This is a coherent position. Catholics deny it, but we deny it as a matter of fact, on the historical and exegetical evidence.

The second is a mitigated Papacy said to belong to the divine constitution of the Church while lacking the prerogatives the office actually claims. This is not merely false; it is incoherent. In the concrete, such an office does not exist. The only papacy to exist is the one that the Catholics claim. Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that this mitigated Papacy did exist. Two things would follow. First, Protestantism, Orthodoxy, etc., would be false insofar as they lacked an element of the divine constitution of the Church. Second, Catholicism would be false insofar as it dogmatically defined certain divine prerogatives to be present in the Roman Pontiff that are not truly present. When the Protestant or Orthodox argue for the “mitigated papacy” in this way, they are refuting themselves and providing an incoherent line of argumentation for something that does not concretely exist.

Therefore, it is completely legitimate for Catholics to go from “x office is divinely instituted” to “x office is divinely instituted in its current form” since the office is something that is unique.

Second, it restricts the range of demonstration far too much. This point is closely connected with the first. In a dogma like the Papacy, where the thing has a determinate concrete form, the demonstration of something unique and proper to it is the demonstration of the whole. If I demonstrate the supremacy of St. Peter’s successors, I have demonstrated their infallibility. If I demonstrate the infallibility of St. Peter’s successors, I have demonstrated their supremacy. Any prerogative of the Pope that is proper to him is a demonstration of the entire dogma.

An analogy to Christology makes this clear. Suppose we sought to demonstrate the true humanity of Jesus Christ. If we demonstrated the reality of the physical parts of human nature in Him (a human body and a rational soul) we would thereby have demonstrated His true humanity, without needing to descend into the particular faculties and properties that follow from that nature. Or suppose we sought to demonstrate His true divinity. A single divine act (creation, say) or a single divine attribute (omnipotence) would suffice, without proving one by one every action and attribute proper to God.

Third (and to my mind this is where the debate truly lies) the demand ignores the objective standards for judging continuity and discontinuity between the Apostolic and the Post-Apostolic Church.

On the particular exegesis of the Petrine passages, once all passion is removed, the unique office and prerogatives of St. Peter are quite clear. A great deal of the exegesis historically given to these passages by anti-Papalists is driven by its usefulness in anti-Roman polemic rather than by the text itself.

Yet this is not where the more important question lies. The more important question is whether the unique office and prerogatives of St. Peter continue in his successors, not in whether the unique office and prerogatives existed in St. Peter. It matters little how securely we rest on our exegesis of these passages if we cannot go the distance and demonstrate the continued presence in the Church of what those passages contain.

This point has not been adequately recognized by many Protestant apologists. Often they will grant, for the sake of argument, that certain unique prerogatives and a unique office were given to St. Peter, and rest their refutation on a denial of the continuity of that office. Yet, the bare denial usually arrives without any alternative account of continuity and discontinuity. In order to be convincing, such an account would have to: a) explain the points of continuity and discontinuity that they themselves affirm and deny in the New Testament; b) apply consistently to the cases they accept and reject, while still excluding the Papacy; and c) be grounded in theological reasoning or authority, so as to be true and non-arbitrary rather than merely convenient.

Until those three are supplied, the denial is of no weight.

The problem, stated

At first glance this might seem a simple matter. It is in fact a peculiarly complex question, and it underlies many debates between Catholics and Protestants, and a great many debates among Protestants.

How are we able to discern between continuity and discontinuity from the Apostolic to the Post-Apostolic Church?

Every Christian affirms some discontinuity. The standard example is the unique mission and extraordinary prerogatives of the Apostolate: no college of twelve was ever reconstituted in the Church with that mission and those prerogatives. And every Christian affirms some continuity. Few Christians deny that there is some permanent clerical order in the Church descending from the Apostolic age.

What few have reckoned with is the arbitrariness with which the justification for this line is usually supplied. Everyone has the distinction on his lips; very few can state an objective standard for why this endures and that does not. The problem surfaces constantly in intra-Protestant disputes over the interpretation (or rather the application) of Acts, 1 and 2 Corinthians, and the Pastoral Epistles, where ecclesiological questions are most concentrated. This diversity is, more than any other single cause, responsible for the diversity of contemporary Protestantism.

One solution to this problem, and a particularly minimalist one, is to restrict the points of continuity to those which Scripture explicitly says are continuous.

This labors under a difficulty concerning the very purpose of many of the books of the New Testament. These books are occasional in their primary intention and composition: they are addressed to particular communities about particular difficulties at particular moments. The ecclesiastical structures the Apostles establish therefore rarely if ever come with an explicit or even implicit indication that they belong to the divine constitution of the Church. This rule fails on both practical and on theoretical grounds.

The Catholic answer

It may be an interesting project to collect each of the disputed points and compare how each proposed solution handles them. Here I am using the problem only to frame the question and to offer the Catholic solution, which I believe is the most sensible one. This is also one, it is to be noted, that, from my reading, is presented quite frequently among classical Protestant authors.

It should be noted before I continue that the Catholic solution is a solution in point of principle. It often happens that different Catholic theologians will apply the same clear rule differently to the more obscure texts of Scripture. There was, for instance, a real controversy over how the prayer “that your faith may not fail” is or is not fulfilled in the Roman Pontiff. Some read it as an extraordinary and personal prerogative of St. Peter; others as a personal prerogative of St. Peter and of his successors; others as a personal prerogative of St. Peter and an official prerogative of his successors, that is, in the exercise of their office.

The solution itself is relatively simple and intuitive.

When we look at any institution (a mission, an office, a law, a precept, etc.) its reason for existing is some end. An accountant is hired so that the finances of a business may be squared away. Sanitation services are set up so that a city’s garbage may be collected. A tutor is employed so that a student may learn a subject. The Catholic looks at the end of the institution and judges its perpetuity by that end.

If we consider the tutor, without knowing anything else about the arrangement, we understand that the tutor continues as long as the student requires that end, and that his work ceases when the end is no longer in place (e.g., when the student passes the examination or graduates). A tutor is, by his end, something temporary; and so tutors are ordinarily hired temporarily.

If we consider the accountant, his end is the finances of the business, and those continue as long as the business continues. So if a particular accountant quits, dies, or is dismissed, he must ordinarily be replaced by another accountant doing the same job. A business does not “outgrow” having an accountant, because it does not outgrow having finances.

An institution endures as long as the end for which it was instituted endures. If the end is proper to a passing state of affairs, the institution passes with it. If the end is one the society will always have, the institution is permanent, and the death or removal of the man who held it is the occasion for appointing another.

The reason this works is that every institution is correlative to its object. Battle formations are drawn up for the battle; the army exists for the defense of the nation. The formations last as long as the battle; the army lasts as long as the nation must be defended. Correlatives posit one another: where one is given, so is the other. If we can identify the one, we can determine the other.

The leaves us with a relatively clear principle for interpreting texts. We simply must investigate whether the reason given by the text (or draw from the nature of the thing) is something perpetual or is something temporary. If it is perpetual, then the grant is perpetual. If it is temporary, then the grant is not de facto perpetual (although, from the Divine Will, God may establish it as perpetual if he so wills).

The rule applied

Catholic theologians apply this standard to the institutions of the Apostolic age. After Our Lord’s Ascension, the Church had not yet been spread among the nations. She could not have functioned on ordinary governance alone. She required a foundational age in which the Gospel was carried through the whole world, churches were founded, a governmental structure was established, and the Scriptures were written. Our Lord therefore founded the Apostolic college, in which the Twelve were given certain unique charisms and a universal jurisdiction enabling them to act independently, led immediately and directly by the Holy Spirit. We can therefore reasonably conclude that the extraordinary mission and charisms of the Apostles were not handed on, but died with them.

On the other hand, consider the ordinary pastors of the local churches which the Apostles established. Is ordinary day-to-day governance and pastoral care something peculiar to the extraordinary circumstances of the founding era — or is it something required for as long as there are flocks to be governed? Plainly the latter. We can therefore conclude without difficulty that it is the will of God that the Church continue to appoint local clergy to govern her at the local level.

St. Thomas applies this precise principle to the continuity of the power of orders. The power of orders was given for the edification of the Church. Edification is something the Church continuously needs. Therefore the power of orders is something the Church continuously needs:

“It is not, however, to be said that this power was given to Christ’s disciples in such a way that it was not to be derived through them to others; for it was given them unto the edification of the Church, as the Apostle says. Therefore this power must be perpetuated for as long as it is necessary that the Church be edified—which is necessary after the death of Christ’s disciples, until the end of the world.” (Summa contra Gentiles IV, c. 74, n. 3)

The same principle sorts a case everyone already grants is discontinuous. Of the four items in the decree of Jerusalem, abstention from idolatry and from unchastity belong to the moral law, and are perpetual in the Church for that very reason. Abstention from “what is strangled and from blood” is another matter. What was the reason for that precept? It was given to facilitate unity between Jew and Gentile in the Apostolic Church: the Jews would have been gravely offended had the Gentiles eaten strangled meat or blood, and so the Apostles forbade an otherwise indifferent thing. Consider the end of the law, and you see at once that the end was temporary. So, therefore, was the law and the Church does not keep it now.

This is the exact argument given by the First Vatican Council for the perpetuity of the office of chief shepherd and rock bestowed on St. Peter:

“That which our Lord Jesus Christ, the prince of shepherds and great shepherd of the sheep, established in the blessed apostle Peter, for the continual salvation and permanent benefit of the Church, must of necessity remain for ever, by Christ’s authority, in the Church which, founded as it is upon a rock, will stand firm until the end of time.” (Pastor aeternus, c. 2)

So when Catholic theologians interpret the particular texts about St. Peter, what they are looking for is whether the prerogatives and the office given there rest on something perpetual in the Church or on something temporary. And when we look at those texts, the exegetes argue convincingly that the metaphors themselves establish a visible exercise of authority, and that the reasons given are perpetual ones. The office established is therefore perpetual as well, and not merely transitional for the founding era.

Office and mission

In a particularly useful application of this rule, the theologians distinguish between an office and a mission.

A mission concerns the sending of a legate for some particular task, as when the Pope sends a legate to an ecumenical council he cannot personally attend. A mission is by its very nature contracted by two factors. First, it ends with the completion of the task: the legate’s existence as legate is measured by the duration of the task, and when the task ends, the legation ends. Second, it depends immediately on the will of the sender for its existence and continuance. A legate who falls ill and cannot continue does not have authority of himself (though it may be deputed to him) to name a successor with the fullness of his own authority. The legation depends immediately on the sender, who may revoke it whenever he wishes.

An office has no such temporality. An office is constituted for the governance of a society, and it is coextensive with the society governed. Nobody questions the propriety of an office continuing under a new office-holder; it is assumed to continue unless the competent authority abolishes it.

This is simply the previous distinction between temporary and perpetual institutions, applied to what is given to a man. Theologians use it to explain why we distinguish so sharply between the continuance of St. Peter’s office and the uniqueness of his mission. As Cajetan puts it (quoted below), there is no successor to St. Peter in his Apostolic mission, which was temporary, but there is a successor to St. Peter in his office as chief pastor of the universal Church.

NOTE. This article is not directed at anyone in particular. This is just something I’ve noticed in the common discourse.

To thank my members, I have added a handful of texts below that illustrate what I stated above:

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Introduction

The Other Paul recently did a live stream video, “A Response to Christian Wagner on Private Judgement,” which, as the name indicates, is a response to a certain video I released earlier this year titled “You CAN’T Just Work Off Your Interpretation...”

In this response, I believe that Paul correctly identified the point of dispute, i.e., whether theological conclusions properly so called add an additional motive to our assent. He also rightly noted that, in many of my videos, I seek to explain the general sequence of an argument while leaving unstated certain more extensive demonstrations of the principles I use or certain corollaries I could draw. I followed this practice in this video by explaining the sequence of how the Thomistic position on theological conclusions could be applied to Protestant theology without explaining in much detail why exactly the contrary position (taken by a handful of Catholic theologians, mostly of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and by the Protestant scholastics) is false, except to give general indications.

I do not think that this is problematic in principle. It is a practice commonly followed by scholastic theologians. In all honesty, it is actually sensible on the basis of the target audience of most of these videos. Most of my audience consists of Roman Catholics who have, in one way or another, received poor formation from certain formulations commonly given by apologists. As I have noted in many articles and videos, I believe that this poor formation poses a particular danger for these listeners. If the sequence of the arguments they have received is exposed, then, in some cases, they are shaken in a fundamental way. I have seen it happen many times. Therefore, I have chosen this path. Yet there is another path I can follow, which I will follow in this article, i.e., establishing these premises polemically rather than merely explaining them scholastically.

Unfortunately, I must bluntly admit that Paul’s treatment of the matter in that stream was not good. He frequently uses technical terminology in a sense that shows he does not know what the terms actually mean (e.g., “simple apprehension,” “motive of credibility,” “formal motive,” etc.) in key parts of his arguments. The arguments that he does give are either tu quoques that display a weak grasp of our doctrine on this matter, arguments against positions that I have never affirmed, examples that aren’t even relevant to the line of argumentation, or arguments formed with serious formal defects. Most of the two-hour-long stream is him repeating a distinction that I already grant (i.e., between the use of reason as an instrument and the formal motive of assent) along with a judicious misuse of the term “equivocates” (the irony of which I hope is lost on none).

This article will consist of four parts, followed by a brief conclusion. First, I want to lay out the state of the question precisely. On multiple occasions, Paul did not properly understand what the exact point of dispute is between us; therefore it will be helpful to lay out exactly which point I am attempting to argue from. Second, I want to define the terms that the whole dispute turns on (above all, the formal motive) and give a few clarifications of what I said in my original video. Third, I want to give the various demonstrations of the thesis that a theological conclusion properly so called, drawn from a premise of reason, is not of divine faith without the definition of the Church. Paul complained that I only defined my terms and never proved my premises; therefore, I will give the proofs of the entire scholastic tradition, Thomist and non-Thomist alike. Fourth, I want to take the particular examples and objections that he gave and explain them. Unfortunately, he didn’t really give any sort of argument against my main contention except to point to certain examples, so I am forced to just repeat the examples and explain why they don’t work.

The State of the Question

NOTE. It has become very popular to hand-wave arguments by speaking about “paradigms” or whatever. Paul does this to my video. Before I even begin to lay out the state of the question, I want to remind you that the state of the question is just me explaining what I am vs. what I am not defending. So no, me explaining what I mean isn’t “assuming paradigms” and not demonstrating my principles. This is simply me explaining what I mean by terms and how I distinguish them from one another. Once I have stated the state of the question, then I can go on to prove the thesis and respond to arguments against the thesis.

From the perspective of reason, we can distinguish the relationship of a premise to its conclusion in two ways. First, in reasoning from the comprehension of the term. Second, in reasoning from the extension of the term. In the comprehension of the term, we can distinguish again between reasoning from what is nominally distinct, e.g., the defined thing to its definition, the thing to an essential note, etc., and reasoning from what is virtually distinct, e.g., the essence to its properties. In the extension of the term, we can distinguish between reasoning from an unconditioned universal to a particular (e.g., “all men will die” to “I will die”) and reasoning from a conditioned universal to a particular (e.g., “every man dying in a state of grace will be saved” to “this man, who died in a state of grace, will be saved”).

A word on terminology, since I will be quoting a great many authors who do not all speak the same way. The vocabulary I am using here (nominal distinction, virtual distinction, unconditioned and conditioned universal) is Fr. Marín-Sola’s, and I use it because it is the clearest (La evolución homogénea del dogma católico, ch. I sec. II–III, nn. 23–35). Fr. Marín-Sola distinguishes three degrees of distinction between a conclusion and the principle from which it is drawn: the nominal distinction (one and the same concept under two formulae, e.g., “man” and “rational animal”), the virtual or conceptual distinction (two concepts, really identical in the object, e.g., “spiritual” and “immortal”), and the real distinction (two realities, e.g., “accident” and “actual inherence in a subject”).

“In the case of nominal distinction the concepts or the propositions are identical not only really but also logically or formally. In the case of real distinction the concepts or the propositions differ not only logically or formally but also really. In the case of virtual distinction the concepts or the propositions are logically or formally distinct, but really or objectively identical.” (ibid., n. 23)

Reasoning across the first is what he calls improper discourse, because “there are many oral acts, but only one intellectual act”; reasoning across the second or the third is proper discourse. (ibid., n. 27) Other authors say the same thing in other words. Suárez, Lugo, and the Salmanticenses call what is reached by the first degree “formally (though implicitly) revealed” and what is reached by the second and third “virtually revealed”; the Salmanticenses call the first kind of reasoning “improper or explicative discourse” and the second “proper or illative discourse”; Billuart distinguishes containment “by reason of signification” from containment “by reason of natural connexion”; Pesch distinguishes the “explicative” from the “rigorous” discourse; Garrigou-Lagrange and Schultes, following Marín-Sola, speak of the “formally implicit,” the “virtually inclusive” and the “virtually connexive”; Doronzo of the conclusion “improperly so called or merely explicative” and “properly so called or truly illative.” These are the same distinctions under different names. Whenever I say “proper theological conclusion” or “proper illation” in what follows, I mean Marín-Sola’s second and third degrees, the older authors’ “virtually revealed,” and nothing else. Whenever I say “nominally distinct” or “improper illation,” I mean the first degree, what the older authors call “formally implicit.”

All Catholic authors concede that both reasoning from what is nominally distinct and reasoning from an unconditioned universal can be of faith. There is no dispute here. The dispute is over reasoning from what is virtually (or really) distinct and from the conditioned universal (although we can distinguish here again between what can become morally certain in a strict sense and what cannot become morally certain in a strict sense). On the second point, the problem of the canon of Scripture takes central importance, since the fact of inspiration is a supernatural fact (a charism) that can be known only by divine revelation, because it cannot become morally certain in the strict sense by any natural means; yet “all Scripture is inspired” is a conditioned universal, since which writings are Scripture is precisely what the proposition supposes and does not assert. I have treated this elsewhere and will only touch on it below where Paul raises the canon.

From the perspective of the definition of the Church, we can consider something before the definition of the Church and something after the definition of the Church.

According to a minority of theologians, proper theological conclusions (i.e., reasoning from what is virtually distinct) can be assented to by faith even before the definition of the Church. This was the position of Vega, of Gabriel Vázquez, and of Melchior Cano in book VI of the De locis, a position he qualified in book XII (cc. 4–5). According to others, proper theological conclusions can be assented to by faith only if they are defined by the Church. This is the common position of the Thomists (Capreolus, Cajetan, Bañez, Zumel, John of St. Thomas, the Salmanticenses, Gonet, Ferre, Gotti, Billuart, Marín-Sola) and of Suárez and Lugo. Lastly, according to some, a proper theological conclusion can never be of divine faith, even after the Church defines it, but remains at most an object of “ecclesiastical faith.” This position began with Molina and is held in modern times by Franzelin, Pesch, Billot, Schultes and Garrigou-Lagrange. Since Paul made a great deal of the claim that my argument is “just Thomism,” it should be recalled that many of the aforementioned authors are not Thomists. The reader should also take note that the thesis common to the last two groups (that such conclusions are not of faith before the definition of the Church) is held by many Scotists and Nominalists as well (according to the testimony of Suárez). To call this a uniquely “Thomistic” thesis with “Thomistic” definitions is simply absurd.

On the issue of the conditioned universal, theologians are again divided. I am not aware of any who hold that the particular under a conditioned universal (when it is not morally certain in the strict sense by our natural powers) can be of faith before the definition of the Church. Therefore, theologians are divided into two camps. First, there are those who hold that the infallible promulgation of these particulars underlying the conditioned universal can be given the assent of divine faith. Second, there are those who hold that the assent is somehow different, distinguishing divine faith from ecclesiastical faith.

From the perspective of the propositions themselves, we can distinguish between those syllogisms which have two revealed premises and those syllogisms which have one revealed premise and one non-revealed premise. According to some, a proper theological conclusion can be of faith if both premises are revealed (since there is no additional motive added outside of divine revelation), whereas, according to others, the very mode of scientific reasoning is what excludes proper theological conclusions; therefore, even if both premises are revealed, the conclusion cannot be of faith. The former group places more emphasis on the additional motive added by the natural premise, whereas the latter group places more emphasis on the very process of reasoning.

As you can see, there are a number of different questions that could be asked when we consider the issue of “theological reason” and its relationship to divine faith. Paul notes in his reply to me that this is my argument’s “Achilles’ heel” and relies on an adherence to “a Thomist account of these prolegomena.” There are two points to be said to this (beside the explanation already given in the introduction).

First, while it is certainly true that there is a multiplicity of accounts of these problems among Catholic authors, the diversity on this question in particular is a bit overstated. For a theologian to hold that a mixed syllogism can receive the assent of faith before the definition of the Church is quite rare among Catholic authors of the past few centuries. There were holdouts, as I have said, but the other schools mostly agree with the Thomists on this point, and the Jesuits who wrote the classic treatments of the question agree with the Thomists entirely on the point that matters against Paul.

Second, even if the Thomists were alone in this endeavor, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Let me give you a good analogy to a similar situation. Thomists have a particular argument from the nature of relative opposition in order to refute the Photian denial of the Filioque. Yet, famously, the Scotists (in their account of disparate relations in the Godhead) reject that this argument necessarily follows. Does this stop me from using this argument against the Photians? No. It shouldn’t. When I dispute with outsiders, I use reason (whether natural or theological) and commonly held authorities (e.g., Scripture) in order to refute their position. My position does not rest on the authority of my school (which they don’t accept); it rests on the validity of the arguments that are given by my school.

In fact, this dispute between Catholic theologians actually serves my argument. Scholastics have had to fight with the holdouts on both of these points for centuries. We have written extensive, detailed arguments refuting their position on this point. These arguments are the exact arguments that I can present to the Protestant in order to persuade him. Vega and Vázquez made the case for Paul’s position better than Paul did, and Suárez, Lugo and the Salmanticenses answered them. That is what the third part of this article is.

I find statements such as these (made in response to a clip of Kevin, whose remarks Paul played during the stream) to be seriously problematic: “Kevin here notes again this is just the Thomistic account; the other Roman schools are going to say something different. So they have a stronger burden, in that this isn’t just Roman teaching 101; this is a particular school within Rome that says this. So if you don’t accept the articulation of that school on this issue, the argument is kind of bunk.”

An argument follows upon the strength of its premises. It matters little whether there is or is not a dispute between Catholic theologians on a certain point. Therefore, it is beside the point whether there is agreement or disagreement if what I present follows. Hence, “if you don’t accept the articulation of that school on this issue, the argument is kind of bunk” is not true. My agreement or disagreement with this argument is not a matter of whether I am a Thomist or not a Thomist, but whether I find the arguments to be strong or weak.

From all this, gather that I will argue from the case of proper theological conclusions (i.e., not universal/particular or nominal) where there is a premise of reason (i.e., not two revealed premises, although this can be argued as well) before the definition (i.e., abstracting from debates on ecclesiastical faith). Stated as a thesis:

A theological conclusion properly so called, i.e., one drawn by proper illation from one premise of divine faith and one premise of natural reason, is not, before the definition of the Church, an object of divine faith, but of theology.

I must note this before I begin because Paul, unfortunately, seems far too attached to “the syllogism.” He seems to think that I am making my argument from the nature of syllogistic reasoning. Therefore, if he can find a syllogism where I assent to the conclusion on the basis of divine faith, he declares victory.

It is to be remembered that terms, propositions, and syllogisms are products of distinct acts of the intellect (simple apprehension, judgement, reasoning). Therefore, rather than looking at the external form that is presented to you, it is necessary that you actually inquire into what these various products are meant to indicate in the intellect of the one making such acts. A syllogism can be used to express wildly different things, everything from the transition from the definition to the defined, to the process of induction, to the transition from the universal to the particular. In a similar way, even a single term can have diverse significations and suppositions that make it impossible to communicate if we rest on the bare external form.

There were times in the stream where he played clips where I qualified quite precisely that I was speaking about the role of a premise in a syllogism that was meant to indicate scientific reasoning. Then, to “refute” this, he gives a number of examples that are not scientific reasoning.

I hope that what was laid out above expresses precisely what is meant when I state my thesis about proper theological conclusions.

A Definition: The Formal Motive

Since I am particularly critiquing the Protestant understanding of the theological conclusion on the basis of the formal motive, I need to treat particularly of the formal motive.

Throughout his video, Paul applied the term “motive” or “formal motive” to quite a number of different things. For example, he gives the instance of the investigation into the resurrection, saying that the investigation is the “formal motive” of the assent of faith in this case, before also saying that the authority of God is the “formal motive,” and then concluding that it doesn’t really matter which formulation is used because they basically mean the same thing.

It is quite unbelievable that he came to the conclusion that practically everything used in the reasoning process is basically the motive of the conclusion, which is how he “refutes” the argument I gave in my original video.

Here, it is important to recall what is actually meant by the “formal motive” of the assent to some proposition.

St. Thomas explains the formal motive at the beginning of his tract on Faith:

The object of every cognitive habit includes two things: first, that which is known materially, and is the material object, so to speak, and, secondly, that whereby it is known, which is the formal aspect of the object. Thus in the science of geometry, the conclusions are what is known materially, while the formal aspect of the science is the medium of demonstration, through which the conclusions are known.

If we consider, in faith, the formal aspect of the object, it is nothing else than the First Truth. For the faith of which we are speaking, does not assent to anything, except because it is revealed by God. Hence the medium on which faith is based is the Divine Truth. If, however, we consider materially the things to which faith assents, they include not only God, but also many other things, which, nevertheless, do not come under the assent of faith, except as bearing some relation to God, inasmuch as, to wit, through certain effects of the Divine operation, man is helped on his journey towards the enjoyment of God. Consequently from this point of view also the object of faith is, in a way, the First Truth, inasmuch as nothing comes under faith except in relation to God, even as the object of the medical art is health, for it considers nothing save in relation to health. (ST II-II q. 1 a. 1)

In any demonstrative science, the formal reason of knowing the conclusion is the medium of demonstration. In faith, the formal reason of knowing the conclusion is the authority of God revealing as the First Truth. The formal motive is simply that on which the intellect rests when it assents, that which induces it to make its act.

There is nothing wrong with saying that reason can be instrumental (as all our faculties can be instrumental in the process of reasoning); the exact point in dispute is the grounds or basis upon which one formally adheres to the judgement at hand. When my mother says “I love you,” my ears are acting instrumentally insofar as they capture the sound; yet when I am resolving this into the line of judgement so as to ask “what is the motive or grounds upon which I base my adherence to the fact that my mother loves me,” I do not explain this on the basis of my hearing. That is a necessary condition, but it is something material to the judgement. I can easily show this from a hypothetical. Let’s say that God internally impressed what data is received by my sense of hearing without my hearing entering into the process. Would I still have the same formal motive that moves my intellect to the fact that my mother loves me? Yes, of course. In both cases, I believe it on the basis of the testimony of my mother, whether this is received by hearing or by extraordinary sense impression. No matter how I shift the example, the formal motive remains the same.

How much clearer is it that my senses enter the process of reasoning as mere conditions and not as the formal motive of reasoning? While this is intuitive if we just turn in upon ourselves, this is also plain and evident from the process of reasoning. Can the greater come from the less? No, it cannot. If the senses formally entered in as true motives, true causes of the rational certitude of our conclusions, would not the greater come from the less? The indeterminate in a certain order into the determinate of a higher order? What use is there for the agent intellect?

When we are distinguishing between something that is “instrumental” in the process of reasoning and the “formal motive” in the process of reasoning, we are describing two things that could not possibly be more different. The instrument enters in only to communicate something to the intellect. My eyes in reading the page of Scripture exist only to communicate the words into my mind. The formal motive induces the intellect to adhere to the judgement and make its act. In certain cases, the intellect is induced by evidence contained in the proposition, which are those “self-evident” (per se nota) principles. In other judgements, the intellect is induced by the testimony of another, whether human (human faith) or divine (divine faith). In other judgements, the intellect is induced by the light of other principles illuminating a conclusion that can be drawn from their virtuality (scientific conclusion).

St. Thomas gives this precise division:

Faith implies assent of the intellect to that which is believed. Now the intellect assents to a thing in two ways. First, through being moved to assent by its very object, which is known either by itself (as in the case of first principles, which are held by the habit of understanding), or through something else already known (as in the case of conclusions which are held by the habit of science). Secondly the intellect assents to something, not through being sufficiently moved to this assent by its proper object, but through an act of choice, whereby it turns voluntarily to one side rather than to the other: and if this be accompanied by doubt or fear of the opposite side, there will be opinion, while, if there be certainty and no fear of the other side, there will be faith. (ST II-II q. 1 a. 4)

Garrigou-Lagrange lays this out quite well:

The motive of the assent of experience is sensible evidence [as abstracted by intellection]; the motive of scientific assent is the truth of the principle from which the conclusion is elicited; the motive of the understanding of principles is their intellectual evidence [i.e., as per se nota first principles]; the motive of opinion is a probable reason on account of which we assent with uncertainty and fear of erring. Faith, on the contrary, is a certain adhesion to the inevident object of some testimony, whence it cannot rest on any other motive than the veracity of the one testifying. (De revelatione, t. I, c. XIV a. 2 § I n. 2)

Where Paul speaks of “instrument” and “motive,” the scholastics speak of “condition” and “cause.” The condition is distinguished from the cause insofar as the condition does not positively influence the effect, while the cause does positively influence the effect. The role of the condition is to supply some necessary supposition that must be posited or removed in order that the cause may take its effect. Garrigou-Lagrange explains this quite well: “A motive or cause positively influences the effect, as fire by its action burns the wood; a condition, on the contrary, does not positively move or influence, but is necessary in order that the cause may influence, and only applies the cause actually acting to the patient, as the application of the fire to the wood.” (ibid., n. 3)

He gives three examples that illustrate this distinction quite well:

A professor, as proposing to his students the doctrine of St. Thomas, is only a condition; the motive is the authority of St. Thomas, not the authority of this professor. Again, the intellect beholds the truth of first principles on account of their evidence, and the explication of the terms in which the principles are expressed was only a condition. Again, the will is moved by the good itself, but cannot love it unless it be proposed by the intellect; this proposal is only a condition. (ibid., n. 4)

My eyes are a condition of my reading the canon list; they are not the cause of my assent to it. The explication of the terms of a revealed proposition is a condition; it is not a new motive. If you are to understand why Paul’s examples do not follow, then you must understand this distinction quite well. Paul’s entire stream is an attempt to blur this distinction in order to make every condition into a “sub-motive” (whatever that is supposed to mean) so that he can transform every real motive into a mere “instrument.”

I find Scheeben’s treatment of this issue (as on all matters of faith) to be particularly excellent. He is able to lay aside the type of loose usage and equivocation that underlies Paul’s entire treatment of this question:

In another sense, we sometimes call a motive for faith everything that in any way whatsoever influences faith itself or the genesis thereof, whether by inciting it, like preaching or reading, or by proving or indirectly determining its obligatory character, like the motiva credibilitatis, or by guiding and determining it instrumentally, like the rule of faith, or by producing, urging, and supporting it, like interior grace. In the narrower sense, however, the objective, direct, and independently operating motives are to be considered as motiva. (Handbook I.2, § 40 n. 668)

Everything that Paul calls a “sub-motive” is listed by Scheeben first. Yet, he refuses to name them “motives” in the proper sense since the formal motive, when speaking properly, is that which specifies the act. These are called “motives” insofar as they prepare the intellect for the act of faith, yet are not proper “motives” in the sense in which we speak because the formal motive is that which specifies the act and moves the intellect to properly assent. He continues:

They are a motive of the act of faith itself merely quoad exercitium [with regard to the exercise], not quoad essentiam [with regard to the essence] ... they function here not as an adequate, not even as an independent motive, but only instrumentally. Hence they determine a person to faith, without defining it internally in its essence; they support faith, without sustaining it internally; they pave the way to it, without producing it from themselves. (ibid., § 42 n. 756)

This distinction is not arbitrary, but spontaneously arises from interior reflection. There are motives to the exercise of the act that are not motives that essentially constitute the act. In the example of my adherence to the fact that my mother loves me, I can reflect on the process of hearing and the sensible pre-requisites to my intellectual judgement and see that these processes do not in any way enter into the essence of the act. For, were they not to exist, I would still be able to adhere to such a judgement. A thing can move me to make an act (quoad exercitium) without being any part of what the act is (quoad essentiam, or, as the Thomists say, quoad specificationem). The senses, the reading, the explication of the terms, the judgement of credibility, the Church’s proposal, etc., move me to the act of faith, or apply its object to me, but none of them is any part of the motive that specifies it and enters into its essence.

Here is where we are able to see, in a general and confused way, why exactly Paul’s insistence that the proper reasoning process does not enter the formal motive is so absurd. When we draw any sort of conclusion by a proper process of reasoning, the premises of the antecedent concur essentially in eliciting the assent to the conclusion. Each premise enters per se into the conclusion both as to the content of the conclusion drawn from them and as to the certitude that induces the intellect to rest in it. The premises in such a case are not mere occasions of assent, they are not mere conditions, they do not merely remove some sort of impediment, they are both what is assented to and why the intellect assents to it. It enters quoad specificationem. Paul’s examples, without exception, are things that enter quoad exercitium. That is why they are all beside the point.

Paul’s understanding of this matter cannot but strike me as one of pure empiricism. As I repeated above, the plane of reasoning is above the plane of sense. We begin with simple apprehension, which involves the abstraction of the concept from the state of sense data. Without this, we have no formal motive for our intellectual judgement. The phantasm existing in our minds is not yet in the order of reason, not yet fruitful for bringing forth the conclusion. How could it be? It must be abstracted. After this abstraction, we combine these concepts into judgements, which judgements are then ultimately used in the process of reasoning. How can Paul follow the philosophy of his own scholastic tradition and deny this? Does the formal motive for our assent stray from the order of reason existing in the intellect? I cannot see how this can be held.

The entire point of my argument isn’t based on just any kind of reasoning or on the nature of the motive in general, but specifically on scientific conclusions, where the conclusion’s entire force is taken from the antecedent. Let’s think about what the intellect is actually doing when we make a properly scientific judgement. We have one judgement that we have made on the basis of whatever sort of evidence is proportioned to it (e.g., “Christ is a man,” on the basis of divine authority); then we make another judgement with whatever sort of evidence is proportioned to it (e.g., “risibility is a property of man,” on the basis of human authority, e.g., my professor told me). Then what my intellect does in this case is that it recognizes that Christ is included under “man,” and therefore it draws forth the conclusion that “risibility is a property of Christ.”

Paul would like to hold that this conclusion is also on the basis of divine authority and that we can hold it by divine faith. He would say that the formal motive for my assenting to “risibility is a property of Christ,” the very principle that induces my intellect to assent to this, is divine authority. It is my argument that this is absurd. The intellect in this simple process that I outlined is taking something it knows by human faith (the authority of my professor) and then combining it with something that it knows by divine faith (i.e., the humanity of Christ). This isn’t a case adjacent to my eyes in reading the word of God, where my eyes do not induce my intellect to assent to what is read. In this case, the intellect is induced to the very judgement that “risibility is a property of man” by the authority of the professor. How is it anything but absurd to assert gratuitously (as Paul likes to accuse me so much of) that the motive of the authority of the professor simply disappears in the conclusion? In this, the lesser has produced the greater. The conclusion rests on the stronger part.

Let me give you an example. Let’s say a man gave a speech in a classroom. He begins by setting out some self-evident principles that the entire class accepts. Then, all of a sudden, he begins to quote a few of my greatest tweets. Then he draws a conclusion from a combination of self-evident principles and a few of my tweets, declaring, “These are, likewise, self-evident!” It would be absurd. He would be laughed out of the room. Yet this is what Paul tells us he can do. He says that we can have a conclusion whose motive follows the stronger part. He says that the lesser can produce the greater.

What “Thomisms” did I need to produce here to show the absurdity?

Inevitably, we are met with a flood of tu quoques from our opposition. You can find the answer to these in the objections. They are not difficult, but proceed from vague notions of things.

Some Clarifications

Here, I should present some important clarifications in order to understand what was said in my original video.

First Clarification. Paul states the following: “He’s simply saying private judgment is the inclusion of human elements, of rational elements, into the motive for why you believe something. It’s when it goes from simple apprehension to discursive reasoning, premises to conclusion.”

Here, there is an important point of clarification to disambiguate what I said. There are three acts of the intellect: simple apprehension, judgement, and reasoning. Simple apprehension concerns the apprehension of the quiddity of the thing (e.g., “man”). Judgement concerns the affirmation or negation of something about that thing (e.g., “man is an animal”). Judgement combines the simple apprehension of two terms (or what is equivalently two terms) by the copula “is” or separates them by the negation “is not.” Reasoning concerns the conclusion of a new judgement by the combination of two premises and the derivation of a third from these two premises (e.g., “All men are rational; Socrates is a man; therefore, Socrates is rational”).

Each of these three acts builds upon the last one, judgement upon simple apprehension, reasoning upon judgement. As to faith, I am not saying that faith is the simple apprehension of the quiddities of things. Faith is an assent, requiring affirmation or negation, e.g., “Christ is Lord.” Simple apprehension has no truth or falsity in it and nothing is assented to in it, so “the simple apprehension of divine faith” (a phrase Paul uses over and over) is a contradiction in terms.

St. Thomas explicitly says this, which should be evident to anyone who considers the case:

Our understanding has a twofold operation. There is one by which it forms the simple quiddities of things, such as what a man is, or what an animal is. This operation of itself does not involve truth or falsity, just as simple words do not. The second operation of the understanding is that by which it joins and divides concepts by affirmation or denial. Now, in this operation we do find truth and falsity, just as we do in the proposition, which is its sign. Belief, however, does not occur in the first operation, but only in the second, for we believe what is true and disbelieve what is false. (De veritate q. 14 a. 1 c.)

The particular point of critique concerns whether the combination of two judgements and the derivation of a third can possess the same motive when the motives are “mixed,” one judgement being upon the motive of divine revelation (e.g., “Christ is man”) and another upon natural reason (e.g., “all men are risible”). Whether the conclusion can have the same motive when the motives are not mixed (as would happen if both premises are divinely revealed) is a separate question and does not concern us here.

Second Clarification. Paul indicates in a few places that I do not hold that theological conclusions are revealed.

I am not stating that theological conclusions are “not revealed.” That is not my claim. Theology is a science that proceeds under the light of virtual revelation when it draws conclusions. This should be clear from the fact that, in logic, the conclusion of a syllogism is virtually contained in its premises.

Rather, the particular claim that is made is that virtual revelation requires that something outside the motive of divine revelation enter into the conclusion. I will give an analogy, taken from the rule of logic concerning quantity (I use it here only to illustrate the rule, not as an instance of proper illation, since the application of a universal to a singular is, as I explain below, not proper discourse). Let’s say we made the following syllogism: all men are mortal; Socrates is a man; therefore, Socrates is mortal. The conclusion is virtually contained in the major premise. Otherwise, the conclusion would not follow. Yet the conclusion is restricted by the minor premise and cannot extend beyond the minor premise: the conclusion follows the weaker part. Therefore, I cannot have an assent that is universal in the conclusion, but only singular. In a similar way, when I combine a premise of revelation and a premise of reason in a proper illation, the conclusion follows the weaker part, and the conclusion is formally of reason, since the “weaker part” in this case is the premise of reason. (I will state this axiom with more precision below; for now it is enough to see that the conclusion cannot be stronger than what it is drawn from.)

This has nothing to do with whether the conclusion is virtually revealed or not (it is), but whether the conclusion’s motive is something natural (formally yes, radically no; but the virtue follows what is formally the motive, not what is radically the motive, since virtues are specified by their formal motive).

Marín-Sola states this quite clearly, removing any suspicion that I deny that such conclusions are “revealed”:

“It is obvious that no thing can be of divine faith if it is not truly said by God; ... theological conclusions, if they are inclusive, are what God has truly said because they are included in what God has said; nonetheless, as long as they are not defined by the Church, they are what God said explicated by man.” (Evolución, n. 304; cf. nn. 168 and 301)

This is my position on the matter. As in any scientific conclusion, the object is there (lest we fall into “nominalism”) insofar as the antecedent enters into the conclusion virtually. The revealed premise is there since the conclusion is contained as property to essence. Yet, our access to it is not on the basis of God’s word alone (which, in itself, is simple). In order to get to this conclusion, we have to supply some sort of premise that per se concurs in the production of the conclusion on some different formal motive. Therefore, the assent that we give to the conclusion is theological, what God said explicated by man, not merely adhered to by man.

This should evidently show that I do not view theological conclusions as “not revealed.”

NOTE. It is to be noted that the motive of the conclusion does not follow upon discursion as such. St. Thomas notes that we may speak of a certain discursus wherever the intellect is moved first to one thing and from that to another. The relevant distinction is whether we know something in something or through something:

Properly speaking, to discourse is to come to the knowledge of one thing through another. There is a difference, however, between knowing something in another and knowing it from another.

For when one thing is known in another, the knower is, by one motion, directed to both. This is clearly the case when a thing is known in another as in an intelligible form. This kind of knowledge is not discursive. Moreover, in this regard, it makes no difference whether the thing be seen in its own species or in a different one; for sight is not said to know discursively when it sees a stone either by means of a species received from the stone itself or by seeing the stone’s species reflected in a mirror.

A thing is said to be known from another, however, when the motion to both is not the same, but the intellect is first moved to one and from this is moved to the other. Consequently, discourse takes place here, as it evidently takes place in demonstrations. For the intellect is first directed only to principles, then it is directed through the principles to conclusions. (De veritate q. 8 a. 15)

Woodbury applies this text to the difference between the formal and the instrumental sign: the concept is a formal sign, in which the thing is known “by the same act”; a spoken or written word is a conventional instrumental sign, bearing only a relation of reason to what it signifies, so that the intellect must be moved first to the word and from the word to the concept, and only in the concept, which is the formal sign of the thing, is the reality itself known (Logic, n. 63).

The point matters for what follows. If discursion in this wide sense were to require a new motive for the conclusion, then even the process whereby we understand what is spoken or written by conventional signs (i.e., language) would also require a new motive, which cannot be the case without an infinite regress of motives. Hence, while a plurality of movements is a necessary condition for a new motive, it is not a sufficient condition of itself for a new motive. What is required for a new motive is discourse in the strict sense, which St. Thomas distinguishes from the loose sense in the very article on whether God’s knowledge is discursive:

In our knowledge there is a twofold discursion: one is according to succession only, as when we have actually understood anything, we turn ourselves to understand something else; while the other mode of discursion is according to causality, as when through principles we arrive at the knowledge of conclusions. (ST I q. 14 a. 7 c.)

Only the second kind has a medium; only the second kind knows the one thing from the other as a conclusion from its principle; and therefore only the second kind can carry the motive of the prior cognition into the later one. The word on the page is not the reason I hold the proposition true; it is only that in which the proposition reaches me. The premise of a demonstration is the reason I hold the conclusion true.

Tournely summarizes this excellently: “The sole formal motive of the assent which is given to faith is divine revelation; discourse, reasoning, etc., is only a previous condition, or the organ and instrument which the human mind uses to discover what has been revealed.” (Praelectiones theologicae de Deo, Quaest. III a. II, Secunda conclusio)

Third Clarification. Paul states the following: “Let’s say I reason by good and necessary consequence to doctrine X. It wasn’t explicit in Scripture in as many words. I just saw: look, Scripture reveals this; it also reveals this; by necessary consequence, it means this as well.”

It is to be noted that this isn’t the particular point of critique that presses the Protestants most violently. It is a genuinely disputed point among Thomists whether a theological conclusion drawn from two revealed premises can be a matter of faith. Some Thomists argue that the very mode of reasoning in such a case adds an additional motive (and, therefore, that such cannot be of faith before the definition of the Church), while others argue that the mode of reasoning does not add an additional motive (and, therefore, that such can at least be of faith after the definition of the Church).

The point that particularly presses the Protestants concerns the mixture of a premise that is formally revealed and a premise that is of natural reason. In this case, one can easily see that reason is not simply acting as an instrument, but relies on the premise of natural reason as a motive, and this motive is transported into the conclusion.

Fourth Clarification. Since Paul’s two favorite examples (the resurrection and the canon) are related to the issue of the motives of credibility, I must issue an additional clarification on the motives of credibility. Unfortunately, Paul does not have a clear notion on what we mean by the “motives of credibility” in relation to the assent of Divine Faith. Here, I will follow Garrigou-Lagrange’s excellent exposition in De Revelatione.

The motives of credibility (miracles, prophecies, the marks of the Church, the sublimity of the doctrine, etc.) are the signs by which it becomes evident that a given revelation is credibly from God. Garrigou-Lagrange defines credibility, in substance, as the aptitude of the mysteries to be believed, insofar as from most certain signs they appear to our reason to be revealed by God (De revelatione I, c. XV a. 1 § III). This definition makes it clear that we are not saying that the motives of credibility make the mysteries evident. If such were the case, faith would no longer be an “obscure” assent (contrary to the words of the Apostle). Further, this also does not make the fact of revelation itself evident, as theologians commonly teach (cf. Scheeben, Handbook I.2, § 42 n. 730). Rather, the particular aspect in which the motives of credibility terminate is revealed by the name. These motives of credibility show that the mysteries are evidently credible. For something to be “credible” is quite distinct from something as “true.” It makes the truths “believable.”

From this, Garrigou-Lagrange draws out the four properties of credibility from the teaching of St. Thomas and other theologians (De revelatione I, c. XV a. 1 § III). First, “credibility is something common to all revealed things.” This is taught by St. Thomas in ST II-II q. 1 a. 4 ad 2. Second, “the truth of credibility is extrinsic to the things revealed. For the evidence of the credibility of the mysteries is not their intrinsic evidence; the mysteries remain obscure in themselves, but are said extrinsically to be evidently credible, insofar as from certain signs they appear to be revealed by God.” Third, credibility is “a speculative-practical truth,” which bears on the act of faith to be placed. Fourth, it is a conditio sine qua non of the act of faith insofar as rationality is a condition of the act of faith. It would be the vice of credulity to, in ordinary circumstances, assent to matters of faith without such a revelation being rationally credible. To lightly believe something is the work of the fool as Sacred Scripture itself testifies: Qui credit cito, levis corde est, et minorabitur. (Sir. 19:4)

There are two important points to highlight here. First, the motives of credibility terminate in the judgement of credibility. The judgement of credibility judges that the revelation of the mysteries is CREDIBLE, not that the revelation of the mysteries is TRUE. The latter assent is the assent of faith which has no created formal motive, but is the very uncreated truth. Otherwise, the supernaturality of the mysteries would be completely destroyed. Second, the judgement of credibility relates to the assent of faith as its CONDITION, not as its CAUSE. The assent of faith merely supposes that we have some rational certitude about revelation’s credibility, not that we are able to naturally demonstrate that such is true. The Salmanticenses summarize this quite well:

To have the evidence of credibility, it suffices that one evidently judge that there are here and now sufficient motives for believing something as said by God, although he sees neither the object nor God’s speaking. For credibility does not consist either in the object proposed or in the testimony of God, but in that relation and disposition of things by which the object appears evidently worthy of faith. (De fide disp. III dub. I n. 3)

From the consideration of the signs which constitute the motives of credibility, the intellect forms a certain judgement, i.e., that “this is credible.” From this judgement of credibility, there follows the judgement of credendity that “this ought to be believed” (the speculative-practical judgement) and that “this ought to be believed by me, here and now” (the practico-practical judgement). None of these judgements is the act of faith, but simply what precedes the act of faith. This is to make the act of faith reasonable, not to make the act of faith itself. These are natural judgements with natural certitude and with completely different objects than the object of the act of faith:

From this it is plain what the office of the judgement of credibility is: it is a condition sine qua non of the act of faith, insofar as the obscure assent must be resolved at least materially and extrinsically into some evidence ... The act of faith is not, therefore, the conclusion of the apologetic syllogism; rather this syllogism terminates in the judgement of credibility, namely: Whatever God reveals is reasonably credible; but God has revealed the Christian doctrine, as is plain from the signs by which it is confirmed; therefore this doctrine is reasonably credible. (De revelatione I, c. XV a. 3 § II)

Scheeben treats this matter excellently, opposing the tendency of many to turn faith into some sort of syllogism. In a different article, I laid out Scheeben’s opposition to the common misunderstanding. He explains quite well what the fact of God’s external revelation (and, a fortiori, the motives of credibility) is for:

The fact of God’s external revelation, or the real divine origin of a given word, is not the motive of faith itself ... It is merely a condition for God’s trustworthiness to support the content of the word in question and to make it internally trustworthy. Through itself and by itself it moves us only to accept the fact that that content is actually covered by God’s trustworthiness, and therefore makes it not so much deserving of belief (credendum) as believable (credibile)... [the signs] are designated merely as motiva credibilitatis, not as motiva credenditatis [motives for judging that it ought to be believed], much less fidei [motives of faith], because here too they are not the adequate and decisive reason for the necessity of believing, but merely the condition and means for the effectiveness of the chief reason that determines that necessity. (Handbook I.2, § 42 nn. 721–722)

The “motive of credibility” names exactly what it says. It is a motive for the judgement that something is credible, not the motive of faith.

So little are [the signs] in themselves the intrinsically determining motive and the intrinsically sustaining reason of the certainty of faith about the content of revelation, that strictly speaking they are not even a motive and reason of certainty about the fact of revelation ... They are a motive of certainty merely for the judgment of credibility, and even here not the adequate motive. They are a motive of the act of faith itself merely quoad exercitium, not quoad essentiam. (ibid., n. 756)

There are two corollaries to draw from this doctrine which has been defined by the Church. First, the certitude of faith is a greater certitude than the certitude of the motives of credibility (which would be impossible if the motives of credibility named the motives for the assent of faith). Therefore, Bl. Innocent XI condemned the thesis that “the will cannot effect that the assent to faith be in itself stronger than the weight of the reasons impelling toward assent.” (DS 2119, cf. DS 2121) Scheeben explains this condemnation:

Those reasons are understood to include the motives of credibility, whose rational certainty determines neither the measure of confidence with which the will adheres both to the content of the revelation and also to the fact of the revelation, nor the degree of decisiveness with which the intellect holds it fast at the inducement of the will. (ibid., n. 757)

The second consequence is that the judgement of credibility does not necessarily posit the assent of faith (which Paul himself seems to admit when treating the Jews who hold to the resurrection of Christ). It is not impossible that someone make the judgement of credibility and not follow this judgement with those further acts disposing towards faith. As Garrigou-Lagrange clearly explains from Scripture:

[The judgement of credibility] and even the speculative-practical judgement of credentity are found not only in those who come to faith, but also in those who with full advertence commit the sin of infidelity ... For some, like the Pharisees, when the Gospel preaching confirmed by miracles is proposed to them, resist interior grace ... Therefore they can, having seen the miracles, judge evidently of the credibility of the preaching proposed; indeed they can know the obligation of believing, and still they will not believe, out of their perversity. (De revelatione I, c. XV a. 3 § II)

To summarize, Paul uses “motive of credibility” as if it meant “motive of belief,” and once that mistake is made, every rational step that precedes faith becomes a “motive” of faith, and the whole of his critique follows. Yet, if we remove this crucial error, the entire critique he makes goes with it and the Catholic position can be easily defended against his examples.

The Arguments

Paul’s central complaint against my video is that I defined the terms held by my “paradigm,” but never demonstrated the premises upon which I based my critique. Therefore, he admitted that my argument would destroy Protestantism if these premises are demonstrated, holding that my argument was “valid but not sound” and a mere report of the “Thomistic account” rather than a proper demonstration.

The burden of this article, then (besides correcting the erroneous terminology and irrelevant examples given by Paul) is for me to demonstrate these principles. Since he has held that my argument is valid and stated explicitly the hypothetical that if I were to demonstrate this, then Protestantism is false, I must remind the reader that, if I am able to demonstrate these things to be true, then they ought to leave Protestantism. There is no other argument necessary.

Therefore, in order to achieve this weighty task, I will give the arguments commonly given in the schools (by both Thomists and non-Thomists). None of these arguments are mine, but have been repeated by Scholastics for centuries against Vega and Vázquez.

Two notes before I begin. First, I will give as the stock example the one that the tradition uses: “Every man is risible; Christ is a man; therefore, Christ is risible.” The major is a premise of natural reason, the minor is a premise of divine faith, and the conclusion is a proper theological conclusion. Because the natural premise happens to be the major here, whereas in Paul’s own examples it is often the minor, I will generally speak of “the natural premise” and “the revealed premise” rather than of major and minor. Wherever I say “the conclusion,” I mean the conclusion as a conclusion, i.e., reduplicatively, insofar as it is inferred. If the very same proposition happens also to be formally revealed elsewhere, or to be defined by the Church, it can of course be believed by faith on that other title.

Second, my arguments will take two forms. First, I will argue from commonly held logical axioms about the nature of argumentation, the specification of habits, the nature of faith, etc., that are commonly held by Protestant and Catholic authors. Where necessary, I will explain the grounds for these axioms to better illuminate the reader on the absurdity of the Protestant position. Second, I will argue by a reduction to absurdity. If we can show that the positing of the Protestant leads to some sort of absurd conclusion then it follows that the Protestant position is absurd.

First Argument. This argument proceeds from a consideration of the formal object of faith. This is the fundamental argument that is given by nearly every single author against Vega and Vázquez.

Major. Nothing can be of divine faith except what is believed because God has revealed and attested it, i.e., what God has said.

Minor. But the object of a proper theological conclusion is not said by God; something else is said, from which, with the help of a natural principle, this other thing is inferred.

Conclusion. Therefore the object of a proper theological conclusion is not of divine faith.

Proof of the major. This is the definition of theological or divine faith that is commonly held by both Protestants and Catholics. Divine faith is the assent to what God has revealed on the authority of God revealing. It is important to note this last qualification. It is not merely the assent to what God has revealed (in such a case, one simply assenting to Sacred History would have Divine faith), but an assent to matters of faith on a particular motive, viz. the authority of God revealing.

Proof of the minor. God revealed that “the Word was made flesh,” but not that “Christ is risible.” I do not assent to “Christ is risible” because God has revealed such to be the case, but because the authority of certain teachers has made this clear to me and reason has made this evident. When I assent to “Christ is risible,” a motive for my assent is the natural connection that I view between human nature and risibility. Therefore, I must include it in the motive of the conclusion and not as a mere instrument or condition. (That God has not said the conclusion, which the Vázquez party denies, is proven formally below in the Sixth Argument, from the freedom of revelation; here I state the minor as it appears to anyone who reflects on his own act.) Lugo states the reason for this succinctly:

Nothing can be of faith which is not believed because it has been revealed and attested by God. But the object of such a conclusion is not said by God; something else is said, from which, partially, this other thing is inferred. Therefore this cannot be believed by faith, since it does not share the formal reason and the proper motive of faith. For however much the revelation and the revealed object be explicated, the object of the conclusion will never be found said by God, nor indeed anything which could by itself move one to believe it. The intellect therefore is not moved by the testimony of God alone, but at the same time by that natural principle, which unless it were believed true, the object of the conclusion would not be believed. (De virtute fidei divinae, disp. I sect. XIII n. 261)

Pesch treats the proof of the minor as well:

To establish a theological conclusion two things concur, what God has said and what human reason dictates. Therefore the motive of assenting is not the authority of God alone, but also the authority of human reason. But the authority of human reason is not the motive of faith. (Praelectiones dogmaticae VIII, prop. XV n. 261)

From among the Thomists, Schultes gives the same syllogism:

Those things which are to be believed by divine faith are to be believed on account of the authority of God revealing, and not at the same time on account of another formal reason. But things only virtually revealed cannot be held on account of the sole authority of God revealing, but are held at the same time by reason of the discourse by which they are deduced. Therefore things virtually revealed cannot be believed by divine faith. (De Ecclesia catholica praelectiones apologeticae, a. LXVIII prop. II prob. 2)

As the Salmanticenses lucidly explain, when we consider the proposition “Christ is risible,” this is not immediately founded upon the fact that God has revealed that Christ is risible, but on the fact that He is a man. It is one thing to say that “I adhere to Christ’s risibility because God revealed it” and another to say that “I adhere to Christ’s risibility because Christ is a man.” The former is proper of faith, the latter is common to both natural reason and theological reason. The proposition revealed by God that “Christ is a man” does not immediately or formally establish by itself that “Christ is risible,” but requires the essential, per se concurrence of the proposition that “risibility is a property of man.” Due to this essential, per se concurrence of the premise, the certitude, the motive of the premise (which is natural) is included in the conclusion. This is what it means for proper demonstration to occur. When we engage in such discourse, the conclusion is illuminated by the natural light of reason and by the motive of the premises concurring in the drawing of the conclusion.

It is this that I meant by a “mixed motive.” The motive for the conclusion is drawn from the motives of the premises that per se concur in the drawing of the conclusion. Therefore, if we have a premise of human faith and a premise of natural reason, human faith and natural reason concur in the motive of the conclusion; if we have a premise of human faith and a premise of probable reason, human faith and probable reason concur in the motive of the conclusion. What else would it even mean for us to properly draw a conclusion from premises if one of the premises does not provide a motive for the assent to the conclusion? To deny that such is the case is to hold that reasoning is simply apparent rather than real, that the premises do not concur in the conclusion. It is to deny that the third act of the intellect actually exists as a distinct act.

This will be further explained in the second argument.

The objection that was stated against this (i.e., that such is still revealed in an objective manner; therefore, we can hold to it by faith) leads to manifest absurdities. First, against all philosophy, it would hold that each premise in scientific reasoning does not per se concur in the certitude and enter into the motive of assenting to the conclusion. Second, it is arbitrary insofar as it makes the premise of faith the entire source of the certitude of the conclusion, ignoring the premise of reason. Why, upon this philosophy, could we not just as well gather the entire certitude of the conclusion from the premise of reason? It is purely arbitrary that the premise of faith, rather than the premise of reason, is chosen as the source of the conclusion’s certitude. Third, this would destroy the notion of faith in general. If we were to consider an instance of human faith, it would be absurd to say that we can hold, upon the authority of the speaker, whatever can be deduced from their words. For example, if a King says “John exists,” who would be so absurd as to argue that, on the authority of the King, we would be able to hold that “the King testifies that John is risible”? To make such an argument would so expand human authority as to draw with any testimony each and every conclusion that could be drawn from it, even contrary testimonies. Therefore, the notion of faith in general would be destroyed, holding things not precisely on testimony, but from a multiplicity of motives. Fourth, upon this line of reasoning, there is nothing stopping us from calling “of faith” whatever is drawn from a revealed premise together with a natural premise of any degree of certitude. For example, if I have the revealed premise “Christ is man,” I could equally argue that a conclusion drawn from it together with a premise held by human faith (including historical testimony), or by probable argumentation, or by any other degree of certitude, could be “of Divine Faith,” since Paul must admit that these natural premises do not per se concur in the certitude and motive of the conclusion.

Second Argument. This argument answers the strange question of Paul of “why should we grant that the minor premise, as the demonstrative means, is the motive of belief?” He seems to be driven to a philosophical absurdity by his insistence on his Protestant doctrines. The natural premise is not, by itself, the demonstrative medium; neither premise is. The medium is the antecedent as one, compounded from both premises; and who can deny that each premise of a proper argument enters per se into that one medium? This is a more precise formulation of what was said in the first argument about the concurrence of the premises in the conclusion.

Major. The formal motive of the assent to a conclusion, as a conclusion, is the antecedent from which it is inferred, i.e., the medium through which it is known.

Minor. But in a mixed syllogism the antecedent contains a premise assented to on a natural motive, and this premise concurs in the inference per se, as a principle, not as a mere condition.

Conclusion. Therefore the formal motive of the assent to the conclusion contains a natural motive; therefore it is not the sole authority of God revealing; therefore the assent is not divine faith.

Proof of the major. Upon what foundation do we assent to the conclusion? It is either in itself or in another. It is not in itself, else it would not formally be a conclusion but something known in some other mode (as, e.g., a first principle). Therefore it is in another. This “other” (as should be evident from the very terms) is the antecedent, i.e., the premises that are stated together under the light of reason. In proper discourse, we proceed from the known to the unknown. The known is the cause of the knowing of the unknown. Now, the known are the premises that are placed under the light of reason. These cause the knowledge of the conclusion if reasoning is anything. This should be evident from the fact that the formal motive of some thing is what impels the assent to it. Now, in any proper reasoning, what impels the intellect to assent to the conclusion is the antecedent under the light of reason, not one or another of the premises taken distinctly. When we adhere to the conclusion, we do not adhere to it due to the immediate connection that the subject and predicate have with one another, but due to the connection that they have stated in the antecedent. This is what it means for there to be a formal motive. Faith has as the reason for the connection between the subject and predicate in the intellect the authority of God revealing; the theological conclusion has as the reason for the connection between the subject and the predicate in the intellect the antecedent under the light of reason with its distinct motives seen in the conclusion.

Proof of the minor. While Paul calls the natural premise in the antecedent the “instrument” or “sub-motive” (whatever that is supposed to mean), if it acts as a premise in proper reasoning, then it concurs in the certitude of the conclusion. John of St. Thomas, disputing against Vázquez, grants the objector’s premise that the natural premise “truly and properly influences the conclusion as a principle, and influences by reason of the natural light, which is all it has; therefore it furnishes a light distinct from the premises of faith,” and then draws out what follows:

Nor can it be said that it stands not as a principle but only as a condition for inferring the conclusion. For in a syllogistic discourse both premises concur per se in the manner of a principle ... and there is no greater reason why this premise should be a condition rather than the other ... we grant that two premises concur, but say that from both there must be made one medium, as in all other syllogisms, since the conclusion inferred from two premises is reached by one judgement and assent, and consequently by one light or medium compounded from both premises ... and so one formal reason is constituted, which bespeaks virtual and mediate revelation, under which the premise of faith and the natural premise influence in the same way. (Cursus theologicus, In I q. 1 disp. II a. VII nn. XVIII–XXII)

This is exactly what I have been repeating time and time again. What does it mean for something to be a premise in scientific reasoning? To concur per se in the eliciting of the conclusion, entering into its motive. To deny this is an incoherent confusion and must deny that scientific reasoning even exists. Further, as I stated above, “there is no greater reason why this premise should be a condition rather than the other.” On what basis is the one premise the motive and not the other? Why, on Paul’s standard, could we not just assert (as he does) that the entire conclusion solely rests on the natural premise? What is the difference? If the conclusion does not rest on both premises in scientific judgements, but only one, then it matters not which I assert. I could just as easily assert the one rather than the other.

Garrigou-Lagrange’s example of the professor illustrates this line of reasoning quite well. The professor proposing the doctrine of St. Thomas on St. Thomas’ authority is merely a condition, not a cause. Now change the case. Suppose I hold a certain doctrine on the authority of the professor, because the professor has told me that it follows as a conclusion from St. Thomas’ doctrine, without my seeing the inference myself. Upon what basis do I now hold the conclusion? Upon the professor’s authority, with St. Thomas’ authority concurring originatively and fundamentally, but not formally. Take a third instance. Suppose the professor shows me the evident line of reasoning leading to this conclusion. Now the professor’s proposal is once again a mere condition; the reasoning itself is the cause of my assent, with the doctrine of St. Thomas as its originative and fundamental source. Why these per se causes concur in distinct modes will be explained below when I explain the axiom of the “weaker part.”

Paul’s entire error is that he does not distinguish between the speaker as condition (which does not positively concur in the conclusion) and the speaker as cause (which does positively concur in the conclusion). The cases are evident by simply considering the cases.

Yet, the same can be put as a dilemma. In the antecedent, I have the premise “risibility is a property of man,” which I hold on a natural motive (whether of natural reason or of human faith). Where does the motive go in the consequent? Either it does not enter into the consequent, or it does enter into the consequent. If it does not enter into the consequent, then neither does the premise upon which it is based (since the motive is the form of the premise in the order of assenting); therefore, the conclusion was not drawn from the premise at all, and such is not a conclusion. If it does enter into the consequent, then there is a natural motive that partially compounds with the supernatural motive of the premise of faith; therefore, it is not held on the authority of God speaking alone, but on some natural motive.

This argument (and others that I have previously given) is never directly answered by Paul. Rather, he simply lists a handful of tu quoques that are beside the point.

There is quite literally no other process of proper illation that works the way Paul needs this one to work. In any other case, the motives of the premises in the antecedent continue into the consequent. If you hold one premise by natural reason and then you hold the other premise by the authority of the wise, how is it possible that the motive of the authority of the wise does not enter into the conclusion when you are inferring the conclusion from each premise? What new philosophy allows us to reason in this way?

This should be clear from the opposite case. If someone denies what is revealed by God, then he is a heretic. For, by its very definition, heresy is the denial of God’s word. If someone were, for example, to deny that Isaac is the father of Jacob, he is a heretic. Yet, in the case of a theological conclusion, we do not call the denier a heretic, but give him some other censure. Why? Because his denial can be a denial of the premise of reason or authority, rather than the premise of Divine Revelation. Yet, in other instances, where the subsumed premise acts as a mere condition, we do call those heretics who deny the conclusion. For example, we call those heretics who deny that they are under original sin, since the unconditional universal that “all men are under original sin” is a premise of faith.

Third Argument. This is the oldest Thomist form of the argument, given in substance by the commentators prior to the debate that took shape in the late-16th and 17th centuries. In order to understand this argument, we must understand the terms at play. There is the habit of first principles and then there is the habit of conclusions. In natural reason, by understanding, we apprehend certain first principles that immediately follow upon being. Then, by the process of reasoning, we apprehend certain conclusions that follow upon the first principles and form science. In the same way, matters of faith are, as it were, first principles that we apprehend from the authority of God revealing. Then theology comes into play and deduces certain scientific conclusions from the first principles of faith. Therefore, understanding is to science what faith is to theology. Both understanding and faith are habits of principles, whereas science and theology are habits of conclusions.

Major. No habit of principles elicits the assent to the conclusions deduced from its principles; that assent belongs to another habit, the science that proceeds from those principles.

Minor. But faith is the habit of the first supernatural principles from which theology proceeds.

Conclusion. Therefore faith does not elicit the assent to theological conclusions; the assent belongs to theology.

Proof of the major. This is a principle of common sense, which Aristotle clearly explains in the Posterior Analytics (I, 2–3; II, 19). The habit by which I hold that the whole is greater than the part is not the habit by which I hold the Pythagorean theorem, even though the theorem is drawn from such principles. The first is the habit of principles, the second is the habit of science. Who would be so absurd as to collapse the motive of the habit of principles (which follows from something that is self-evident) into the habit of conclusions (which proceeds from discourse from the first principles into scientific conclusions)?

This is explained well by Zumel:

The habit of first principles too inclines to conclusions by means of discourse; yet immediately it inclines only to the principles, whose assent it elicits. So faith does not elicit the assent to theological conclusions. It is necessary to posit another habit, which is a science, which immediately inclines to the conclusions of theology; in no other way, beyond the habit of principles, is a scientific habit constituted which immediately inclines to and regards the conclusions. (In Primam Partem commentaria t. I, q. 1 a. 2 quaestiunc. 2)

Proof of the minor. This is included in the definition of theology, which is the science of faith. We know the first principles by the light of faith, then, by theology, we draw conclusions.

Here we can see that Protestant authors are driven to absurdities by their doctrine. The Protestant authors affirm, when treating this question, that faith believes the consequent. But the habit that reaches the consequent as a consequent is, by the very notion of a conclusion, a habit of conclusions, not of principles; and faith is the habit of principles. From this, it would follow that faith is a science, which is to abolish the distinction between faith and theology.

Fourth Argument. This argument is taken from the common axiom that faith is “non-discursive,” i.e., that it is simple (not to be confused with the first act of the intellect, which is simple apprehension). What we mean by this is that faith reaches both what is believed and the reason for believing by one and the same act.

Major. The act of faith is not discursive: by one and the same act it reaches the thing revealed (as what is believed) and the revelation itself (as that by which it is believed).

Minor. But the assent to a proper theological conclusion, as such, is discursive: it reaches its object only through the illation from the premises.

Conclusion. Therefore the assent to a proper theological conclusion is not the act of faith.

Proof of the major. The theologians give three arguments for the major premise. First, from the unity of the act. Second, from infinite regress. Third, from the Church’s mode of defining. The third does not have any strength with the Protestants. Therefore, I will only give the first two arguments.

Gonet gives the first argument from the unity of the act as follows:

In a discourse the assent which turns on the premise or on the principle must be really distinguished from that which is about the conclusion; but the assent of faith about the divine revelation is not really distinguished from the assent which is about the revealed thing itself; therefore it is not properly discursive ... by the same act by which one assents to the revealed thing one assents also to the revelation itself, and this because the formal object of the assent of faith is the revealed thing, not taken materially, but formally and reduplicatively as revealed... [just as] the act of vision by which the eye reaches color and light is one and simple, because color is only the material object of sight, light its formal object; but likewise the thing revealed by God is only the material object of the act of faith, the divine revelation its formal object; therefore by one simple act faith believes the revealed thing and the divine revelation; and consequently it is not discursive. (Clypeus t. IV, De fide, disp. VIII a. I nn. 23–24, Dico ultimo)

The argument from regress is given by Gotti:

Some assent of faith is had without discourse; therefore every one: for no habit can be discursive as to some acts and not as to others, since in all it must keep the same mode of proceeding. The antecedent is proved. Let us posit the discourse from which the adversaries want the act of faith to proceed: Whatever God has revealed truly exists; but God has revealed the Trinity; therefore the Trinity truly exists. In this discourse the minor, God has revealed the Trinity, is truly believed by faith; and yet it is not believed by discourse. Which I prove thus: if it is believed by discourse, then it is believed by a discourse proceeding from another proposition believed by faith; of which I shall ask whether it is had by discourse or not. If not, then I already have an act of faith without discourse. If so, we shall go on to infinity. (Theologia scholastico-dogmatica, In II-II, De fide q. 1 dub. IV § VII)

I explain the significance of this in my aforementioned article on Scheeben’s opposition to those “syllogizing” faith. It is evident from the character of faith as a personal adherence to the veracity of God revealing.

This is the answer to Paul’s claim that “even an alleged simple act of divine faith can be broken down syllogistically.” This is completely rejected if by “syllogistically” you mean “proceeding from the third act of the intellect.” Either there must be, fundamentally, an adherence that is not of the third act of the intellect, or there is no faith at all. For, each demonstration relies on first principles that are immediately apprehended. If each is mediately apprehended, then there would be an infinite regress. There must be a first immediate apprehension or the entire thing collapses and has no foundation.

It is with this that we are able to see, at its greatest depth, the incoherency of Paul’s understanding of the assent of faith and the consequences which follow upon it. Paul’s understanding of the act of faith is a syllogism: “whatever God reveals is true; God revealed this; therefore this is true.” In his description of the act of faith, revelation is a premise which is known by one act and the divine mystery is a conclusion that is drawn by another act. With this description, it makes sense to see the theological conclusion as another instance of the same kind. Yet, this description is false at its very root.

Revelation is not a premise in an argument. Revelation is the light in which the mystery is seen. The first principles of any knowledge are not conclusions of proper discourse; this is evident from philosophy, and it is held by the Fathers as well as the scholastics (as I showed in my recent article on “Thomistic epistemology” explaining defensive metaphysics). Revelation is both id quo et quod creditur. St. Augustine illustrates the point with the example of a lamp: “Light shows other things and shows itself. You light a lamp, for instance, to look for a tunic, and the burning lamp enables you to find the tunic; do you light a lamp in order to see the burning lamp?” (In Ioannis Evangelium tract. XXXV n. 4) Garrigou-Lagrange draws the consequence: “So the First Truth revealing, or the divine light, manifests itself, without vicious circle and without a process to infinity, for another revelation is not necessary in order that revelation be manifested.” (De revelatione I, c. XIV a. 3 § II)

There is only a single act which reaches both the revealed thing as its object and the revelation as its light. There are not two acts, one adhering to the premise and the other to the conclusion. We adhere to God and to God alone. It is God who gives both the premise and its certitude in the act of revelation. Otherwise, the complete sublimity of faith is destroyed. This is what Scheeben calls the “logical-mechanical view of faith as a syllogism through which we demonstrate to ourselves the truth of the content of faith,” which “impoverishes the transcendent character of faith.” (Handbook I.2, § 40 n. 681) He explains this impoverishment by an appeal to the personal and living character of faith which adheres to God and God alone as first truth:

The knowledge of faith by its nature comes about not in the form of a logical conclusion, but rather in the form of a lively attachment to God and to His divine perfection. Accordingly the objective motive of the certainty of faith does not have to be apprehended with the same divine and supreme certainty as the material content of the revelation, as though its certainty in the strict sense were necessarily the cause of the certainty of the material content of the revelation, and the latter certainty is derived from the former through a formal or virtual logical conclusion. The objective motive is only the reason (ratio formalis) for the certainty of the material object, in much the same way as, in a comparison that became commonplace among theologians, the illumination of an object is the ratio formalis that makes it visible to the eye. Hence, just as in the latter case the illumination and the illuminated body are seen in one indivisible act, so too in the former case the ratio of the certainty of faith is apprehended as the formal object and its content as the material object with one and the same indivisible act of assent. (ibid., n. 691)

Proof of the minor. This is the very definition of a proper theological conclusion which is admitted by our adversaries. As the Salmanticenses write:

A proposition which is contained as in a cause in another or others formally revealed cannot terminate in itself the assent of our intellect except by means of a rigorous discourse by which we deduce it from that cause; but faith is not rigorously discursive, nor does it rest on discourse; therefore it cannot reach that proposition in itself, and hence cannot assent to it. (De fide disp. I dub. IV n. 124)

When we properly discourse, reasoning enters in as some sort of intrinsic medium. Therefore, Divine Revelation does not enter in adequately as that by which I adhere to the judgement. It is for this same reason that those theologians who say that a conclusion drawn from two revealed premises can be of faith before the definition of the Church are wrong.

Fifth Argument. This argument is drawn from the axiom of the philosophers that the “conclusion follows the weaker part.” In theological discourse when there is a premise of natural reason, such premise is the weaker part, which determines the certitude of the conclusion. This is established on the immortal principle that something cannot give more than it has. The effect does not escape the virtuality of the cause. The premise of natural reason is a limiting factor in the antecedent. The same is easily seen from a number of different examples of stronger/weaker premises in the antecedent, e.g., a certain premise and a probable premise can only give a probable conclusion as conclusion.

Major. The assent of faith is supernaturally and infallibly certain, resting on nothing but the First Truth; and all assents of faith are equally certain, because the First Truth is equal in all.

Minor. But the assent to a proper theological conclusion, as such, does not have this certitude: (a) it cannot exceed the certitude of its adequate cause, the antecedent taken as one medium, and that antecedent includes a natural principle; (b) its certitude is participated from the premises through a nexus of which we are certain only by natural light; (c) its medium does not have the infallibility of the First Truth, but only that of natural reason, which is fallible on the part of the one reasoning.

Conclusion. Therefore the assent to a proper theological conclusion is not the assent of faith.

Proof of the major. This is a property of Divine Faith. It relies on the authority and infallibility of God revealing as the first truth.

Proof of the minor. The minor premise is demonstrated from the nature of causality. The effect is limited by the strength of the cause and its natural properties. Now, the motives of the premises, in the intellectual order, are the causes of the motive of the conclusion. The motive of the conclusion is limited by the strength of the weakest motive in the antecedent. Therefore, formally speaking, the motive of the conclusion is the same as the motive of the weaker premise in the antecedent, although, in another manner, we can connect the conclusion’s dignity with the motive of the other premise, e.g., “fundamentally” or “originatively.” This is Lugo’s point: the conclusion follows the weaker part of the motive, since the conclusion cannot be believed more firmly than its motive warrants, and in our case the motive, at least as to one part, is not believed by faith (De virtute fidei divinae, disp. I sect. XIII n. 261; cf. n. 352, where he adds that the axiom holds as to the clarity and firmness of the assent, while the assent may be “nobler” from another side).

Here it is important to not interpret this axiom in a crude form that would place the theological conclusion on the same grounds as a conclusion of natural reason. For, it ought to be obvious that a conclusion drawn from two premises of natural reason has a lesser degree of certitude than a conclusion drawn from a premise of natural reason and a premise of divine faith. For, while, in each case, the premise of natural reason limits the motive of the conclusion, in comparison with the other premise, we see that the premise of divine faith is greater than the premise of natural reason. Therefore, while the weaker premise limits, it also “compounds,” able to dignify the conclusion, not formally, but originatively and fundamentally. To give an analogy, let’s say we have two houses. Each of these houses is able to be destroyed by a storm. One of these houses is built on a strong foundation and the other house is built on a weak foundation. In either case, the house, due to its very nature, can be destroyed. Yet, within this order of “destructibility,” the one house is less destructible, the other is more destructible, yet both are, essentially speaking, destructible. The house may exceed the destructibility of a mere house by the strength of its foundation, but it can never become indestructible while remaining a house. Certain theologians give the example of a mule. The mule is able to exceed the perfection of one of its inadequate causes (i.e., the donkey) by the participation of the other inadequate cause (i.e., the horse), but not the cause adequately taken (i.e., horse and donkey together). John of St. Thomas describes it as follows: “it is not necessary that the certitude of the conclusion be less than any premise taken by itself, but [less than] both, as they constitute one medium which results from both premises.” (Cursus theol. In I q. 1 disp. II a. IX n. XII)

This is clear from a number of different examples. If there is a particular premise in the antecedent, the conclusion as conclusion must not be universal. If there is a probable premise in the antecedent, the conclusion as conclusion must not be certain. The principle that “the conclusion follows the weaker part” means that the conclusion cannot exceed its adequate cause, which is the whole antecedent; the whole antecedent contains a natural principle; therefore the conclusion does not have the certitude of the premise of faith, and does not rest on God’s authority alone.

This can also be seen from the participated certitude of the conclusion. The conclusion participates in the certitude of the antecedent. Now, what is participated is either equal to or less than that which it participates in as its adequate cause physically influencing, yet never greater. Yet, the adequate cause physically influencing the effect contains a natural premise and a premise of faith as its adequate cause. Therefore, it does not exceed it as being solely a conclusion of faith. This is clearly explained by John of St. Thomas:

What is had through evident consequence, as such, is not a believed truth but a deduced one, nor certified through immediate testification, but through connexion and consequence, which is always inferior to the immediate certitude of faith: both because it is participated from the principles of faith, and so less than it, as something participated; and because the discourse itself rests on syllogistic rules, of which we are certified by natural light alone, and so a certitude depending on such a discourse has something less than the immediate certitude of faith. The antecedent is evident, because faith rests on no human discourse but on the testimony of the Holy Ghost, and not only because so it seems to us, but because so it seemed to the Holy Ghost, as is said in Acts 15; therefore an assent which rests on discourse and consequence, because so it seems to us and is inferred, is not immediately of faith. (Cursus theol. In I q. 1 disp. II a. IV n. IV)

This should be obvious to anyone simply reflecting on their reasoning process. They hold the conclusion they draw from premises with a lesser certitude than they hold the premises. As St. Thomas writes, “we know conclusions and give our assent to them because of the principles. Therefore, we know the principles with more conviction and give them stronger assent than the conclusion.” (Expositio libri Posteriorum lib. I lect. 6) He gives the reason for this evident principle: “Apropos of this reason it should be noted that a cause is always more noble than its effect.” (ibid.)

This is also known from the medium of knowing. The medium of human reasoning, as a medium of knowing (note: as a MEDIUM OF KNOWING), does not carry the infallibility of the First Truth; however evident the premise, the discourse rests on syllogistic rules “of which we are certified by natural light alone,” as John of St. Thomas says, and the one reasoning can err in applying them. Now, that which is of faith cannot be in error as to the medium of knowing, since the medium of knowing in faith is the very authority of God revealing. Therefore, the same conclusion follows.

Sixth Argument. This argument is taken from the freedom of Divine Revelation. This is formulated to answer an objection by Vega that is taken up by Paul (”there is a divine intent with that which is implicitly drawn out”). The objection, taken in its technical form, is that God’s veracity covers everything objectively connected with it because God’s knowledge is simple and non-precisive, i.e., he knows all things with all their connections one to another, the conclusions in their principles with a simple act.

Major. That alone is formally revealed which the words of the revelation signify, either always according to human usage or at least in the determinate circumstances in which they were spoken; because revelation is a free locution, and God reveals what He wills to say, not everything He knows.

Minor. But the object of a proper theological conclusion is reached only by recourse to a principle plainly different from the words and the circumstances of the revelation, namely the natural premise.

Conclusion. Therefore it is not formally revealed, and consequently is not an object of divine faith.

Proof of the major. This is proven by the absurdity of the contrary. If such were not the case, then God’s revelation would not be free. For, in the very revelation of any mystery, each of the other mysteries would necessarily be revealed. Pesch argues in this way:

The knowledge of God is necessary, but revelation is a free act. Therefore God by no means reveals at the same time everything that He knows at the same time. So God could reveal the unity of the divine nature and not reveal the trinity of persons. What God wills to express by words must be drawn partly from the words themselves, partly from the circumstances in which the revelation was made. That therefore is formally revealed which either the words of themselves always signify according to human usage, or which they signify at least in those determinate circumstances. But when recourse must be had to a principle plainly different from the words themselves and from the circumstances of the revelation, what is found by that way is not formally said by God, and consequently is not an object of divine faith. (Praelectiones dogmaticae VIII n. 266)

If what is virtually contained in a revealed judgment were per se revealed by God, then this would either be necessary from the fact, or purpose, or nature of the thing. This is not from the fact, for God has newly revealed certain properties of some essence when he has already revealed the essence of the thing. It is not from the purpose since God can have a special purpose of revealing the essence, but not those things superadded to the essence. It is not from the nature of the thing since speech directly and immediately expresses the concept of the speaker and only indirectly expresses the nature of the thing through the medium of the concept (this is demonstrated in logic). The concept of the thing represented is distinguished really and formally from the thing represented; therefore, he who explicitly says x does not explicitly say the properties necessarily connected to x and virtually distinguished from it. There is no necessity upon declaring the nature of something to also declare the properties of that thing. (cf. Mazzella, De virtutibus infusis, Rome 1879, disp. II a. IX prop. XX n. 487)

Proof of the minor. This is the very definition of a proper conclusion that we explained above in the state of the question. The predicate of the conclusion is not in the comprehension of the revealed subject, but must be drawn out by bringing in some exterior principle.

Seventh Argument. This is drawn from the natural entity of the theological habit. While there are a handful of Thomists who hold that the habit of theology is entitatively supernatural, the much more common opinion is that the habit of theology is formally natural. The commentators (Cajetan, John of St. Thomas, the Salmanticenses) demonstrate this from the fact that theology can grow essentially by study and other natural means, which is incompossible with a supernatural habit whose entire increase comes essentially from God. An acquired habit can only be formally natural. It is also something that rests on our natural powers, which is evident from the fact that one with a sharper intellect becomes a better theologian.

Major. It is contradictory that a natural essence have a supernatural property.

Minor. But theology is an entitatively natural (acquired) habit, whose property is its certitude; and the assent it elicits is an entitatively natural act.

Conclusion. Therefore the certitude of the theological conclusion is not the supernatural certitude of faith, and the assent is not the supernatural act of faith.

Proof of the major. This is self-evident. Properties flow from the essence and cannot exceed its order.

Proof of the minor. This was already stated in the introduction to the argument. There are a number of arguments for and confirmations of this thesis, which I will pass over since this is merely a confirming argument.

A final note on the arguments. The reader will notice that several of these arguments (especially the fourth, fifth, and seventh) are also used by the theologians who hold that a theological conclusion can never become of divine faith, even after the Church defines it. I take from them only what my thesis needs: that the conclusion, as a conclusion and before any definition, is not held by divine faith. Whether the Church’s definition can supply a new title on which the same proposition is believed is the further question about “ecclesiastical faith” from which, as I said in the state of the question, I abstract.

Objections and Replies

Paul did not give many arguments. He gave one argument (that I conflate the motive with the means) about eleven times, one syllogism about the canon, a handful of examples (the Trinity, the atheist, the resurrection, and the Sadducees), a quotation from Turretin, and the claim that it is all “just Thomism.” I have gathered his own statements under nine heads and answered each. Where he repeated himself, I have quoted the clearest version and noted the others.

First Objection. The theological conclusion ultimately resolves itself in a premise of faith; therefore, it is of faith.

Reply. Paul follows certain theologians who argue that the theological conclusion can be of faith simply because it ultimately resolves into the certitude of one of its premises, i.e., the premise of faith. Besides being arbitrary (it is quite convenient that it receives its certitude from the premise that you need to defend your doctrine, isn’t that interesting!), we can directly answer this objection as well by distinguishing the relationship between principles and conclusions in a non-subalternated science and a subalternated science.

A science that is subalternated to a higher science (as theology is subalternated to the knowledge of God and the blessed) receives its principles from that higher knowledge; but its conclusions belong to it, not to the higher knowledge, and they are resolved into the light of the higher knowledge only per accidens and not per se. The conclusions of metaphysics are ultimately resolved into the principles of metaphysics per se. The conclusions of physics are ultimately resolved into the principles of physics per se. Yet, it is otherwise when the principles of a science are received from another science. The conclusions of optics are resolved into the principles of geometry, as principles of geometry, per accidens and not per se. The same is the case with theology. Its conclusions are resolved per se into the articles of faith as into their principles; but they are resolved into divine revelation as the formal motive of faith only per accidens, for it is not under that motive that theology draws them. As the Salmanticenses explain:

This proposition Christ is risible, and all other theological ones, are resolved into divine revelation only per accidens, in the way a musical conclusion is resolved into faith about the principles of arithmetic in one who lacks that science ... And also, and chiefly, because although the conclusions of a subalternate science are resolved ultimately into the principles of the subalternating science, they do not for that reason belong to it, but to the subalternate. (De fide disp. I dub. IV n. 126)

Who would be so absurd as to say that the conclusions of a subalternate science are resolved per se into the light of the subalternating science so as to constitute conclusions in its order? A conclusion of music does not become a conclusion of mathematics because it is ultimately resolved into its principles, because this is per accidens, not per se. A conclusion of optics does not become a conclusion of geometry because it is ultimately resolved into its principles, because this is per accidens, not per se. For the same reason, the conclusions of theology are not conclusions of faith merely because they are ultimately resolved into the articles of faith, because their resolution into the motive of faith is per accidens, not per se.

The reason for this should be quite evident. Theology relies on the revealed principles presuppositively and not as its formal motive in drawing its conclusions. The same is true for all subalternated sciences. As Ferre puts it,

I do not assent to ‘Christ is risible’ because God revealed that Christ is a man; but, the faith that He is a man being supposed, from the fact that He is a man I infer that He is risible. Hence the revelation that Christ is a man is presupposed to the assent to the conclusion, but is not the formal reason moving to the assent to the conclusion; the formal reason is the intrinsic deducibility which the conclusion has from the revealed premise. (Tractatus theologici in Primam Partem, Tract. I q. 1, ad 2)

From here, we are able to draw a very important corollary. While it is true that the proposition “Christ is risible” is mediately revealed, it is not the case that we adhere to the judgement because it is mediately revealed. Rather, we adhere to the judgement because Christ’s humanity is immediately revealed and we have evidently deduced this from the immediate revelation.

Second Objection. “I submit the key problem is that, with his attack on the use of good and necessary consequence to establish articles of faith, Wagner is conflating the motive of belief with the means by which we come to that belief. Which is ironic, because later in the video he actually makes that very distinction when receiving potential counterarguments from Protestants on this issue. He makes the distinction, but I submit that he equivocates on these things in this issue.”

And again: “What this shows is that there is a distinction between that proper, ultimate motive for believing something, versus, if you want to speak improperly, the rational sub-motives for the same. It is the authority validating the belief versus the means by which we receive that knowledge. I submit, even though Wagner does recognize the distinction and uses it for his own defense a bit later in the video, he actually equivocates between those things here in order to make the critique of our paradigm. He is trying to say that for us, when we reason by good and necessary consequence, the divine motive and the rational means are actually on the same epistemic layer; therefore the motive of belief is no longer pure and divine. I submit, rather, that obviously these are two different epistemic layers. The grounding is still purely divine.”

And again: “Wagner subtly equivocates between the motive and the instrument by which we come to believe a thing. That is the only way in which he can say that we allow a human element to enter into the motive of belief.”

And at the end: “We agree the motive for believing, even in a doctrine derived by good and necessary consequence, is still because God revealed it.”

Reply. As I have noted in a number of places, it is completely appropriate to distinguish between the motives for belief and the instruments whereby we come to believe such and such a thing. The instruments by which we come to believe something do not necessarily add an additional motive for our belief, but are as conditions that do not positively influence our assent to the conclusion, e.g., our ability to read, the explication of a definition, the identification of a particular under an unconditioned universal, etc. Hence, when I identify that “I am a man” in order to conclude that “I am under original sin by my origin from Adam,” my identification of “I am a man” does not add any particular additional motive to my conclusion, but simply acts as an instrument in my reasoning. Nor does the axiom of the “weaker part” touch this case, for here there is no illation: the assent bears on the revealed universal, “all men are under original sin,” and the identification of myself as a man is only the condition of its application to me. It is precisely where such an identification cannot be certain by natural means that we have the conditioned universal, which, as I said in the state of the question, no one holds to be of faith before the definition of the Church.

Now it seems as if Paul concedes (at least for the sake of argument) that an addition of some motive beyond divine revelation would allow the conclusion to follow that I have drawn against the Protestants. This is sensible, because a human motive would exclude the act of divine faith, which, as Protestants and Catholics both concede (beyond differences of terminology), consists in an act that affirms that such and such is the case on the basis of God revealing.

Therefore, the only question at hand is whether a theological conclusion (meant in the sense of the derivation of some virtually distinct property by a premise of reason) adds an additional motive of assent beyond the authority of God revealing, which is established from the seven arguments above.

Paul’s objection is that I distinguish motive from instrument in my own case, but that I collapse them when I consider the case of the Protestant drawing proper theological conclusions. Yet, this is not true. As I have established above, when there is a case of a premise of natural reason in proper discourse, it concurs per se in the eliciting of the conclusion, and, therefore, its certitude enters into the conclusion rather than simply being a condition of it. The tu quoques related to this are weak (as I will show below) and he never provides a formal argument for why the formal motive of assent must change in the other examples given by me. I apply the distinction consistently and carefully, considering these problems from the principles of theology.

In the cases I have given where I do not add a motive of human faith in the conclusion, the reason why should be simple and the test is easy. The Salmanticenses give this criterion:

[Improper discourse] does not include this motion [from the known to the unknown], but, as it were remaining at the same point, only explicates in the consequent what in the premises was not so perspicuously signified ... because it is not fitted to generate a knowledge specifically diverse from the knowledge of the premises, which seems to be proper to discourse; but only perfects and illustrates it. Whence this kind of discourse cannot stand in the way of an act of faith, or of the habit of natural first principles, which are not discursive. (De fide disp. I dub. IV n. 122)

There is no transition from unknown to known elicited by my eyes reading the canon list (for the senses lie outside the causality of the intellectual judgement and concur only by providing the necessary matter for the intellect to work upon); therefore, we call this conveyance. There is no transition from unknown to known by my clarification of the notion of “man” as “rational animal” since both are contained under the same formal concept; therefore, we call it explication. There is no transition from unknown to known by my identification of a certain singular under an unconditional universal; therefore, we call it application. Yet, in the case of scientific reasoning, there is a transition from the unknown to the known. We join the premise “risibility is a property of man” to “Christ is a man” in order to produce “Christ is risible,” which is a) formally a new judgement (unlike mere explication), and b) positively caused by the premises (unlike the cases where the senses enter in as a condition). In the case “Christ is risible,” we have a new judgement with a new predicate including new terms that are not identical to the concepts originally had.

As for “equivocation”: equivocation occurs when the same term is used in two different significations under the same verbal or written sign. As an example, I would be equivocating if I were to make the following argument: “A dolphin is a popular sport fish; now, a dolphin is a mammal; therefore, a mammal is a popular sport fish.” In the former case, I am using the term “dolphin” to indicate the mahi-mahi, while in the latter case I am using it to indicate the aquatic mammal. Where, in any of my treatments of the topic, have I done that? When someone is equivocating, they do not use qualifiers in order to communicate precisely how they are using the term. In my case, I frequently use terms like “formal motive” or “formal motive of assent” in order to indicate what formally moves the intellect to judge the truth of a certain proposition, and I use them in that sense every single time.

Beyond this, it is purely arbitrary and ad hoc to identify the motive of divine authority as the “true motive” whereas the motive of natural reason is the “sub-motive” (whatever that is supposed to mean) that has no positive influence (somehow) on the assent to the conclusion. Supposing that you are right here, why can’t I claim the contrary? There is no reason why the assent to the naturally knowable premise is “instrumental” rather than the assent to the premise of divine faith.

And the last version of the objection, “we agree the motive for believing is still because God revealed it,” is not an objection at all. The question at hand isn’t what you say is the motive of your assent to a certain doctrine. The question at hand is what actually is the motive of your assent. You have still failed to explain how the formal motive of one of your premises in proper illation does not enter into the conclusion. I have explained at length how it does. You haven’t explained how it is reasonable for you to include a premise of natural reason in the antecedent and then have the motive for that assent disappear in the consequent, conveniently saving your doctrine while you’re at it.

Third Objection. “What is actually preventing me from saying, ‘I believe this because God revealed it,’ even with the additional rational steps granted to get there? What is actually stopping me? What renders me a liar if I say, ‘I believe this because God revealed it’? That’s only the case if you presuppose that what God reveals is only those things which are express, and that there isn’t a divine intent with that which is implicitly drawn out with a firm theological conclusion. So if you don’t presuppose that ‘revealed’ equals ‘verbatim stated,’ but ‘revealed’ also means ‘clearly concluded from A to B to conclusion,’ if you don’t presuppose that, then I am perfectly able to say, ‘I believe in this derived article of faith because God revealed it.’ Because God’s revealing is still the motive of belief.”

And the example: “Let’s just say the fullest explanation of the Holy Trinity. There are explicit statements in Scripture: Christ is God; the Holy Spirit is God; the Father is God; they’re all divine. But the full Trinitarian formula, that God is one, there is one divine essence instantiated in three persons, that is not in express words in Scripture. We have to conclude that from Scripture. That, I would submit, is a theological conclusion in that sense.”

Reply. As I noted above, I am NOT denying that theological conclusions are revealed. The revealed judgement contains potentially every singular and virtually every proper conclusion. It is really and truly there, and I reject as completely senseless anyone who would say the contrary. So I do not “presuppose that ‘revealed’ equals ‘verbatim stated.’” Nobody in the tradition does. The formally-implicit (the definition in the defined, the part in the whole, the particular in the unconditioned universal, the equivalent formula) is revealed and is of faith without any definition, and I said so in the video.

He asks “what is stopping me?” and the answer, in summary of the arguments given above, is that the natural premise and its formal motive are stopping it. You needed it as a true motive distinct from the motive of Divine Revelation. If God had said the conclusion, you would not have needed it as a motive. Since you needed it, God did not say the conclusion; and what God did not say, you do not believe God for.

I do not argue on the basis of the exigency of the revealed judgement (what it contains), but on the process of reasoning when there is an additional motive beyond what is revealed (how we get to what it contains). A man must use additional premises, with motives that are outside the motive of the revealed premise, in order to reason to the conclusion. These motives do not somehow disappear, as I noted above, when you reason. They truly enter into the conclusion and join with the motive for the revealed premise. It is on this basis that we are arguing and on no other basis (although, as I have frequently noted, I could argue on the very foundation of proper illation, as many Thomists do).

As to the Trinity. The dogma of the Trinity is not something that is merely virtually revealed in Scripture, but is formally revealed in Scripture in the identification of the unity of the Godhead, the divinity of the persons, the real distinction of the persons, the processions, and the relative names. Here, Paul is confusing the coordination of our thoughts with the proper theological conclusion. For me to coordinate the propositions “God is one” and “the Father is God” and “the Son is God” is not an instance of my proceeding under the light of virtual revelation, but of proceeding under the light of formal revelation, insofar as each judgement is formally revealed (any “formalization” concerns the process of definition, which, as I have noted above, is not included in my argument).

Three additional notes. First, he used the phrase “the fullest explanation of the Holy Trinity” and the phrase “the full Trinitarian formula.” In the latter case, he seems to be speaking merely of the creedal formula of the Trinity. In this sense, I would argue that the coordination of judgements in the creed simply concerns what is formally revealed in Scripture in equivalent terms, which is commonly stated by our theologians. In the former case, the full explanation of the Holy Trinity could mean its full scholastic development as one would find in the various scholastic works of the last millennium. In this case, I would obviously concede that, in some judgements, we follow the light of virtual revelation and have true theological conclusions. Yet I would simply deny what is assumed, i.e., that such are of faith. Otherwise, nearly every Catholic theologian would be a heretic (for, even among the Thomists, there are disagreements on theological conclusions).

Second, he did not seem to attend to the distinction between before and after the definition in Roman Catholic theology, something that I have treated in a number of places. The majority of Catholic theologians (as noted by Fr. Marín-Sola) hold that what is virtually revealed can become of divine faith by the definition of the Church. Therefore, even if I were to affirm that the creedal formulation of the Trinity concerns judgements that are virtually revealed, it would still not follow as an argument against the argument I have given. For I would simply hold that such judgements were not of divine faith until after the definition of the Church.

Third (and I only note this because he made so much of my not proving my premises), Paul abandoned his own example within a minute of giving it. “In fact, because of how dicey the Trinity may be, let’s ignore that example and just go back to doctrine X in the abstract.” The one concrete instance offered of a doctrine that is derived by good and necessary consequence to which we give divine faith was abandoned as soon as it was given. I do not know what “doctrine X in the abstract” is, but it is probably resolved quite easily if the examples given can be any indication.

Fourth Objection. “Someone who affirms a mere direct teaching of holy Scripture, something that’s very explicit, so, ‘he who teaches that Christ has not come in the flesh is antichrist’ ... Christ came in the flesh; Christ became a man. That’s clear, directly explicit in holy Scripture. Now, even in that case, it is still also true to say that I believe this because I derived it from the word of God. And it is precisely because, even in that case of direct, simple apprehension of the data from Scripture, the rational process is still in play.”

And: “I submit that even in allegedly simple apprehensions of divine propositions ... even in the case of an allegedly simple apprehension of divine dogma, where you’re not reasoning from good and necessary consequence, you’re just saying ‘Scripture says this,’ or ‘the Church, as the rule of faith, says this; I just immediately receive it,’ I submit that in the sense in which Wagner himself says a human element comes into the motive of belief, if you grant his equivocal sense, it’s actually the same even for an allegedly simple apprehension of divine dogma.”

And, on Kevin’s clip: “The problem with some people like us is that we can think that syllogisms are like a law of the universe, like the code of the universe. Frankly, the issue is that syllogism and syllogistic reasoning is fundamentally descriptive of the rational process, not, as such, prescriptive. That’s very important, because that means you can actually break down many different things in the same syllogistic way from different angles. I submit that even in an alleged simple act of divine faith, you can actually break that down syllogistically, because of the theological priors.”

Reply. There is not much to say here except that in these cases reason is acting as an instrument. There is no distinct motive except that of divine revelation. I am not arguing from the simple use of the intellect; therefore the critique does not follow. I have made this clear. But since Paul made this the backbone of his response to Kevin, let me explain it to you in a bit more detail, so that you are able to overcome these arguments with ease.

Dogma is revealed to us in words. This should be obvious. These words make up judgements. Judgements are an act of the second operation of the intellect. The judgement is formed from the joining or severing of two terms, which are acquired by simple apprehension. Simple apprehension produces the formal concept and terminates in the objective concept, i.e., the nature as known. The transmission of divine revelation, the articles of the faith, etc., actually supposes the pre-existence of abstracted concepts that are already present in your intellect. What divine revelation does is order these concepts into judgements, whether affirming or denying. Divine revelation, as it is transmitted to us who receive it by hearing, does not “infuse” new concepts into your intellect (I leave aside the case of the prophet himself, who may receive infused species; ST II-II q. 173 a. 2). So, when Scripture says that “Christ is a man,” it is joining together into a judgement two concepts: “Christ” and “man.” Now, if I were to reflect on this concept “man,” I see that the concept “man” is the same exact concept as “rational animal.” I am simply sharpening the concept that is possessed already in my intellect, which Scripture is ordering into judgements. Therefore, if I were to make the additional judgement that “Christ is a rational animal,” THE SAME CONCEPTS ARE USED; my intellect is just apprehending the concept in a weaker way in one instance and in a stronger way in another instance. While this may be expressed in terms of a syllogism, it is not a product of the third operation of the intellect. There is no additional motive of my assent to “Christ is a rational animal.” The motive of my assent is exactly the same in either case. The concepts are the exact same. The objective concept (which is the nature of the thing itself, differing from it only in its mode of being, i.e., intentional rather than real) is the same in either case; therefore it is the same in the conclusion, adding no additional motive of assent. Here reason acts merely as an instrument, and the tradition calls this “improper” or “explicative” discourse. Hugon lists these “immediate illations” (by equipollence, conversion, subalternation, “from one predicate to another, or from one subject to another, on account of the evident identity of each”) and rules: “Immediate consequence is not properly consequence or illation. For it belongs to the reason of illation that it proceed from the known to the unknown.” (Logica minor tr. III q. I a. II n. V)

Now, the same can appear when we identify a particular under an unconditioned universal. Let’s say we have the judgement “all men are under original sin.” There are two concepts present in this judgement, the simple concept of “man” and the complex concept of “under-original-sin.” When I look around me and perceive the exterior accidents of a man by my senses, this phantasm is formed in my mind and my intellect ultimately abstracts the concept, which is an immaterial thing. My intellect recognizes that what I am perceiving before me is identical with the concept of “man” in the judgements that I have about men, including the judgements of dogma that divine revelation orders. There is no additional motive of reason that is required for me to assent to “this man is under original sin” except the motive of divine revelation that ordered the judgement. Gotti says the same of “Christ died for me”: that discourse “is not truly illative but only explicative; just as this discourse, Every man is rational; I am a man; therefore I am rational, is not a truly illative discourse but only explicative, because the meaning of this proposition, I am rational, is contained in this, every man is rational.” (Theologia scholastico-dogmatica t. I q. 1 § XXXII)

Contrast the proper conclusion. “Christ is a man” and “every man is risible” do not use the same concepts. “Risible” is nowhere in the comprehension of “man”; it is a property flowing from the essence and distinct from it (a proper accident, and so really distinct from the substance in Thomist metaphysics; but all the argument requires is that it be at least virtually distinct, Marín-Sola’s second degree); and I get it from a new judgement, held on a new motive. That is why the tradition calls the one discourse explicative and the other illative, and why the first can be of faith and the second cannot.

So: “Christ came in the flesh” is explicit; “Christ is a man” is the same judgement in other words; “Christ is a rational animal” is the same judgement explicated. None of these is a theological conclusion. Paul’s “Christ came in the flesh” example is not pertinent to the case, as I have explained in a number of different videos and articles (even giving this exact example). Not once in the stream did Paul ever produce a single example of a proper theological conclusion drawn with a premise of natural reason that ought to be assented to by faith without the Church’s judgement. Further, he never demonstrated to us rigorously that the motive remains unmixed in the conclusion. He merely produced examples of explicative discourse and examples of the preambles of faith, and then called them all “syllogisms” without any of the precision that I include in my work, while (ironically) critiquing my lack of argumentation.

Which brings me to “syllogisms are descriptive, not prescriptive.” I find it a bit strange that he described Kevin’s qualification, “in scientific demonstration,” accurately, and then ignored it in his refutation. There is nothing magical about being able to construct a syllogism. As I have mentioned time and time again, the subsumed premise does not act as a motive in an explicative discourse or where there is an unconditioned universal and a particular. In either of these cases, the subsumed premise is not the formal motive of the conclusion. What is presented in these cases is not a scientific demonstration. A scientific demonstration is not the same as just writing something up in syllogistic form. There are many things that can be written up in syllogistic form (explicative discourse, the identification of a particular under a universal judgement, probable arguments, etc.) that are not instances of scientific demonstration. A scientific demonstration involves the exact process that I mentioned above, i.e., drawing forth a conclusion that is virtually contained in a certain premise by means of another premise. So when Paul says “you can break down many different things in the same syllogistic way from different angles,” he is right, and he has just conceded my point: the syllogistic form proves nothing about the motive. That is why I keep telling him to look at the act and not at the form.

The claim itself, that “even in an alleged simple act of divine faith, you can actually break that down syllogistically, because of the theological priors,” has been answered under the fourth argument, but let me repeat it briefly. You can write down the following syllogism as much as you want: “whatever God reveals is true; God revealed this; therefore this,” but that has nothing to do with whether this actually proceeds discursively. I demonstrated above in detail that faith is non-discursive. It is a basic mistake of both logic and theology to confuse these matters. Revelation is the light in which a man sees the thing believed, at once that by which and that which is believed. A denial of this makes absolutely no sense upon careful examination. It would result in an infinite regress wherein the entire chain of premises falls under syllogistic demonstration, leading to no first principle upon which the entire thing is based.

Fifth Objection. “Now, let’s say an atheist comes along, and he reads the Scriptures, and he comes to the same doctrinal conclusion. ‘Oh yeah, this passage says this, this passage says that; that leads to this doctrinal conclusion.’ Great. Now, will the atheist therefore come to believe that doctrine? No. He doesn’t ... Why? Because he doesn’t believe in the authority of God revealing ... That rational process, in other words, is not the motive of belief, or even a motive of belief, for him ... Conversely, the believer, me, I do have the motive of the authority of God revealing, and therefore I do come to affirm it.”

He repeats this three times, and calls it the thing that “shows” the distinction between motive and sub-motive.

Reply. There is both a formal defect in this line of reasoning and a material defect.

Formally, the argument only works with a hidden premise. Paul’s inference is: the atheist has the rational process and does not believe; therefore the rational process is not a motive of belief. That follows only if a motive must be, by itself, sufficient for the assent, so that its presence guarantees belief and its failure to guarantee belief shows that it is no motive at all. But nobody claims that the natural premise is a sufficient motive; the claim is that it is a partial motive, concurring with the revealed premise in one compounded medium. Remove the hidden premise and the argument collapses: from “the atheist, who lacks faith in the antecedent, does not believe the consequent,” nothing whatever follows about what the believer’s assent to the consequent rests on.

Materially, then, Paul has confused a necessary condition with a sufficient condition. To assent to something on the basis of the inclusion of something in revelation is a necessary condition for divine faith; yet it is not a sufficient condition for divine faith in every instance. Therefore, while the absence of it excludes the atheist from having divine faith, this does not make its presence sufficient of itself in all cases for divine faith. This supposes what it ought to prove. The presence of the divine motive in one premise is not in dispute. What is in dispute is whether it is the only motive in the conclusion, and the atheist example says nothing whatever about that.

Further, we see that the test proves too much when applied to the theological opinion that proceeds by way of probable reasoning. Take the case of an atheist who reads St. Thomas’ probable argument for some conclusion and then grants that it is a decent probable argument (denying the conclusion because he denies the premise of faith), while a Catholic follows the same argument and holds it as a theological opinion. By Paul’s example, the difference between them is “the authority of God revealing,” and therefore the Catholic holds the opinion by divine faith. It would necessarily follow from this that every probable theological opinion is of divine faith. Therefore, every theologian who has ever changed his mind on a disputed question has denied the faith and rejected Divine Revelation by that act, becoming a heretic. The test cannot distinguish faith from theology, or theology from opinion, because it only tests for the presence of one motive and ignores the other motive because it must gratuitously ignore the other motive in order to save the Protestant doctrine.

I would also like to note something about the proposed example. He states that “this Scripture says this, this Scripture says that, therefore this doctrine follows from that.” This is an instance of drawing a theological conclusion from two revealed premises, which, as I said in the state of the question, is not the case that presses him.

As an additional point, he bastardizes his own example. In the case of the atheist “concluding” a doctrine from Scripture, the atheist is not affirming directly that “x conclusion is the case”; he is affirming that “x conclusion follows from Scripture.” He is assenting to something, and has a motive for his assent; it is simply indirect rather than direct, i.e., he is affirming that Scripture says something, not affirming something that Scripture says. This is what infidel scholars do in their biblical commentaries. Now notice what that means for Paul. The atheist and Paul assent to exactly the same thing by exactly the same motive: that the consequent follows from the antecedent, by the evidence of the consequence. That assent is natural in both of them. Paul then adds a second assent, to the consequent itself. What is the motive of that assent? It cannot be God’s authority alone, for God’s authority reaches only the antecedent; what carries Paul from the antecedent to the consequent is the very consequence that he shares with the atheist, and that consequence is seen by natural light. So the assent to the consequent has two things in it, the believed antecedent and the seen consequence, and one of them is natural. Paul’s own example, properly analyzed, shows exactly the mixed motive he denies.

Sixth Objection. “Our Roman apologist friends believe they have divine faith in the canon of Scripture because of the authentic decision of the magisterium ... So in one sense, they can say that they affirm the Gospel of Mark’s canonicity on the authority of God revealing. That is the sense in which I would say it. However, it’s also true that they believe that because they derived it from human testimony, their priest, historical documents of the Church, etc. ... But the instrumental motive, if you will, for their assent is the derivation of this fact from these historical, living testimonies, such as can be expressed in a syllogistic form.”

And the syllogism: “Premise one: ‘I ought to believe everything that is revealed by God.’ Premise two: ‘That which is revealed by God for the Church, including me individually, is sufficiently attested to by certain marks and testimonies, that is, for example, the authentic testimony of the Church.’ Premise three: ‘It has been demonstrated to me, through history and reliable living witnesses, that the canonicity of the Gospel of Mark is attested to by sufficient, certain marks and testimonies.’ Conclusion: ‘I ought to believe in the canonicity of the Gospel of Mark,’ and from that, the person goes to ‘I assent to it by divine faith.’ Notice the multiple steps of non-revealed minor premises here.”

Reply. First, the phrase “the instrumental motive,” as distinguished from the formal motive, is confused. An instrument, properly speaking, is not a condition: an instrumental cause positively concurs in the effect, under the motion of the principal cause. So if the natural premise is an “instrument” in the proper sense, it positively concurs in the assent, which is exactly what I say and what Paul denies. If, on the other hand, it does not positively concur, then it is a mere condition, and should not be called an instrument at all. Paul cannot have it both ways: either the natural premise contributes to the assent, and then it is part of its motive, or it does not, and then the conclusion was not drawn from it. This is distinct from the loose sense of “instrument” (my eyes, my ears) that has been explained above, where the word names a condition.

Second, this is not the sense in which I mean it, because you are specifically treating an objection to your doctrine on the basis of proper illation from a naturally knowable proposition, in which the motive of natural reason enters into the very process of reasoning itself. I do not claim (nor have I ever claimed) that I believe the canonicity of certain books of Scripture on the basis of any judgement that is naturally knowable. In fact, I am actually known for saying the exact opposite and using this as an argument against Protestantism.

To give an analogy: if I have a canon list in front of me, it is necessary that I use my eyes in order to read the page in front of me. Are my eyes the motive upon which I affirm the canon list? No. The motive is the divine authority that I believe the proposer has in such a case. My vision does not add any motive upon which reason rests, but is only a condition (which, as I have repeated, does not positively influence the effect, which is the proper office of a cause). How this is the case and not arbitrary, I have already explained above.

Third, look at the conclusion of his syllogism and think whether you have seen this before: “I ought to believe in the canonicity of the Gospel of Mark.” What is the judgement called where you ought to believe something? It isn’t the act of faith, which is the judgement terminating in the truth of the conclusion. It is the judgement of credentity (iudicium credentitatis), which is the practical judgement that this thing is to be believed, which follows on the judgement of credibility and precedes the act of faith. Then, take a look at his premises, which should be equally obvious from the above explanation: “What is revealed by God is sufficiently attested by certain marks and testimonies.” These are motives of credibility. “It has been demonstrated to me through history and reliable witnesses that the canonicity of Mark is so attested.” This is the judgement of credibility, which is formed by natural reason from these motives. In a spectacular turn of events, Paul has demonstrated to us that our understanding of the assent of faith and the antecedent judgements of the intellect are so intuitive that, when attempting to draw out the process of faith, he has listed them all. Then, he states “and from that, the person goes to ‘I assent to it by divine faith.’”

This is exactly correct. These are acts that precede the act of faith which are different than the assent as faith, as evidenced from the different object (”x is credible,” “x ought to be believed”) and a different motive (i.e., a natural motive). This is precisely Garrigou-Lagrange’s point, quoted above, that the act of faith is not the conclusion of the apologetic syllogism, which terminates rather in the judgement of credibility.

Yet, somehow, he goes on to treat the motives of these preparatory judgements as though they were the motive of the assent of faith itself. Well, he says this before immediately contradicting himself by arguing that the formal motive is the authority of God revealing. Oh well! We “Romanists” can simply hold that it is one thing to say that “this ought to be believed” or that “this is credible” and another to affirm something by the act of faith. This should be evident from the terms of the matter, wherein faith’s entire motive is the authority of God revealing. Paul has gone so far as to both make the assent of faith a syllogism AND to make the formal motive of the assent of faith a matter of natural inquiry. How are we to retain the supernaturality of faith? How am I to avoid the semi-rationalism of Hermes and Günther, condemned at Vatican I, with this novel doctrine? How do I avoid collapsing the natural and supernatural orders? I do not know. Yet, the one thing I do know is that the conclusion does not follow.

As to his comments on the canon of Scripture, the act whereby I affirm the canon is not a theological conclusion and it is not a mere dogmatic fact either (contrary to some moderns). It is formally revealed in sacred Tradition, as I have repeated on a number of occasions. Vatican I says that the Church holds the books as sacred and canonical “not because, having been composed by human industry alone, they were afterwards approved by her authority; nor merely because they contain revelation without error; but because, having been written under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, they have God for their author, and as such have been delivered to the Church herself.” (DS 3006)

The Catholic’s assent to “Mark is inspired” is an assent to something God revealed, on the authority of God revealing, proposed by the Church. The Church’s proposition is not a premise from which I infer the canon; it is the condition under which the revelation reaches me, the application of the rule of faith. This is an instance (as I explained above) of applicative discourse, not of scientific discourse. The universal in an applicative discourse is nothing other than the particulars themselves. The subsumed proposition is nothing but a pure explication of the universal proposition, applying it to a determinate subject. It acts as condition, not as motive. This should be clear from what I have already said.

Seventh Objection. “One of my favorite examples of this as well is the case of someone who comes to believe in the resurrection of Christ and comes to faith that way ... They go through all the arguments: the historicity of the Gospels, their authorship, their dating, questions on the reliability of witnesses ... And then, at the end of that whole process, they come to conclude: ‘Okay, Jesus rose from the dead. Now I’m going to assent in faith to that.’ ... But that whole thing came about because of a long string of rational processes. That is key there.”

Then: “The Romanist may still say, ‘Well, actually, in that case you don’t really give divine faith to the resurrection, because it was demonstrated more rationally, not on the authority of God revealing.’ But when you actually think about it, that just makes no sense. Because in the end, the assent of faith is not merely a virtue; it is actually a psychological thing ... that person then chooses to go from that rational demonstration to giving faith in Christ. And so, with that act of faith, it is actually on the authority of God, because these rational motives showed him that Jesus is the Christ ... You can distinguish the rational acceptance of the resurrection of Christ and the act of faith subsequent to that. But the important thing is that that act of faith ... still has the formal motive of the authority of God ... But the rational process is what got him there, fundamentally.”

Then, on my video’s treatment of the motives of credibility: “There is a sense in which, yes, that rational investigation of the motives of credibility caused the assent of faith. Again, emphasis on caused. It was an instrumental cause which God used to enlighten the reason of the person ... Just apply the same now to good and necessary consequence reasoning from the articles of faith ... It’s the same thing. It’s the same thing.”

And in the Q&A: “I simply submit that the distinction between this process being prior to articles of faith, versus good and necessary consequence being posterior to articles of faith, that distinction is like, okay, so what? How does that still make one faith and the other not faith? So what if one’s posterior?”

Reply. This objection, if taken in a strict sense (although he does not mean it in this sense), is rationalistic and destroys the notion of faith. Faith, as we agree, is, in the sense we use it here, an affirmation of something on the basis of God revealing. You do not assent to the resurrection of Christ, as an article of faith, on the basis of historiography. Even unbelievers can assent to the resurrection of Christ on the basis of historiography, and the guards at the tomb and the chief priests knew of it without believing (Mt 28:11–15). That reveals exactly what I am saying. The motive for my assent to matters of faith is not those antecedent or concomitant exercises of the senses or intellect that are required conditions for me to be able to make the assent of faith (e.g., the apprehension of the notions that are necessary for the assent as its terms, the senses that are required for the communication of judgements to us, the investigation of the signs that makes the assent reasonable, etc.). The motive of my assent is the testimony of God revealing.

But Paul, in the second passage, concedes all of this and then contradicts himself in the same breath. He rightly points out that we would respond that the historical demonstration does not itself constitute faith. Then he actually concedes exactly our point in substance: “that person then chooses to go from that rational demonstration to giving faith in Christ,” and “you can distinguish the rational acceptance of the resurrection of Christ and the act of faith subsequent to that.” How does he not see that he has just conceded the distinction he came to deny? He very clearly explains here that the resurrection of Christ, historically established, is a motive of credibility that induces the mind to make an act of faith by the judgement of credibility, and that the act of faith is a distinct act with its own formal motive. Yet, if this is the case, then the “long string of rational processes” is not the motive of the assent of faith; it is what precedes it.

He continues: “But the rational process is what got him there, fundamentally.” Does he not see the irony? What is fundamental is not formal. What is preparatory for a thing is not that thing. The rational process of inquiry is not formally the assent of faith, but fundamental to it as a preparation for it. That is the entire point that I labored so hard above to actually prove. And now apply it to the theological conclusion, and see the difference. In the case of the resurrection investigation, the reasoning terminates in a judgement (this revelation is credible; it ought to be believed) whose object is not the object of faith and which is not the medium through which the article is known; and then a new act, faith, reaches the article on God’s word. In the case of the theological conclusion, the reasoning terminates in the very proposition assented to; the natural premise is not “fundamental” to the conclusion as a preparation for it, but is part of the cause of the assent, and its motive enters the conclusion as virtually contained in it. In the first case there are two acts, and the second does not rest on the first as on its medium. In the second case there is one act, the assent to the conclusion, and it rests on the premises as on its medium, because that is what an assent to a conclusion is. This is completely different from the other rational processes that Paul has described.

That is also the answer to “so what if one’s posterior?” The difference between the preambles and the theological conclusion is not that the one comes before faith and the other after. It is that the preambles are not the medium of the article (they are the medium of a different judgement, about credibility), and the natural premise of a theological conclusion is the medium of the conclusion.

Recall the proposition condemned by Bl. Innocent XI, quoted above (DS 2119). If the “long string of rational processes” were the motive of the assent of faith, then the assent could not exceed the strength of that string. Yet, in Catholic theology, the assent of faith is stronger than the weight of reasons impelling towards the assent. Therefore, we must deploy the reasonable distinction of Scheeben between the motive quoad exercitium and the motive quoad essentiam, which occurs with frequency in our natural acts.

As to “the assent of faith is not merely a virtue; it is actually a psychological thing,” nobody said the act was not “psychological.” What we said is that the act has a formal motive, which specifies it, and that the motive is not any of the things that happen in the psyche before it. Paul seems to think that if he can show that something happened in the mind before the act, he has shown that the something is the act’s motive. That is the empiricism I mentioned above.

Eighth Objection. Paul drew an objection from Turretin’s treatment of consequences (which I quoted in my video together with the similar statements of Cameron and Gillespie): “To apprehend the reason of a consequence is different from apprehending the consequent itself. Faith apprehends the consequent; reason, the consequence ... And it does not follow from this that faith, by which the consequent is believed, is founded upon reason, because reason is not an argument here on account of which I believe, but the instrument through which I believe. Now, the instrument does not introduce into the text what was not there before, but adduces by legitimate consequences what was concealed in it. Hence the theological conclusion results from the inferred mean; but the logical, from reason, or the instrument eliciting consequences. The consequence, as to its materiality, is founded upon the word; as to its formality, upon reason.” And again: “It belongs not to faith alone, but also to reason, to discern the reason of the consequence. Yet we say that it belongs properly to faith to believe the consequent. Nor does it follow from this that faith, because the consequent is believed, rests upon reason, since reason here is not an argument but an instrument.”

Reply. I quoted these authors in my video to show that Protestant divines admit that some articles are known from Scripture only by consequence.

First, the distinction between “argument on account of which” and “instrument through which” is precisely the thing in dispute. Turretin asserts that reason, in a mixed syllogism, is an instrument and not an argument. Neither Paul, nor Turretin, nor Cameron actually proves that this is the case. I have already refuted this above. The natural premise is not an “instrument” of the inference; it is one of the two things the inference is from and from which it has its truth and motive. Mere instruments (in the sense we are using them here) would include those acts and faculties which do not positively and per se concur in the production of the conclusion, e.g., my eyes, ears, etc. To apply this to one of the premises in a demonstration is, as I demonstrated at length above, nonsense and would completely eviscerate the reality of proper reasoning.

Second, Turretin’s own distinction between the consequence and the consequent cuts against him. He says reason apprehends the consequence and faith the consequent. But why do I assent to the consequent? Because I have seen the consequence. The assent to the consequent, as a consequent, is caused by the seeing of the consequence together with the believing of the antecedent. That is what “consequent” means. Turretin cannot have faith “apprehend the consequent” unless faith has the consequence, and faith does not have the consequence; reason does, by his own admission. So the assent to the consequent has two things in it, and one of them is reason’s.

Third, oddly enough, Turretin basically just admits that we are correct if we only draw out the implications: “The consequence, as to its materiality, is founded upon the word; as to its formality, upon reason.” The conclusion has its motive from that which formally illuminates it, not the material element. The material element does not actually tell us why reason adheres to the judgement, only the formal element does that, i.e., the motive. Therefore, if the consequence rests formally upon reason, then our critique follows. The specification of the habit lies in the formal reason of the object. If not, then all those things which are materially of faith and held by reason would be held by faith (e.g., the Jew holding the truth of the resurrection).

Fourth, Cameron’s and Gillespie’s language (”a certain divine truth that ought to be believed”) is not necessarily of faith. Of course a necessary consequence from revealed premises is a certain truth and, therefore, “ought to be believed” in the sense that a rational man ought not to deny what evidently follows from what he believes. That is why Catholic authors state that the denier of an evident theological conclusion is presumed a heretic. But “ought to be believed” is not “is believed by divine faith,” any more than “I ought to believe the canonicity of Mark” in Paul’s syllogism was the act of faith in the canon.

Fifth, these passages presuppose a picture of faith that is discursive (which, as I have explained above, is absurd). “Faith apprehends the consequent; reason, the consequence” is only intelligible if faith is the kind of act that could apprehend a consequent as a consequent, i.e., if faith is itself a discursive, inferring act that merely happens to have God’s word among its premises.

Ninth Objection. “Notice our Lord doesn’t point the Sadducees to an explicit passage on the resurrection and say, ‘You’re wrong.’ ... He points to Moses, the books of Moses: ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ Jesus then gives a rational conclusion from that: he is not the God of the dead, but the God of the living. Therefore there is the resurrection ... Does our Lord teach the resurrection of the dead as an article of faith here, or not? ... If you say no, then you’re creating an absurdity: that our Lord is somehow implicitly, without any clarification, assuming a very precise Thomistic account of epistemology on what constitutes the assent of faith, without the crowd realizing ... So I submit that this undercuts the attempted Thomistic account that articles of faith can only ever be through the express, explicit testimony of God ... So I think that could work as a one-shot argument, frankly.”

Reply. Oh boy.

The teaching of the “Thomists” (which is not just the teaching of the Thomists, as the reader now knows) isn’t that implicit testimonies to articles of faith cannot be used to dispute with someone who denies an article of faith in order to induce him to its acceptance. That would be insane and would basically contradict the entire theological tradition. Suárez and Gotti both note that the councils themselves argue from consequences in their chapters before defining in their canons. Arguing to someone from what he already grants is what every apologist does, and what Our Lord does here.

First, the resurrection of the dead was explicitly present in the Old Testament (Daniel 12:2; Isaiah 26:19; Job 19:25–27; 2 Maccabees 7 and 12; Ezekiel 37), and the Jewish teachers who sat on the seat of Moses preached this mystery explicitly, as St. Luke records: “the Sadducees say that there is no resurrection, neither angel, nor spirit: but the Pharisees confess both.” (Acts 23:8) It was an article of faith. Therefore it is completely appropriate for Our Lord to appeal to implicit testimonies from Scriptures they accept in order to induce them to faith in this mystery. That is an argument ex concessis, and exactly the type of argument apologists use constantly against opponents. Paul says that if the Sadducees had a smaller canon “it makes the passage even more powerful.” Why? He is arguing against an adversary who denies the rule of faith and induces them both to the acceptance of this doctrine and the rule of faith by which they would be able to accept this doctrine by faith.

Strangely enough, Paul’s entire mode of argumentation seems to suppose that the Sadducees had faith and that Our Lord was attempting to elicit an act of faith from their previously held principles. What? They were faithless. They rejected the rule of faith and fell into innumerable heresies. They were opponents of the prophets and rejected the chair of Moses. What’s next, are we to argue that Korah had charity?

Second, I find Paul’s rhetorical question a bit disingenuous. “Our Lord is somehow implicitly, without any clarification, assuming a very precise Thomistic account of epistemology on what constitutes the assent of faith, without the crowd realizing.” It is rhetorically misleading to speak in this way. This reminds me of discussions with various Christological and Trinitarian heretics on the mysteries of the faith. “Oh, do you REALLY think Our Lord had partitive exegesis in mind when he spoke of his humanity?” This type of rhetoric may be exceedingly convincing to the masses, but it doesn’t actually mean anything. What Our Lord meant is what He said (e.g., “I thirst”). If someone comes around later and attempts to draw a conclusion from what Our Lord said, and we explain how this conclusion doesn’t follow from the statement, by synthesizing the entire testimony of Scripture, the use of theological reason, etc., you can’t turn around and say something like: “Oh, do you REALLY think Our Lord had ALL THAT in mind?” (a) Yes, I actually do, because I believe in orthodox Christology. (b) That is irrelevant to the matter at hand, because we are speaking about what the proper force of the language used is and what this signifies in reality. You are drawing a false conclusion from this. I am refuting this through other means. This isn’t that hard to understand. It amazes me that such a basic concept cannot be understood by opponents when they try this rhetorical fluff against us.

We can make this a bit absurd, if we wished, by Paul’s exegesis. Our Lord and the Apostles frequently appeal to natural reason or external signs in order to argue in favor of various matters of faith (e.g., the appeal to the five hundred witnesses). Now, are we to conclude from this that the formal motive of assent to matters of faith can be natural reason or external signs? That would obviously be absurd. They were clearly using such arguments to induce them to accept the testimony of God, as apologists always do.

That he calls this a “one-shot” argument is beyond me. Who is actually convinced by this?

In order to oppose the Protestant understanding of the rule of faith (sola scriptura), I have frequently employed arguments drawn from the nature of faith and of divine revelation. At times I have applied these to the canon of Scripture. The argument runs thus. In order for the canon of Scripture to be integrally known and believed by divine faith, the fact that these books are inspired must be revealed by God; for divine faith assents to nothing except on the authority of God revealing. Now, the fact that these particular books are inspired is not revealed in Scripture. Further, it is essential to Protestantism that only Scripture, and what is derived from Scripture, can properly induce the assent of divine faith. Therefore one of two things follows: either the canon is not known except by conjecture (as any supernatural fact must be, apart from revelation, since inspiration is internal and essentially supernatural); or it is known by faith, but on a revelation outside Scripture, which is to say by Tradition acting as a primary rule of faith.

Some of the less learned Protestants have answered this argument by denying the plain principles of revelation, faith and inspiration on which it rests, in ways contrary to Scripture, to right reason, and to their own theologians; and, what is graver than the absurdities they are driven to, several of them have embraced naturalism on the issue of inspiration.

But some of the more learned have devised a reply drawn from our own theologians. It runs as follows. St. Paul testifies that “all Scripture is God-breathed” (2 Tim 3:16), a universal proposition in which the inspiration of each book of Scripture is included. Now, when a universal proposition is revealed, both the universal and the particulars included under it can be held by divine faith. Therefore the inspiration of each book can be held by divine faith, and held from Scripture alone.

The minor is confirmed by the common opinion of Catholic theologians who hold, e.g., that a man would be a heretic if he said that “I was not born in original sin” since it is of divine faith that “all men were born in original sin.”

Often, those making this reply confuse this principle with a different and genuinely disputed question: whether a theological conclusion properly so called (a truth deduced from a revealed premise and a naturally known premise by a real inference, e.g., “Christ is risible”) is of divine faith. On this point, there are three opinions. First, some theologians teach that a theological conclusion is of divine faith when it is sufficiently drawn by the one investigating the matter so as to be certain and evident. Second, others teach that a theological conclusion is not of faith before the definition of the Church, but can be of faith after the definition of the Church. Third, others teach that a theological conclusion can never be of faith, whether before or after the definition of the Church.

We can easily see where the conclusion enters. If this statement about the universal is confused with the first position about theological conclusions, then it would follow from what was said above about the universal that any Christian, if he is adequately certain of the theological conclusion “John is a book of the bible,” then he would be adhering to something implicitly contained in Scripture (therefore, saving the rule).

In the past I answered the Protestant reply by fighting on this second ground by showing, with the majority of our theologians, why the habit of theology is really distinct from the habit of faith and why a conclusion reached by real inference cannot rest on the authority of God alone. That was unnecessary. The Protestant’s syllogism does not concern a theological conclusion at all. It concerns a particular under a universal (the first question, not the second). To see why, one must attend to what a universal is.

Extension, Comprehension, and the Universal

Any nature as it is in the intellect (the quiddity apprehended abstractly, prescinding from this or that individual) stands in two relations. The first is to its comprehension: the notes that are contained in the nature and the properties that follow upon it. The comprehension I have of man is animal and rational; these are what I grasp when I grasp what man is. The second is to its extension: the subjects of which the nature is predicable. The extension of animal comprises its species (man, horse, etc.); the extension of man, which is a lowest species, comprises individuals (Peter, Paul, etc). The scholastics call the nature considered in its extension the totum universale or totum logicum, and the subjects under it its partes subiectivae; the nature considered in its comprehension, whose parts are the parts of its definition, which is called a totum definibile or totum metaphysicum.

We must consider nature abstracted in two relations, i.e., in its comprehension and in its extension. If we determine these precisely, we can easily dissolve the objection

On Comprehension. What the nature comprehends it contains intrinsically and in act. The notes of the definition (animal, rational) are not something added to man; they are what man is, and the distinction between man and rational animal is only a distinction of reason, of the defined from its definition. For me to move from “man” to “rational animal” requires no proper discourse, but simply defining the term. All theologians agree that this is of faith and can be defined as such. The properties (e.g., risibility) stand somewhat differently: they are really distinct from the essence, as a proper accident from its subject, but they are contained in it virtually and radically, as the effect in its cause; and they are drawn out of it by real reasoning (i.e., proper discourse). Hence the scholastics say that the notes are contained in the nature actu implicite and the properties virtualiter. In this second case, we have a case of a proper theological conclusion that only proceeds under the light of virtual revelation. It is here that theologians dispute over whether a theological conclusion is of faith (the first position), can be of faith by definition of the Church (the second position), or can never be of faith (the third position).

There are thus two ways of passing from the nature to what it comprehends. When the passage is from the defined to its definition or to an essential part (from man to rational animal, from Christ is man to Christ has a body and a soul) the two terms differ only nominally, and the “reasoning” that joins them is not reasoning at all but the explanation of a term. Theologians variously call this improper or explicative discourse, improper reasoning, or the merely explicative conclusion. When the passage is from the nature to a property (from Christ is man to Christ is risible) the terms differ virtually, a new concept enters, and the inference is a real one so that the reasoning is called proper discourse, illation, or the truly illative conclusion.

This dispute right here has NOTHING to do with the objection that is given by the Protestants since the individuals that stand under a universal are not concerned with the comprehension of the universal. Therefore, we must judge differently on this matter.

On Extension. The comprehension of a nature is intrinsic to it, so that to alter the comprehension is to alter the nature; the extension is extrinsic, so that if one of the individuals apt to receive the nature ceased to exist, the nature as universal would be untouched. The reason for this is that the individuals are not in the nature as abstracted as the notes are. They are not contained in it in act; they are contained in it in potency, as the subjective parts in a potential whole in an indeterminate and confused manner. The nature as universal is the nature as communicable, not as communicated, therefore it necessarily follows that those apt to receive it do not exist in the abstracted universal in act, but only potentially. To verify that a note is in the nature I analyze the nature. To verify that an individual is under the nature I must make a second judgment, contingent and existential, that this thing exists and is a man. The universal, of itself, does not supply that judgment, but only supposes it. Therefore, we call this judgement the “verification” since it is verifying something that is supposed in the universal.

The Minor Premise in the Two Orders

With this in mind, we can now compare the office of the minor premise in each of these two orders (the order of comprehension and the order of extension), which will resolve the question and dissolve the doubt of the Protestant.

In the order of comprehension there are two cases. Where the minor is merely explicative, we do not go beyond what the major formally, though implicitly, contains. The conclusion is the major itself under a more or less precise determination, and the assent to the more detailed is the same as the assent to the less detailed, exceeded and exceeding only in the order of clarity (i.e., nominally). From this difference, no new grounds upon which the mind rests is included, but only a different degree of explication.

Where the minor is truly illative, we go beyond what the major formally contains to what it contains only virtually. In this case, there there is a new ground which determines the assent. The natural premise becomes a partial cause of the conclusion and the conclusion follows the weaker part (i.e., the natural premise, so that the assent is a mixed one, theological, not of faith. This is why many Thomists hold that, before the Church defines it, the theological conclusion cannot be assented to by divine faith however evident the inference; and why, after she defines it, it can.

In the order of extension there are also two cases, and here the theologians speak of the unconditioned (or absolute) and the conditioned (or hypothetical) universal. The universal is unconditioned when the identification of the suppositum as falling under its subject requires nothing beyond the explanation of terms (when to know that this thing is a man is, by the same knowledge and with the same certitude, to know that it is under “every man”). The universal is conditioned when its subject carries a restriction to the subject, e.g., “every infant validly baptized” includes “validly baptized” as a certain condition, “every man legitimately elected successor of St. Peter” includes “legitimately elected” as a condition, etc. In this case, the verification in the singular is not given by the mere identification of the suppositum, but only under some condition or hypothetical that must be verified outside the mere identification of the suppositum. To compare the two, when I say that “every man is born from Adam,” I am saying something about this man (since it is absolute), but when I say that “every host validly consecrated is Christ” I am NOT saying something about this host, but only about this host under some sort of condition or supposition (i.e., that it was validly consecrated).

Here we should note that it would be wrong to suppose that by “unconditioned” we meant that such was not conditioned in any sense of the term. This is to be denied since “every man is born from Adam” at least supposes the existence of such men in order to be verified. Rather, when we say that something is unconditioned/conditioned, we are asking whether the condition is something that is or is not really distinct from the very identification of the suppositum. Hence, in the case of “every man is born from Adam,” the very inclusion in the universal is really identical with the very identification of the man as man without any additional condition.

We have then four cases:

1. improper illation (the defined to its definition);

2. proper illation (the essence to its property);

3. the unconditioned universal (the universal to a suppositum whose inclusion is given with its identification);

4. the conditioned universal (the universal to a suppositum whose inclusion depends on a restriction not so given).

On these four cases rests four questions in theology.

First Question. Whether what is reached by improper illation is of faith. All agree that it is so that someone denying “Christ is a rational animal” would, de facto, be a heretic if he grants the definition.

Second Question. Whether what is reached by proper illation is or can be of faith. These are the three positions on the definability of theological conclusions explained above.

Third Question. Whether what is contained under an unconditioned universal is of faith. All agree that it is, and that it is so without any definition. He who denies that Christ died for him or that he is descended from Adam is a heretic, even while this is only universally presented in scripture.

The reason for the difference between this case and the second case is the difference in the office of the minor. In the second case the minor is a true cause of the conclusion, and so something human enters into the formal motive of faith. The assent to the conclusion is partially resolved into both God’s authority and human reason. In the third case the minor is a mere condition which does not add a motive to the assent of the conclusion, but merely removes an obstacle. This is implied by the very notion of a condition and its distinction from the cause (which is to be devoid of positive influence in the effect).

This leaves us open to an interesting possibility. Since the minor premise in such a case does not add to the formal motive of the assent to the conclusion, but only verifies a certain condition, then it would follow that our assent to the conclusion would follow the certitude that we have of the verification itself. This can be understood by way of a hypothetical. Let’s say that God gave you infallible natural certitude of the fact that “all men are risible.” In this case, the conclusion drawn concerning Christ would still remain as a theological conclusion that would not be able to be assented to by faith since natural reason would still enter the assent of the conclusion as formal motive. On the other hand, let’s say that God gave you infallible natural certitude that “this eucharist is validly consecrated.” In this case, since the minor merely acts as a condition, one would be able to assent to the conclusion “this eucharist is Christ” with divine faith since nothing natural enters the formal motive of the assent to the conclusion in such a case. This is true even in the case of strict moral certitude, as many theologians indicate, as we will treat in the fourth question.

Fourth Question. Whether what is contained under a conditioned universal can become of divine faith when the condition is verified (and by whom it can be verified). That it can, when the verification has strict moral certitude is commonly taught by theologians. For example, a baptizing priest has strict moral certitude of his intention to baptize, those watching the baptism do not have strict moral certitude of the priest’s intention to baptize since they have grounds for prudent fear of doubting that the priest did not have the correct intention. It is under this logic that we are able to understand dogmatic facts wherein the Church infallibly verifies the condition to be the case, hence allowing for the assent of faith to occur.

The Refutation of the Objection

Now we can see how ineptly the Protestant has argued from “all Scripture is God-breathed.”

It is plain, first, that his case has nothing to do with the comprehension of a nature. “This book is inspired” is not a note of, nor a property flowing from, the nature of a certain book; it is the predication of a nature as universal to an individual. This case therefore has NOTHING to do with the second question, the question of theological conclusions, on which he imagines the whole dispute to turn. It belongs to the order of extension: to individuals only potentially contained under the universal and extrinsic to it, reached only by a second judgment identifying the suppositum.

It is plain, second, that this case is not that of the unconditioned universal. It is not the case of anything falling under the nature of book (which would be absurd), but those books qualified in a certain sense, i.e., books as inspired by God. In this, we see that this entire question now revolves around the certitude we are able to have of the condition itself. My former arguments about the essentially supernatural and internal character of inspiration already resolved this question. The fact of inspiration is not something that can be known through natural or historical means unless the revelation of such a condition (which is outside of scripture) and proper certitude of such a fact excluding all prudent fear of doubt are supposed. The universal statement of St. Paul supplies neither of these. Therefore, it cannot be invoked in order to resolve the difficulty under which they perpetually labor.

From all this the Protestant syllogism is easily answered.

Major: St. Paul testifies that “all Scripture is God-breathed,” a universal proposition in which the inspiration of each book of Scripture is included.

Minor: When a universal proposition is revealed, both the universal and the particulars included under it can be held by divine faith.

Conclusion: Therefore the inspiration of each book of Scripture can be held by divine faith.

I distinguish the major. That the inspiration of each book is included in the universal actually, as a note in the comprehension of a nature, I deny; potentially, as a suppositum in the extension of a universal, I subdistinguish: as in an unconditioned universal, whose suppositum is identified by the mere explanation of terms, I deny; as in a conditioned universal, whose subject carries a restriction not verified by the identification of the suppositum, I concede.

I contradistinguish the minor. That the particulars can be held by divine faith if they are contained actually, as notes in a nature, I bypass (it is the second question, and irrelevant); if they are contained potentially, as supposita under a universal, I subdistinguish: if the universal is unconditioned and the suppositum’s inclusion is given with its identification, I concede; if the universal is conditioned, I subdistinguish again: if the condition is verified with a certitude excluding every prudent fear, I concede; if the condition is not so verified, I deny.

The root of the Protestant confusion is that he has collapsed two questions into one. It does not matter whether theological conclusions are of faith. Even were I to concede this in its most radical form, the case of a universal in its extension is untouched, because that case turns not on the strength of an inference but on the identification of a suppositum in a conditional universal, which it does not make for itself.

Introduction

As many of you know, I have a sordid past when it comes to so-called “popesplaining.” The phenomenon of “popesplaining” developed as a reaction to a genuine need in Catholic apologetics. With increasing frequency in the past few decades, popes have said or done things that are putatively contrary to the historic teaching and praxis of the Catholic Church and to the plain sense of Scripture. This fact has been exploited by enemies of the Catholic Church in their efforts to refute Catholicism or, in many cases, weaponized by these enemies to attack the ability of Catholics to “do apologetics.”

In response to this difficulty, most apologists decided to answer these putative contradictions with herculean efforts to explain the contemporary teaching and praxis in light of the historic teaching and praxis. I firmly believe that this decision was a mistake, and that unless this methodology changes among those who have taken upon themselves the role of an apologist, we will continue to damage our own witness to those genuinely seeking the truth of the Catholic Faith.

In this article, I seek to argue that popesplaining is the unnecessary and harmful acceptance of the apologetic burden of proof in pursuit of ideological purity at the expense of our witness to the truth of the Catholic faith.

A Disclaimer

I want to explain carefully what I am not saying in order to explain better what I am saying. You may have noticed that I have used the term “putative” to describe the problem that has arisen in the last few decades. For something to be “putative” is for it to appear to be such a case, abstracting from whether or not such is actually the case. Therefore, in this article, I do not seek to adjudicate whether such instances are genuinely contrary to the historic teaching and praxis or not. In fact, I believe that even the most ardent “popesplainers” concede that in certain cases there are such instances, as theologians have always conceded. From this it follows that the actual judgement that I (or anyone else) make in resolving these cases is not what is relevant to the argument I am going to lay out in this article. Rather, it is precisely the appearance of such contradictions and the involved character of the explanations that are relevant. It matters little whether such putative contradictions are actually true or simply have the appearance of truth.

Therefore, in order to understand the argument at hand, the reader should note that we are simply discussing what follows from the nature of an error as putative, not from the nature of an error as such. If we concede that there are putative errors, then we ought to draw the conclusions that follow for the mode of proceeding in light of such realities. It is not enough to object to my line of argumentation that such errors do not exist. Rather, one would need either to claim that such a character does not exist (which no one maintains) or to claim that the consequences I draw do not truly follow from the putative character of such acts and teachings.

The Role of the Apologist

The apologist differs from the theologian insofar as the apologist exercises a particular role in theology. The apologist is meant to treat the very principle of theology, i.e., Divine Revelation, insofar as he exercises a defensive role towards it by a twofold office: preaching the credibility of Divine Revelation insofar as it is manifested in the motives of credibility (signs, miracles, prophecies, etc.), and defending Divine Revelation from the objections of our adversaries.

It is the latter with which much of the apologetics of today is concerned (although there has been a hopeful resurgence of the former through the efforts of many). St. Thomas describes this role of the apologist quite well in his Summa:

[The highest science] can dispute with one who denies its principles, if only the opponent will make some concession; but if he concede nothing, it can have no dispute with him, though it can answer his objections.

Hence Sacred Scripture, since it has no science above itself, can dispute with one who denies its principles only if the opponent admits some at least of the truths obtained through divine revelation; thus we can argue with heretics from texts in Holy Writ, and against those who deny one article of faith, we can argue from another. If our opponent believes nothing of divine revelation, there is no longer any means of proving the articles of faith by reasoning, but only of answering his objections—if he has any—against faith. Since faith rests upon infallible truth, and since the contrary of a truth can never be demonstrated, it is clear that the arguments brought against faith cannot be demonstrations, but are difficulties that can be answered. (ST I, q. 1, a. 8)

This description of St. Thomas is quite clear and is based on the supernaturality of Divine Revelation. We cannot give strict demonstrations of matters of faith by appeal to natural reason. Therefore, there can be only two paths whereby we oppose those who come out against the Catholic Faith. First, we can argue from something that they already concede (e.g., we dispute with Jews from the Old Testament; cf. SCG I, c. 2), which is a proper argumentum ad hominem (not to be confused with the fallacy of the same name). Second, we can answer the objections that they have brought against the faith, since, we can be assured, each of these is a “difficulty that can be answered.”

On this second point (which is the more relevant to us here), I would like to draw your attention to another formulation that St. Thomas gives in certain places, which helpfully indicates the scope of his resolution of objections. He speaks of one of the uses of philosophy in theology as being “to resist those who speak against the faith, either by showing that their statements are false, or by showing that they are not necessarily true” (Super Boetium De Trinitate, q. 2, a. 3). In another place he makes a curious admission:

Whatever arguments are alleged against the teachings of faith, they do not rightly proceed from the first self-evident principles instilled by nature. Hence they lack the force of demonstration, and are either probable or sophistical arguments, and consequently it is possible to solve them. (SCG I, c. 7)

These two notes are quite significant in our consideration of these difficult questions, and they converge upon the same point. Broadly speaking, we can distinguish arguments into necessary (demonstrative) and probable (dialectical). For example, while we deny that the Trinity can be demonstrated by natural reason, there is no reason why we could not give various probable arguments for the truth of the Trinity that dispose the person to attend to Divine Revelation.

How does this relate to the role of the apologist? As St. Thomas indicates in the quoted passage of the Summa contra Gentiles, arguments made against truths of faith are either “probable” (i.e., not demonstrative) or “sophistical” (i.e., having some formal or material defect). Neither of these destroys the truth of faith. Therefore, as he indicates in the quoted passage of the Super Boetium De Trinitate, the apologist simply needs to show that these arguments are “not necessarily true,” i.e., that they are not demonstrative.

Here we are able to set out what is minimally necessary in our interaction with such putative errors (whether we ought to do more than this will be treated in another place). Supposing a case has been made for the papacy from Scripture and Tradition, what is minimally necessary in response to these arguments is not to refute them as sophistical (although it is perfectly possible that they are), but at least to oppose them as merely probable and non-necessary arguments that do not destroy the truth of faith.

The Fundamental Error

Before us comes a practical question regarding these putative errors. Which way do we follow? We see that there are at least three approaches:

1. We can demonstrate the truth of what is said from something they concede;

2. We can resolve the objection directly by showing the falsehood of what is said;

3. We can resolve the objection indirectly by showing that the conclusion is “not necessary.”

To highlight better the distinction between the second and third approaches, we can construct a syllogism and consider how we may resolve the argument given in it. An objection may go as follows: Pope Francis spoke error X in a non-definitive context; such an error in a non-definitive context shows that Catholicism is false; therefore, Catholicism is false.

There are three approaches we could follow in responding to the first premise of this argument. First, we can concede the first premise, admitting that Pope Francis spoke an error in such-and-such a context. Second, we can deny the first premise, rejecting the claim that Pope Francis taught an error in such-and-such a context. Third, we can “bypass” the first premise (called “transeat” by scholastic theologians), abstracting from whether Pope Francis did or did not speak an error in such a context.

The first mode of proceeding has various disadvantages in the apologetic encounter. The instances in which we may or may not withhold assent from a non-definitive teaching, while real, are quite limited (as I have discussed elsewhere), and they are not appropriate to raise when speaking with inquirers. The reason for this is that we truly seek to convert this person to the Catholic Faith. If we have already disposed this person to reject the proper obsequium that is due to non-definitive teachings, then we are damaging that person’s capacity to exercise this virtue properly as a Catholic.

The second mode of proceeding also has various disadvantages in the apologetic encounter. The burden of proof is now on the apologist to demonstrate the continuity of such a non-definitive teaching with previous teachings. There are two difficulties that render this “popesplaining” impractical.

First, from the intrinsic complexity of the task. In order to establish the continuity between two texts, we must establish three things: (a) the sense of the non-definitive teaching in the context in which it is spoken, both immediate and remote; (b) the sense of the previous teaching in the context in which it was written, both immediate and remote; and (c) the logical connection between the senses of the two passages. In some cases, this will require historical study of a kind on which specialists in the field spend entire lifetimes merely to establish the sense of one of the statements in its proper context, let alone to establish all three conditions. In the apologetic encounter this is (often) completely impractical, as experience has revealed.

Second, from the condition of the hearer. Often, these considerations require attention, study, freedom from passion and prejudice, strong powers of abstraction, lucidity in the logical process, etc. These traits are absent or dulled in many scholars, let alone the average inquirer. In many cases, even when the hearer is led to conclude that there is no opposition between the two statements, his grounds for such a judgement are weak, and these spurious grounds often expose him to false doctrines and can scandalize him if their weakness is exposed. In other cases, those who do not have these intellectual virtues are emboldened in their opposition to the Church when they cannot grasp the complexity of the explanation that is given.

The third mode of proceeding, in my judgement, is to be favored above all the rest. To “bypass” the first premise is to leave it in suspense on account of its irrelevance to the conclusion. Therefore, we are able to treat the argument in such a way as to abstract from its truth or falsity. The reason that this is an appropriate move is that the force of the syllogism is taken from both the major premise and the minor premise. If either is false, then the entire argument fails. We do not need to reject both premises in order to show the failure of the argument, since its failure is apparent from the destruction of either, abstracting from the truth or falsity of the other.

In this way, we are able to show that it is “not necessary.” The second premise of the argument is to be completely rejected. We can abstract from the truth or falsity of the first premise because the second premise is false.

Often, Catholic apologists believe that their role is to be able to resolve in practice each doubt with which the unbeliever approaches the Church. Yet this is completely impractical in many cases. There are some demons which come out only by prayer and fasting, the merit of which proceeds from faith. To expect certain objections to be resolved without the true faith, prayer, and submission to the pastors of the Church is to expect something that is morally impossible. Yet to show clearly that such objections are “not necessary” is well within the reach of many.

We can diagnose popesplaining as an acceptance of the burden of proof where it is neither necessary, nor profitable. This is the ideological adherence to the second mode of proceeding, despite the damage caused, at the expense of the third mode of proceeding.

A Clarification

The general outlines of the argument I have set out are clear from what I have already said, but it is important to make one note in the practical order. In practical matters, general principles often take account of what happens ordinarily and in the majority of cases, without seeking to lay out the particular conditions that may lead to exceptions. In this case it is no different.

While I have generally indicated my belief that the first and second options laid out above are poor options in the majority of cases, this does not mean that there are no circumstances in which it may be preferable to follow one of them. For example, there are certain cases of clear and obvious calumny against the Pope or the Church which we can easily refute even to a partial audience. In these cases, it is clearly preferable not even to discuss the question of principle, but simply to refute what should be obvious to the audience. In another case, one may understand that the audience he addresses is one that can reason through the case properly and come to understand the continuity that is present.

Conclusion

It is this last case that creates so much of the practical difficulty in the entire project of e-apologetic popesplaining. Surely it will be profitable for the well-disposed to hear these explanations. Yet these same explanations will be harmful to others who are not well disposed, and these are certainly the majority of hearers. To my mind, while I do not disavow each of the explanations I have given in this regard, I do believe that the endeavor was foolish. These disputes should ordinarily have stayed in books and journals rather than being directed towards an ordinary lay audience.

While I remain unconvinced of the case as presented (as admirable of a case as he presented), I do believe that this is a worthwhile case to present to you, the reader.

-Christian B. Wagner

Introduction

My great friend Christian B. Wagner has posted a very interesting article about the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR). He did something really nice in collecting the testimony of a considerable number of neo-Thomists in favour of what they call “principle of sufficient reason”. Sanseverino, Zigliara, Hugon, Gredt, Mancini, Kleutgen, Garrigou-Lagrange and others unquestionably employed the principle, and they did not regard themselves as having thereby abandoned St. Thomas for Leibniz. On the contrary, they commonly distinguished between a false or exaggerated Leibnizian use of the principle and what they took to be its sound Scholastic substance.

Such historical points are absolutely true and correct, but I believe some surrounding questions deserve some clarification. For example, the article claims that “it is important … to consider carefully how the Thomists actually interacted with the PSR.” But the list of authors analysed are nineteenth and twentieth century post-Leibnizian neo-Thomists — which still leaves us the room to see how the more traditional commentators of St. Thomas would have interacted with Leibniz or did in fact interact with him.

Also, the neo-Thomist claim is not merely the harmless assertion that things are intelligible, or that one may speak broadly of a ratio where no proper cause is involved. The claim is considerably stronger. Cause is subordinated to the PSR, which is presented as analytic, per se notum, and ultimately reducible to non-contradiction. And the principle of causality, according to them, is to be derived from the PSR, as says Garrigou:

“From the general principle of sufficient reason derive the principles of efficient causality and finality.” (Garrigou-Lagrange, La Synthèse Thomiste)

Cornelio Fabro adduced several criticisms to such notion of PSR, which, in my understanding, are absolutely correct. Fabro expressly names Descoqs, Maritain and Garrigou-Lagrange as committing such mistakes. His alternative was a return to the properly Thomistic notions of participation and actus essendi.

I. What Is Meant by “Principle of Sufficient Reason”?

Wagner deliberately abstracts from Leibniz’s particular system and asks whether the bare maxim nihil sine ratione sufficiente may be vindicated independently of its later rationalistic accretions — and we will see how we can truly formulate a certain “Thomistic PSR” afterwards.

This abstraction, of course, depends a lot on what sufficient reason actually means.

Buonpensiere’s hierarchy, adopted in the article, may be represented as follows: sufficient reason explains, a principle adds real distinction, a cause adds real dependence. There is something initially plausible in this. Ratio is plainly broader than causa. One may speak of the reason for a definition, a property, a conclusion, a divine volition, or an intelligible distinction where no efficient cause is in question.

Fabro, however, insists upon a distinction which is easily blurred. In his article “Causa”, he characterizes cause by real dependence, whereas ratio belongs to the order of explanation. From the greater logical extension of ratio it does not follow that causality is metaphysically founded upon a universal principle of reason. The move from “ratio includes causa” to “the principle of sufficient reason grounds causality” is not a logical truism. It is a metaphysical thesis, and it must itself be established.

Thus the ambiguity must be faced at once. Does sufficient reason signify merely an intelligible account, or does it signify a real ontological ground? If the former, it does not yet give us causality. If the latter, causal dependence has already entered under another name.

II. Leibniz’s Principle and the Neo-Thomist Reconstruction

Leibniz’s own formulation is more determinate than the one later given by Gredt and Hugon.

In Monadology §§31–38, contradiction and sufficient reason are introduced as distinct first principles of reasoning: “Our reasonings are founded upon two great principles, that of contradiction, by virtue of which we judge that to be false which involves a contradiction, and that of sufficient reason, by virtue of which we consider that there can be found no true or existent fact, or any true assertion, unless there be a sufficient reason why it is thus and not otherwise.”

Gredt’s ratio sufficiens is that whereby something is what it is (Elementa, vol. II, n. 749) — which is already a very bad definition to ground the principle of causality. Hugon similarly extends sufficient reason to quiddity, existence and intelligibility (Cursus, Metaphysica, tract. IV, q. I, art. IV). The definition of what they understand in the principle has therefore shifted. While Leibniz is mainly concerned with why proposition p rather than not-p, the neo-Thomists ask by what is A determinately A. Analytic philosophers also tend to prefer a logical Leibnizian PSR rather than an ontological PSR.

So if neo-Thomists made the concession of language to have a better dialogue with other Philosophies, why does the principle carry a whole different meaning?

III. From Sufficient Reason to Non-Contradiction

Now, no Thomist denies the necessity of the causal principle. Nor does he deny its immediacy. In “Causa” Fabro explicitly treats it as per se notum and distinguishes the modes of perseity.

The dispute concerns the proper subject of the proposition.

St. Thomas gives the decisive true Thomistic formulation in ST I, q. 44, a. 1, ad 1:

“From the fact that something is a being by participation, it follows that it is caused by another.”

For him, therefore, the principle of causality is taken from participation, not from a generic search for sufficient reason. This is where Fabro’s criticism becomes constructive. The necessity of causality is not secured by reducing being to a thin logical concept and then extracting from it a principle of reason. It appears once finite being is grasped in its proper ontological constitution.

IV. The Ambiguity in the Neo-Thomist Proof

The notion of sufficient reason now divides.

If it means simply “that whereby something is determinately actual”, then the principle is incontrovertible. Whatever is actually something must possess that whereby it is actually such a thing.

But nothing extrinsic follows from this. “A is determinately actual” does not by itself entail “there exists an explanatory ground why A is rather than is not”.

If, on the other hand, sufficient reason means an ontological ground which accounts for why this actuality obtains, then the principle is much stronger; yet that stronger sense is no longer contained analytically in non-contradiction and must be further justified.

The Thomistic doctrine of participation avoids the problem because it does not infer dependence from a generic demand for explanation. It discovers dependence in the very mode according to which actuality is possessed.

V. The More Serious Difficulty: Esse Is Not One Determination Among Others

Hugon’s division of sufficient reason into reason of essence, existence and intelligibility appears at first admirably comprehensive.

From an authentically Thomistic perspective, however, the arrangement is already suspect. For St. Thomas, esse is not simply another formal determination ranged alongside essence. It is the act through which essence itself is made actual.

Fabro’s central hermeneutical thesis is precisely that St. Thomas passes beyond the Aristotelian primacy of form by reaching the intensive act of esse, the actus omnium actuum.

Composition, participation and causality consequently converge upon this act. Fabro repeatedly insists that composition, causality and predication receive their ultimate metaphysical unity from esse.

The Neo-Scholastic schema tends to proceed horizontally: essence, existence, and intelligibility. All fall under the common rubric of sufficient determination.

The Thomistic resolution is actually vertical: formal act, actus essendi and esse participatum.

The correct metaphysical question is therefore what does it mean for a finite essence to have esse?

Once that question is posed properly, participation is already before us. And the words of St. Thomas already cited support the conclusion that this is how he truly inferred causality.

If that question is posed properly, participation is already before us. And the words of St. Thomas already cited support the conclusion that this is how he truly inferred causality.

VI. The Classical Thomistic Resolution: Thomas, Capreolus, Cajetan

The traditional commentators of St. Thomas — and this point Fabro misses — also deduce the principle of causality from participation. Capreolus says:

“Everything that is a being by participation is derived from the being by essence, which is God.” [20].

And he argues that participated agents cannot produce esse simpliciter. Finite causes act upon already constituted subjects; God alone, as ens per essentiam, communicates being absolutely.

Cajetan reads the same article within precisely this participation-causality structure:

“Whatever is found in something by participation is caused by that in which it exists by essence.” (In Ia, q. 44, a. 1)

And defining the participatory side:

“A thing, however, is constituted by participation through the contraction of the amplitude of some formal ratio, in whatever manner this occurs.” (ibid.)

What is noteworthy is what these authors do not require. They do not interpose the deduction: “everything has a sufficient reason, therefore the creature’s sufficient reason is extrinsic, therefore cause.”

Their movement is more direct: “esse participatum, therefore dependentia causalis.”

A great example of an analysis on how finite participated being implies the necessity of causal dependence can be seen in Appendix A of another article I wrote regarding the principle “whatever is moved, is moved by another”. Even though it is just a particular case (i.e., motion), it still can serve as reference.

VII. Ratio Is Broader Than Causa—But Not Therefore Deeper

The neo-Thomist hierarchy of “causa, principium, ratio” may be conceded as one of logical extension, but not as one of metaphysical resolution.

To demonstrate the existence of God causa must signify real dependence, ratio need not. That distinction is enough to dissolve the inference.

A concept can be more universal precisely because it contains less determination. Thus the proposition “every cause may furnish a ratio” does not have to entail “causal dependence is metaphysically derived from universal ratio.” We can concede the former, but not necessarily the latter — and St. Thomas never makes such an inference. The latter, in fact, confuses logical inclusion with ontological foundation.

And it is precisely this conversion of causa into ratio which Fabro identifies as characteristic of rationalism.

VIII. Causality Secundum Fieri and Causality Secundum Esse

Wagner’s sharpest claim is that causality concerns becoming, whereas PSR concerns being. Hugon speaks of what “comes to be”; Gredt describes cause as an extrinsic ratio fiendi.

Fabro certainly acknowledges creaturely causality secundum fieri. Predicamental causes produce determinations and changes within an already constituted world.

But this is not the whole of causality. Above predicamental causality stands transcendental causality, whose proper terminus is the creature’s esse. Fabro expressly distinguishes the causal participation involved in creation from the causal order of finite becoming. [28]

Hence his distinction causalitas infinita secundum esse proper to God, and causalitas finita secundum fiere, proper to created agents.

IX. Why Participation Is the Final Formula

Fabro examines a number of traditional formulations of the causal principle: omne quod movetur ab alio movetur; whatever begins requires a cause; potency requires actuality; the contingent requires a cause; the composite requires a composing cause; etc.

Each is valid, but each is limited. Motion is too narrow; beginning excludes the possibility of an eternal creation; contingency does not embrace every being necessary ab alio; composition reaches deeper, especially when it concerns essence and esse.

Participation alone expresses the whole transcendental dependence. Participation includes at once similarity, distinction, and dependence.

The creature really possesses actuality; it is therefore not nothing. But it possesses actuality participative: it is not identical with the act it possesses. Participation expresses the structure; causality the dependence of that same structure upon its source.

No more universal PSR is required over both.

X. The Proper Thomistic Resolution

Fabro’s positive doctrine may now be stated in its own terms.

Metaphysical resolutio does not proceed by passing from causality to sufficient reason and from sufficient reason to contradiction. It proceeds within the real.

From an accidental act, one resolves to substantial form; from form, more profoundly, to actus essendi. All formal acts are ultimately actual through esse, the intensive act which actuates them. Finite ens consequently appears not merely as “something which is,” but as id quod habet esse. The creature has esse; it is not ipsum esse. And from this we can deduce that omne quod movetur ab alio movetur; whatever begins requires a cause; potency requires actuality; the contingent requires a cause; the composite requires a composing cause; etc

God, as Esse per essentiam, is therefore the actuating cause of finite esse per participationem.

This is not a merely alternative route to the same conclusion. It is another conception of metaphysics.

XI. Conclusion

The modern Thomists cited by Wagner need not be dismissed, nor should the expression ratio sufficiens be treated as philosophically unclean. Much of what they intend by it is unobjectionable.

The distinctions, however, must be preserved.

If PSR means “whatever is determinately actual has that whereby it is determinately actual”, it is true, but it is not quite what we need for the proof of God’s existence.

If it means “every contingent actuality must possess a determining explanation why it is this rather than otherwise”, I deny that this follows analytically from non-contradiction.

If ratio sufficiens is employed broadly for formal, logical, final and causal reasons, I agreed quoad extensionem; and deny quoad resolutionem.

And if PSR is proposed as the metaphysical principle from which real causality itself is to be derived, I also deny.

I. Introduction

In the twentieth century, and especially in its latter half, it became fashionable for Catholic philosophers to critique the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR), first set down in explicit form by Leibniz and erected into a demonstrated axiom by Wolff. Simply put, this principle states that there is nothing that is without a sufficient reason. Leibniz and Wolff attached various corollaries to this principle (the interpretation of which is constantly disputed by historians of philosophy, who would be out of a job otherwise), but these corollaries stand outside the principle in its bare form.

According to these Catholic critics, there was a radical shift in Catholic philosophy (and, therefore, theology) with the wide acceptance of this principle — a shift which, in their telling, culminated in many of the intellectual vices of the first half of the twentieth century.

I am neither a philosopher nor a historian of philosophy, yet I am a Thomist who attempts to conform my mind as much as possible to the judgements of the classical authorities of the Thomistic school. Therefore, I believe that it is important for myself and others who hold the same praxis to consider carefully how the Thomists actually interacted with the PSR, and how they justified using language which was novel to philosophy.

In this, what we will see is that, while accepting the principle itself as both true AND traditional (although not in that form of words), they critiqued the use of the principle and the corollaries drawn from it by Leibniz and Wolff. We can leave it to the historians of philosophy to tell us whether these Thomists properly understood Leibniz and Wolff in their corollaries. This does not concern us here.

II. The Two Senses of the Principle

The fact that our acceptance of the Leibnizian invention is to be limited is quite clear in a number of different Thomists. Zigliara states that “this Leibnizian opinion, kept within due limits, ought to be admitted, and, rather than an opinion, it is to be called a proposition per se nota.” (Ontologia, lib. IV, cap. I, art. II) Hugon adds the restriction “as it is accepted by the Scholastics” and “taken in the scholastic sense.” (Metaphysica ontologica, tract. IV, q. I, art. IV) Sanseverino states that Leibniz “exalted [this principle] beyond measure.” (Ontologia, cap. II, art. IV)

Still other authors, while explaining the matter in the same way as the rest of the school, will flatly say that Leibniz’s principle was false — not insofar as the principle of sufficient reason itself is false (which they affirm, prove, and apply), but insofar as Leibniz gave some determination in the treatment of this matter. As an example, Mancini (who will be quoted below) calls the principle of sufficient reason “a doctrine altogether false” in the “Leibnizian sense,” while in the midst of a lengthy treatment explaining the exact sense in which the principle of sufficient reason is true — a principle which appears throughout his works, where he makes use of it (Critica, q. VII, art. 3).

This is something important to remember, so that one does not err in reading the Thomists on this matter. Two things are true and must be kept in mind:

a) The principle of sufficient reason was rejected in the Leibnizian sense (although, occasionally, this is simply referred to as the “principle of sufficient reason,” leading to some confusion). This is the principle with certain definitions and corollaries that were posited by Leibniz and Wolff.

b) The principle of sufficient reason was accepted in the Scholastic sense, which, according to many authors, is truly a principle that “Leibniz took from the ancients” (Sanseverino, Elementa, vol. II, § 63), which they argue has always been present in a more general or less distinct form in Aristotle and the Scholastics, along with philosophers of many schools in their own determinations.

III. Sufficient Reason, Principle, and Cause

For the definition of this principle, the authors begin by distinguishing three terms: cause, principle, and sufficient reason. While these three terms are distinct from one another, they are related as species to genus. For the cause is a type of principle, yet there are principles that are not causes; similarly, the principle is a type of sufficient reason, yet there are sufficient reasons that are not principles. Buonpensiere gives a good treatment of these three concepts:

A sufficient reason is everything that logically explains a fact of agreement or disagreement among various elements or notions... the elements or notions between which some sufficient reason is established are not always really distinct, but are sometimes distinct only by reason; as is plain in the case of God’s immutability and eternity.

A principle is that from which something else... proceeds, in whatever way it may proceed... the elements or things between which the character of principle and of principiatum is found are always really distinct from one another. Nevertheless the principiatum does not always express a relation of dependence upon its principle...

A cause is a principle physically infusing being into something other than itself, which is called the effect... between cause and effect there is not only always a real distinction... there is also always found a true and real dependence of the effect upon its own cause. (Commentaria in Iam Partem Summae Theologicae, q. IV, art. III)

The relationship between these three concepts should be easy to understand. The principle adds to the concept of sufficient reason the real distinction between the two terms; the cause adds to the concept of principle the real dependence of the one term on the other term. From this, we can see more clearly the real state of the question that we are asking with the affirmation of the principle of sufficient reason.

IV. What the Principle Affirms — and What It Does Not

This principle is called “sufficient” insofar as nothing beyond what is posited is demanded in order to constitute it as such. Any attempt to make the “sufficient reason” necessitating is rejected by the Thomists, since this would be false in many cases — e.g., free will, divine liberty, etc.

“Sufficient reason” in the Leibnizian sense is a doctrine altogether false. For he understands under “sufficient reason” a certain necessary and ineluctable determination, in all causes, toward producing determinate effects. And this notion, if it be taken universally, destroys from the foundations the very nature of liberty: both in God, since he would do all things by necessity, and in creatures, since liberty, as we shall see in Metaphysics, necessarily requires indifference both on the side of the subject and on the side of the object. (Mancini, Critica, q. VII, art. 3)

Thomists commonly give a distinction between three aspects in which we accept the principle of sufficient reason: “the reason of the thing in essence, the reason of the thing in existence, the reason of the thing in knowability.” (Hugon, Metaphysica ontologica, tract. IV, q. I, art. IV)

a) In the first case, nothing beyond the reason is demanded in order to constitute the thing in its essence;

b) In the second case, nothing beyond the reason is demanded in order to constitute the thing in its existence;

c) In the third case, nothing beyond the reason is demanded in order to constitute something as knowable.

When we ask “whether the principle of sufficient reason is universal,” we are not asking whether all things whatsoever have causes or principles; nor are we asking whether all things whatsoever are necessitated by some reason; rather, we are asking whether, in order for something to exist, there needs to be some reason sufficient to explain why it exists rather than does not exist. Any other corollary drawn by Leibniz or Wolff can be denied without rejecting the principle itself.

V. The Proof of the Principle

The proof of this principle of sufficient reason is relatively simple. It must be noted that the principle of sufficient reason is an immediate analytic judgement, something that is per se nota — Gredt (Elementa philosophiae, vol. II, thesis XXIII) says it is “per se notum omnibus,” self-evident to all, and Zigliara that it is “rather than an opinion... a proposition per se nota.” (Ontologia, lib. IV, cap. I, art. II) It follows from this that the principle of sufficient reason cannot be demonstrated a priori in the proper sense, but can only be vindicated by a reduction to the principle of non-contradiction, by an analysis of the terms, or by a reductio ad absurdum.

Zigliara proves it thus: “in order that something exist, and exist in this way or in that, there is required something by which it is determined both as to its existing and as to its mode of existing, whether that something lie in the nature of the existing thing or in the cause from which the thing exists.” (Ontologia, lib. IV, cap. I, art. II) Gredt says something similar: “the sufficient reason is that whereby something is what it is... that whereby it is sufficiently determined to be what it is... But whatever is, whether existent or merely possible, has at least in itself and through itself that whereby it is what it is.” (Elementa philosophiae, vol. II, thesis XXIII) Hugon gives a fuller proof:

The sufficient reason is that which being given, the thing is determined in its quiddity, or existence, or intelligibility. Now nothing can be without that by which it is determined in essence, existence, or intelligibility; for an indeterminate essence is nothing in the order of essence, nor an indeterminate existence in the order of existence, nor an indeterminate intelligibility in the order of intelligibility. Therefore nothing can be without a sufficient reason....

Common sense evidently pronounces that a thing which does not have what suffices for being, in fact is not; that a thing which does not have what suffices for its being understood, in fact is not understood. If there is no reason by which the being of a thing is distinguished from non-being, or by which intelligibility is distinguished from non-intelligibility, then the thing will with equal right be called non-being, or non-intelligible. Therefore whatever is (whether under the aspect of quiddity, or of existence, or of intelligibility) has a sufficient reason. (Metaphysica ontologica, tract. IV, q. I, art. IV)

Sanseverino gave two other arguments from the fact of God’s creation of the world:

First, it is certain that God did not found this world without some reason. For, since the creation of the world is not a necessary but a free work of God, there had to be something through which God determined himself to create the world. But that through which God determined himself to create the world is the sufficient reason on account of which the world exists. Therefore the world does not exist without a sufficient reason. Secondly, it is also certain that all the things of which the world is compounded are connected among themselves; otherwise the unity of the world could not have been effected by them. Now this connection of mundane things shows that God did not give to the individual natures of things their definite modes of existing without particular reasons, since to effect that connection it is required that each and every nature have that mode of existing which answers to the place it occupies and to the offices it must discharge in the world. But that by which a thing is determined to existing in a definite way is the sufficient reason why it exists. Therefore, besides the sufficient reason of the existence of the world, there must be sufficient reasons of the existence of the individual things of which the world consists. Wherefore it is to be held as certain that nothing exists without some sufficient reason. (Elementa, vol. II, § 63)

These arguments are repeated by many scholastic philosophers.

VI. Universal in the Strict Sense: God and Creatures, Necessary and Contingent

From these arguments, Zigliara and others draw, as a corollary, the perfection of the principle of sufficient reason. While the principle of causality has a limitation to things that exist from another (i.e., effects), the principle of sufficient reason is something that applies to all things, both created and uncreated, temporal and eternal, God and creature. Therefore, the restriction that is offered by Leibniz and others of this principle to merely contingent things is false. From this, it follows that all things, both necessary and contingent, can be resolved into a sufficient reason (even while this may not appear to us).

Ironically, one of the points for which the Thomists critiqued the Leibnizians was precisely their restriction of the principle of sufficient reason to contingent truths alone. The scholastics held that the principle of sufficient reason held not only for contingent and necessary being, but even for intentional and possible being as well. Equally ironic (as Kleutgen points out) is the fact that if we were to state the principle of sufficient reason for contingents only, then we would be merely stating the principle of causality — which is obviously present in the Scholastics in a much clearer form: “with this restriction, it says only what the ancients expressed, if not with more exactness, at least with more clarity, by the well-known axiom: Non est effectus sine causa.” (Die Philosophie der Vorzeit vertheidigt, n. 292) The Thomists held that the principle of sufficient reason applied to all truths, both contingent and necessary:

Leibniz narrowed the principle of sufficient reason to contingent truths. Upon two great principles, according to him, our reasonings are built: the first, for necessary truths, is the principle of contradiction, in virtue of which the essential predicates belong to a thing; the other, for contingent truths, is the principle of sufficient reason, in virtue of which predicates outside the essence belong to a thing. (Hugon, Metaphysica ontologica, tract. IV, q. I, art. IV)

VII. Sufficient Reason and Causality Are Not the Same Principle

Commonly, texts from St. Thomas (e.g., Summa contra Gentiles I, cc. 86–87) will be cited in favor of this extension, where the Angelic Doctor distinguishes, in God’s willing of creatures, between God’s will having a cause (which it does not have) and God’s will having a reason (which it does have). From this, they critique those who would collapse and identify the principle of causality and the principle of sufficient reason into a single principle. Further, they also cite the distinction given by the scholastics when treating the demonstration propter quid, where the scholastics deny that a true and proper cause is required for a demonstration propter quid: it is sufficient to give the reason of the thing. It is in this latter way that Kleutgen and others argue for the antiquity of the principle of sufficient reason.

While some attempted to identify the principle of sufficient reason and the principle of causality, this is rejected by the Thomists. This is clear from what was said above. A cause implies real distinction and real dependence between the principle and the effect. Yet not everything that exists verifies this (e.g., the divine processions concern the persons as principle without being cause, due to the lack of real dependence). Therefore, while the principle of sufficient reason is universal and applies to all things, the principle of causality has a restricted acceptation. Further, while the principle of causality is true of a thing in its becoming (since cause regards such a state), which is restricted, the principle of sufficient reason is true of a thing in its being, which is universal.

The principle of sufficient reason extends to every being, and touches essence, existence, intelligibility; the principle of causality, however, regards not every being, but contingent existence. Wherefore every cause is a sufficient reason, but not every sufficient reason is a cause. The difference between the two principles appears from the manner in which each is expressed. In the principle of sufficient reason the subject (everything that is) extends more widely than in the principle of causality (everything that comes to be or begins); the predicate, to have a reason, is likewise wider than to have a cause. God is to Himself His sufficient reason, but He is not to Himself a cause. (Hugon, Metaphysica ontologica, tract. IV, q. I, art. IV)

For this reason, if “sufficient reason” were meant to indicate something really distinct from that of which it is the sufficient reason, then the principle would be manifestly false (e.g., in the case of the sufficient reason of the Divine attributes). Therefore, Gredt distinguishes between two kinds of sufficient reason: the intrinsic sufficient reason and the extrinsic sufficient reason: “there is an intrinsic sufficient reason, of being (essendi), and an extrinsic sufficient reason, of becoming (fiendi). A cause is an extrinsic sufficient reason, of becoming, really distinct from the effect.” (Elementa philosophiae, vol. II, thesis XXIII) When we consider something in its becoming, there is an extrinsic sufficient reason (i.e., the cause; cf. Garrigou-Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, n. 24), which allows us to apply the principle of causality to all things that become. When we consider something in its being, there is either an intrinsic sufficient reason or an extrinsic sufficient reason; therefore, the principle can apply to all things that are, including God.

The principle contains both of these kinds of sufficient reason in a confused manner, allowing for its universality. In order to understand the principle in its full force, we can use the formulation of Fr. Garrigou-Lagrange: “Every being has a sufficient reason, either in itself or in some other being, for being what it is; in itself, if what constitutes it as such belongs to it by its very nature; in another, if what is attributed to it does not belong to it by its very nature.” (God: His Existence and His Nature, n. 24)

VIII. The Principle and the Free Will

On another point, the scholastics critique those who would wrongly apply the principle of sufficient reason to the will. The will, in order to be free, has objective indifference to a multiplicity of goods set before it, and not merely the freedom from coaction that certain heretics tried to apply to the will. Therefore, if we were to apply the principle of sufficient reason to the objective order (as if the goodness of the object itself were a necessitating reason explaining how the will acted in such and such a way), then we would be in error; for, while the goodness of the object is sufficient to explain the motion of the will in the objective line, since the will has objective indifference to finite goods, such goodness is not necessitating. Yet, as long as we reject this — holding that the sufficient reason for the motion of the will towards its object is found in the choice of the will in the efficient line, and in a non-necessitating manner in the objective line — then we hold to the truth of the matter and the truth of the principle:

If the principle of sufficient reason is taken objectively, in relation to the free will, it does not possess truth; and on this side the doctrine of Leibniz is immoderate and false. For the reason by which the free will determines itself to the exercise of its act is not the object, but its own choice, elicited by the will itself. Hence whenever the will chooses, there is indeed some sufficient reason, both objective and subjective; but this sufficient reason, objectively considered, is not a principle necessarily determinative of the will’s election. (Zigliara, Ontologia, lib. IV, cap. I, art. II)

Mattiussi puts the same resolution in a formula: “What is lacking is the sufficient reason of a necessary act, as the determinists would have it... What is not lacking is the sufficient reason of a free act.” For more about this, cf. Mattiussi, Le XXIV tesi della filosofia di S. Tommaso d’Aquino approvate dalla S. Congregazione degli Studi, cap. XII; Garrigou-Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, n. 61, where the relations between free will and the absolutely necessary principles of reason and being are treated at length.

NOTE. I realized upon completing this article that I completely forgot one of the critiques commonly given by Thomists against the Leibnizian articulation of the PSR. They accused Leibniz and Wolff of making the sufficient reason into a necessitating reason, which overthrew the order of truly free and contingent causes. This is related to this section on the freedom of the will and was often treated in conjunction with refutations of their optimism.

IX. Not the Absolutely First Principle

As Hugon indicates in the passage quoted in section VI, Leibniz’s invocation of the principle was to set up two first principles: one for necessary things (the principle of non-contradiction) and another for contingent things (the principle of sufficient reason). This leads us to the next point of critique by the Thomists. They rejected that the principle of sufficient reason could be called the absolutely first principle in any line, whether of necessary things or of contingent things. The principle of sufficient reason itself resolves into the principle of non-contradiction, which precludes it from being the absolutely first principle in any sense.

Leibniz said that, just as the principle of contradiction is the first principle of human knowledge with respect to purely necessary truths, so it was necessary to admit for contingent truths another first principle, granting this prerogative to the principle called of sufficient reason, which is usually expressed by this formula: nothing exists without a sufficient reason. From this he inferred that experimental propositions known by induction, and synthetic judgments into which the element of experience enters, rest upon the principle of sufficient reason, in the same way that analytic judgments... recognize as their basis the principle of contradiction. This assertion of Leibniz is absolutely untenable at bottom, and contains at the very least much inaccuracy and confusion of ideas. (González, Estudios sobre la filosofía de Santo Tomás, cap. X)

As noted by González, Mancini, and others, the Leibnizian error here seems to stem from a basic confusion. First, when we speak of synthetic judgements, we can refer either to particular facts (e.g., “I write”) or to universal judgements (e.g., “every planet receives its light from the sun”). In the former case, it is obviously absurd even to pretend that the principle of sufficient reason is a necessary presupposition for this sort of knowledge. Rather, such particular synthetic judgements are directly resolved into experience.

In the latter case, it is clearly the fact that such judgements do presuppose some affirmation of the principle of sufficient reason, so as to universalize what is simply known by induction. Otherwise, induction would always proceed fallaciously, insofar as the judgement would be nobler than the evidence (a universal judgement coming from the mere enumeration of particulars). Yet, with the influence of a universal analytic judgement, we are able to draw forth a universal judgement from induction:

Since the universality of a judgment cannot be procured by the mere enumeration of cases (for this is always particular and confined to determinate individuals), we must say that an analytic principle comes to its aid — a principle which, including absolute universality, communicates universality to certain experimental judgments that have been extended by observation. And that recourse must be had to this is quite evident. For if the effect cannot exceed the cause, the universality of a judgment can never proceed from singulars, but must proceed from something universal; and what is universal of itself can only be some analytic judgment. (Liberatore, Metaphysica generalis, cap. IV, art. I)

If we speak not of contingent truths generally, but of those which are raised to universality by induction, we freely confess that in a certain sense they do rest, at least indirectly, on the principle of sufficient reason. (ibid., art. II)

Yet there is a problem here. To be an absolutely first principle, it is not sufficient that something merely depend upon another in some way for knowledge. Therefore, while there is some truth to this matter (the principle of sufficient reason is of prime importance in universal synthetic judgements), it is not entirely true (insofar as this does not make the principle a first principle).

Introduction

In the apologetic sphere, Jay Dyer has become quite infamous for his frequent references to “Thomistic Epistemology” when confronted on a variety of seemingly unrelated issues. The claim is made that Thomistic philosophy has no equipment to justify its own first principles.

In order to disarm this objection against Thomism, it is important to properly locate where the Thomistic solution is to be found.

No Science Demonstrates Its Own Principles

According to the Aristotelian-Scholastic tradition, no science demonstrates the first principles from which it draws its conclusions. Each of the sciences does not defend its own first principles, but presupposes them. The reason for this is simple. If a science demonstrates in virtue of its principles. Therefore, if a science demonstrated its first principles, then it would either demonstrate it by the first principle or some principle derived from the first principle. In either case, there would be circularity.

In the beginning of the Physics, Aristotle sets this out clearly, stating that natural philosophy does not dispute with those who deny motion, since the entire science is a study of mobile being. Rather, natural philosophy’s first principles are left to a higher science to defend for it.

Now to investigate whether Being is one and motionless is not a contribution to the science of Nature. For just as the geometer has nothing more to say to one who denies the principles of his science—this being a question for a different science, or for one common to all—so a man investigating principles cannot argue with one who denies their existence... We physicists must take for granted that the things that exist by nature are, either all or some of them, in motion, which is indeed made plain by induction... No man of science is bound to solve every kind of difficulty that may be raised, but only as many as are drawn falsely from the principles of the science: it is not our business to refute those that do not arise in this way—just as it is the duty of the geometer to refute the squaring of the circle by means of segments, but it is not his duty to refute Antiphon’s proof. (Aristotle, Physics I, c. 2)

The question then arises: what about the ultimately first principles? While natural philosophy’s principles are subordinated to a higher science, the ultimate first principles have no higher science to draw from. So what are we to do in this case?

Metaphysics Defends What the Other Sciences Presuppose

Here, the Aristotelian-Scholastic tradition answers that the highest science is unique. Whereas the lower sciences leave the defense of their principles to higher sciences, the highest science is equipped to defend its own principles, although not to (strictly) demonstrate them. Therefore, the treatment of the ultimately first principles is left to the science of Metaphysics, which is the science that studies being as being.

Evidently the inquiry into these also belongs to one science... for these truths hold good for everything that is, and not for some special genus apart from others. And all men use them, for they are true of being qua being, and each genus has being. But men use them just so far as to satisfy their purposes—that is, as far as the genus whose attributes they are proving extends. Therefore, since these truths clearly hold good for all things qua being (for this is what is common to them), he who studies being qua being [i.e., the Metaphysician] will inquire into them too. (Aristotle, Metaphysics IV, c. 3)

It is to be borne in mind, in regard to the philosophical sciences, that the inferior sciences neither prove their principles nor dispute with those who deny them, but leave this to a higher science; whereas the highest of them, namely metaphysics, can dispute with one who denies its principles... (St. Thomas, Summa theologiae I, q. 1, a. 8)

For the other sciences, while they use this first principle, they do not use it in its universal or unrestricted sense. Rather, they use it only insofar as it touches the object of their own science. In that sense, while Metaphysics treats it in an unrestricted and universal sense, the other sciences treat it in a restricted and particular sense:

Although the other sciences use the first principles, they do not use them in their universality, but only in a contracted way. For the geometer does not say, without qualification, that it is impossible for the same thing at once to be and not be, but that it is impossible for a line to be commensurate with another and not commensurate. And the arithmetician, that it is impossible for the same number to be even and not even. (Soncinas, Quaestiones metaphysicales acutissimae, lib. IV, q. 31)

Since the first principle must in some way touch all things, the one studying the most universal science is the one whose task it is to study this problem. Now, the most universal concept is being, since everything is insofar as it exists. Hence, Aristotle explicitly treats this problem against the ancient skeptics in Book IV of the Metaphysics, since Metaphysics studies being as being. For this reason, the classical expositions of this problem are found in the traditional commentaries on Aristotle’s Metaphysics—especially the commentary of St. Thomas on these chapters.

It is for this reason that Metaphysics has a double character. Not only is Metaphysics the highest natural science, since it studies the most universal object in its most abstract degree (being as being), it is also the highest natural wisdom, insofar as it is able to contemplate and defend its own principles and conclusions in light of these principles. For, whereas science seeks to draw conclusions, wisdom seeks to contemplate these principles and the conclusions in light of them:

Wisdom makes use of indemonstrable principles of which there is understanding, not only by drawing conclusions from them, as other sciences do, but also by passing its judgment on them, and by vindicating them against those who deny them. Hence it follows that wisdom is a greater virtue than understanding. (St. Thomas, Summa theologiae I-II, q. 66, a. 5, ad 4)

Owing to the universality of the principles from which it proceeds, wisdom has also the property of reflecting upon principles; it reflects both upon its own principles and upon those of the other sciences, not in such a way as to prove them, but in such a way as to explain and defend them. Wisdom is said to include understanding as well as science because it extends even to the principles whose habitus is called understanding. (The Material Logic of John of St. Thomas, p. 509)

Metaphysics... is wisdom without qualification, as the supreme science of the whole natural order; as such it judges concerning the principles of all the sciences of this order: it explains and defends these principles. This belongs to Metaphysics because its object, in its transcendental universality, embraces under itself the objects of all the other sciences. (Gredt, Elementa philosophiae aristotelico-thomisticae, vol. II, n. 615)

While later philosophers treat this question in their treatments of logic (calling it “major logic” or “criteriology”), the traditional treatment of this question comes under the science of Metaphysics, being called “Defensive Metaphysics” as distinguished from the treatment of being as being, which was called “Ostensive Metaphysics.” Many Thomists of the twentieth century pushed back against this shift in the treatment of the first principle to logic.

Answering the Objector

The objector to “Thomistic Epistemology” would do well to reflect upon these considerations. It is true that, if every science as a whole merely presupposed its principles, then the entire edifice would rest upon a presupposition without any ultimate defense. Yet this is not what we are positing. We posit that every particular science presupposes its principles and relies on a higher science for their defense. This is not a reduction to infinity, because we do hold that there is a science that does not treat being only in a particular mode, but universal being as such—namely, Metaphysics. We concede that even this science does not demonstrate, in the strict sense, its principles (and hence the ultimately first principle), but we deny that this science offers no defense whatsoever of its own principles—and, therefore, of the principles of all the lesser sciences.

This is the role of Defensive Metaphysics, which is not something that was absent from the tradition, but was always present in the tradition’s treatment of Metaphysics, long before Kant or Descartes ever arose to posit their own understanding of these matters.

When these authors treat the first principles, they ask three important questions:

1. What is the absolutely first principle?

2. How are these principles acquired?

3. How are these principles defended?

What Is the First Principle?

In order to commence our investigation of what the first principle is, it is necessary for us to inquire into the meaning of a “first principle.” Like in any investigation, we must inquire after the meaning of terms that is set forth in its nominal definition. There are many principles in each of the sciences from which we draw forth conclusions—what does it mean for a principle (or principles) to be “first”?

The tradition, following Aristotle, lists three conditions a principle must meet in order to be first:

• (a) It has to be universally known, so that nobody can make an error about it or fail to know it, since it must be necessary to have any knowledge at all.

• (b) It is not merely held on supposition or by common agreement, but truly and absolutely held by all, since what is dependent on supposition or common agreement is dependent on something else, and hence not truly first.

• (c) It cannot be acquired by demonstration properly so called, but is natural, because if it were acquired by some demonstration, then whatever principles that demonstration relies on would be prior to it.

As Zigliara points out, these conditions laid out by Aristotle coincide with three conditions that are commonly given by modern philosophers: (a) that it rest on no other principle; (b) that with its removal all other principles collapse; (c) that its admission implies the other principles. (Zigliara, Critica, lib. II, cap. II, a. II)

These three conditions, naturally flowing from the concept of the first principle, are what set us up to identify the first principle, describe how it is acquired, and, lastly, define how it may or may not be defended.

According to the tradition, there is one principle to which this applies: that it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be at the same time and in the same respect, which is referred to as the “principle of non-contradiction.” This is something that is universally held. The man who affirms anything, by that very affirmation, is excluding the corresponding denial of that affirmation at the same time and in the same respect. If someone affirms “John is tall,” he is, by that very affirmation, excluding the proposition that “John is not tall” if taken at the same time and in the same respect. It is not even possible to think the opposite of this principle, since the very intellectual affirmations rely on it. Those who denied this principle (e.g., Heraclitus) did so merely externally, without their external affirmations conforming to what they truly thought.

Further, this is not a principle that is held on supposition or by common agreement, since the very idea of supposing or commonly agreeing would itself rely on this principle. This follows upon the universality of this principle described above.

Lastly, this is not something acquired by demonstration, since demonstration itself relies on this principle. This is important to highlight. While the objector to “Thomistic Epistemology” critiques it on the grounds that it cannot demonstrate, in the strict sense, the first principle, this is an incoherent objection. It is incoherent both to concede that there are first principles and to demand proof of the first principle, since any such proof would implicitly concede that the principle in question is not really first, but itself relies on prior principles. Those prior principles, in turn, would either rely on further principles for their demonstration (leading to an infinite regress) or would have to be defended in some other way—which is to concede our position.

The Metaphysical and Logical Formulations

Here we should make a quick note. There is both a metaphysical and a logical formulation of the first principle. Metaphysics concerns itself with being as such, whereas logic concerns itself with something called “second intentions.” The former is directly concerned with reality, whereas the latter is indirectly concerned with reality, through logical intentions that exist only in the intellect. Therefore, we can state the “law of non-contradiction” either in a metaphysical mode about being (”it is impossible for a thing to be and not to be,” etc.) or in a logical mode about our intentions concerning being (”it is impossible to affirm and deny,” etc.). The former is about being as such; the latter is about our affirmations about being. Clearly, being is prior to our affirmation about being, and our apprehension of it is prior to our affirmations and negations concerning it. It follows, therefore, that the logical form of the first principle follows upon the metaphysical form, and not the other way around.

Since the operation of the intellect is twofold... in the first operation there is something first which falls in the conception of the intellect, namely that which I call being... And because this principle... depends on the understanding of being... this principle is therefore naturally first in the second operation of the intellect [that of composing and dividing]. (St. Thomas, In IV Metaphysicorum, lect. 6, n. 605)

As Goudin points out, Descartes’s formulation of the first principle (”I think, therefore I am”) is false insofar as it is not absolutely first. (Goudin, Philosophia Thomistica, vol. IV, pt. IV, disp. I, q. 1, a. 1) This formulation supposes that to be (”I am”) and not to be (”I am not”) are not the same, and are contraries repugnant to the same affirmation. This enthymeme supposes the law of non-contradiction as a minor premise—the medium of demonstration. Now, that which demonstrates is prior to that which is demonstrated. Therefore, the law of non-contradiction is prior to the Cartesian first principle.

How Is the First Principle Acquired?

Now that we have identified this principle, we can inquire into how it is acquired. The entire Scholastic tradition understands that our intellectual knowledge begins somehow in the senses. Since we are embodied souls, the mode of knowledge connatural to us is through the senses. Are the senses, then, proper causes of this principle of understanding? Soncinas explains:

The knowledge of the first principle... does not depend on any sensitive knowledge as on a cause contributing something to the being of this knowledge... Yet it is necessary, while the intellect forms the first principle, that some knowledge be actually in the imagination or the cogitative power, so that sensitive knowledge is its cause sine qua non. (Soncinas, Quaestiones metaphysicales, lib. IV, q. 32)

While the senses originate this understanding of the first principle, the very evidence for it does not come from the senses, but from the apprehension of the terms by the intellect under the natural light of reason. The reason is simple: if the senses provided the evidence for the first principle, then the first principle would not be first, but would stand as a conclusion drawn from the senses. Sense knowledge, therefore, is a mere condition for the apprehension of the terms in which we have immediate evidence under the light of natural reason. Further, in that case, the greater would come from the lesser—more certain knowledge from less certain knowledge—which would be repugnant.

In order to give a full account of the beginning of the understanding of the first principle, we must state both the condition for such knowledge (i.e., sense knowledge) and its true and proper cause (i.e., the illumination of the agent intellect apprehending immediately the evidence presented):

The third condition is that it is not acquired by demonstration or by any similar method, but comes, in a sense, by nature to the one having it, inasmuch as it is naturally known and not acquired. For first principles become known through the natural light of the agent intellect, and they are not acquired by any process of reasoning, but by having their terms become known. This comes about by reason of the fact that memory is derived from sensible things, experience from memory, and knowledge of those terms from experience. And when they are known, common propositions of this kind, which are the principles of the arts and sciences, become known. (St. Thomas, In IV Metaphysicorum, lect. 6, n. 599)

But someone could believe that sense alone, or the mere remembrance of singulars, is sufficient to cause intellectual knowledge of principles, as some of the ancients supposed, who did not discriminate between sense and intellect. Therefore, to exclude this, the Philosopher adds that along with sense it is necessary to presuppose such a nature of mind as can not only suffer this—that is, be susceptible of universal knowledge, which indeed comes to pass in virtue of the possible intellect—but can also cause this, in virtue of the agent intellect, which makes things intelligible in act by abstraction of universals from singulars. (St. Thomas, In II Posteriorum Analyticorum, lect. 20, n. 593)

The general outlines of this solution are proposed in common by all the schools, yet there is slight disagreement about a single detail: the role of the senses. Both agree that the immediate evidence for the first principle lies in the apprehension of the terms under the light of the agent intellect. Both agree that the connatural mode in which this knowledge originates is in the senses. Yet the Scotists—following Bl. Scotus—rather than holding that sense knowledge is a necessary condition for such knowledge, argue that the senses are its mere occasion. (Scotus, Ordinatio I, d. 3, pars 1, q. 4) This difference is subtle and should not detain us here, but is important to note.

It is important to note these points with sufficient detail in order to refute those who accuse the Thomistic account of epistemology of being powerless against those who systematically deny the reliability of the senses. Even if, in argumentum, we conceded that sense data was unreliable, it would not matter, because the evidence for the first principle does not come from the sense data as such, but from the apprehension of terms that merely supposes the senses originatively. Even if our senses were completely unreliable, our intellect would still sufficiently apprehend the evidence for the first principle under the light of the agent intellect, and would still be able to form the habit of understanding.

The principle of non-contradiction is a principle about being. Therefore, we acquire it in the way that we are able to come to understand being. We interact with being through the senses, and our intellect is then able to understand things in this way, abstracting from the impressions of the senses. Therefore, we hold that the evidence for this principle comes to us immediately by our apprehension of being, which begins in the senses according to its connatural mode. Whereas the knowledge of other things may come by reasoning from premise to conclusion, the evidence for this principle is immediate, and comes to us by a direct apprehension of being. Hence, the apprehension of being (in the first operation of the intellect) precedes and necessarily induces the first principle (in the second operation of the intellect), which judges that what is apprehended is not what is not apprehended. This is not as a second intention (which would be the logical formulation mentioned above), but as a direct apprehension of being, and therefore as a metaphysical principle. This follows from what was said above: the first principle must be natural rather than demonstrated, and it must be about being, since the first principle must be the most universal, and being is the most universal thing—the object of all thinking and of every proposition:

That which, before aught else, falls under apprehension, is being, the notion of which is included in all things whatsoever a man apprehends. Wherefore the first indemonstrable principle is that the same thing cannot be affirmed and denied at the same time, which is based on the notion of being and not-being; and on this principle all others are based... (St. Thomas, Summa theologiae I-II, q. 94, a. 2)

The origin of this principle, as we have stated many times, comes through the objective apprehension that is natural to the process of intellection. While other principles may come by demonstration, and be seen in light of higher principles, the sole criterion for the first principle is the immediate evidence inherent in intellection. This process terminates in what the tradition calls “understanding,” which is the habit of first principles. Understanding apprehends the first principles; wisdom explains, contemplates, and defends them; science draws necessary conclusions from them. If one mixes any of these together, one falls into grave error—just as the man who demands a strict demonstration of the first principles (a function of science), when he should really be asking for their explanation and defense (a function of wisdom). If a man seeks evidence for the first principle either in wisdom or in science, he errs, since the immediate evidence for it comes by way of understanding.

How Is the First Principle Defended?

All of this is simply preliminary to our last consideration. This principle is accepted by all and comes to us naturally—but how is it defended? It is clear that it cannot be demonstrated strictly, since any demonstration would assume the very principle it seeks to demonstrate. This would be an instance of begging the question. From this fact, many skeptics have concluded that the principle is without evidence or defense. This is the wrong conclusion to draw. As Aristotle teaches, this is a desire that proceeds from a lack of education:

Some indeed demand that even this shall be demonstrated, but this they do through want of education, for not to know of what things one should demand demonstration, and of what one should not, argues want of education. For it is impossible that there should be demonstration of absolutely everything (there would be an infinite regress, so that there would still be no demonstration); but if there are things of which one should not demand demonstration, these persons could not say what principle they maintain to be more self-evident than the present one. (Aristotle, Metaphysics IV, c. 4)

We have already indicated where the objective evidence for this principle comes from: the very understanding of being that begins in the senses.

Yet the second half of the question is properly considered here. How are we to defend the first principle? Obviously not through any sort of direct argument or demonstration, since this would assume what it seeks to prove. How, then? The Aristotelian-Scholastic tradition answers that there are three ways to defend this principle indirectly: an “expository” manifestation, a reduction to absurdity, and a solution of objections.

In this way, Metaphysics also differs from the lower sciences. The lower sciences presuppose and “take” their first principles from higher sciences (although, as stated above, only in a restricted sense); Metaphysics, on the other hand, is able truly to defend the absolutely first principle, and to give this first principle to the lesser sciences for their use:

The first philosopher considers the first principles not only by presupposing them, as the particular sciences do, but also by demonstrating. Yet it is not thereby required that he demonstrate them simpliciter; it suffices that he demonstrate the errors concerning them, arguing from things less known and conceded by the adversary, and by clarifying the terms—which does not belong to the particular sciences. (Dominic of Flanders, In XII libros Metaphysicae Aristotelis quaestiones, lib. IV, q. VI, a. 1, ad 3)

First Mode: The Expository Manifestation

First, there is the expository manifestation, where the truth of the principle is shown by an explanation of its terms (called “imperfect illation”), described as an “analysis and explanation of terms.”

This first defense follows from what was explained above about the first principles forming a habit called “understanding.” If we truly gather the first principles from our ordinary process of intellection, and immediately have evidence of them in our very apprehension of being—forming a habit from this process—then it follows that we are able to defend these first principles by a simple explanation of the terms in the proposition. If these terms are explained in such a way as to show that the subject and predicate are identical, then it follows necessarily that the affirmation is true; the same applies to negation, but in the opposite direction.

As St. Albert the Great says, “everyone who knows what affirmation is and what negation is, knows that of anything whatever the affirmation or the negation is true.” (St. Albert the Great, In I Posteriorum Analyticorum, tr. II, c. 6) It is called an “expository syllogism” because we are simply explaining and unfolding what is already explicitly contained in the terms of the proposition, rather than exercising demonstration. This, therefore, does not violate the principle that the first principle is indemonstrable, but it does provide a defense of it.

The reason for this is that the terms of the first principle are self-evident and universal. Therefore, in order to defend them, one merely needs to manifest the connection between the subject and predicate by explanation:

If the self-evident proposition is considered in positive fashion, it is defined as “a proposition known by reason of the terms themselves, or by the explanation of the terms.”... A proposition is self-evident in itself when there is immediate connection in the object, and it is self-evident to us when this connection is manifested and explained by terms of such a nature that, without discourse and by the mere understanding of the terms, we come to know the connection. (The Material Logic of John of St. Thomas, pp. 461–464)

Second Mode: The Reduction to Absurdity

Second, there is the reduction to absurdity, where the truth of the principle is shown by drawing out the consequences of its denial. Any man we speak to who affirms or denies anything—even affirmations or denials about the first principle itself—affirms the first principle, even implicitly. Therefore, we can reduce such a denial of the first principle to absurdity. What are we to do if he refuses to affirm or deny anything at all? Aristotle says that such a man is no better than a vegetable:

We can, however, demonstrate negatively even that this view is impossible, if our opponent will only say something; and if he says nothing, it is absurd to seek to give an account of our views to one who cannot give an account of anything, in so far as he refuses to do so; for such a man, as such, is from the start no better than a vegetable. (Aristotle, Metaphysics IV, c. 4)

If he says nothing, it is ridiculous to look for a reason against one who does not make use of reason in speaking, for in this dispute anyone who signifies nothing will be like a plant, for even brute animals signify something by such signs. (St. Thomas, In IV Metaphysicorum, lect. 6, n. 608)

According to Avicenna, the man who denies the first principle should be beaten and burned until he admits that it is something different to be beaten than to be not-beaten and burned than to be not-burned. There is a remedial function of these various arguments, which are meant to induce the intellect of the hearer to consider the absurdity of his denial of the first principle.

This is not a begging of the question, because we do not begin with the demand that such a person affirm or deny anything, but with the fact that he does affirm or deny something, even if it merely concerns the first principle. In fact, the very demand itself places the burden of proof on the one making it, since the demand is itself an act of reason, which already implies the first principle.

The starting-point for all such arguments is not the demand that our opponent shall say that something either is or is not (for this one might perhaps take to be a begging of the question), but that he shall say something which is significant both for himself and for another; for this is necessary, if he really is to say anything... The person responsible for the proof, however, is not he who demonstrates but he who listens; for while disowning reason he listens to reason. (Aristotle, Metaphysics IV, c. 4)

In other words, when a process of this kind, from a less well-known to a better-known principle, is employed for the sake of convincing another man who denies this, there will then be disproof or refutation, but not demonstration—that is, it will be possible to have a syllogism which contradicts his view, since what is less known absolutely is admitted by the opponent, and thus it will be possible to proceed to demonstrate the above-mentioned principle so far as the man is concerned, but not in the strict sense. (St. Thomas, In IV Metaphysicorum, lect. 6, n. 610)

It is for this reason that the tradition often calls this demonstration “redargutive,” since it proceeds on the basis of something conceded by the objector, rather than proceeding from something necessary and more universal (which would be a proper demonstration, and therefore impossible in this case, since we are considering the first principle):

Absolute demonstration differs from redargutive in this: the absolute is from things more known simpliciter; the redargutive is from things conceded by the adversary, less known simpliciter, but more known to the adversary himself. From this I prove the conclusion: he who denies this principle... can be led to some absurdity more known to himself than the first principle; therefore it can be demonstrated redargutively. (Javellus, Quaestiones super IV Metaphysicae, q. X)

It is based on the very act of signification posited by the objector, even where that act of signification is itself a denial of the very principle. It is the very act of speaking and signifying that Aristotle latches onto in the Metaphysics. We do not argue (which would be circular) on the basis of whether or not what the opponent says is true or not. Rather, we argue on the basis of their very speaking. Insofar as they speak, they have already assumed that speech signifies something, which he is destroying by his denial of the principle.

He who acknowledges a determinate sense in a determinate word, by that very fact confesses that this word and this sense are distinguished from their contradictory. But to admit this is to assert the principle of contradiction. Therefore the skeptic cannot seriously attack the truth of the principle of contradiction without by that very fact professing it. (Hugon, Logica Maior, tr. II, q. II, art. 1)

But neither can the skeptic propose his own system; indeed, he cannot say a word without contradicting himself. For if he intends to signify something by his words, he already distinguishes what he intends from its contradictory; hence he must be said to admit the principle of contradiction. (Gredt, Elementa philosophiae aristotelico-thomisticae, vol. II, n. 674)

This is also called an argument ad hominem—which is different from the fallacy ad hominem—insofar as one is arguing on the basis of something conceded by the adversary (sometimes called an “internal critique”).

Third Mode: The Solution of Objections

Third, there is the solution to objections, called the “negative office.” This negative office does not receive a systematic treatment in the tradition, because none can be had. It is, rather, something occasional: one hears the objections to the first principle and either shows them to be false or, at least, shows them not to be necessary. (St. Thomas, Summa theologiae I, q. 1, a. 8; Super Boetium de Trinitate, q. 2, a. 3)

Section 1. Fundamental Concepts

Generation and corruption are fundamental concepts in scholastic philosophy. Generation includes the transition of something from non-being to being. If a dark room is illuminated, then the room goes from non-being in a certain respect (the privation of light, i.e., darkness) to being in a certain respect (i.e., the accidental form of light). If a light room is darkened, then the room goes from being in a certain respect (i.e., the accidental form of light) to non-being in a certain respect (the privation of light, i.e., darkness). This leads us to a commonly invoked axiom: the corruption of something is the generation of another. The generation of light in the room is the corruption of the privation of light (darkness). Otherwise, corruption would not be distinguished from annihilation, and generation from creation.

Generation and corruption can be distinguished into accidental generation/corruption and substantial generation/corruption. In the former case, what is being generated/corrupted is a certain accidental form (in our case, light/darkness); in the latter case, what is being generated/corrupted is a certain substantial form, e.g., if we burn a piece of paper, the form of paper is corrupted and in its place the form of ash is generated.

The way that this generation/corruption occurs is by the action of some agent on the thing that is generated/corrupted (which we call the “composite”). In the case of our paper, fire acts upon the paper in order to corrupt the form of paper and cause the form of ash in the composite. The particular means used in order to generate/corrupt is the introduction of certain accidental forms in the composite in order to dispose the composite to “lose” the previous substantial form and “gain” the new substantial form. Fire infuses heat into the paper, which is ill-disposed to receive that greatness of heat; this causes the corruption of the form of paper, while, simultaneously, the heat is a proper disposition for ash to be generated. This is called “accidental transmutation” by scholastic philosophers.

There are a few important corollaries to this common-sense account that are drawn by Thomistic philosophers. First, generation and corruption are not instances of “motion” in the proper sense of the term, since motion exists between two positive termini. Second, generation and corruption are instances of mutation, which involves a privative opposition between the termini: in corruption, between a form and its privation; in generation, between a privation and its form. Third, mutation is something that happens instantaneously, with only an order of nature. While motion happens successively, mutation cannot happen successively with an order of time, since this involves the removal and induction of substantial form, which is necessary for the existence of the composite (if there were a time when it did not exist, then prime matter, which has no proper existence, would exist without substantial form; therefore, any priority/posteriority must be a quo).

This leads us to a clear philosophical account of what is actually going on in corruption/generation. When the agent induces sufficient dispositions for the corruption of the substantial form, prime matter is “stripped” of all forms (both accidental and substantial); upon this stripping, the prime matter, which has a desire for substantial form and cannot exist without it, immediately composes with substantial form, which, in the order of efficient causality, causes the accidental forms of the new composite, although, in the order of material and dispositive causality, the proper accidents are themselves dispositions for the substantial form. It is in this process that substantial form is “educed” from prime matter.

An interesting corollary to this account is that the accidents in the composite before corruption and the accidents in the composite after corruption are numerically distinct accidents. Therefore, for example, since the soul is the substantial form of the man, when a man dies, the accidents that are possessed by the man (e.g., color) after death are numerically distinct from the accidents that are possessed by the man before death.

Section 2. The Problem of the Eucharist

When we carefully look at this account of generation and corruption, a clear problem arises in the case of the Eucharist. The Catholic Church teaches that the substances of bread and wine do not exist in the Eucharist and that the Eucharistic Species exist without an ultimate subject. In this case, there is obviously no prime matter in the case of the Eucharistic Species, since only accidental forms exist and dimensive quantity inheres in no subject whatsoever. Now, this is no problem for the corruption of the species. There exists accidental corruption, and if the species are corrupted, then we can chalk it up to that. The same lack of controversy ought to exist over accidental generation.

On the other hand, there surely exists a problem with substantial generation. In certain cases, it is clear that there is substantial generation that follows upon the corruption of the Eucharistic Species. If a host burns up in a fire, then there is the substantial generation of ashes. It is here that the precise issue arises in our case. The substantial forms of things are educed from prime matter. In the substantial generation of ashes, the form of ashness is educed from prime matter. Yet, where does this prime matter come from? As we stated above, there is no prime matter in the case of the Eucharistic Species. Therefore, it would seem to follow that substantial generation is impossible in this case. On the other hand, it is obvious from experience that there is substantial generation in this case.

It is this precise difficulty that the Author touches upon in his article, although not stated with sufficient precision or clarity.

Section 3. Various Solutions

The easiest way of trying to avoid this problem is by rejecting the testimony of the senses and arguing that generation does not actually occur. While some ancient authors held to this first position, it is universally rejected by the theologians.

For this reason, the authors have always attempted to seek a solution to this problem by admitting that generation occurs. Therefore, a second position arose, arguing that the generation does not happen from the Eucharistic Species (which are annihilated), but from the surrounding air. While this solution is quite creative, it is equally defective. We ought to take as an axiom that we should not multiply miracles. Now, in this case, there would be two equally strange miracles. First, there would be annihilation, which is above the powers of any creature. Second, something would be generated without the proper accidental dispositions (e.g., the air does not create ash when fire is applied, but, in this case, such would occur).

From the rejection of these two positions, we gather two principles that will be key to the resolution of this problem. First, we must hold that true corruption and generation occur. Second, we must explain this case without the multiplication of miracles, explaining things either (a) by natural laws or (b) in virtue of the first miracle of consecration.

These actually give us the limits for determining which solutions are “probable” or “improbable.” Theologians, in their treatments of this matter, are careful not to harshly censure other opinions within these axioms, but clearly admit that any solution within these parameters is “probable,” with their own position as “more probable.” It is for precisely this reason that the entire project of Mr. Hedges is so silly, as I will explain later.

A third position was formed in the early scholastic period that explained this problem by arguing that there is some sort of “return” of the substance of the bread/wine when generation/corruption occurs. Many eminent authors explain this position in a benign way, arguing that it is simply a less distinct way of stating what we will state is the fifth position. Others simply deny this position, since it would pose insoluble problems. Either the substance of bread/wine exists before the corruption of the species or after; if before the corruption of the species, then the substance of bread/wine and the substance of body/blood exist together, introducing the error of consubstantiation; if after the corruption of the species, then bread/wine will exist without its proper accidents, which is repugnant.

It is important to recall that this position in its cruder form (i.e., not explained as the fifth position) is rejected by Catholic theologians. Many of the arguments given by Mr. Hedges in his article are aimed against this third position. The Author would have done better to pass over these in silence and equip himself with arguments against positions that Catholic theologians did not come to universally reject.

With all of the aforementioned positions removed, there remain two solutions to this matter.

We know that we ought not to multiply miracles. Therefore, theologians commonly hold that there is some sort of exigency at the last moment of the corruption of the species that makes the solution to this problem connaturally demanded, whether by some sort of sacramental law, law of providence, or in virtue of the miracle of consecration. Whichever way one explains this, this is not an instance of “multiplying miracles.”

In nature, there are certain cases where there is some exigency for the immediate action of God due to the dispositions for some act being posited. As an example, in the creation of the rational soul by God, when the proper dispositions for such a soul are formed in the fetus (whether immediately at conception or later, it does not matter in this case), it naturally follows that there is an exigency for the immediate action of God in the creation and infusion of the rational soul in the fetus. Cf. Suárez, In III, disp. 57, sect. 3, n. 8; Bellarmine, De sacramento Eucharistiae, lib. III, c. XXIV; Franzelin, Tractatus de SS. Eucharistiae sacramento, thes. XVI, schol. 1; Salmanticenses, disp. VIII, dub. V, § III, n. 55.

The scholastics (both Thomists and others) draw an analogy with the generation and corruption of the Eucharistic Species. God must immediately supply for whatever defect would follow, since there is some real exigency from the dispositions placed in the species. What is done to immediately supply the defect? Here, theologians are divided between two solutions. The most obvious solution would be that God immediately creates the prime matter necessary for the eduction of the following substantial form, naturally following the last instant of the existence of the Eucharistic Species. This is the fifth solution to the problem, commonly followed by Suarezians and (many) Scotists (and even Bl. Scotus himself according to some Scotists).

What are we to think of this solution? St. Thomas and many Thomists call this “probable.” There is no necessary repugnance with this solution. The only difficulty that makes this solution less fitting is the way in which dimensive quantity continues into the generated thing, which is unfitting (although not impossible).

Therefore, there is a second solution that is proposed. We need prime matter from which to educe the form. How are we to find this? From the dimensive quantity that is already there and is the subject of the accidental transmutation that is already occurring, which constitutes the dispositions. In this case, the dimensive quantity is the “vice-matter.”

How does this occur? This is what divides the Thomists. An older group of theologians (and a handful of Thomists) argues that the dimensive quantity itself is that from which the substantial form is educed and that the composite is a composite of dimensive quantity and substantial form. This is the fourth solution and is followed by authors of repute such as Henry of Ghent, Aegidius Romanus, and even Sylvester of Ferrara. Contrary to the claims made by Mr. Hedges, while this was held by Capreolus in his earlier exposition of the Sentences, he later changed to the position taken by later Thomists (In IV Sent., d. 12, q. 1, a. 3, § 3, ad arg. Scoti).

The problems with this position are many. Chief among them is the issue of how exactly we are able to say that there is a substantial composite without prime matter, which is precisely the question that we set out to solve. In this solution, there would be a monstrous composite of quantity and substantial form that can hardly be held without philosophical absurdities. Interestingly, it is precisely against this position (as held by Henry of Ghent) that Bl. Scotus and the Scotists set out their many arguments. Unfortunately, this is not precisely noted by Mr. Hedges in the second section of his article, where he marshals many arguments against the fourth solution that touch neither the fifth solution (taken by Scotists and Suarezians) nor the sixth solution (taken by the vast majority of Thomists).

The later Thomists ingeniously solve this problem in another way, which was commonly received in the school. Rather than arguing that dimensive quantity in its unaltered state takes the place of prime matter, they argue that there is an exigency induced by the accidental transmutation of the species so that God changes the dimensive quantity into prime matter so that the substantial form can be educed. This brilliant sixth solution (more Divine than human) avoids all the problems of the aforementioned solutions: it requires no multiplication of miracles and holds to what is most connatural; it does not require philosophical absurdities in quantity entering substantial composition; and it does not require any sort of annihilation of the species, but a true continuity between the corruption of the species and the generation of substantial form.

Section 4. On Mutation, Generation, and Corruption

Here, the Thomists come to another difficulty. In this case, how is the true and proper notion of mutation preserved? Mutation requires that there be a fundamental unity between the termini in corruption and generation. There must be a certain subject that is preserved throughout the mutation, a form that is introduced in generation, and a privation of this form introduced before generation. In the ingenious sixth solution, it is clear that there is a subject that is preserved throughout; for the very dimensive quantity that is the subject of corruption is divinely changed into the prime matter from which the substantial form is educed in generation. It is here that we also see the weakness of the fifth solution, which is not able to preserve as well the unity of subject between the corruption of the species and substantial generation.

The question arises, upon our close consideration of the problem, of whether we can say that there is truly a privation of the substantial form in this case. When we consider the Eucharistic Species, we see that there is no privation of the substantial form to be educed. Privation is some lack of a due perfection. Prime matter has an appetite for all forms; therefore, whatever substantial form is educed can be said to have had a privation under the other substantial form. Yet, the same cannot be said of quantity, which has no appetite for substantial form and no privation for it, but only a simple lack.

To this difficulty, there are four solutions that could be proposed.

The first solution argues that mutation is not of the essence of generation, but only of its connatural state. This is the simplest solution to the problem at hand. Mr. Hedges offers the following comment on this solution given by many eminent Thomists:

The Salmanticenses attempts to skirt around this difficulty by saying that this real mutation from non-being to being does not pertain essentially to substantial generation, but only in its aptitude. One may see at the outset how they continue to redefine the most basic concepts of metaphysics in order to save their doctrine. In taking this approach, they contradict other Thomists.

This response by Mr. Hedges is one of many instances of a mind that is quite shallowly formed in the principles of scholastic philosophy. When we define terms, there are times in which we include only those essential notes that are proper to them; yet, at other times, we include various notes that are present to the thing in its connatural state or even as it exists in some particular mode (e.g., including “accident” in the definition of a relation, even though it can exist as subsisting).

To question whether an aspect of a definition is an essential note (e.g., rationality in man) or a mere property flowing from the essence (e.g., risibility in man) is not an example of “redefin[ing] the most basic concepts of metaphysics”; it is an example of good scholastic philosophy. The Thomists who hold to this solution argue that this connaturality, as flowing from certain physical laws that are not strictly metaphysical, does not necessarily exist in every instance, because properties that are only physically necessary do not need to exist in something for it to be such a thing except aptitudinally. We use these same principles when analyzing the definition of things in such important doctrines as the Trinity, the Incarnation, the possibility of miracles, etc. If Mr. Hedges wishes to do away with all these as examples of “redefining,” that is his prerogative (irrational as it is), but he is not allowed to use these same tools when he expounds other issues.

I would like to bring three more points to your attention that significantly take away from the force of this article as a whole.

First, by my reckoning, he simply leaves out any other solution to this objection (which should be one of the central points treated in his article). Mr. Hedges spends quite a bit of time attacking solutions that were rejected by the schools and little time “refuting” the positions that are actually held within the schools. Why is this the case? If he is to cite John of St. Thomas on the essence of generation, why doesn’t he quote John of St. Thomas’ solution to this problem found in the same place? It certainly forces us to conclude that the arguments presented in the article are quite weak at sustaining his conclusion, since he leaves many solutions to this problem unanswered.

Second, following upon this, Mr. Hedges does not give any necessary reason for his objection. Shouldn’t this be his central concern? He seems quite aware that this point of whether mutation is of the essence of generation or its connaturality is disputed among the Thomists. He states that the former position is true, but he gives no argument for it whatsoever. What if I follow the Salmanticenses, Complutenses, and many others in denying that mutation is of the essence of generation? While he quotes John of St. Thomas, I do not take the position of John of St. Thomas on all issues. Therefore, his argument is quite unable to force his conclusion. Further, as mentioned in the first point, he does not give any of the resolutions given by Thomists that suppose that mutation is of the essence of generation; therefore, his conclusion does not follow. It does not even have the appearance of following for the casual reader.

Third, related to the first point, from my reading of his arguments, Mr. Hedges’ article lacks such thoroughness that it is nearly devoid of any refutation whatsoever of the fifth position. Admittedly, the reader must remember that it is a Protestant tradition to be terrified by Jesuits, so we must excuse our dear Author for his fault on this point. St. Thomas and the Thomists hold that this position is at least “probable.” Even if Mr. Hedges found some never-before-seen argument that demolishes the sixth position, we would fall back on the fifth position, which we do not hold to be impossible, but even hold to be probable.

The second solution argues that mutation is of the essence of generation, but that we are able to preserve generation by equipollence. Equipollence refers to the state in which there is such a strict similarity between two things that we consider them as one in preserving the logical force of either.

This is very easy to understand and is the exact solution posited by John of St. Thomas. When we speak of mutation, we are simply attempting to articulate some sort of change from one thing to another thing that happens with a fundamental unity between the two, that happens instantaneously, and that terminates in substantial form. All of this is true when we articulate the sixth solution. There is a lack of the substantial form before the mutation, there is a fundamental unity insofar as the dimensive quantity continues in the terminus by conversion to prime matter, and there is substantial form after the mutation. Clearly, by equipollence, there is no other name to give this process than “mutation,” since the privation is present virtually throughout the entire mutation insofar as the quantity is equipollent to prime matter in the Eucharistic Species.

I will await Mr. Hedges’ demonstration of why exactly this solution is not possible.

The third solution argues that mutation is of the essence of generation and that this is preserved by the concept of fundamental privation. While there is no formal privation of the substantial form in the Eucharistic Species, there is a simple lack of the substantial form before the conversion of the dimensive quantity. Now, since there is some obediential potency of the dimensive quantity to be converted to prime matter, we can speak of a privation that is fundamental and remote.

This solution can either be combined with the second solution or taken in isolation from it. If combined with the second solution, we would say that the force of formal privation and the force of fundamental privation are the same in either case; hence, we can equivalently speak of the one present in mutation as the other. This is similar to John of St. Thomas’ solution. If taken in isolation from the second solution, we can argue that the inclusion of privation in the definition of mutation abstracts from formal or fundamental privation, so that the full force of the definition is preserved without an appeal to equipollence.

Again, I will await Mr. Hedges’ demonstration of why exactly this solution is not possible.

The fourth solution argues that mutation is of the essence of generation and that this is preserved by the priority of nature (a quo, not in quo) present in substantial generation. The conversion of the dimensive quantity into prime matter implies that there is some sort of logical priority of the prime matter before the eduction of substantial form. Just as in ordinary generation and corruption, the prime matter is “stripped” of all form, whether substantial or accidental, so also in this case, the converted dimensive quantity stands “stripped” of all form, whether substantial or accidental. This is why Thomists note that there is some priority between generation and corruption (whether properly natural or logical does not matter at this moment). Now, in the case of the eduction of substantial form from the converted prime matter, the prime matter must stand in formal privation to the form educed. Therefore, we can truly verify the notion of privation in our case. In my opinion and the opinion of quite a few eminent Thomists, this last solution stands strongest insofar as it verifies the strictest definition of generation without any equipollence whatsoever.

Again, I will await Mr. Hedges’ demonstration of why exactly this solution is not possible.

Section 5. Individual Objections

It is to be noted from the outset that many of Mr. Hedges’ arguments miss the point in one particular respect. Rather than refuting positions commonly held among Roman Catholic scholastics (i.e., the fifth and sixth positions), he often provides refutations that merely touch certain minority positions that are commonly abandoned after the Baroque period (i.e., the third and fourth positions). To give just one example, we can note the various Scotistic arguments against the “Thomist position” given by Mr. Hedges in the second section of his article. While the Author frames these arguments as “arguments against the Thomistic view that are worth considering,” he fails to note that such a position is extremely rare among Thomistic authors. Many of those quoted as holding this position (Henry of Ghent, Aegidius Romanus) are not even “Thomists” in the strict sense of the term. Another author that is quoted (Capreolus) concedes the Scotistic arguments and then rescinds his previous adherence to the fourth position, holding to the sixth position. The only significant authority in the Thomistic school who holds to this position is Sylvester of Ferrara, who was heavily criticized by the later Thomists, both for holding something that is manifestly contrary to reason AND for holding something that careful exegesis of the texts of St. Thomas (especially in the Sentences Commentary) reveals to be against the mind of St. Thomas.

Therefore, in this section, I simply want to treat those individual objections that I believe may touch upon the sixth position (from my reading, almost none of them even touch upon the “probable” fifth position of the Scotists and Suarezians).

First Objection. “I will argue here that there is a very significant metaphysical problem posed for the Papists here, and also show how, interestingly enough, their theologians and apologists contradict one another vehemently in attempting to escape the argument and solve this problem. The very fact that they argue against one another poses the following strategy for us: we can turn the Roman scholastics and theologians against one another, and mount their arguments against each other in such a fashion as to destroy it from within.”

Response. This fails to understand the approach taken by the Thomists. As St. Thomas himself testified, the fifth position is something that is “probable,” which is also claimed by various Thomists. While they give arguments for why their position is more or less fitting, or why certain solutions to objections are not entirely correct, it is quite silly to claim that these realities are able to fashion tools to “destroy [Catholicism] from within.”

St. Thomas states that the other position is probable in three places. In Quodlibet IX, he states that the third position is a “probable position,” but calls the fifth and sixth positions “plainer” (Quodl. IX, q. 3, a. 1, ad 3). In his Sentences Commentary, he writes about the fifth position that “the opinion can with sufficient probability be sustained” (In IV Sent., d. 12, q. 1, a. 2, qla. 4). In the Summa, he holds that “this position might be sustained,” but ultimately rejects it (ST III, q. 77, a. 5).

This is something that is explicitly stated by later Thomists. The Salmanticenses state the following: “Before we answer this, one must know whether the prime matter which we have said God produces in the instant of generation comes to be by creation, or rather by conversion. In which difficulty the first can be probably sustained, and is insinuated by St. Thomas…But nevertheless it is far more probable that the production of such matter is the conversion of the quantity into that same matter.” (disp. VIII, dub. V, n. 57)

Gonet: “I answer briefly that, although St. Thomas in the place cited above left this undecided and indicated that both are probable, saying that it comes to be either by creation or by conversion, nevertheless it is more fittingly said to come to be from the quantity by conversion than to be created anew.” (disp. VI, a. V)

Billuart: “I answer that this is left undecided by the holy Doctor…and that each is probable. It seems, however, more fitting to say that it is produced by the conversion of the quantity into it.” (diss. I, a. VI, § II)

This is everywhere in the tradition on different solutions to this problem. St. Bonaventure was quite open-minded on this question, arguing that “it is not easy to disprove either [position],” since “each of the aforesaid ways of speaking seems probable enough” (In IV Sent., d. XII, p. I, a. II, q. 1). St. Albert the Great stated, “I prejudge neither [position]…and each can be said quite congruously” (In IV Sent., d. XII, a. 14).

In fact, certain doctors held that the two positions do not actually really differ (while I do not hold this, it illustrates the point). Gregory of Valencia: “Thirdly, some held that at the point of generation new matter is here divinely created. Which opinion St. Thomas…judges probable. And certainly this opinion does not seem to differ in reality from our own, which we explained before. For those who said that matter is created here would not have denied, in the thing itself, that that matter divinely succeeds to the quantity in the office of subject with respect to the dispositions to the form of the generated thing; and since the character of the conversion of the quantity into matter consists precisely in that, neither would they in reality have denied such a conversion here.” (t. IV, disp. VI, q. V, punct. IV)

To turn the argument against the Author, what are we to make of the various disagreements between Reformed scholastics in his tradition, some of which were so violent that they led to bloodshed and political unrest, overturning entire nations? What are we to make of the various disagreements between the Holy Fathers and other authorities that we hold in common? Do these destroy a system or a doctrine from within? Now, how much less does this destroy our Church and our dogma when Thomists hold the other position to be probable and merely fight over the best solutions to certain doubts? I believe that this method is far from admirable and is a species of intellectual laziness, refusing to seek demonstrative arguments for one’s doctrine, a false science that latches onto irrelevancies in order to bolster rhetorical prowess.

Second Objection. “(1) From the corruption of any subject the generation of another thing happens, there necessarily at least is matter, from the potency of which the substantial form of that [new thing] is educted, or ‘drawn out’, as it were. (2) But from the corrupted remnants of Eucharistic bread the generation of another thing happens, namely of worms: therefore there is necessarily there a matter from the potency of which their substantial form is educted. (3). But this matter is not the matter of the body of Christ: Therefore it is the matter of bread which remained unchanged.”

Response. The major premise of the first argument is conceded. The minor premise of the first argument is conceded. The first conclusion (and, consequently, the major premise of the second argument) is conceded. The minor premise of the second argument is conceded. The consequence of the second argument, and therefore the conclusion of the second argument, is denied.

The consequence is false, since there are distinct possibilities besides the matter of the body of Christ. In the fifth opinion, the creation of prime matter occurs by an immutable law due to some exigency following upon the corruption of the Eucharistic Species. In the sixth opinion, the change of the quantity of the bread into prime matter is done by Divine Power, with a similar law and exigency as the fifth opinion.

Neither of these two opinions is excluded by this argument; therefore, the conclusion does not follow from the premises enumerated.

Third Objection. “It is impossible for an accident to pass into the nature of a substance. Those things which do not belong to the same genus cannot be made from one another (for example, you cannot make a line from whiteness), as the Salmanticenses correctly point out: ‘From quantity and substantial form one cannot make a substantial composite that is a being per se.’”

Response. This follows in the line of material cause and in natural potency, which is exactly what the quotation of the Salmanticenses indicates, i.e., the matter with which substantial form composes must be reductively in the genus of substance (i.e., prime matter), or else there would be no substantial composite. This principle does not indicate that, by Divine Power, something could not be changed from one genus to another genus, or that obediential potency is lacking for such a case; for, if God can create something without a presupposed subject in creation, then, a fortiori, from a presupposed subject he can by his omnipotence change something from one genus to another genus; further, due to the entity of quantity, there is an obediential potency for such a conversion.

There is no reason why we couldn’t hold that, while there is no natural potency of quantity to become prime matter, there is an obediential potency for such due to its entity; just as there is no natural potency for the beatific vision in the human intellect, but, due to its extensive object, there is an obediential potency supposing the presence of Divine Power.

It can also be noted that this does not exclude the fifth position.

Fourth Objection. “Quantity is an accident, and matter is not. Quantity has no natural potency to educe a substantial form, for that pertains rather to a natural agent.

If that quantity were converted into the matter of the worm through conversion, and from it the substantial form of the worm were educed, it would follow that they lack quantity, which our very own senses inform us is completely false.”

Response. The first half of the argument only proceeds against the fourth position, which most scholastics (adhering to either the fifth or sixth) deny. In the fifth position and in the sixth position, the eduction of substantial form is from prime matter.

The second half of the argument is a philosophical abomination. As we covered above (which Mr. Hedges should know, since he quotes the eminent Grenier), prime matter is stripped of all substantial and accidental form by corruption and, in generation, the substantial form is educed, which causes, in the line of efficient cause, accidental forms numerically distinct from those before the mutation. Therefore, the issue with this argument is obvious. The worm would not lack quantity, because the quantity after a mutation is numerically distinct from the quantity before the conversion and is brought about from the substantial form. The same problem that he poses for the sixth opinion would destroy all true generation and corruption and negate the stripping of the prime matter as much as it refutes the sixth opinion. Or, if one wanted to hold Soto’s position (which is also held by the Suarezians), he could simply say that the conversion is not into bare prime matter, but quantified prime matter.

Fifth Objection. “If the matter is newly created, this takes place either in the first instant of the generation of the new substance (such as the ashes or worms), or before. It cannot be before, since, as I will say again below, there cannot be the simultaneous coexistence of the body of Christ with the substance of bread or whatever new form takes its place after its corruption. Also, Aquinas and the Thomists deny that any prime matter could actually exist apart from form. But the other alternative has its own problems as well. If the matter is recreated in the instant of generation, then what need is there for a natural agent to generate anything from it, since it cannot do so except from matter that is quantified (so that it is proportioned to the natural agent), which this is not? The only way out of that would be to say that the accidents inhere in matter without any medium in between, which is commonly rejected.”

Response. This is an argument that seems to be posed against the fifth position. This argument confuses logical and temporal order. While generation and corruption occur in the same temporal instant, there is a logical (or, according to some authors, natural) order between corruption and generation (which Mr. Hedges should know from Grenier, who explicitly says as much). The order of the various moments for the fifth position would be the corruption of the species (in which the substance of the body and blood ceases to be under the species, since they are as its “container”), then, in the same temporal moment, the creation of prime matter, then the eduction of substantial form. There is no temporal moment in which prime matter (whether under the Thomist or other reckoning) is devoid of substantial form, but there is a logical order (a quo) between these acts and a logical moment in which such occurs. If this argument, on the principle that prime matter has no existence apart from substantial form, were efficacious against the fifth position, then this would destroy any notion of substantial mutation, since this requires the stripping of prime matter of all substantial and accidental form.

In the second half, we see again the philosophical error of Mr. Hedges. What he does not understand is that, in the Thomistic reckoning of substantial mutation, there is a distinction between those prior dispositions that exist in the substance as corrupted and those proximate dispositions that exist in the engendered substance. These accidents are numerically distinct and, while the latter precedes the substantial form in the order of material and disposing cause, it succeeds it in the order of efficient cause, the proper accidental forms of the substance being naturally and necessarily effected by the presence of the substantial form.

The original accidents do not inhere directly in prime matter, either in the case of the Eucharist or in the case of ordinary acts of generation, because, in ordinary acts of generation, there is a stripping of the accidental forms that is demanded in virtue of the fact that accidental forms ordinarily inhere in something that is actual, which prime matter is not without substantial form. Funnily enough, if he took this to its logical conclusion, he would not even require a miracle for the existence of accidents without a subject in the Eucharist, since he would hold in ordinary generation that accidental forms exist with their own proper existence without any actuality in the line of substance (since prime matter is pure potency)!

While he accuses the scholastics of manifest contradictions, see how contradictory and confused the Author’s attempt is!

Sixth Objection. “The accidents of the newly generated composite would inhere immediately in the quantity itself as their subject (since a true metaphysical conversion requires that the ‘term-from-which’, i.e. that which is converted, ceases), rather than mediately through the quantity, as is the case with the accidents immediately after the consecration (on our opponents’ hypothesis). There can therefore not be any real and proper generation that occurs, on this viewpoint.

Some have attempted to reply that the subject of the mutation remains the same throughout, but according to a priority of nature rather than a priority of time. However, matter is not separated from form even according to such a priority of nature, and if quantity takes the place of matter, it still remains incapable of receiving a form.”

Response. The first half of this argument is simply incoherent. It is difficult to even understand the line of reasoning from the Author. It seems that he is attempting to argue against the fourth position, but understands that numerically identical accidents continue through substantial generation. In any case, nothing follows from this, since we do not concede the principle he is invoking, for accidental forms do not inhere in prime matter, but are stripped from it and come to be from the substantial form as effects in generation.

The second half of this argument touches upon a dispute between Thomists, but poorly reports the positions of the authors (even while he quotes the great Doronzo!). Whether we should speak of the stripping of matter as naturally posterior to corruption and prior to generation (a quo, not in quo) or the stripping of matter as logically posterior to corruption and prior to generation is disputed between Thomists, but everyone agrees with the stripping in principle. The Salmanticenses hold that as much as anyone else in the Thomistic tradition! Even if we were to concede the position of some Thomists that we should only speak of a logical priority, what does it matter? There is still priority, posteriority, and the stripping of matter, each of which refutes the objections given by the Author. The only place where this is relevant (as mentioned above) is the dispute over whether mutation enters into the essential definition of generation or not.

Seventh Objection. “The Salmanticenses attempts to skirt around this difficulty by saying that this real mutation from non-being to being does not pertain essentially to substantial generation, but only in its aptitude. One may see at the outset how they continue to redefine the most basic concepts of metaphysics in order to save their doctrine.”

Response. This objection was already treated above in the fourth section.

Eighth Objection. “Any approach, therefore, that requires the constant multiplication of various new miracles to get out of difficulties (as many of them do in this present situation) has to be rejected as a case of desperate special pleading.”

Response. Here we see the manifest inability of Mr. Hedges to argue against our position, which is quite unfortunate. Earlier in his essay he noted something that we noted above when treating the commonalities of the fifth and sixth positions: “albeit those of the latter opinion say that God does not perform a successive series of new miracles, but that this rather occurs by force of the miracle which has already been accomplished with the consecration. This is the opinion of such figures as Cardinal Franzelin, Gabriel Vazquez, and Suarez.”

This is not merely the opinion of “Cardinal Franzelin, Gabriel Vazquez, and Suarez,” but is something that is repeated by nearly every author in their treatment of this question. When such an act occurs, whether reducing the quantity’s obediential potency for prime matter to act or supplying such prime matter by an act of creation, it is in virtue of the miracle of consecration and not in virtue of a new miracle. The entire point of asking this question in the first place, and of the variety of positions, is to explain how this can occur without a multiplication of miracles and with the connaturality of the components preserved.

If there is a certain exigency present in creation, how is it a miracle for the immediate action of God to be present? Is it the “multiplication of miracles” when God infuses the rational soul into a sufficiently disposed human fetus? No, of course not; there is a certain exigency present in virtue of the sufficient disposition of matter for the creation and infusion of the rational soul. Why, then, is there this inconsistency in respect to Catholic explanations? If there is an exigency present (and there is, since the sufficient prior material dispositions exist in the species immediately before corruption), then how would this one involve the “multiplication of miracles”? Rather, this is something that is as natural as the creation and infusion of the rational soul in the fetus.

If there are any other objections in this article you would like to see me respond to, please comment below and I will get to them.

In this article, I promised that I would expand on certain notes made on the Roman Catechism’s treatment of the conditions for proper contrition. Theologians typically draw nine notes of proper contrition from the Roman Catechism:

This brilliant exposition of the Roman Catechism became the seedbed for the teaching of the theologians that contrition must be true (not apparent), real (not a mere speculative judgment), proper (formal displeasure), per se formal (not merely virtual), loving (i.e., includes some love of God, although not necessarily the theological virtue of charity), essentially supernatural, efficacious (an act absolutely repugnant to sin, i.e., the act is against sin as such, even if a man falls into sin contrary to this act), universal (extending to all mortal sins), and supreme (according to [the subject’s appreciation of the] object, i.e., that the intellect affirms that sin is to be hated above all things and, consequently, that the will is ready to suffer all things rather than to sin). This is extensively explained and demonstrated by Doronzo in his De poenitentia, tom. ii, cap. iv, art. 25.

In this article I will be going over each of these individually, with more or less detail. As mentioned, this article will be more scientific in nature, eschewing the more practical style of my aforementioned article. Therefore, I am paywalling this article.

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“Whatever of piety, of holiness, of religion, has been preserved to our times in the Church, through God’s goodness, must be ascribed in great measure to confession.” (Ibid.)

Introduction

As part of my article on the fewness of the saved from last week, I briefly invoked the testimony of various saints against a certain position held by Fr. Francisco Suarez, SJ, on deathbed conversions. While these saints, of course, concede that such a conversion occurs (which itself is witnessed to by scripture in the case of St. Dismas), on the other hand, they deny that such is always the case, teaching that such confessions often lack the proper dispositions required for the validity of confession.

Some friends and others, acting in good faith and with a zeal for souls, informed me of an obvious problem with my treatment of this matter. Many Catholics, upon hearing this, will draw a quite obvious conclusion: if it is possible for deathbed confessions to be invalid due to improper dispositions, then, likewise, it is possible for their confessions to be invalid due to improper dispositions. In light of this, many of the faithful who read this section were troubled by this possibility, and a few quite openly despaired at the thought.

Therefore, in this article, I hope to rectify this situation, lest I, in teaching others, be found guilty of spiritual bloodshed on that great and terrible day of the Lord, when I will be called more stringently to account for every word that has proceeded from my pen. The Catechism of Trent encourages especially teaching on this matter of the necessary elements for the validity of the sacrament of Penance, “to awaken attention, lest they be found culpably negligent in a matter so very important,” because “there is nothing that should be better known to the faithful than the matter of this Sacrament.” (Pt. 2, On Penance)

To those who may be opposed to my decision to write an article on this issue, remember these words of the Roman Catechism. There is nothing that should be better known; yet, how few know it? How many are unaware of the firm purpose of amendment necessary for the validity of this sacrament? How many are unaware of the true character of the contrition necessary for this sacrament? How many are unaware of the necessity of faith and hope in this sacrament? While these are largely unknown, the Roman Catechism says that there is nothing that should be better known. What should I write about? The Filioque? Divine Simplicity? It is better that ignorance reign on these matters among the entirety of the faithful than that these most important and fundamental matters are ignored.

There is nothing better for me to write about and for you to read about than this topic of the necessary matter of the sacrament of penance.

A Protestation

Before we begin, I should make a note on method. First, I follow the clear judgments of the Catholic Church on the matter of the Sacrament of Penance and the requisite conditions for its validity. Second, I follow the merciful teaching of St. Alphonsus, the moral doctor of the Church, who, as many Popes have witnessed, follows that golden mean between the destructive doctrines of rigorism and laxism. Beyond these standards, I will clearly indicate where moralists have not come to a consensus on the matter.

On Penance in General

To many, it may be surprising that Catholic theologians invoke internal dispositions as in any way relevant to the validity of Penance. Certain heretics demanded the state of grace or, at least, membership in the Church and the true faith as necessary for the validity of the sacraments of baptism and orders. It would seem, upon first glance, that the same error is lurking around the corner with this doctrine.

To understand why this is not the case, it must be remembered that, for the validity of a sacrament, there are five requisite conditions: matter, form, subject, minister, and intention. For Penance, unlike a sacrament like Baptism, the matter is not something external (e.g., water), but something internal. The Council of Trent teaches the following on this matter:

“The acts of the penitent himself, to wit, contrition, confession and satisfaction, are as it were the matter of this sacrament. Which acts, inasmuch as they are, by God’s institution, required in the penitent for the integrity of the sacrament, and for the full and perfect remission of sins, are for this reason called the parts of penance.” (Sess. 14, cap. 3)

In the canons of this session, the fourth canon anathematizes those who teach the opposite doctrine:

“If any one denieth, that, for the entire and perfect remission of sins, there are required three acts in the penitent, which are as it were the matter of the sacrament of Penance, to wit, contrition, confession, and satisfaction, which are called the three parts of penance… let him be anathema.” (ibid., can. 4)

The reason why the saints and theologians I quoted in my last article rejected the validity of the majority of deathbed confessions is that they found, by experience, that the majority of such cases lacked the first of these acts of the penitent, i.e., contrition.

The Council of Trent goes on in the next chapter to explain what the necessary contrition for Penance is, which it says “holds the first place amongst the aforesaid acts of the penitent.” (ibid., cap. 4). It teaches that contrition “is a sorrow of mind, and a detestation for sin committed, with the purpose of not sinning for the future.”

There are three aspects to contrition. First, it is a sorrow of mind. Second, it detests the sins committed. Third, it includes a purpose of not sinning in the future. This is also explained in the following terms: “this contrition contains not only a cessation from sin, and the purpose and the beginning of a new life, but also a hatred of the old… [which] flow[s] from a certain vehement hatred of their past life, and from an exceeding detestation of sins.”

Therefore, for example, if someone came to confession and did not have a purpose of avoiding such sins for the future (called a “firm purpose of amendment”), then his confession would be invalid. Likewise, if someone rejoiced in the sins of his past life rather than detesting them, then his confession would be invalid.

The reason for these acts in particular arises from the doctrine concerning justification taught in Session 6 of Trent, in the chapter on the preparation for justification.

The synod then gives a judgment on a certain problem that arose in reaction to this doctrine. The problem to be solved is quite easy to understand. In order to be justified, we must be in a state of grace, which implies that one possesses charity. Now, in order to have a valid confession, one must have true contrition for one’s sins. Therefore, a dilemma seems to arise; either proper dispositions are necessary, or they are not; if they are necessary, then it would seem that the man going to confession is already justified apart from confession; if they are not necessary, then the entire doctrine is overthrown.

The Council Fathers solve this dilemma by appealing to a distinction between two types of contrition: perfect contrition and imperfect contrition. Perfect contrition is perfected by the possession of the theological virtue of charity. Even in this case, perfect contrition is not apart from the sacrament, since charity implies the will to obey God in all things, including the desire for the sacrament: “the said reconciliation, nevertheless, is not to be ascribed to that contrition, independently of the desire of the sacrament which is included therein.” (ibid.) Yet, it is denied that this perfect contrition, motivated by charity, is actually necessary for the validity of the sacrament; rather, the imperfect contrition (called “attrition”) is sufficient, where the motivation of detesting sin is not the theological virtue of charity, but some lesser motive: “although this attrition cannot of itself, without the sacrament of penance, conduct the sinner to justification, yet does it dispose him to obtain the grace of God in the sacrament of Penance.” (ibid.)

This same doctrine concerning what is necessary for valid absolution is taught by the Roman Catechism with clarity.1

The Roman Catechism then goes on to give explanations of each of these parts.

First, it recalls the definition of Trent that contrition is “a sorrow and detestation for sin committed, with a purpose of sinning no more,” which is “joined with a confidence in the mercy of God and an earnest desire of performing whatever is necessary to the proper reception of the Sacrament.”

Fundamental to this contrition is, first of all, “a hatred of one’s ill-spent life and a desire of atoning for past transgressions.” This does not simply consist in “ceasing to sin, or in resolving to begin, or having actually begun a new life,” as some may suppose. Rather, it is “an intense hatred and a lively detestation of past transgressions.”

It is important to recall that sorrow is not taken here for a sensible feeling, but for an act of the will: “although contrition is defined as sorrow, the faithful are not thence to conclude that this sorrow consists in sensible feeling, for contrition is an act of the will.” Since acts of the will ordinarily overflow into certain affections, such feelings are its natural accompaniment, effect, and sign, but not its essence, and hence not necessary for the validity of confession (St. Alphonsus: “Non requiritur dolor sensibilis; sufficit enim intellectivus”).

The Catechism teaches that there are three chief conditions necessary for true contrition. First, we ought to “detest and deplore all our sins.” If this detestation only applies to some of our sins, then “our repentance is not salutary, but feigned and false.” Second, it ought to include “a desire of confessing and satisfying for our sins.” Third, “the penitent must form a fixed and firm purpose of amendment of life.” This amendment concerns not only the amendment of his own moral character, but also an amendment of the evils of his sins, repairing the injury done to others by his sins. Further, we ought to forgive the injuries done unto us, as Our Lord commands in the Gospels.

This true contrition can be aroused in the faithful by the frequent examination of conscience, not merely considering where he has fallen, but also: “should anyone be conscious of sin, he should immediately accuse himself, humbly solicit pardon from God, and implore time to confess and satisfy for his sins.” Further, above all else, he should “supplicate the aid of divine grace, in order that he may not relapse into those sins which he now penitently deplores.”

This can also be aided by various considerations frequently given in books of prayer and other devotional aids, including the consideration on the “turpitude and baseness” of sin, the evils that are effects of sin, the generosity of God towards us, and the eternal punishment that will be given to those who refuse to be contrite.

This billiant exposition of the Roman Catechism became the seedbed for the teaching of the theologians that contrition must be true (not apprent), real (not a mere speculative judgement), proper (formal displeasure), per se formal (not merely virtual), loving (i.e., includes some love of God, although not necessarily the theological virtue of charity), essentially supernatural, efficacious (an act absolutely repugnant to sin, i.e., the act is against sin as such, even if a man falls into sin contrary to this act), universal (extending to all mortal sins), and supreme (according to its object, i.e., that the intellect affirms that sin is to be hated above all things and, consequently, that the will is ready to suffer all things rather than to sin). This is extensively explained and demonstrated by Doronzo in his De poenitentia, tom. ii, cap. iv, art. 25.

In another article, I will give a more detailed treatment of each of these aspects, but, for the lay reader, the general outline of the Catechism of Trent suffices. Subscribe to receive this article in your inbox when it comes out:

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Second, the Catechism brings to mind the second part of Penance. While contrition can suffice for the forgiveness of sins, how many are able to make an act of perfect contrition? Very few.

“Contrition, it is true, blots out sin; but who does not know that to effect this it must be so intense, so ardent, so vehement, as to bear a proportion to the magnitude of the crimes which it effaces? This is a degree of contrition which few reach; and hence, in this way, very few indeed could hope to obtain the pardon of their sins. It, therefore, became necessary that the most merciful Lord should provide by some easier means for the common salvation of men; and this He has done in His admirable wisdom, by giving to His Church the keys of the kingdom of heaven.”

Therefore, God established the Sacrament so that an imperfect contrition can suffice when we confess and are absolved.

The Catechism defines confession as “a sacramental accusation of one’s sins, made to obtain pardon by virtue of the keys.” It is called an accusation to distinguish it from other ways in which we may recount our sins, since the recounting of our sins is mixed “with a desire, as it were, to avenge them on ourselves.” It is “made to obtain pardon” to distinguish it from forms of judicial accusation where we may confess to establish our guilt, but not to remove it. It is “sacramental” because it is made to a priest possessing the power of jurisdiction to authoritatively absolve our sins.

In order for the confession to be valid, it is required that it be entire, confessing each of the mortal sins that one recalls, with their number and circumstances that aggravate the malice of the act, e.g., it is not sufficient, in a case of adultery, to simply state that one “slept with a woman,” but that one committed adultery, since this aggravates the malice of the act.

What is to be done if he does not recall a mortal sin? If it is through gravely culpable negligence (i.e., if he did not engage in a proportionally diligent examination of conscience), then the confession is invalid.2 If it is not gravely culpable, then it is valid and he must simply state this in his next confession:

“Should the confession seem defective, either because the penitent forgot some grievous sins, or because, although intent on confessing all his sins, he did not examine the recesses of his conscience with sufficient accuracy, he is not bound to repeat his confession. It will be sufficient, when he recollects the sins which he had forgotten, to confess them to a priest on a future occasion. It should be noted, however, that we are not to examine our consciences with careless indifference, or to be so negligent in recalling our sins as to seem as if unwilling to remember them. Should this have been the case, the confession must by all means be made over again.”

Then, the Catechism goes on to give a few other qualities of a good confession: plain, simple, sincere, prudent, modest, brief.

Lastly, the Catechism brings to mind the third part, satisfaction. Satisfaction is the full payment of a debt. Therefore, after absolution, we make acts of satisfaction, imposed by the priest, to satisfy Divine justice for our sins and to repair the offense done by them. Commonly, this is called the “penance.” It is important to note, for validity, that the actual performance of the penance is not necessary for validity, but only, at the time of absolution, that there be a “subjective disposition of the penitent accepting [the penance] in order to fulfill it later.” (STS IVA, On Penance, th. 8)

There are three degrees of satisfaction. First, the highest degree of satisfaction, which is perfect and sufficient, is the propitiation offered by Christ on our behalf in His Passion. Second, there is the canonical satisfaction, which is imposed by the priest for our sins. Third, there are various voluntary satisfactions that are privately done by the faithful.

Satisfaction, as a part of the sacrament, is the second degree of satisfaction. It is joined to a “deliberate and firm purpose carefully to avoid sin for the future,” which is “to cut off all occasions of sin, and to close every avenue against its suggestions.” This satisfaction is instituted in order to pay the temporal punishment due to sin and to remove the scars of vice. The efficacy of this satisfaction is not from itself, but “arises entirely from the merits of the Passion of Christ our Lord.”

The general notion of satisfaction requires two conditions: first, that we be in a state of grace; second, that the work performed be “painful or laborious.” Therefore, there are three kinds of works of satisfaction. First, fasting, which opposes the concupiscence of the flesh. Second, alms, which oppose the concupiscence of the eyes. Third, prayer, which opposes the pride of life.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC 1447ff) gives the same essential doctrine, quoting both Trent and the Roman Catechism. The same is also taught by St. John Paul II in Reconciliatio et paenitentia, n. 31, and summarized in the Code of Canon Law (can. 987-8).

Laxist and Rigorist Errors

Additionally, the Church has determined a number of details on the nature of this contrition against both the Laxists (under Bl. Innocent XI) and Rigorists (under Alexander VIII).

The Laxists were condemned for teaching that the attrition sufficient for the validity of confession could be something natural rather than the gift of God (“it is probable that natural but honest imperfect sorrow for sins suffices,” DZ 1207), that the sinner is to be absolved who has the habit of sinning with no hope of amendment (“the penitent who has the habit of sinning against the law of God, of nature, or of the Church, even if there appears no hope of amendment, is not to be denied absolution or to be put off, provided he professes orally that he is sorry and proposes amendment,” DZ 1210), and that the sinner is to be absolved who refuses to avoid the proximate occasion of sin (“he can sometimes be absolved, who remains in a proximate occasion of sinning, which he can and does not wish to omit, but rather directly and professedly seeks or enters into,” DZ 1211).

It is for this reason that the Roman Catechism speaks at length of the duties of confessors towards the various states of penitents, especially the indisposed and unprepared.

The Rigorists were condemned for denying the supernaturality and goodness of the fear of hell (“fear of hell is not supernatural,” “attrition, which is conceived through a fear of hell and punishments, with a love of benevolence for God in Himself, is not a good and supernatural motive,” DZ 1304-5, cf. 1410-12, 1525), and demanding “unmistakable signs of the love of God dominating in the heart of a man” for absolution (DZ 1536).

Is My Contrition Genuine?

These various acts of contrition should be familiar to those who frequent confession. We express sorrow for our offense against God (“I am heartily sorry for having offended thee”). We express the detestation that we have for our sins against God (“I detest all my sins”), along with the motives for such detestation, both the punishments of God to us and the offense it gives from us to God, which is repugnant to His intrinsic excellence. Lastly, we firmly resolve towards God that we will avoid both sin and whatever leads to sin, i.e., the near occasions of sin.

The theology of the Church is clearly manifested in the prayer of the Church. Those who go to confession and truly intend what is said in this prayer have the three aspects of contrition. Those who go to confession and do not truly intend what is said in this prayer do not have the three aspects of contrition and, absent an integral part of confession, confess invalidly.

In light of this doctrine, many, attacked by scruples, question whether they truly intended these internal acts. It must be confessed that it is simply part of the human condition that our certitude about even our own internal acts is often lacking in that more perfect certitude that we have about external things, according to experience and the abundant testimony of scripture. This is recognized by Catholic theologians against the Protestants on the certainty with which we know that we are in the state of grace (cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, ST.I-II.Q112.A5). This comparison is commonly made by theologians, “confession does not produce its effect, unless contrition be presupposed; concerning which no man can know whether it be true contrition, even as neither can one know for certain if he has grace” (ST.IIISup.Q10.A5.Rep2)

Yet, while this more perfect certitude is lacking in our understanding of our own internal acts, it would be false to conclude from this that all certitude is lacking, such that we would be bound to always fear that such acts do not exist within us. All that is necessary for the validity of the sacrament is that each of these aspects be firm and genuine.

While some may object that this is not helpful, since the very question at hand is how we can know whether some act is firm and genuine, the answer to this is quite simple. I would ask you to spend time reflecting on the various transgressions you have made against others in your life. You understand quite well when the apology you give to them and the purpose of amending your fault are sufficiently genuine. You also understand that, at times, your apology is not sufficiently genuine and the purpose of resolution is not firm. The alcoholic frequently apologizes for his faults for some temporal gain, without any serious purpose to resolve his problems. The adulterer does the same. For those who cannot imagine that we cannot have insufficient contrition towards God, remember that there are many times in which you know that your contrition is feigned in your relationship with others. For those who cannot imagine that we can have sufficient contrition towards God, remember that there are many times in which you know that your contrition is genuine in your relationship with others. The first destroys despair in the presumptuous, the second destroys presumption in the despairing.

If you genuinely seek contrition, you will find it. The Church has not failed in giving you sufficient instruction on how to arouse this act. As mentioned above, the Catechism of Trent has an entire section discussing this matter.

Remember, above all, that the Church clearly teaches, against the Laxists, that the attrition necessary for valid absolution is not something natural, but is a gift of God. Therefore, it is not something that we can conjure up by our own natural powers, it is something that can only be given to us by God.

While this may seem crushing, it is a great consolation for those who recognize the depths of the Mercy of God and the certainty of His promises. Remember the simplicity of the Gospel: “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” (Matt. 7:11) If you ask earnestly and with humility, know that God has bound Himself by His word to give what you ask in accordance with His will. What could be more pleasing to God than your repentance? Therefore, “Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” (v. 7)

Remember, if each and every soul that has been damned had asked God for this gift perseveringly and with humility, then they would be saved from the state of mortal sin (ST.II-II.Q83.A15-16). The saints teach that the prayers of those in mortal sin infallibly impetrate the mercy of God (Mortal Sin, Prayer, and the Promises of God).

While you may wonder at this and how this could ever be true when the vast majority of men are damned, I would ask you to look within yourself. How slow are you to pray? How often do you refuse to persevere in prayer, giving up early when you do not see immediate results? Cease to wonder, then, that many are damned.

The same St. Alphonsus who penned the fundamental axiom of the spiritual life (”He who prays is saved. He who prays not is damned!”) was the same St. Alphonsus who recognized that such prayer often escapes the dying (Preparation for Death, con. vi), leading to the damnation of the majority of adult Catholics (ibid., con. xvii).

NOTE: The remainder of this article consists of a consideration of certain disputes between theologians on more particular questions about what constitutes proper contrition for the validity of the sacrament. In keeping with the spirit of the article, and understanding that many will come to read such an article who will be confused by such discussions, I will not make it public.

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“Do not believe me, but the Fathers; hear from them what the narrow way is.” (Contenson, Theologia mentis et cordis, lib. II, diss. VI, c. 2)

“Since we are debtors both to the wise and to the unwise, and since besides the settling of this question can be useful for stirring up in us the fear of God… I am pleased to show that the opinion which asserts that among Christians and the faithful the reprobate are far more numerous than the elect is more in accord with Scripture, with the holy Fathers, and with Church history than the other opinion, which teaches that the number of the elect exceeds the multitude of the reprobate.” (Gonet, Clypeus theologiae thomisticae, tract. V, De praedestinatione, disp. 4, digr. 2)

“Whoever, amid the uncertainty of this question, wishes to enter upon a sure road, let him conclude practically that the stricter road is the one he must choose for himself, firmly holding that he who lives well dies well, but fearing lest, if he shall have lived as most men live, he be damned perhaps along with most men.” (Theologia ad usum seminarii Mechliniensis, De Deo, n. 50)

“The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.” (Matt. 11:12)

“There are then two things we must consider carefully. Since there are many who are called but few who are chosen, the first thing is that no one should be presumptuous about himself. Even though he has already been called to the faith, he does not know whether he may be considered worthy of the eternal kingdom. Secondly, no one should presume to despair of a neighbor, even if he sees him steeped in vice. He does not know the riches of the divine mercy.” (Pope St. Gregory the Great, Hom. 19 on the Gospels)

“There is a way which seemeth to a man just; but the ends thereof lead to death.” (Prov. 14:12)

Introduction

When considering the question of the fewness of the saved, theologians commonly distinguish between two central questions:

1. Whether most of mankind is damned?

2. Whether most adult Catholics are damned?

The first question is far easier than the second. Before the eighteenth century, theologians answered with uniformity on this first point. The tradition that was passed down to them was clear and certain: most of mankind will be damned. In the eighteenth century, a certain theologian named Gravina (not to be confused with Dominic Gravina) attempted to lower this unshakeable certainty by simply claiming that, while the contrary is more probable, it is in some degree probable that the greater number of mankind is elect rather than reprobate (in the fifth chapter of Plazza’s Dissertatio de Paradiso). In response to this mild suggestion, the Apostolic See was quick to condemn the thesis by a decree of the Congregation of the Index of May 22, 1772, as noted by Hurter (Theologiae dogmaticae compendium, t. II, n. 145) and many other theologians.

The second question, on the other hand, has a quite different history. As Estius notes in his treatment of the matter, on the question of whether more adult Catholics are damned than saved, the Fathers are unanimous: “nor indeed is any of the Fathers found who has written the contrary” (In I Sent., d. 40, § 203). The same is noted by many of the supporters of this doctrine, as was demonstrated at length by Verschueren (Via arcta coeli asserta), Foggini (De paucitate adultorum fidelium salvandorum mira consensio), Godts (De paucitate salvandorum quid docuerunt sancti), and others.

After the Reformation, this doctrine began to be questioned by a handful of theologians who presented their position moderately and with erudition (although, it is important to note, many of them conceded the opposite to be the more common opinion and the doctrine of the Fathers). The illustrious name of Francisco Suárez is often unfairly added to this number. The great Doctor Eximius treats this question in his De divina praedestinatione et reprobatione (lib. VI, c. 3) and distinguishes quite cleanly between three questions:

1. Whether the number of the elect is greater than the reprobate, considering the angels alone? Affirmative.

2. Whether the number of the elect is greater than the reprobate, considering the entirety of mankind? Negative.

3. Whether the number of the elect is greater than the reprobate among Christians? Distinguish.

Those who are merely casual readers of the problems of theology, simply seeking precedent to conform their opinions rather than doctors to learn from, might be quite surprised by the refusal of Suárez to plainly state concedo on this point. If we truly follow the mind of the great Suárez, we will find that his position is more nuanced than many interpreters (both friend and foe) have allowed him to be.

Suárez distinguishes among “Christians” two distinct groups:

1. Heretics, apostates, schismatics, and depraved Catholics (those who live and die badly).

2. Other Catholics.

Based on this distinction, it seems quite evident from Fr. Suárez’s treatment that it has nothing in common with the many lax and benign interpretations given to his doctrine by many moderns. Further, it seems particular enough as not to fall under any condemnation as contrary to the universal consensus of the Fathers (for, the Fathers are less clear on this particular point). Hence, we are forced to ask the question of Godts: “Does Suárez then, in what follows, exclude those Catholics who die badly (whom he had just reckoned among the apostates) and understand as ‘Catholics’ only those who die holily?” (De paucitate salvandorum, c. 4)

This position of Suárez is quite clear from the context of his comment. First, he never denies the traditional exegesis of the relevant texts, nor the authority of the Fathers and theologians, calling their position “truer” (rather, he seeks to “reconcile” these authorities with a certain reality, i.e., the efficacy of the sacraments). Second, when he states his position, he was just in the midst of reporting the position of Cajetan (In Matt. 25:1–2) that, just as only half of the virgins are wise, so also (as Suárez reports) only half of those who live indifferently in the Church and “take some care of their conscience” will be saved. It is this position that he calls “very rigorous,” and against it that he states his own.

When he describes the grounds for his own position, he very clearly describes the individuals who are mostly saved in a way quite similar to how Cajetan describes the ten virgins:

“As for adults, although the greater part of men sin mortally rather often, yet they also rise again rather often, and so pass their life by falling and rising again. But at the last, at the end, few are they who are not prepared for death through the Sacraments and do not grieve for their sins, at least by attrition: and this suffices for their being justified at that time. And once they are justified, they are commonly able to persevere easily, for that short space, without a new mortal sin. Therefore, all things weighed, it is likely that more of these Christians are saved.” (ibid., n. 6)

What could be clearer? Suárez, taking the state of the question from Cajetan, only describes a part of the Catholic Church, i.e., those who take some (quite imperfect) care of their conscience in life and die with the sacraments. Those who live in habitual mortal sin (i.e., do not pass their lives in “rising and falling again”) or are not prepared for death through the sacraments are not included by Suárez in this question.

Hence, those Benignists who promise salvation to the majority of Catholics (or, according to some, almost all) gain nothing from the extrinsic authority of Suárez, who was careful to confine his opinion within the mind of the holy Fathers.

Yet, what are we to make of Suárez’s thesis? Clearly, it is not so explicitly against the consensus of the Fathers as the modern Benignists are; hence, it would be quite inappropriate to censure it as anything except a thesis that is less common or less probable. Yet, this does not mean that there is no room for legitimate disagreement with Fr. Suárez, only a mitigated one. The real question concerns a certain practical judgment: whether those who live and die falling and rising from mortal sin to a state of grace are saved more numerously (Suárez), equally (Cajetan), or less numerously (the common opinion).

It is my firm persuasion that, when the Doctors and Fathers of the Church are consulted, along with the principles given in Sacred Scripture and genuine theological reason, Suárez’s thesis must be rejected.

The refutation of Suárez’s unique thesis is quite simple, laid out by Álvarez:

“As to the objection about those who receive the Sacraments of the Church at the point of death, the answer is that, if the matter is rightly considered, very many Christians die without receiving the Sacraments at all; and granting that the greater part do receive the sacraments at the point of death, fewer prepare themselves to receive the effect of the sacraments.” (De auxiliis, lib. V, disp. 43)

One of the greatest refutations of Suárez’s theory comes from another Jesuit who was quite familiar with Suárez, Cornelius a Lapide. In his commentary on James 2:13, he provides a lengthy disputation on this matter, refuting Suárez’s argument from the authority of the Fathers. The principal argument, drawn from the Fathers, is succinctly set forth by the Roman Breviary, taken from St. Bernard: “Does the death of Christ deliver from eternal death those who live badly right up to death?” (Matins Office of the Sepulchre of Our Lord, Lesson 4)

This is stated with certainty by that immortal principle of the Fathers, as a man has lived, so will he die: “By far the greater part of Christians live in a state of mortal sin: for according to St. Augustine’s rule, as a man has lived, so he dies, so that rarely does one who has lived ill, die well, and vice versa.” (a Lapide, In Iac. 2:13) This principle is often repeated by the authors on this point.

Yet, the objection comes: “Is it not true that many die with the sacraments?” Very true, although not all; yet this is not what is up for dispute. To this objection, many theologians, exegetes, and saints respond with one voice in saying that the conversion of the deathbed often lacks the requisite conditions for a valid confession. As a Lapide argues, of those who receive the sacraments, most who live in such a state receive them invalidly for numerous reasons and hence do not expiate their sins:

1. Many labor under culpable ignorance of the articles of the faith and other truths that they are bound to know explicitly.

2. Many are ignorant of the necessity of a firm purpose of amendment for the validity of the sacrament; and, of those who do know this, many “do not know how strong and constant a resolution of soul is required for the resolution to be deemed absolute and effective” (ibid.).

3. A Lapide confirms this by experience on the basis of the effects of yearly confessions. How frequently does someone who lives in habitual mortal sin come to the confessional as a matter of duty once a year? Countless times. How often is their purpose of amendment genuine? “By their fruits, you will know them.” If the vast majority are almost immediately plunged back into habitual mortal sin, how are we to conclude that the purpose of amendment was sufficiently firm?

Yet, you may object (and many followers of Suárez did) that such is not the case on the deathbed, where the hearts of many are quite open to God and contrite for past sins. Yet, the wisdom of Scripture and the saints refutes this line of reasoning, along with the testimony of reason and experience.

As Ven. Louis of Granada and Cardinal Bona (among others) point out (The Sinner’s Guide; Principia et documenta vitae christianae), in 2 Maccabees 9, the wicked King Antiochus feels the pangs of death, and cries out to God: “It is right to be subject to God, and no mortal should think that he is equal to God.” (v. 12)

More than this, he made many vows to God, promising aid to the people of God and to make many offerings to God in his Temple. More than all of this, the King promised that “he also would become a Jew and would visit every inhabited place to proclaim the power of God” (v. 17). How magnanimous! For those who rely on deathbed conversions, if there ever was one, this would be one of the greatest. Yet, what do the Scriptures say? “The abominable fellow made a vow to the Lord, who would no longer have mercy on him…” (v. 13)

According to the testimonies of the saints, this is not the exception; it is the general rule, giving way to only the most occasional outliers. One of the greatest testimonies to this comes from St. Alphonsus’s golden work, Preparation for Death. In the sixth consideration, on the death of the sinner, he treats the topic at hand:

“Were they at death even allowed time for repentance, who assures them that they will sincerely return to God? To conquer bad habits, St. Augustine had to fight against them for twelve years. How will the dying man, who has always lived in sin, be able, in the midst of the pains, the stupefaction, and the confusion of death, to repent sincerely of all his past iniquities? I say sincerely, because it is not enough to say and to promise with the tongue: it is necessary to promise with the heart. O God! What terror and confusion will seize the unhappy Christian who has led a careless life, when he finds himself overwhelmed with sins, with the fears of judgment, of hell, and of eternity! Oh! What confusion will these thoughts produce when the dying sinner will find his reason gone, his mind darkened, and his whole frame assailed by the pains of approaching death. He will make his confession; he will promise, weep, and seek mercy from God, but without understanding what he does; and in this tempest of agitation, of remorse, of pains and terrors, he will pass to the other life…A certain author says that the prayers, the wailings, and promises of dying sinners are like the tears and promises of a man assailed by an enemy who points a dagger to his throat to take away his life. Miserable the man who takes to his bed at enmity with God, and passes from the bed of sickness to eternity.”

In countless places, the same doctrine is preached by this great saint, most experienced in the direction of souls and knowledge of the interior life:

“St. Bernard says that the man who has been obstinate in sin during life, will make efforts, but without success, to get out of the state of damnation; and that, overwhelmed by his own malice, he will end his life in the same unhappy state. Having loved sin till death, he has also loved the danger of damnation. Hence the Lord will justly permit him to perish in that danger in which he has voluntarily lived till the end of his life. St. Augustine says that he who is abandoned by sin before he abandons it, will scarcely detest it as he ought; because what he will then do will be done through necessity…They will have recourse to God at death; but he will say to them: Why do you invoke me now? Call on creatures to assist you; for they have been your gods. The Lord will address them in this manner, because, in seeking him, they do not sincerely wish to be converted. St. Jerome says that he holds, and that he has learned from experience, that they who have to the end led a bad life, will not die a good death.” (ibid.)

St. Leonard of Port Maurice treated the same objection in his famous sermon on this topic (The Little Number of Those Who Are Saved):

“But you will say: Can penance not profitably repair the loss of innocence?…That is true, I admit. But I also know that penance is so difficult in practice…If you consider the sacrament of penance, there are so many distorted confessions, so many studied excuses, so many deceitful repentances, so many false promises, so many ineffective resolutions, so many invalid absolutions! Would you regard as valid the confession of someone who accuses himself of sins of impurity and still holds to the occasion of them? Or someone who accuses himself of obvious injustices with no intention of making any reparation whatsoever for them? Or someone who falls again into the same iniquities right after going to confession? Oh, horrible abuses of such a great sacrament! One confesses to avoid excommunication, another to make a reputation as a penitent. One rids himself of his sins to calm his remorse, another conceals them out of shame. One accuses them imperfectly out of malice, another discloses them out of habit. One does not have the true end of the sacrament in mind, another is lacking the necessary sorrow, and still another firm purpose. Poor confessors, what efforts you make to bring the greater number of penitents to these resolutions and acts, without which confession is a sacrilege, absolution a condemnation and penance an illusion?”

This is not even considering the presence of the deathbed, which St. Leonard says is even worse than confessions made in life:

“Where are they now, those who believe that the number of the saved among Christians is greater than that of the damned and who, to authorize their opinion, reason thus: the greater portion of Catholic adults die in their beds armed with the sacraments of the Church, therefore most adult Catholics are saved? Oh, what fine reasoning! You must say exactly the opposite. Most Catholic adults confess badly at death, therefore most of them are damned. I say ‘all the more certain,’ because a dying person who has not confessed well when he was in good health will have an even harder time doing so when he is in bed with a heavy heart, an unsteady head, a muddled mind; when he is opposed in many ways by still-living objects, by still-fresh occasions, by adopted habits, and above all by devils who are seeking every means to cast him into hell.” (ibid.)

Ven. Louis of Granada gives a compendious treatment of this doctrine in the twenty-fifth chapter of his Sinner’s Guide, where he sets out the following principle:

“We must bear in mind an undeniable principle, concerning which St. Augustine and all the holy Doctors are agreed—namely, that as true repentance is the work of God, so He can inspire it when and where He wills. Hence if the heart of the sinner, even at the hour of death, be filled with true contrition for his sins, it will avail him for salvation. But, to show you how rare such examples of repentance are, I shall give you the testimony of the Saints and Doctors of the Church.”

He demonstrates this rarity from a number of different Fathers: Ss. Augustine, Ambrose, Isidore, Eusebius, Gregory the Great, and others. He also proves this thesis from the teaching of the scholastics as well, reproducing the reasons of Bl. Scotus, which Ven. Louis explains in great detail (although I skip these explanations here):

“First, because the physical pains and weakness which precede death prevent a man from elevating his heart to God or fulfilling the duties of true repentance… The second reason given by Scotus is that repentance should be voluntary, not forced… The third reason is that a habit of sin confirmed by long indulgence accompanies man as inseparably as the shadow does the body, even to the tomb… The fourth reason given by Scotus is taken from the value of actions done at such a time; for it is manifest to all who have any knowledge of God that He is much less pleased with services offered at this hour than with the same services offered under different circumstances.”

The first reason is one that is frequently repeated by the saints. St. Claude de la Colombière, the great Apostle of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, states the following:

“People count a great deal upon what they intend to do at the hour of death. One confesses better then, I am willing to believe: but how many are there who then do not confess at all? Besides which, the sight of death adds nothing to a man’s ordinary dispositions but agitation, dread, and a wholly natural fear; and the proof of it is that when one comes back from that peril, and the fright has passed off, one goes on living as one had lived before.” (Migne, Orateurs sacrés, t. VII, cols. 1589–91)

Ven. Louis of Granada also demonstrates this from the words of the Old and New Testaments. Who is not aware of the many warnings in Sacred Scripture against putting off conversion, and of the promise that God will turn a blind eye to those who defer it? “Many will seek to enter and will not be able.” (Lk. 13:24) For those who wish to read the edifying, scripturally and patristically based, and theologically erudite explanation of this doctrine, there is no better source than Ven. Louis of Granada.

Even granting that such a genuine confession is made with the requisite attrition, including a firm purpose of amendment, even then salvation is quite rare:

“Granted that some, confessing in death, conceive a true resolution, yet after confession, if they lie sick for many days as commonly happens, the memory of former lusts, on which their mind was wont to feed, recurs and bends them to consent, so that they consent to a wicked thought and to morose delight in past and habitual unlawful pleasure; especially because the devil is then accustomed to throw the same thing before the mind and rub it raw, and most grievously to tempt the man in that last duel, and indeed in the very agony in which the soul departs from the body; for God by His just judgment permits this to the devil as a punishment for those crimes and negligence by which, while sound and vigorous, they took no care to mortify those lusts, but indulged them like horse and mule: hence then many succumb and perish, of which thing many sad examples remain.” (a Lapide, In Iac. 2:13)

Fr. Louis Bourdaloue, one of the greatest preachers of the seventeenth century, preached on this topic at length:

“If one were to fall back upon saying that it is death, after all, which decides the eternal lot of men, and that everything consists in dying in Christian dispositions: True, I would answer; but one can hardly hope to die in those Christian dispositions except after having lived in them; and since there are very few who live in them, I would conclude that there are very few who die in them.

It would be easy for me to destroy the false opinion of worldlings who persuade themselves that, in order to make a good end, it is only a question of receiving, in the extremity of illness, the last Sacraments of the Church and of giving certain signs of repentance. Ah, what illusions there are on this point! I should hardly dare to declare all that I think. It is not merely a question of receiving these Sacraments so holy, but they must be received holily, that is to say with a true conversion of the heart; and there is the point of the difficulty. Not being ignorant of what most of these conversions at death come down to, those hurried conversions, those conversions begun, carried out and consummated in the space of a few moments, when one hardly knows any longer what one is doing; those conversions which would be so many miracles, if they were good and true conversions; and knowing how much there often enters into them of policy, of worldly prudence, of ceremony, of human respect, of complaisance toward friends or relatives, of servile and wholly natural fear, of half-Christianity, I would hold to the judgment of St. Augustine, or rather to that of all the Fathers, and I would say in general that it is much to be feared that the penance of a dying man, who is penitent only at death, should die along with him, and that it should be a reprobate penance. To this almost infinite number of false penitents at death, I would still add the very considerable number of so many others whom death surprises, whom it carries off all at once, who die without Sacraments, without help, without consciousness, without any view of God or any sentiment of him. And from all this I would come, without hesitating, after the Saviour of the world, to this frightful consequence: Many are called, but few are chosen.” (Pensées sur le salut; Migne, Orateurs sacrés, t. XVI, col. 622)

This is also confirmed at length from reason, Scripture, and the Fathers by other theologians, such as Recupito, who gives many arguments and testimonies (De signis praedestinationis et de numero praedestinatorum), Turlot (Thesaurus doctrinae christianae, pt. 1, c. 13, lect. 5), and Dionysius of Werl (Pseudo-poenitens, c. 9).

St. Vincent Ferrer writes: “It would be a greater miracle that men who live badly should make a good end, than to raise the dead.” (Sermon 1 on the Nativity of the Virgin) St. Alphonsus echoes the same: “The sinner in his death shall seek God and shall not find him.” (Preparation for Death, consid. 6)

On Method

In this question, more than in any other, we ought to follow proper theological methodology with tranquility and objectivity. This is a mystery of the faith which we cannot know with certainty from experience. As St. Thomas and all theologians affirm, the precise number of the elect and reprobate is something known to God alone. What, then, are the grounds for answering this question?

Certain theologians took occasion of this fact to declare that this question is vain and ought not to be treated; even excellent theologians fell into such a sophism, such as the Salmanticenses (De praedestinatione, disp. 10, dub. 2) and Billuart (De Deo, diss. 9, a. 7), paving the way for the anti-Thomistic turn of Garrigou-Lagrange, Buonpensiere, Hugon, Doronzo, and many others. Yet there were always faithful Thomists in the school who continued to preach this truth ad mentem Thomae, such as Concina, Patuzzi, and many others.

They reason thus: St. Thomas did not treat of the precise number of the elect, therefore he did not treat of the number of the elect compared with the reprobate in the Church. Yet, this is a specious piece of reasoning that was already refuted centuries before St. Thomas’s birth in the distinction offered by St. Augustine (Contra Cresconium, III, 66; cf. De correptione et gratia, c. 10) and other Fathers between the absolute number of the elect (which is many) and the relative number of the elect (which is few). Therefore, we can simultaneously affirm that there are many elect (in an absolute sense), yet that there are few elect (compared to the reprobate).

Further, it is quite clear that St. Thomas did treat this question of the fewness of the saved within the Church, yet it is locked away in his commentaries on Scripture. Commenting on the classical locus “many are called, but few are chosen,” he writes: “those who believe with faith are all called; but those are chosen who do good works, and these are few” (Super Matt. 20, lect. 1). The same doctrine recurs in the other pleaces as well.

In such a difficult question, where do we turn? The Benignists turn to certain specious theological principles and congruities (e.g., “if Jesus Christ wins over Satan, then more will be saved”) or to certain logical leaps from authentic exegesis (e.g., “the entire world will be converted, therefore the majority will be saved”) or to principles of praxis that are contrary to good traditional ascetical and pastoral theology (e.g., “most who receive the sacrament of penance on their deathbed receive it fruitfully”).

Where are we to turn? In such a question, where can we even turn? We must turn to the Sacred Page. God is neither obligated by His nature to save the multitude, nor to damn the multitude. Nature, in us, is not positively and necessarily driven in the multitude of cases to salvation, nor is our nature so repugnant to it as to render it impossible in the majority of cases. The notion of salvation neither inclines us to the multitude, nor to the few.

How, then, can we discover an answer to such a perplexing question? Divine Revelation. How do good theologians determine such mysteries in light of Divine Revelation? By the exegesis of Scripture in light of the exegesis of the Fathers and Doctors, guided by the magisterium of the Church. Woe to anyone who attempts an answer to this question without heeding these principles!

As Estius notes, “Among the faithful themselves there are more evil than good, and hence more reprobate than elect (so that we may say nothing of experience, which in a matter of this sort can be deceptive in either direction); this is taught both by Scripture and by the authority of the Fathers.” (In I Sent., d. 40, § 203)

Godts (who always challenged his opponents to quote one saint) states it well: “It is the Saints, then, that I appeal to, not theologians of whatever sort; it is the testimony of the Saints in the matter of eternal salvation that I want, not that of innovators; to the Saints I most gladly give credence, and to their authority I confidently submit myself.” (De paucitate salvandorum, p. 46)

As Ruiz de Montoya and Concina note, the answers to these questions often come from an overly affective mind, crushed under the weight of so solemn a truth as the fewness of the saved in the Church (De praedestinatione, disp. 54, sect. 1). Yet, we will steer quite clear of this temptation if we follow the interpretation of Scripture according to the above principles. With this in mind, we will swerve neither to the right, nor to the left.

Here, I do not seek to give you a quote mine. The texts I referenced above (especially Godts and Foggini) already do this. Rather, what I seek to do is to synthesize the various witnesses together, laying out the various different points of texts and arguments that are referenced in this debate by these noble witnesses. If you wish to look for a section titled “Fathers,” you will not find one, because the doctrine of the Fathers is reproduced throughout, with their names referenced as thoroughly as possible at each instance.

Answering an Objection

Typically, when treating such a topic, the following objection comes up: “While the doctrine you write about may be true, it is such a crushing doctrine, especially to the scrupulous; therefore, you should not talk about it.”

To this I reply in a threefold way.

First, from the example of the saints. The saints never followed this carnal wisdom, but constantly preached this doctrine to the lay faithful in their age. Far from being discouraged, the topic of the fewness of the saved was a popular discourse for Septuagesima Sunday, as appears from many examples.

From the Fathers, we have St. Ephrem (De patientia; De paenitentia), St. Basil (the sermon De renuntiatione saeculi), St. Gregory Nazianzen (Orations 42 and 27), St. Ambrose (on Psalm 40, n. 7), St. John Chrysostom (24th Homily on Acts), St. Augustine (Sermon 111), St. Peter Chrysologus (Sermon 97), Pope St. Leo the Great (Sermon 49), St. Caesarius of Arles (the two sermons De duabus viis, arcta et lata: Serm. 67–68 among the works of St. Augustine), Pope St. Gregory the Great (Homilies 19 and 38 on the Gospels), Antiochus of Palestine (Homily 94), Bishop Haymo of Halberstadt (Homily 21, for Septuagesima Sunday), Ratherius of Verona (first sermon on the Ascension), St. Peter Damian (Sermon 32), Cardinal Godfrey of Vendôme (Sermon 5), Ven. Hildebert (sermon for Septuagesima), St. Bernard (third sermon on the Vigil of the Lord’s Nativity), Pope Innocent III (Sermon 10 for Septuagesima), etc.

After the age of the Fathers, this same practice was kept by various saints and other holy men, among them St. Anthony of Padua, St. Bonaventure, St. Vincent Ferrer (Sermon 1 for Septuagesima Sunday, Sermon 6, etc.), St. Bernardine of Siena (Sermon 23), St. Lawrence Justinian (De compunctione et complanctu christianae perfectionis), Bl. Denys the Carthusian (Sermon 7 for Septuagesima Sunday, De paucitate salvandorum), St. Thomas of Villanova (Sermon 2 for Septuagesima Sunday, Sermon 1 for the 19th Sunday after Pentecost), St. Peter Canisius (notes on the Gospel for Septuagesima Sunday), St. Robert Bellarmine (De gemitu columbae, lib. I, c. 6; De arte moriendi, lib. II, c. 3), Ven. Luis de la Puente (Meditationes, pt. 3, med. 54), St. Vincent de Paul (Sermon sur la persévérance), St. Claude de la Colombière (Migne, Orateurs sacrés, t. VII, cols. 1589–91), Bossuet (Méditations sur l’Évangile, Last Week of the Saviour, 34th day), Bl. Gennaro Maria Sarnelli (the meditation in Il mondo santificato; Opera omnia, Naples ed., 1888, vol. 2, pp. 216–217), St. Leonard of Port Maurice (Sermon 24), St. Alphonsus Liguori (Preparation for Death; Sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent, etc.), Cardinal Giraud (Homélie du petit nombre des élus), Cardinal Wiseman (Sermon 11, Sur le petit nombre des élus), and many others.

This is not including the hundreds of other holy preachers and spiritual writers who follow the same path. Therefore, it is clear that I follow the safe path in writing on this topic.

Ultimately, as Bourdaloue teaches, this is simply a question of fidelity to the gospel:

“This is a question preachers raise: whether it is fitting to explain this truth to the people and to treat it in the pulpit, since it is capable of troubling souls and casting them into discouragement? I might as well be asked whether it is good to explain the Gospel to the people and to preach it in the pulpit. Why, what in fact is more strongly marked in the Gospel than this small number of the elect? What is there that the Saviour of the world, in his divine instructions, declared to us more authentically, repeated to us more often, made us hear more formally and more clearly?…This is what the Son of God taught publicly; this is what he impressed upon his disciples. Are we better instructed than He as to what it is or is not fitting to announce to the faithful? Let us preach the Gospel, and let us preach it without cutting anything away from it or softening anything in it; let us preach it in its whole extent, in all its purity, in all its severity, in all its force. Woe to whoever shall take scandal at it; he himself, and he alone, will bear the penalty of his scandal.” (Pensées sur le salut)

Second, from the utility of the doctrine. The saints teach that this is an eminently practical and useful doctrine for salvation.

Bourdaloue lists six fruits in the hearers from preaching on this topic:

“1º to redouble his vigilance, to arm himself against dangers; 2º not to remain a single day in the state of mortal sin, but to run without delay to the remedy; 3º to separate himself from the multitude and consequently from the world, to separate himself from it, if not in fact (not all can do that), at least in mind, in heart, in maxims, in sentiments, in practices; 4º to follow the small number of Christians who are truly Christian, orderly in their conduct, faithful to all their duties; 5º to take resolutely the narrow way, since it is the only way that Jesus Christ came to teach us; to exert himself, to brace himself against obstacles; 6º finally, to beg unceasingly for the grace of heaven, to commend his soul unceasingly to God by excellent prayer.” (ibid.)

Generally, this meditation on the fewness of the saved (as noted by Gonet, Clypeus, disp. 4, digr. 2) is one of the most efficacious means for inspiring the fear of God in the hearts of the faithful, which is the beginning of Wisdom. As Stapleton notes, “This whole topic, most salutary for continual fear, is scarcely drawn from, or dependent upon, any other head more forcibly than upon this immense multitude of called Christians, but immense fewness of the elect.” (Promptuarium morale, 19th Sunday after Pentecost) It is for this reason that the greatest master of the spiritual life, St. Ignatius, sets in the beginning of the Spiritual Exercises, meant to aid the soul in the purgative way, the meditation on hell in order to inspire the fear of God. Therefore, in his Spiritual Exercises, he writes that “we ought to praise much the fear of His Divine Majesty, because not only filial fear is a thing pious and most holy, but even servile fear—when the man reaches nothing else better or more useful—helps much to get out of mortal sin.” (Rules for Thinking with the Church, n. 18) Ven. Louis of Granada, in the beginning of the Memorial of a Christian Life, proves at length that this is the proper procedure for those who are unconverted or beginning the spiritual life—to strike with terror rather than to simply promise reward—as was the practice of blessed Moses, the Prophets, Our Lord, and the Apostles.

For this principle, we do not only need to rely on the writings of theologians and the praxis of the saints; the Magisterium of the Church has itself stepped in to condemn the opposite position. Trent states that “sinners are usefully shaken by the fear of the divine justice.” (Sess. VI, cap. 6) Pius VI states the same against the Synod of Pistoia:

“[Condemned:] The fear itself of hell, which faith teaches must be imposed on sin, is not in itself good and useful as a supernatural gift, and a motion inspired by God preparing for the love of justice… [It is the teaching of the Church, that] ‘there is need,’ according to the customary order of preparation for justice, ‘that fear should first enter, through which charity will come; fear is a medicine, charity is health.’” (Auctorem fidei, n. 25)

Besides this, there are also multiple errors of Quesnel that were condemned on this point (cf. Unigenitus, prop. 60 ff.).

Therefore, a Lapide rebukes the preachers of his day for concealing this doctrine, speaking only of the mercy of God and the promises of various devotions:

“Preachers often do not teach, do not explain, do not inculcate these things, but follow the common track of explaining the Gospels, commending to sinners the passion of Christ, the mercy of God, the giving of alms, and devotion to the Blessed Virgin, that she will not let her devotees perish; nor do they come down to the vices peculiar to this or that place, so as to thunder and lighten against them and root them out: whence cities and peoples remain in the same evil laws, customs, resolutions, and vices, and reap no, or but tiny, fruit from all sermons. Let them therefore change their manner of preaching, if they would consult God, conscience, the Church, and their hearers, so as to strike consciences and uproot from them every evil seed which they know is rampant in such a place.” (In Iac. 2:13)

Preachers who ignore this truth are compared by Segneri to “physicians who would rather see a sick man dead than afflicted with grief.” (Il cristiano istruito, pt. 1, disc. 5, no. 3) This same image is used by Concina, who says that the Benignists “imitate those physicians who, in treating the gravely sick, often reason thus: an effective remedy for driving out the disease is at hand; but the sick man’s strength cannot bear the harshness and force of the remedy; therefore they apply soothing remedies, not to heal the sick, but to put off death for a few days.” (Theologia christiana dogmatico-moralis, t. I, Praefatio, § IX)

Beyond the general use, applicable to all ages, there is a particular use for our age. As Bl. Pius IX teaches, in the days of rigorism God raised up St. Alphonsus Liguori to show the middle way. What are we to do in the days of laxism, where each man believes that he is on the path to heaven and that penance is an easy thing? St. Leonard of Port Maurice answers:

“It is not curiosity, but prudence, to stir up from the height of the pulpit certain truths which serve marvellously to check the insolence of libertines, who, having never anything on their lips but the excessive mercy of God, the ease of conversion, the firmness of our hopes, live withal plunged in complete security in the very middle of the road to perdition. In order to undeceive them and to rouse them from their torpor, we are going to discuss this grave question, namely, whether the number of Christians who are saved is greater than that of the Christians who are damned.” (The Little Number of Those Who Are Saved)

Third, from the vanity of the excuse. This doctrine, properly considered, does not lead to despair when considered in the totality of Catholic theology.

The discouragement that often comes from this doctrine is either an effect of certain errors in presentation on the part of the preacher, or a certain lack of receptivity and careful consideration on the part of the hearer. As Bourdaloue teaches:

“They say: the idea of so small a number of the elect discourages and drives to despair! Yes, this idea can discourage and can even drive to despair, when it is badly conceived, badly presented, pressed too far, and above all when it is built on false principles and on erroneous opinions. But let it be conceived according to the truth, let it be presented as it really is, let it be kept within just bounds, let it be established on sound principles; then, far from casting men into discouragement, nothing is more capable of engaging us to make the utmost efforts to secure our salvation and to have a place among the blessed company of the predestined. I admit it: there are certain doctrines according to which one cannot preach the small number of the elect without ruining Christian hope. For example, to say that there will be few elect because God does not will the salvation of all men; because Jesus Christ did not offer his death for the salvation of all men; because he does not give his grace to all men…And so the Church has struck down such pernicious errors with her thunder.” (ibid.)

On the part of the hearer, the despair that arises often flows from laxity. If the preacher clearly inculcates the security of the way established by Jesus Christ and the hope we ought to have in him, diagnosing the true cause of the greatness of the reprobate (i.e., our own evil and unwillingness), then there are no secure grounds for despair, which cannot be the vital fruit of such a sermon, but only incidental to it.

As many of the saints and preachers say to illustrate this, it would not matter whether there was only one saved in ten thousand; the way is set forth, and we ought to strive to enter in at the narrow gate to be that one who is saved. Further, it would not matter if only one were damned in ten thousand; we ought to strive to enter in at the narrow gate so as not to be that one in ten thousand who is damned. There is nothing in the doctrine of the fewness of the saved that at all changes the message of the gospel or the narrow path; whether such is achieved by 1% or 99%, this does not matter. Neither is a ground for despair or presumption.

St. Thomas of Villanova is representative here, stating that “it is not said that we may despair, but that we may keep watch the more diligently. For if out of so great a multitude as we are here one man only were to be saved, and this were known, I would strive to be that one.” (Sermon 2 for Septuagesima Sunday)

Although, before continuing, there must be an admission on this point. Many defenders of the fewness of the saved have admitted the many excesses in popular preaching on this point (e.g., Bourdaloue, Verschueren, Godts). Many have used weak and uncertain arguments from various visionaries to establish the doctrine. Others (famously, Jean-Baptiste Massillon) have exaggerated the difficulty of the narrow path (demanding the heroic penance of the saints). Certain theologians engaged in vain speculations, asking whether more priests than laymen, more women than men, etc., are saved. As Estius (In I Sent., d. 40, § 201) and Alfonso de Castro (De iusta haereticorum punitione, c. 3) teach, such speculations have no place in theology, since such truths have simply not been revealed to us. The Fathers and theologians warn monks, priests, and bishops as much as laymen, stating that most of them will be damned as well. Lastly, some have given expression to completely uncertain numerical considerations that have no grounding in divine revelation and no business being presented to a public audience.

Even many canonized saints and learned men have given expression to these defects, although we should be wary of quickly condemning them for these. In some cases (e.g., a Lapide) these were presented in scientific works before a learned audience, and in other cases these were used in sermons in a moderate fashion as an illustration (although even this degree ought to be discouraged, since simple laymen often cannot distinguish between what is certain by public revelation, i.e., the relative number of the elect compared to the reprobate, and what is uncertain and illustrative by private visionaries, i.e., any sort of absolute comparison). In imitation of Our Divine Master, when preachers are asked “will those who are saved be few?” they ought primarily to reply that men should “enter in at the narrow gate” and warn them that “many will seek to enter in that day,” rather than engaging in speculation about the absolute number of the saved compared to the damned. For preachers, Bourdaloue’s advice, cited so many times before, is golden.

Ultimately, the solution of the problem of despair is the opposite virtue: Christian hope. God has promised salvation to those who follow the narrow way. God has equipped the Catholic Church with all those means morally necessary not only to free us from mortal sin, but also to acquire extraordinary, and even heroic, sanctity. Therefore, there is no reason for despair. Rather, to those who piously and perseveringly partake of the sacraments and continue in the spiritual doctrine of the Church, there is no reason to distrust that God will give the graces necessary for salvation.

The Teaching of Divine Revelation

As we have emphasized throughout this article, the chief consideration is the teaching of Divine Revelation. If we simply rely on Scripture as our primary witness, we will receive doctrinal clarity and balance, neither falling into the various excesses of certain preachers, nor falling into the novel method of the Benignists, who wage war against the entire witness of antiquity, casting aside orthodox theological methodology.

In order to establish this thesis, there are two sets of texts that must be considered. First, there are certain texts that establish this doctrine in its literal sense, whether explicitly or implicitly. Second, there are certain texts that establish this doctrine in its mystical sense, providing a type of the fewness of the saved in the Church.

Objection. As theologians generally teach, following St. Thomas, a doctrine must only be established from the literal sense of Scripture. Therefore, it is inappropriate to have the second set of texts.

Reply. I distinguish: a doctrine cannot be established from the typical sense on its own, conceded; a doctrine cannot be established from the typical sense when it is made certain from some other means (e.g., an explicit approval of the typical sense in Scripture, the consensus of the Fathers interpreting the type, etc.), denied.

In the cases of the typical sense presented here, we will be sure to only present those types that are certainly established, not those privately drawn out with little to no certainty of their sense.

As a final note, there are many other authorities that could be listed as an implicit support for each text, from the fact that they invoke and apply these texts in the midst of sermons to the faithful, warning them that many of them shall be damned. If I were to list such instances, each text would have dozens of witnesses; yet, I did not want to do this. Therefore, I am only listing the more explicit witnesses.

First Text: Matthew 7:13–14

“Enter by the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is easy, that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard, that leads to life, and those who find it are few.”

Certain authors (e.g., St. John Chrysostom, St. Augustine, St. John Cassian, Jonas of Orléans, Christian Druthmar, Ps.-Anselm, St. Bruno of Segni, Ludolph of Saxony, Stapleton, John Bosco, O.F.M., etc.) invoke this text in defense of the thesis that most Catholics are damned, taking Our Lord to speak of the faithful in particular rather than of mankind in general; others cite this text for the fact that most of mankind is damned. Texts from St. Thomas can be cited on both sides, describing it as a reference to the entire world and also as a reference to the Catholic Church. However, these references are not necessarily contradictory. For, if such a text applies to the Church, then, a fortiori, it also applies to the world as well.

A certain argument from experience supports the reading that this applies to the Church as well. Our Lord describes the way that the few find as “narrow and hard.” Now, the multitude of members in the Church are not living a life that is “narrow and hard,” but only the few. Therefore, it applies to the Church as well.

The minor premise is supported by the witness of missionaries, preachers, and masters of the spiritual life in all ages of the Church. Their witness is unanimous in this matter, complaining of the laxity and ease with which most Christians in every age live.

“If anyone considers the crowded assemblies of the Churches, and how many lead a pious and upright life and have been made new in newness of mind, and how many live slothfully and are conformed to this world, then at last he will discover the profit of this saying uttered by the Saviour: ‘For many are called, but few are chosen.’ And elsewhere it is said: ‘Many shall seek to enter, and shall not be able’; and: ‘Strive to enter by the narrow gate, for few are they that shall find it.’” (Origen, Commentary on Matthew; cf. Hom. 4 on Jeremias)

“If you examine the morals of Catholics seriously, you will see so many living negligently, without discipline and basely, that you cannot even doubt that the word of the Lord is true with regard to Catholics too.” (Laselve, Annus apostolicus, Sermon for Septuagesima)

A controversy on this particular point was settled by Verschueren in his Via arcta coeli asserta against Steyaert, who claimed that the “narrow way” was the way in which the common faithful practice religion—which he shows to be absurd on the basis of the text itself and contrary to the universal interpretation of the “narrow way” among the Fathers (who begin interpreting this text from the first century on). This is supported by many Fathers and exegetes in their description of the “narrow way” as the way of the virtues, the commandments, etc., rather than the way of faith alone, which is common to all Catholics (which some even say is the “broad way”).

Further, as Jansenius of Ypres points out (along with Concina and others), there is a good contextual argument to be made from what follows, “beware of false prophets,” etc., which Our Lord said in light of the principle just set out. For, if the gate is narrow and the way is hard, then we ought to have a skilled guide who can lead us in such an arduous way. A guide who is unskilled and preaches ease and comfort cannot lead us on the way ahead, nor even show unto us the narrow gate. Therefore, he warns us (the faithful) of these false prophets.

Other exegetes (especially among the ancients, e.g., Ven. Bede, Paschasius Radbertus, Ps.-Thomas, St. Vincent Ferrer, etc.; among many moderns, e.g., Jansenius of Ghent, Jansenius of Ypres, Calmet, Knabenbauer, etc.) point to the distinction between the “gate” and the “way.” The gate is entered by few, but the hard way is persevered in by even fewer. How could the thesis of the salvation of the majority of adult Catholics be maintained on these grounds? For, even if we were to admit (against the entire tradition) that every adult Catholic entered in at the gate, even then, few persevere unto the end of the way (why else would the way be “hard”?).

Second Text: Luke 13:23–27

“Some one said to him, ‘Lord, will those who are saved be few?’ And he said to them, ‘Strive to enter by the narrow door; for many, I tell you, will seek to enter and will not be able. When once the householder has risen up and shut the door, you will begin to stand outside and to knock at the door, saying, “Lord, open to us.” He will answer you, “I do not know where you come from.” Then you will begin to say, “We ate and drank in your presence, and you taught in our streets.” But he will say, “I tell you, I do not know where you come from; depart from me, all you workers of iniquity!”’”

In this text, someone explicitly asks him the question at hand: “will those who are saved be few?” As St. Augustine teaches (Sermon 111), Our Lord does not deny the question, but affirms that the questioner is right by his answer—in which he is followed by many others (e.g., Bl. Denys, Cajetan, a Lapide, Gonet, etc.).

Objection. You failed to note that certain Fathers (e.g., St. Cyril) deny that Our Lord answered the man’s question about the fewness or greatness of the saved. Therefore, etc.

Response. It seems that St. Cyril is referring to the absolute number, which is conceded by those who read him as answering the question directly as well. Therefore, there is no difficulty. Further, St. Cyril obviously believes that this passage applies to Christians (while he takes the primary reference to be the contemporary Jews):

“With the above-named, you may number certain others also as able to say to the Judge of all, ‘we have eaten and drunk in Your presence, and You have taught in our streets.’ And who again are these? Many have believed in Christ, and celebrate the holy festivals in His honour; and frequenting the churches they also hear the doctrines of the Gospel: but they lay up in their mind of the truths of Scripture absolutely nothing. And it is with difficulty that the practice of virtue is brought with them even to this extent, while of spiritual fruitfulness their heart is quite bare. These too shall weep bitterly, and gnash their teeth; for the Lord shall deny them also.” (Sermon 99 on Luke)

Bl. Denys the Carthusian, Estius, John of St. Thomas, and Gonet note that this question has bearing on the faithful rather than the unbeliever, due to the fact that Our Lord speaks of those who “seek to enter” and remain in his presence to eat. This text is invoked by many authors. Bl. Denys describes those who “seek to enter”:

“They did not seek efficaciously nor desire fervently, but sluggishly and negligently, or too late, like the foolish virgins. There are therefore very many who have an unformed faith and a servile fear, who often shrink from the pains of hell, think upon their dying, dread the divine judgment, and desire eternal beatitude—but by carnal love, by worldly vanity or ambition, and by a certain womanish softness they are drawn back from the way of salvation, from the good purpose or the good beginning…” (In Luc. 13, on v. 24)

Klofutar notes (along with Maldonatus) that the occasion for such a question was the difficulty of the moral teachings preached to his followers; hence it follows that the question and the answer have in mind the fate of his followers (i.e., Christians) rather than some other group of men (e.g., the Jews) or the entire world (In Luc. 13:23).

Objection. From context, this text is clearly referring to the salvation of the Jews in the first century. Therefore, it is not applicable to the entire age of the Church.

Answer. I distinguish: this text refers to the salvation of the Jews in the first century with principles particular to their state, denied; with principles universal in scope, let it pass.

Of course, each of the texts in the New Testament was written directly and immediately touching a first-century audience. If we were to apply this exegetical principle, no text could be applied to our day about any issue. Rather, we have to ask whether the principles invoked and applied are normative and of universal value. In this text, where the grounds are the objective difficulty of finding the way for those who seek, the principles invoked and applied are normative and of universal value. Therefore, this text can be invoked, as was the practice of the Fathers, in order to teach the fewness of the Catholic saved.

This argument is made by St. Robert Bellarmine:

“What we have said of the number of the Hebrews can also be said, in due proportion, of the number of Christians. For what the Lord says in Matthew and Luke about the narrow way and gate that leads to life, by which few enter, and about the broad way and gate that leads to perdition, by which many enter, is common to Hebrews and to Christians: for the man who asked the Lord whether they are few that are saved did not say ‘are they few from among the Hebrews,’ but simply ‘are they few that are saved’; and the Lord did not answer ‘narrow is the way that leads to life, and few of the Hebrews enter by it,’ but absolutely: ‘and few enter by it.’” (De gemitu columbae, lib. I, c. 6)

Drexel also notes that Our Lord’s response is absolute and universal—“few find it”—rather than particular in any way: “what Christ foretold to the Jews is common to all the rest also: for He did not declare that only a few of the Jews would go by the narrow path to life, but pronounced it without distinction: Few find it.” (Zodiacus christianus, coronis)

The relation between the two is noted by Van Steenkiste: “although Christ adapts his maxim to the Jews of that time, we nevertheless take it as spoken generally: for one who refers a saying to certain persons in particular can at the same time enunciate a general truth.” (In Matt., nn. 267–268)

Patuzzi focuses on the end of the passage in order to establish the thesis. Those many who are damned are those who ate and drank in the presence of Jesus Christ. While there was a population of contemporary Jews who could say this, in the context in which he was speaking (i.e., to his disciples), it is more likely that he was speaking of the familiar communion that was had between disciples and master. Immediately, this refers to the familiar personal communion between them; mediately, it refers to the communion that the faithful now have with Christ, especially in the Eucharist: “Here certainly Christ is speaking not of unbelievers but of the faithful, who eat and drink the most holy body and blood of Christ and are taught by his ministers, and who nevertheless are to be excluded from the kingdom of heaven.” (Ethica christiana, t. I, tract. I, c. 12)

In this, Patuzzi follows Theophylact: “It is said to the Israelites, simply because Christ was born of them according to the flesh, and they ate and drank with Him, and heard Him preaching. But these things also apply to Christians. For we eat the body of Christ and drink His blood as often as we approach the mystic table, and He teaches in the streets of our souls, which are open to receive Him.” (In Luc. 13) This same interpretation is given by Bl. Denys: the literal eating (as St. Cyril expounds) is the eating of the sacrifices of the temple, but the spiritual eating is the eating of the sacrament by Catholics—“spiritually it is expounded of Christians, who partake of the Body and Blood of Christ unworthily, and thereby incur the greater damnation; in whose streets too, and ways, and churches Christ daily teaches through his ministers.” (In Luc. 13, on vv. 25–27)

Ven. Bede interprets this similarly, referring to those who have the “food of the word,” i.e., the knowledge of the Scriptures (In Luc. 13).

Third Text: “Many are called, few are chosen”

In both Matthew 22 and Matthew 20, there are parables that conclude with the solemn words that “many are called, few are chosen.” Therefore, this section will have a threefold division:

1. What is meant by the phrase itself?

2. What is meant by the parable in Matthew 20?

3. What is meant by the parable in Matthew 22?

The phrase itself is one of the most commonly employed statements in this entire debate and runs through the entire homiletic tradition on this subject. An entire book could be written collecting the statements on this phrase. Therefore, I will only give a handful of statements on it, leaving most of the treatment to the parables themselves.

The question at hand is: what is meant by the “called”? Is it in reference to all men (who are, in a sense, called to the Gospel), or is it in reference to those who have a particular vocation to the Gospel (i.e., those in the Church)? Some also argue that the “called” are the Jews (who have a special vocation to the Gospel) or the Gentiles (e.g., Ps.-Chrysostom).

Pope St. Gregory the Great (Hom. 19 on the Gospels), who is quoted on this passage by many authors (Vázquez, Suárez, Becanus, Gonet, etc.), states that this is in reference to those who “come to the faith” and “follow God’s words.” Ven. Bede (In Matt. 20:16), who is cited as an authority on this passage by many authors, states that this is in reference to those who “come to the faith.” Christian Druthmar (Expositio in Matthaeum) refers it to “those who have been made Christians” and to “Christians only, who have been called by preaching but who nevertheless do not follow by their works.” Ratherius of Verona (first sermon on the Ascension) states this as an obvious fact: “who are the called, if not those who have entered the Church through Baptism?” St. Albert the Great (In Matt. 20:16) refers the calling to “confessing the faith.” Tostatus (In Matt. 22) says that the calling is “to the faith” and refers to those who “are converted to it.” St. Thomas of Villanova says that it is about the “faithful” (Sermon 2 for Septuagesima). Nicholas of Lyra places it in those “called to the Catholic faith” (Postilla on Mt. 20:16). St. Francis de Sales states that this is in reference to “all those in the Church” (Controversies, pt. 1, c. 2, a. 2).

The same is referenced by St. Isidore of Seville, Paschasius Radbertus, Remigius of Auxerre, Euthymius, St. Bruno of Segni, Rupert of Deutz, the Gloss, St. Anthony of Padua, Ludolph of Saxony, Tostatus, St. Antoninus, Bl. Denys the Carthusian, Trithemius, Lanspergius, Salmerón, Stapleton, Barradius, Lucas of Bruges, Natalis Alexander, and many others.

Certain authors even apply this “call” to those living in different states of life, whether of religion, the priesthood, or the episcopacy, including St. Basil, St. John Cassian, St. Isidore of Pelusium, St. Thomas of Villanova, Ven. Luis de la Puente, and many others.

This becomes clear when we consider the parables themselves that lead to the statement that “many are called, few are chosen.”

The first parable is the less clear, which is the parable of the laborers in the vineyard. In this parable, Our Lord recounts that there were many workers in a vineyard (justice, or the Church) hired by a certain Master (Our Lord) at different hours of the day (the ages of the world, or of a man’s life). Each one, at the end of the day (the final judgment), receives the denarius (beatitude) like all the rest. Then, at the end of the day, when all are receiving the reward, certain men hired at the beginning of the day (those who lived their entire lives in justice, or those converted near the beginning of the world, i.e., the Jews) complain that they received the same reward as everyone else. At the end of the parable, the “many are called, few are chosen” is affixed.

The strange affixture of this final line has led to two responses. First, some (Jansenius of Ghent, Vázquez) taught that the denarius received by those who complained is actually hell. Second, others thought that this line is not meant to be in the text, but was added later by some scribe. Generally, Catholic theologians reject both interpretations.

St. Thomas’s interpretation is best, i.e., that this is meant to remove a false opinion (Super Matt. 20, lect. 1). For, it may seem, from this parable, that everyone who labors in the Church or in justice will receive the reward of beatitude, since each worker received his reward at the end of the day. Therefore, Our Lord added the “many are called, few are chosen” in order to dispel this false interpretation. In this way, the traditional interpretation of the principle has a strong support, indicating that many who labor in the vineyard (i.e., are in the Church, have faith, are justified) are eventually damned and do not, like the complaining laborers, receive their reward of beatitude. This explanation is quite conformable to the mind of Pope St. Gregory (Hom. 19 on the Gospels), who distinguishes between the vineyard (the Church) and those laboring (i.e., “those with right faith and good work”). Therefore, he teaches that “one who lives for himself, nourished by the pleasures of his body, is rightly reproved as idle, since he is not striving for the fruit of good works.” This is also quite conformable to the mind of St. Augustine (Sermon 87) and St. John Chrysostom (Hom. 64 on Matthew) on this passage.

The second parable is more clear. There are two stages in the parable: first, there are those who initially reject the call as the friends of the king and are eventually punished by the sword; second, there are those who come to the feast, but are without the wedding garment and are cast out of the wedding. Therefore, there are three groups of people:

1. Those who never come to the wedding.

2. Those who come to the wedding and are cast out.

3. Those who come to the wedding and remain.

In this, we can distinguish between three groups of people:

1. Those who do not listen to the Gospel at all (i.e., those without faith).

2. Those who listen to the Gospel, but do not clothe themselves with the wedding garment (i.e., those with unformed faith).

3. Those who listen to the Gospel and clothe themselves with the wedding garment (i.e., those with living faith, working by charity).

Hence, when the statement “many are called, few are chosen” is stated by Our Lord, contextually, He is speaking about the man cast out from the wedding feast (i.e., those in the Church), not about the men who were killed previously (i.e., those outside the Church). For, there is a division of two parts in the parable: the first part concerns the reprobation of the Jews and the replacement of the Jews by the Gentiles (as in Luke 14), whereas the second part concerns the final judgment. The phrase “many are called, few are chosen,” as in Matthew 20, is meant to refer to the final judgment, not to the replacement of the Jews. This division is traditional, given by St. Albert the Great, Bl. Denys the Carthusian, and Godts. That the “called” in this instance are those present at the banquet (i.e., are members of the Church) is supported by many Catholic authors, especially those writing on ecclesiology, e.g., St. Robert Bellarmine (De Ecclesia militante, c. 7), Cardinal Billot (De Ecclesia Christi, t. I, q. 7, th. 13), etc.

Objection. The opponents of the fewness of the saved in the Church often point to this exact passage, arguing that many are not damned, due to the fact that only a single man at the banquet was cast out.

To this objection, we may easily reply that parables are not to be taken in all their details. There are certain details meant to analogize and others that are not meant to do so and are just added for the sake of the story. Otherwise, we would have a 50% salvation rate from the parable of the foolish virgins and be forced to affirm only one other man in the banquet to harmonize Scripture! Therefore, the Fathers, especially St. Augustine and St. John Chrysostom, clearly explain and invoke this principle constantly when interpreting parables. This is explained at length by Coppin in his La question de l’Évangile, which spends some three hundred pages against the Benignist exegesis of the Gospel question.

Already in the Patristic era, the Fathers answered this objection explicitly, including St. Augustine (Sermon 90, § 4; Sermon 95, § 6; In Ps. 61, § 6; De gestis Pelagii, III; etc.), who argues that “many are called, few are chosen” is included here specifically to indicate that there is not only one cast out, but many who suffer the same fate. As Origen, St. Jerome, Pope St. Gregory, Ven. Bede, Radbertus, Druthmar, and many others argue, the “one” is meant to be taken generically or specifically—i.e., the one man is representative of an entire group—not numerically, i.e., as if the lost were few in number. There are many other authors, among ancients and moderns alike, who answered this objection.

As Godts notes, the interpretive framework of this objection is so absurd that it would lead us also to conclude, from the first part of the parable, that every single Jew rejected the gospel and not a single one was included in the feast.

Fourth Text: The Parable of the Sower

In Luke 8, Our Lord gives the parable of the sower, where only a fourth part of the seed bears fruit unto eternal life.

As the Greek Fathers generally teach on this passage, this parable was given to the Apostles in order to relieve them from discouragement when their preaching seemed to bear fruit only among a few. Our Lord explains that it is not in the preaching or in the seed, but in the soil, that the ultimate reason for the lack of fruit lies. This is important to set out from the beginning in order to understand why this argues for fewness, i.e., because it was specifically meant to explain this phenomenon of the fewness of those who fruitfully hear the word.

Now, there are three ways in which the various types of soil could be taken:

1. The entirety of mankind.

2. All those who ever hear the gospel.

3. Only those in the Church.

As Ven. Bede explains (In Luc., lib. iii; In Marc.), this parable cannot concern the entirety of mankind, since it excludes those who do not even deserve to hear. This is clear enough from the text itself.

Yet, it seems more likely that the parable either applies to the Church or is specifically meant to indicate the Church. In the first case, it would denote the soil that the majority of mankind is like in general, which applies to those both inside and outside the Church; in the second case, it is specifically in reference to those who listen to the word, yet do not put it into practice.

In either case, this supports the conclusion. This is clear from authors like Lyra, Ludolph of Saxony, and Bl. Denys the Carthusian, who take this to be a parable concerning the Jewish people and apply the same to preachers in their own day and the fruitlessness of preaching to the multitude.

Christian Druthmar (In Matt.) interprets this of the Church, along with other authors both ancient and modern. This is the common reading of the parable, as noted by Suárez.

As Vázquez notes, citing the Gloss and Lyra, this particularly denotes those who are in the Church, since the seed is said at least to fall upon them and they are said to hear, whether they merely feign faith outwardly (the first group), or truly believe for a time (the second group), or believe, yet are fruitless (the third group). These groupings are more appropriately said of those inside the Church than of those outside the Church.

Objection. As we saw above, one cannot draw a numerical conclusion from a parable. Therefore, etc.

Response. I distinguish: if the number is simply included in the parable, conceded; if the number enters into what is analogized in the parable, denied.

In this parable, the reason of the parable is precisely the small number of those who fruitfully hear the word. Hence, it is not one of those details that are simply included, but enters into the very reason of the parable. Therefore, the objection does not follow.

This is against Knabenbauer, who attacks Victor of Antioch, Theophylact, and Bl. Denys on this point.

Fifth Text: 1 Corinthians 10:1–13

St. Paul preaches about the fewness of the saved in 1 Corinthians 10:1–13 as a corollary to his statement in 1 Cor. 9:24: “Do you not know that in a race all the runners compete, but only one receives the prize?” This context is quite important. Can the entire world be said to run in the race? Hardly. Rather, those who run are those in the Church. Yet, out of all those who run (i.e., members of the Church), only one (i.e., a few) wins the prize (i.e., is chosen). This context is explicitly stated as such by Peter of Tarentaise in his continuation of St. Thomas’s commentary on 1 Corinthians:

“In the first example, the condition of wayfarers is described; in the second, the great number of those who are called; in the third example, the small number of those chosen. Many are called but few are chosen.” (In I Cor., c. 9, lect. 5)

St. Paul points to the multitude of Israel that was baptized, ate and drank of Christ, etc., yet states that “with most of them God was not pleased; for they were overthrown in the wilderness” (v. 5) and that “these things are warnings for us” (v. 6). In the end (vv. 12–13), he mixes together the warning (“let any one who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall,” which is also applied by Pope St. Gregory) with the consolation (“No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful,” etc.), as if to say: “few are saved, therefore do not presume; yet God is faithful and will give the requisite aid, therefore do not despair.”

It is important to note that the whole section is applied to those within the Church, not those outside the Church, just as the type was those inside the Old Testament Church. This is clear from the statement that such individuals partook of what corresponds to the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist. If we follow the line of argumentation commonly brought forward by St. Paul, we see that just as the types drawn from Israel’s past typify the greater benefits, so also do they typify the greater judgment upon the faithful of the New Testament Church. Hence, it is clear that the death in the wilderness is a type of the eternal punishment of hell, just as the promised land is a type of heaven:

“The Apostle, therefore, just as in the spiritual benefits bestowed upon the people that came out of Egypt he saw prophetic figures of the far greater benefits which God was to confer upon Christians, so in the lot of that whole people, cut off in the desert for their sins, he sees a figure of far graver punishments, with which God will punish Christians if they commit like sins…it is to be noted with Thomas that, just as among goods that which is figured is far better than the figure itself (as the Kingdom of heaven than the land of promise), so among evils that which is figured is far worse than the figure that signifies it. And according to Augustine, those punishments which the Israelites underwent were a figure of hell, which is greater than every punishment.” (Rudolph Cornely, In I Cor. 10)

This allegorical interpretation of the death of the Israelites in the wilderness as pertaining to the fewness of the saved among the faithful is one of the most common among the Fathers, ascetical authors, preachers, exegetes, and theologians applied to this problem. Nearly every sermon on the fewness of the saved uses this figure drawn from St. Paul.

Objection 1. As St. Thomas and the theologians commonly teach, the mystical sense of a passage cannot be used to establish a theological argument. Therefore, etc.

Response. While this was already treated above, it is important to apply the same response to this passage in particular. Here, we are not arguing from the type nakedly taken, but from the type as it is explicitly established by the literal sense of Scripture (in 1 Cor. 10) and interpreted as such by the authority of the Fathers, theologians, preachers, etc. Therefore, such a use is authoritative, and not merely confirmatory, as other uses of types will be.

The connection between this text and the “many are called, few are chosen” is made by a number of authors, including St. John Cassian, Ps.-Ambrose, Ven. Bede, Rabanus Maurus, Herveus of Bourg-Dieu, Nicholas of Gorran, etc. As St. Isidore writes, “this figure shows that many pass over to the faith through baptism, but that very few reach the heavenly fatherland, according to that figure in the Gospel in which many are called but few are found chosen.” (Quaestiones in Vetus Testamentum, In Num., c. 42, §§ 9–10)

It is for this reason that many theologians of solid authority use this in order to establish the proof (e.g., Bartholomew de Medina, Dominicus Gravina, Recupito, Frassen, Viator of Cocaleo, Godts, etc.).

Objection 2. It is clear that not all who died in the desert (e.g., Moses) were damned. Therefore, etc.

Response. The typological argument does not rely on a complete likeness between type and antitype. In many types, the antitype is only analogously like the type, so that only the general principle—that the vast majority are damned—is drawn.

Sixth Text: Philippians 2:21

In Philippians 2:21, St. Paul writes: “They all look after their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ.” Now, this indicates that the vast majority, even of the coworkers of St. Paul, have grave faults even in their ministry; therefore, a fortiori, the vast majority of simple laymen in their day-to-day lives.

If even those in ministry seek their own interests, how much more the laity? If even in the very act of ministering they seek their own interests, how much more outside of this act? Therefore, the conclusion follows.

This is used by many theologians, including Estius, Drexel, Recupito, Verschueren, Concina, etc. This is also employed by the Fathers, including St. Gregory the Great in a number of places.

It is on this basis that we can also put forward the further thesis that there is a fewness of prelates who are saved as well, as employed by St. Bernard, Bl. Denys, St. Robert Bellarmine, and others. Yet, such an interpretation is less clear, since, as Godts points out, many authors applied this to all the faithful. Still, from the tenor of the text, it seems that the Apostle intended this of clerics rather than of all the faithful.

Objection. St. Paul says “all.” Now, it would obviously be absurd to say that they were all damned. Therefore, it must be speaking of some lesser, venial fault.

Response. Estius responds that “all” is taken for “nearly all,” as it is taken in other places in Scripture (e.g., in multiple places in Romans 3): “The Apostle also, speaking of the faithful, says: All seek the things that are their own—that is, very nearly all.” (In I Sent., d. 40–41, § 203) Hence, St. Bernard, when quoting the verse, describes it as omnes fere (Serm. 6 in Ps. XC “Qui habitat,” n. 7). That this is a common expression in the Scriptures is pointed out by St. Jerome (In Eph., c. 1), St. Augustine (De unitate Ecclesiae, c. 12), St. Thomas (Super Phil., c. 2, lect. 4), a Lapide, and others.

As to whether such a fault was venial or not, it cannot be established with the clarity of the aforementioned proofs. For, St. Albert (In Apoc. 8:12), Cajetan (In Phil. 2:21), and others apply this text both to the reprobate and to the imperfect, while certain others leave the matter undetermined. Yet, from the more common interpretation of the Fathers, theologians, and spiritual authors, it is more probable that this refers to mortal fault—or, at least, if it applies to venial fault as well, then the majority can be established from this tradition to have mortal fault.

Seventh Text: Canticle of Canticles 2:2

In the Canticle of Canticles 2:2, Our Lord says that “as a lily among brambles, so is my love among the daughters.” Now, from the common interpretation of this book, this ought to be interpreted in reference to mysteries concerning the Church. Therefore, this passage indicates that among the many in the Church (i.e., the daughters), the beloved of Christ (i.e., the elect) are quite rare, speaking of a choice few among many.

That the “daughters” are in reference to members of the Church, St. Augustine says: “He did not say, in the midst of strangers; but, in the midst of the daughters.” (De fide rerum quae non videntur, c. 8, n. 11) This point is brought up by St. Augustine on a number of occasions (e.g., In Ps. 47, nn. 8–10; In Ps. 99, n. 8 ff.; etc.) and applied to the question of the fewness of the saved in the Church, which he proves from their being called thorns: “whence does he call them thorns, if not because of the malignity of their morals? And the same, whence daughters, if not because of the communion of the Sacraments?” (De unitate Ecclesiae, c. 14, n. 35; cf. Ep. 93 ad Vincentium, c. 9, nn. 28–30) These are “daughters by the communion of the faith, as thorns by the bitterness of their morals!” (Vitis mystica, c. 67)

Hence, among theologians, Álvarez uses this proof: “As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. He does not say among strangers, as Bernard noted, but among the daughters, that is, among the household of the faith: for as thorns exceed lilies in number, so also among the faithful the reprobate exceed the elect.” (De auxiliis, lib. V, disp. 43) (The remark he ascribes to St. Bernard is in fact St. Augustine’s, as Bañez rightly cites it.) The same note is commonly made by other theologians (e.g., Paolacci, Recupito, Gonet, etc.). It is to be noted, with them, that the particular comparison made by the author is between the fewness of the lily (which is said to be singular) and the multiplicity of the thorns (which are many). As Bañez points out, this same analogy is repeated again in the next verse, clearly comparing the few to the many: “As the apple tree among the trees of the woods, so is my beloved among the sons.” (v. 3; In II-II, Douai ed., p. 86)

Objection. This text is also applied by others (e.g., Origen, St. Ambrose, St. Fulgentius, Bruno of Segni, etc.) in reference to heretics and their relationship with the Church, or to the nations in comparison with the Church (e.g., Bl. Denys, Nicholas of Lyra, etc.). Famously, it is also applied to the Blessed Virgin by many authors.

Response. There are still many authors who use this in reference to the fewness of the saved (e.g., St. Augustine, Ven. Bede, Angelomus of Luxeuil, Haymo, Robert of Tombelaine, the Gloss, Hugh of St. Cher, etc.).

The reason for this is that a multiplicity of interpretations does not destroy the validity of one of the literal senses. This is due to the fact that there are a number of different literal senses, that the spiritual senses are often mixed into expositions, and that authors often accommodate passages.

Eighth Text: Ecclesiastes 1:15

In Ecclesiastes 1:15, it is said that “the number of fools is infinite.” Now, among the Hebrews, “foolishness” is not said in regard to a lack of intellectual subtlety, but a grave lack of moral rectitude (as noted by Bl. Denys and a Lapide). For, foolishness is the lack of wisdom, which, among the Hebrews, is often identified with either sanctifying grace or one of its chief effects (the gift of wisdom). Therefore, etc.

It is to be admitted that the “fools” are not restricted to the members of the Church. Yet, this text is often used by exegetes and theologians in support of this thesis. The reason for this is that these authors applied what is generally applicable to the entirety of mankind to what is also common among the members of the Church. Therefore, this argument does not follow so much from what is formally stated in the text as from what can be drawn from the text. It is to be noted that this text, and the argument drawn from it, can be applied to a number of different texts commonly employed in this way (e.g., the sequence of Romans 3).

Further, as indicated by the beginning of this verse (which is drawn out by Hugh of St. Victor), this is specifically about those whom the author attempts to correct. This principle—that correction more commonly falls on deaf ears due to foolishness—supports the application to the Church, who attempts to correct her children and more often fails. This is clear (as a Lapide points out) from the fact that, among the Hebrews, “and” often has a causal rather than a conjunctive sense, as if to say that “the perverse are hard to be corrected” because “the number of fools is infinite”—which would more principally apply to those inside the Church (who receive correction like that which Solomon attempted) than to those outside the Church (who receive correction to a lesser degree and far more imperfectly). As St. Albert writes, “I so admonish to penance, but I hear the excuse of the many who are unwilling to be converted.” (In Ps. 4:6) A Lapide writes (in the voice of the author):

“By all my preaching, every law and command, all my labour and effort, I make little progress and with few people; because the far greater part of men, ensnared by the painted and deceitful appearance of vanity and of vain riches, pleasures and honours, perversely and obstinately gape after them, and therefore refuse to be corrected; therefore the number of fools who devote themselves to the vain and foolish enticements of the world is innumerable.” (In Eccl. 1:15)

This text is generally employed by theologians in its received reading for its conclusion (e.g., St. Albert in many places, St. Thomas, Bl. Denys, a Lapide, Concina, etc.).

Objection. The Hebrew text does not read “the number of fools is infinite,” but “what is lacking cannot be numbered.” Therefore, etc.

Response. It is to be remembered that the Latin Vulgate is authentic and does not substantially state something contrary to faith or morals. Therefore, arguments can be drawn even from the disputed readings of the Vulgate, especially when these become common in the tradition. For more, cf. the treatments of the authority of the Vulgate among the scholastics.

Yet, it is also to be noted, even upon the original reading, that this text is applied to the same conclusion by certain authors (e.g., Origen, Alcuin, Estius). For, the particular defect (i.e., the “lack”) is a defect of some character of correctability, which would apply most principally to foolishness. Therefore, other authors defend this reading as equivalent to the original (e.g., Cajetan, a Lapide, Dominicus Gravina, the Migne editors, etc.). A Lapide notes that the same is followed by the Syriac version.

Ninth Text: 1 Peter 4:18

St. Peter writes in 1 Pet. 4:18, quoting the LXX version of Prov. 11:31: “If the righteous man is scarcely saved, where will the impious and sinner appear?” Now, the just make up a portion of the Church. Therefore, a fortiori, the minority of the Church will be saved.

Ps.-Oecumenius (In I Petr. 4:18, as reported also by a Lapide) states that the distinction between “impious” and “sinner” is that the impious in no way cleave to God, whereas the sinner in some way cleaves to God, yet transgresses his law. While this is a disputed exegetical point, it reveals the mind of certain Greeks on this point. Bl. Denys also follows this reading.

Objection. The majority of authors appeal to the difficulty of the path of the just, rather than the infrequency with which the just are saved. Therefore, etc.

Response. It is to be replied that infrequency follows upon difficulty. Therefore, it is no objection to the text. It is in this applied sense that the authors who invoke this text ought to be taken. Further, even if we were to concede that the sense of the Apostle is to indicate those just at the end of their life, even then would this still support our conclusion. For, speaking to the Church, it is implied that such concerns a small portion of them, as is evident from the tenor of the Epistle.

Other authors take the “just” to mean “those who appear just to men”—so Hugh of St. Cher, following the exposition he cites from Augustine (In I Petr. 4:18)—which would lead to the same conclusion. Further, others (e.g., Bl. Denys) note that even the presently just arrive at salvation only with difficulty, since it is difficult to persevere unto the end—which would indicate the same sense, i.e., that even those in a state of justice with difficulty remain in that state and often fall from it.

Or, according to some authors, this is meant to indicate the severe temporal afflictions of the just, which will be an image of the future afflictions of the unjust (e.g., St. Ambrose, Estius); although the majority take it in other senses that lead to our conclusion. It is to be noted, for this reason, that this text is not frequently cited for our conclusion; yet it follows clearly enough from the principles of the majority of interpreters.

Tenth Text: The Net and the Threshing Floor

There are various different types from the New Testament that show the fewness of the just in the Church, especially the net and the threshing floor, which are applied against the Donatists, Protestants, and other groups. From the net, the majority of fish are thrown back; from the threshing floor, the majority is chaff, which is burned. Therefore, etc.

This is most frequently employed by St. Augustine against the Donatists: “these same good and true Christians, who considered in themselves are many, in comparison with the wicked and the false are likewise few. So the many grains with which great barns are filled we call few in comparison with the chaff.” (Contra Cresconium, III, 66) “Why do we rejoice at multitudes? Hear me, you few. I know that many of you hear, and few obey. I see the threshing-floor; the grains I look for…Few, then, are they that are saved, in comparison with the many that shall perish.” (Sermon 111 [al. 32 De verbis Domini]) He says as much as to number in a variety of texts (e.g., Contra Cresconium, III, 66, n. 75; IV, 53, n. 63; Contra Faustum, XIII, 16; De catechizandis rudibus, 19, 31; etc.). The same is followed by many authors, including Pope St. Gregory, who pairs the ark and the threshing floor in the same homily (Hom. 38 on the Gospels, n. 8), and Ven. Bede, who joins the figure to the “many are called, few are chosen” (In Luc. 3).

As the Gloss notes, there are three groups: the wheat, the chaff, and the tares. The wheat concerns those Catholics who have faith and charity; the chaff, those Catholics who have faith, but not charity; and the tares, those who are severed from the Church: “The chaff arises from the same origin as the wheat, that is, from the seed; but the tares from a different one. The chaff, therefore, are those who are steeped in the sacraments of faith but are not solid; the tares are those who are severed from the elect both by works and by profession.” (Glossa ordinaria, in Matt. 3:12) The same is followed by many authors, including St. Thomas, St. Bernardine of Siena, Bl. Denys, Vázquez, Estius, Suárez, Bellarmine, a Lapide, and even the Roman Catechism. The floor is the Church, which will be separated into the elect and reprobate at the judgment.

Objection. Nowhere in the text does it state that the number of chaff is greater than the wheat, nor the number of bad fish greater than the good fish, etc.

Response. First, it is proven from the authority of many of the authors above (especially St. Augustine) that the relative number enters into the sense of the parable. Second, the common people would have understood this from the tenor of the parables, which were meant to indicate that the last judgment, like these activities, is meant to separate the few from the many. While this is less certain, it still stands as highly probable.

Eleventh Text: The Little Flock

In Luke 12, Christ refers to the Church as the “little flock.” Now, it appears from history and other texts, along with the note of catholicity promised to the Church, that the Church itself is not a “little flock,” but the mustard seed that will grow quite large and the stone which will encompass the whole world, etc. Therefore, the “little flock” is the elect within the Church, who are outnumbered by the reprobate.

Objection. Christ simply intended to refer to the Church then existing as the “little flock,” not to the Church throughout the ages.

Reply. Contrary to this is the general use of the term by the Fathers and other authoritative authors. For, Ven. Bede (In Luc. 12:32) describes this as the “little flock of the elect” compared to the number of the reprobate. This text from Ven. Bede is used by the liturgy of the Church (Matins, Common of a Confessor not a Pontiff). This text is employed by many authors in this same sense.

Objection. The “little flock” is said in comparison to the world, not in comparison to the entirety of the Church. Therefore, a Lapide says that the Church “is no longer a little flock” (In Luc. 12:32).

Reply. These are morally equivalent; for, if the Church is quite large and the majority of the Church are elect, how could it then be called a “little flock”?

To the argument that the Church is “no longer a little flock”: the Fathers and most other authors frequently apply this term perpetually to the elect within the Church, and not merely to the nascent Church. Therefore, whether this is the literal sense of the text or rests on the authority of its accommodators, it can still be employed as an argument. This application appears in other places in the works of a Lapide himself (e.g., In Isa. 1; In Amos 9:6; etc.). Therefore, Bossuet was able to say, “the little flock is everywhere, and everywhere it forms part of the great Church.” (Seconde instruction pastorale)

Objection. Certain authors take this to be in reference to humility, not number—this is even the member that Ven. Bede himself prefers, and Billuart after him.

Reply. The two readings do not exclude one another. The humility-reading commonly occurs only in conjunction with the number-reading (e.g., Ven. Bede, Bl. Denys, Suárez, etc.); Bl. Denys expressly combines them, the flock being little by humility, by low repute, and by fewness compared with the reprobate (In Luc. 12); as Berti puts it, “in the Gospel they are called a little flock, not only because of their lowliness, but also because of the greater number of the reprobate.” (De theologicis disciplinis, lib. VI, c. 17) Other authors (e.g., St. Gregory Nazianzen) also accommodate this text to the great number of heretics, but such is an accommodated sense rather than the literal reading.

Twelfth Text: The Prophets

This is proven from a series of different texts from the Prophets, who describe the number of the faithful found in Israel (prophetically, also the Church) as very few or none. The most cited text is from Isaiah 24, which looks forward to the future judgment (both of Israel and of the world), stating that the final judgment will be “as at the gleaning when the vintage is done” (v. 13), so that “few men are left” (v. 6)—which implies the fewness of those saved within Israel (prophetically, the Church). For, the gleaning is done from the olive tree that is beaten, which is a symbol of Israel and the Church. Similarly, other texts: Isa. 17:5–6; 1:9; 4:3; 6:13; 9:3; 10:22; 13:12; 30:17; 63:3; 65:8; Jer. 3:14; 5:1; Ezek. 9:4–6; 22:30; Amos 3:12; 5:3; Mic. 7:1–2; etc.

Objection. Many take these in reference to the coming of Antichrist, when few of the elect will remain in the Church. Therefore, it is inappropriate to apply this to the entire era of the Church.

Response. It is conceded that most authors take it in this sense, yet it is denied that our conclusion is inappropriate in light of this fact. For, the prophetic image is taken for multiple realities in the mind of the prophet—whether of the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 AD, or of the time of Antichrist, or of the time of the final judgment, when few will be found elect within the entire Church. Therefore, this text is commonly employed by many authors who explain this sense (e.g., Bl. Denys, St. Robert Bellarmine, a Lapide, etc.). Further, many authors use general principles of the smallness of the elect in the Church in order to explain this passage, so that it is implied that they hold such to be the case both at the final judgment and at all times.

The other texts can be read prophetically in this light. The remnant of Israel foreshadows the remnant of the faithful within the Church (Ps.-Basil). Isaiah’s comment that “thou hast multiplied the nation, and hast not increased the joy” (Isa. 9:3) is taken by Stapleton to witness to the same fact—i.e., while the other nations will come in during the time of the Church, it will still be the case that only a remnant of the people of God will be saved:

“The prophet Isaias said, in chapter 9: Thou hast multiplied the nation, and hast not increased the joy, since amid the multitude of nations which throughout the whole world confess Christ with the mouth, so few there are who believe with the heart and show forth their faith by good works.” (Promptuarium morale, 19th Sunday after Pentecost)

It is to be noted that these texts (outside of Isa. 17 and 24) are only quoted occasionally by authors. Therefore, they should be used sparingly, as the typical sense of a prophecy is more difficult to establish than that of a clear and direct statement, as we saw with the texts above.

Thirteenth Text: Minor Texts

There are other minor texts used by authors—e.g., the saints are often said to be “called by lot,” and therefore it is implied that they are few. However, the authority of these texts for establishing the thesis is wholly taken from their application to the problem at hand by certain authors favorable to our thesis, since these texts do not appear clearly enough, or even probably, to be comparing the elect in the Church to the reprobate outside the Church.

NOTE: I have not completed the remainder of this study. There are various different types given by Catholic authors, along with various different theological arguments given. Below, I will be giving these in outline without my usual detail given above. Further, I would like to double check each of my citations and read a handful of other works on the matter that I did not check.

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There are a number of different reasons that can be given to answer this question, although not every answer is equally fundamental to solving the problem at hand. On the side of the recipient, such acts are extremely difficult to make, and the actual use of the sacraments is morally necessary for the ends established, as I argued in the second conclusion of my article titled The Two-Fold Necessity of the Sacraments: “to receive baptism or penance in re is morally necessary in practice in the economy of salvation.”

Yet there is a reason more fundamental than the moral impossibility of initial justification without the actual use of the sacraments. There is also a proper effect of the sacraments that is physically impossible (in the order established by God) to receive without their actual use. This is what we call “sacramental grace.”

“Sacramental grace” differs for each of the sacraments. According to most theologians, it essentially consists in a certain “right” (ius) or “title” to the actual helps (actual graces, auxilia) that are in conformity with the end of the sacrament, together with an influx of sanctifying grace. If this were not the case, and the only effect of the sacraments were sanctifying grace without any additional title, then we would have no reason to have multiple sacraments; the effect of each sacrament would be exactly the same. Further, there would be no difference between the reception of a sacrament in re (baptism, absolution, eucharist, etc.) and the reception of a sacrament in voto (baptism of desire, perfect contrition, act of spiritual communion, etc.).

Pius XI, in Casti connubii, states this succinctly in relation to matrimony: “the right to the actual assistance of grace, whensoever they need it for fulfilling the duties of their state.” Each of the sacraments has a particular end, and the sacramental graces given to the man who receives the sacrament give him a certain right or title to all those actual graces that are necessary for achieving that end.

To give an example, let us suppose that someone has committed fornication. If he makes an act of perfect contrition, that sin is remitted, and he is in a state of grace. All that remains is a certain legal obligation to go to confession before receiving the Eucharist and within the proper time. If he dies, he dies in a state of grace and goes to heaven. On the other hand, let us suppose that a second fornicator goes to confession and receives absolution. How is he different from the first man? Let us assume that they have exactly the same degree of charity. Is there any difference? Catholic theology answers in the affirmative. The second man, who went to confession, actually has a unique title and right to those helps necessary to overcome the particular sins confessed to the priest, whereas the first man does not have this unique title and right, but still has sanctifying grace.

This is the more fundamental reason for the insufficiency of non-sacramental graces. Although both are in the same order, the former gives sanctifying grace (or an increase thereof), whereas the latter gives sanctifying grace (or an increase thereof) together with a certain title or right to those actual graces that are truly, and even proximately, sufficient both for preserving the degree of grace conferred in the sacrament and for attaining the end to which the sacrament is ordered.

[Note: This reflection can be helpfully combined with my article published earlier this week, titled “An Important Note in Sacramentology.”]

There are quite a few corollaries to this doctrine. However, in order to resolve them, we must first determine what the particular character of this ius ad auxilia actually is.

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The atheistic critiques of the arguments for the existence of God look like the work of a child compared to some of the very complex and involved critiques offered by certain scholastics and the responses given by others. While many are aware of the dispute over the Ontological Argument, this is not the only argument that was debated by the scholastics. Famously, the Five Ways of St. Thomas elicited many lengthy critiques from other scholastic theologians, as well as responses from the Thomists of the strict observance.

While the article from is not considered one of these classical debates over a particular argument for the existence of God, it is a classical debate between scholastics that is relevant to defending the arguments for God’s existence against contemporary attacks. In this way, it serves as an exemplar of how these scholastic disputes can be used constructively.

Ite ad Thomam,

Christian B. Wagner

Inertia and Aquinas’ First Way — Aristotle, Impetus, and the Corruption of Thomism

In his monumental work God: His Existence and His Nature, Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange presents the five Thomistic proofs of the existence of God and undertakes to defend them against some modern attacks. The first proof — the proof from motion — stands or falls with two foundational propositions. The first, and most contested, is the so-called Aristotelian kinesiological principle:

Omne autem quod movetur, ab alio movetur.

“Whatever is moved is moved by another.”

— Aristotle, Physics VII.1, 241b24; St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I, q. 2, a. 3

For Aristotle, motion is defined as follows:

“The fulfilment of what exists potentially, in so far as it exists potentially, is motion.”

— Physics III.1, 201a10–11

But such actualization must occur in some order of being. And since being is divided according to the ten categories, Aristotle asks in the third book of the Physics in which categories motion can properly occur. After a careful analysis, he concludes that it can only be in four of them: substance, quantity, quality, and place. Substance changes by generation or corruption; quantity by augmentation or diminution; quality by alteration; and place by local motion. Hence his enumeration:

“There are six sorts of movement: generation, corruption, augmentation, diminution, alteration, and change of place.”

— Aristotle, Categories 14, 15a13–14

Now, the modern critic seizes upon one of these six: local motion, or change of place. And the attack runs as follows. Newton’s first law of motion states that a body continues in its state of rest or of uniform rectilinear motion unless acted upon by an impressed external force. No continuously acting pusher is required. The body, once set in motion, simply persists. Therefore, says the critic, the kinesiological principle is false — as, after contact with the thrower ceases, an object in linear motion is being moved, but not being moved by another. And consequently the First Way collapses.

This is perhaps the most common modern attack on the First Way.

How does Garrigou-Lagrange respond?

By attempting to bite the bullet entirely.

He grants the premise: yes, the principle must be understood as demanding a present mover for every body in motion. He writes:

“There is no less change in the transition from one position to another in the course of movement, than in the transition from repose to motion itself; if, therefore, this first change demands another cause, the following changes demand it for the same reason.”

— Garrigou-Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, vol. I

Following another French Thomist, Goudin, he concludes that after a projectile leaves the hand of its thrower, an impetus is impressed in the object — a force actively moving it from within. This impetus is finite; it therefore cannot sustain infinite motion. And so, for Garrigou-Lagrange, the principle of inertia itself must be contested. There is a conjoined mover of the projectile in motion, but motion cannot be the way inertia claims it is.

The thesis of this article is that this response is flawed. It does not save Thomism. It confuses Thomism with Averroism and creates an unnecessary conflict with modern science and the principle of inertia.

It defends the First Way by adopting the very interpretation of Aristotle that St. Thomas explicitly identified and explicitly rejected in Averroes — calling it, in the words of the Angelic Doctor, omnino falsum — altogether false.

As we shall see, the genuine Thomistic position does not conflict with inertia. When the principle is rightly understood, it can be defended with far greater philosophical precision — and without the unnecessary embarrassment of contesting a well-established physical law.

My aim in this article is therefore fourfold: to distinguish the two interpretations of the kinesiological principle; to trace their historical origins; to establish the authentic Thomistic and Aristotelian doctrine by argument; and to demonstrate its full compatibility with Newtonian inertia and modern science.

This matters not only for the history of philosophy but for the apologetics of the present day. The First Way, correctly understood, is not touched by Newton. The bullet aimed at Aquinas hits only Averroes. And the Thomist should not jump in front of it.

To pursue this, I will divide the argument into five theses, followed by formal objections and replies, and a conclusion.

Thesis I: Aristotle’s authentic teaching on the kinesiological principle and on the three modes of local motion is the so-called “mitigated” view.

Thesis II: Avicenna and Averroes deviated from Aristotle and introduced the idea of motor coniunctus.

Thesis III: Latin scholasticism was contaminated by Arabic Aristotelianism, creating a false impetus theory.

Thesis IV: St. Thomas’ authentic doctrine is true to Aristotle, it is philosophically provable, it is consistent with Aristotle, and it is compatible with inertia.

Thesis V: The Thomistic school initially followed the authentic Thomistic view, but gradually fell away from it.

I. Thesis I: Aristotle’s Teaching on the Kinesiological Principle

In Aristotle’s philosophy, local motion admits a tripartition of fundamental importance for everything that follows. In Physics VIII, chapter 4, Aristotle writes:

“Of things to which the motion is essential some derive their motion from themselves, others from something else: and in some cases their motion is natural, in others violent and unnatural.”

— Aristotle, Physics VIII.4, 254b7–15

Three modes emerge: natural motion, violent or compulsory motion, and voluntary or self-motion. Let us take each in turn.

Natural Motion

Natural local motion is the motion that proceeds from the intrinsic nature of a body, as from an internal formal principle. In Aristotle’s elemental physics, the paradigm cases are the downward motion of heavy bodies and the upward motion of light ones. This motion is not imposed from without; it arises from what the thing is. This is why Aristotle defines nature itself as the principle of motion and rest in the thing to which it belongs, per se and not as a concomitant attribute (Physics II.1, 192b21–23). Nature is literally defined as the source of natural motion.

Notice immediately what this does not say. It does not say the substantial form is an efficient mover pushing the body. It says the form is the principle — the ἀρχή — from which motion flows. The word is not αἰτία, not causa efficiens. This terminological precision will become decisive when we reach St. Thomas’ correction of Averroes.

Furthermore, Aristotle is explicit that natural inanimate bodies do not move themselves in the strong sense. They have a principle of motion within them, but it is a passive principle, not an active self-causing one:

“So it is clear that in all these cases the thing does not move itself, but it contains within itself the source of motion — not of moving something or of causing motion, but of suffering it.”

— Aristotle, Physics VIII.4, 255b29–31

The stone falls downward, but the stone does not move itself. The falling proceeds from the formal nature of the stone as heavy, but the formal nature is a principium patiens — a passive principle — not a motor. Aristotle says elsewhere:

“By heavy I mean that which naturally moves toward the center; by light, that which naturally moves away from the center.”

— Aristotle, De caelo I.3, 269b23–25

The stone moves downward because it is heavy. Its heaviness is the formal source of its natural motion. But the stone is not the mover of itself. This leaves open the question: what, then, is the per se efficient cause of natural inanimate motion? Aristotle does not resolve this question explicitly in the most formal terms as he does with violent motion and voluntary motion — which we will see shortly. He gestures toward the generator, the one who produced the body’s nature. But he does not develop a crisp, formal theory of the generator as the sole per se efficient cause. Here we simply note the gap.

Violent Motion

Violent or compulsory local motion is motion imposed upon a body contrary to its natural inclination. Aristotle defines it clearly:

“whose moving principle is outside, the thing compelled contributing nothing.”

— Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics III.1, 1110b15

And he notes its derivative character:

“An unnatural movement presupposes a natural movement which it contravenes.”

— Aristotle, De caelo III.2, 300a24–25

Violent motion is, in a precise sense, parasitic upon natural motion. We call the upward motion of a stone “violent” only because the stone naturally tends downward. Violence is defined by contrariety to nature.

Now Aristotle is aware of the obvious difficulty: a stone thrown upward continues to move after it has left the hand. The mover — the hand — is no longer in contact. Yet the motion continues. What moves it?

Aristotle’s answer, elaborated in Physics VIII and De caelo III, is the medium: the surrounding air. The original mover gives not only motion but the power of moving to the air. The air, naturally suited to move and be moved, carries the projectile onward. And Aristotle adds an important argument for why this power must be in the medium and not in the projectile:

“If the air were not endowed with this function, constrained movement would be impossible.”

— Aristotle, De caelo III.2, 301b29–30

His reasoning: if the power of moving were an internal source of the projectile itself, then violent motion would arise from an intrinsic principle — but that would make it natural, not violent. Violence is always ab alio, always from without. Therefore the motive power must reside in the medium, not the projectile.

Now, this theory of the medium is scientifically indefensible. We know — as the Christian commentator on Aristotle, John Philoponus, already argued in the sixth century — that air does not explain projectile motion. Block the air around a spinning disk and it does not stop; a heavier stone is thrown farther than a lighter one, contrary to what the medium theory would predict. Aristotle’s account of violent motion fails on empirical grounds — and the ancients already saw it.

But notice: the argument structure is not entirely wrong. What Aristotle correctly identifies is the fundamental point that violent motion cannot have its source in an intrinsic natural principle of the body. His error is in designating the medium as the extrinsic mover. The correct response is not to invent an internal impressed force — that would simply re-introduce the very intrinsic source Aristotle rightly rules out. The correct response is what the later Thomists articulate: the impressed force (impetus), if it exists, is not a motor, but an instrumental principle from the original mover. We will develop this fully in Thesis IV.

Before leaving violent motion, it is worth making a formal distinction that Aristotle does not make explicitly but which resolves his error:

Distinction: Internal as Natural vs. Internal as Impressed

Now, an important subtlety must be analyzed, so that the correct meaning of what we are saying may be rightly understood. Aristotle’s argument that the source of violent motion cannot be in the projectile conflates two senses of “internal”:

First sense: an intrinsic, natural, permanent principle flowing from the projectile’s substantial form. In this sense, we grant Aristotle: no such source of violent motion exists in the projectile. If it did, the motion would not be violent at all.

Second sense: an impressed, borrowed, accidental force received from an extrinsic mover, contrary to the body’s natural inclination, residing in it as in a subject. In this sense, there can be something in the projectile without making the motion natural or self-originated.

Aristotle’s argument succeeds against the first sense. It does not succeed against the second. And it is in this second sense that the later Thomistic tradition would speak of an impressed impetus — provided (as we shall insist) impetus is not construed as a mover but only as an instrumental principle.

Voluntary or Self-Motion

The third mode of local motion belongs to animals, which move themselves by their own parts. Aristotle is explicit:

“Self-movement is a characteristic of life and peculiar to living things.”

— Aristotle, Physics VIII.4, 255a6

The animal moves itself, but not in a simple or confused sense. The will moves the nerves; the nerves move the muscles; the muscles move the limbs; the limbs move the body locally. The efficient causality proceeds through really distinct parts. Aristotle analyzes this in a lot of detail in his treatise De Motu Animalium. An interested reader can refer to that work. But for us, for now, it suffices to note that the kinesiological principle applies here straightforwardly: one part is moved by another.

Conclusion of Thesis I

Recapitulating: local motion is threefold — natural, violent, and voluntary. For voluntary animal motion, the principle finds its mover in the moving part. For violent motion, Aristotle designates the medium, though this is empirically untenable and will require correction. For natural inanimate motion, Aristotle correctly identifies the principle of motion as the formal nature of the body — but he does not yet make fully explicit that the sole per se efficient cause of natural motion is the generator of the form. He gestures toward it, as we will demonstrate later, and he explicitly denies that inanimate bodies move themselves. The explicit development of this point belongs to St. Thomas Aquinas.

Two things are already established by Aristotle’s own text. First: the form of a heavy body is not an efficient mover. It is a passive formal principle. Second: natural inanimate bodies do not move themselves. With these two points, the Averroistic corruption is already, in principle, excluded by Aristotle himself.

II. Thesis II: Avicenna and Averroes’ Corruption

The Arabic Aristotelian tradition did not simply transmit Aristotle. It transformed him. And the transformation was nowhere more consequential than in the interpretation of the kinesiological principle.

Avicenna read Aristotle through a distinctly Neoplatonic lens. For him, matter and form are not two co-principles of a single substance, as in genuine Aristotelian hylomorphism, but two quasi-autonomous res, two things that stand over against each other. This dichotomy makes the form look like an active agent and the matter like a passive subject upon which the agent acts. From this, Avicenna concluded that the substantial form of an inanimate body is the motor coniunctus — the conjoined mover — of that body’s natural motion. The form of heaviness actively moves the matter downward, as a kind of immanent engine.

Against this, we lay down our first conclusion of this thesis:

Conclusion 1: The Substantial Form is Not the Efficient Mover of Natural Inanimate Motion

First Argument: From the Impossibility of Self-Motion in Inanimate Bodies

Major: If the substantial form of an inanimate body were the efficient cause of its natural local motion, that body would move itself.

Minor: But heavy and light bodies do not move themselves.

Conclusion: Therefore, the substantial form of a heavy or light body is not the efficient cause of its natural local motion.

Proof of the major: the substantial form is intrinsic to the body. If it were not merely the formal principle but the active efficient mover of the body’s own motion, the mover and moved would both be found within the same inanimate whole — and that is precisely what self-motion means.

Proof of the minor: Aristotle is unambiguous:

“It is impossible to say that their motion is derived from themselves: this is a characteristic of life and peculiar to living things.”

— Aristotle, Physics VIII.4, 255a5–6

“Therefore none of the things that we are now considering move themselves... in each case the movent must be separate from the moved.”

— Aristotle, Physics VIII.4, 255a13–16

Self-motion is the prerogative of the living. To attribute self-motion to a stone is to collapse the distinction between animate and inanimate — a distinction Aristotle regards as fundamental.

Second Argument: From the Distinction of Formal and Efficient Causes

Major: The formal cause as such must not be identified with the efficient cause as such.

Minor: The substantial form is the formal cause of the natural body, while the efficient cause of motion is the primary source of change, really distinct from the thing changed.

Conclusion: Therefore, the substantial form, as substantial form, is not the efficient cause of natural motion.

Proof of the major: Aristotle explicitly distinguishes the four causes, identifying the formal cause as “the form or archetype, the statement of the essence,” and the efficient cause as “the primary source of the change or coming to rest,” such as “the father,” and generally “what causes change of what is changed” (Physics II.3, 194b26–29). The two are not the same; confusing them is a fundamental category error.

Third Argument: From Aristotle’s Own Text on the Passive Principle

Major: That which is a principle of being moved — of suffering motion passively — is not thereby an efficient cause of motion.

Minor: Aristotle explicitly states that heavy and light bodies have within themselves a principle of motion, but a principle of suffering it, not of causing it.

Conclusion: Therefore, the principle in these bodies is a passive formal aptitude, not an efficient cause.

Proof of the minor. This is perhaps the most decisive Aristotelian text against Avicenna:

“So it is clear that in all these cases the thing does not move itself, but it contains within itself the source of motion — not of moving something or of causing motion, but of suffering it.”

— Aristotle, Physics VIII.4, 255b29–31

The principle the body has within itself is principium patiens, not principium agens. Not a principle of moving, but of being moved. Avicenna inverts this.

Averroes saw part of the problem with Avicenna. If the form is simply the efficient mover of the body, inanimate bodies become self-movers in too strong a sense, obliterating the distinction between living and nonliving. Averroes therefore refined the account: the form does not move the body directly, but moves the medium, and the medium then moves the body. In natural falling, the heavy body’s form acts on the surrounding air; the moved air then acts on the body; and so the body moves itself per accidens through the medium, much as a rower moves himself through the boat by rowing against the water.

This is why Averroes concludes that a resisting medium is indispensable not only for violent motion but for all natural local motion. Motion in a void, he also concludes, would be absolutely impossible.

Conclusion 2: Averroes’ Doctrine is Also False

Against Averroes, two lines of argument suffice at this stage.

First, the arguments from the confusion of formal and efficient principles still apply in full. Whether the form acts directly or through a medium, if it acts as an efficient cause, it is still a motor coniunctus, and the previous arguments stand.

Second, and decisively, the Averroistic thesis implies that motion in a vacuum is impossible. But motion in a vacuum is not impossible — indeed the whole of modern physics presupposes it. Modern science has definitively closed this question. The Averroistic framework is empirically refuted. This alone demonstrates that it cannot represent the authentic philosophical truth about motion.

St. Thomas, as we shall see, reached the same conclusion by pure philosophical analysis — six centuries before Newton.

III. Thesis III: The Contamination of Latin Scholasticism

When the Arabic commentaries entered Latin scholasticism in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries through the translations of Michael Scot and others, they brought with them this strengthened interpretation of the kinesiological principle: whatever is in motion must be being moved here and now by another, through a present motor coniunctus. This was not Aristotle’s own position, as we will prove. But it came labeled as Aristotle, and it came with the enormous authority of Averroes.

The Latin West was simultaneously being influenced by another tradition of criticism. John Philoponus, a Christian commentator of Alexandria in the sixth century, had already attacked Aristotle’s medium theory of projectile motion on empirical grounds. He noted, among other arguments, that if one surrounds a spinning disk with a container blocking the air on all sides, the disk continues to spin — demonstrating that the medium is not what sustains the motion. He concluded:

“A certain incorporeal motive power is given to the projectile through the act of throwing.”

— John Philoponus, Commentary on Aristotle’s Physics, IV.8

Philoponus did not develop this in great detail, but the intuition was there: the motive power, according to him, seemed to be in the projectile, not the medium.

Now the collision occurred. The Latin scholastics received Averroes’ strong reading of the principle — every moving thing needs a present motor — and simultaneously recognized that Aristotle’s medium theory was untenable. Something had to give.

Their solution: accept Philoponus’ intuition, but interpret it through the Averroistic lens. If every moving thing needs a present motor, and if the medium is not that motor, then the motor must be in the projectile itself — as an impressed quality, a virtus motiva, what came to be called impetus.

Francis de Marchia (a Franciscan, writing around 1320) was the first to develop this explicitly, in the context of sacramental theology. Jean Buridan, twice rector of the University of Paris, systematized it into a full theory. Buridan writes:

“The mover, in moving the mobile, impresses into it a certain impetus, a certain power able to move that mobile in the direction in which the mover moved it.”

— John Buridan, Quaestiones super octo libros Physicorum, VIII, q. 12

The crucial point is this: the impetus theorists were not abandoning the strong Averroistic interpretation of the principle. They were desperately trying to save it. Once Aristotle’s medium theory collapsed, they invented an internal impressed force so that every moving thing would still have its present motor — now located within the projectile itself rather than in the surrounding air.

The notion of a motor coniunctus for every natural motion led medieval thinkers to seek some intrinsic mover even in freely falling bodies, and the theory of impetus was an attempt to preserve the principle omne quod movetur ab alio movetur in its strong Averroistic form.

But this entire development rested upon an Averroistic/Avicennian distortion of Aristotle. Aristotle had not said that every body in motion must here and now be moved by a present conjoined mover. He had said that whatever is reduced from potency to act depends upon another already in act. The stronger interpretation was an Arabic importation. The impetus theories were the Latin attempt to preserve that importation after Aristotle’s own physics had become untenable.

The true Aristotelian and Thomistic response is different: not to invent new internal motors, but to clarify that the kinesiological principle never demanded one in the first place.

IV. Thesis IV: St. Thomas’ Authentic Doctrine

St. Thomas Aquinas commented with great care on the kinesiological principle and on the philosophy of motion throughout his career. His position is not simply a reception of Aristotle: it is an active, philosophically rigorous defense of the genuine Aristotelian sense against the Averroistic corruption, with important developments of his own.

His central text for our purposes is from his commentary on Aristotle’s De caelo. Averroes had argued that the form of heavy and light bodies acts as an active efficient principle, requiring resistance, moving the medium, and moving the body per accidens. Thomas responds:

“[Averroes] thought that the form of heavy and light bodies is an active principle of motion after the manner of a mover needing some resistance contrary to the tendency of form, and that motion is not immediately due to the agent who conferred the form. But this is absolutely false. The form of heavy and light bodies is a principle of motion not as a generator of motion but as a means by which the mover moves, just as colour, a principle of sight, is a means by which something is seen... Thus the movement of heavy and light bodies does not come from the generator by the intervention of another moving power. Nor even is there any need to look for resistance here other than that which exists between generator and generated. Thus it follows that air is not required for natural motion of necessity, as in the case of violent motion, since that which moves naturally has a force imparted to it which is a source of motion. Consequently there is no need for a body to be moved by any other force impelling it, as though it were a case of violent motion, having no implanted force from which motion springs.”

— St. Thomas, In III De Caelo, lect. 7, n. 9

Two things stand out immediately. First, Thomas calls Averroes’ view omnino falsum — altogether false. Not partially false, not nuanced — altogether. Second, he provides the precise reason: the form is not an efficient mover, but the means quo — the means by which — the mover moves. Just as colour is not a seer but the medium of seeing, so the form is not a mover but the medium of natural motion. The efficient cause remains the generator who imparted the form in the first place.

This is confirmed throughout his corpus:

“In heavy and light bodies there is a formal principle of their motion; but not in such a way that the natural form is the mover. Rather, the mover is the generator, which gives such a form, upon which such motion follows.”

— St. Thomas, In II Physicorum, lect. 1, n. 4

And with remarkable metaphorical clarity in his opuscule De motu cordis:

“Upward motion is natural to fire because it follows upon its form; and hence the generator which gives the form is the per se mover according to place. Just as a natural motion follows upon the form of an element, so nothing prevents other forms from giving rise to other natural motions.”

— St. Thomas, De motu cordis, ed. Parma, XVI, 359a

The doctrine is unambiguous, systematic, and repeated across every genre of Thomas’ writings. Let us now develop it formally.

Distinction I: Principium and Causa

A principium (principle, ἀρχή) is that from which something flows in any way whatsoever. It is a strictly relational and formal term. It is not an absolute thing in its own right but the source from which a principiatum necessarily proceeds. A formal principle does not act upon something distinct from itself as an efficient cause does; it is the immanent root from which characteristic activities emanate spontaneously and inevitably.

A causa efficiens (efficient cause) is an absolute entity, really distinct from the effect it produces, upon which the effect depends for its coming-into-being. The efficient cause exercises actual agency upon something other than itself.

Nature (physis, natura) as a substantial form is a principium — the active formal source from which characteristic properties, rest, and motions flow necessarily and immediately. It is not thereby an efficient cause of those same motions. As Thomas states in De veritate, q. 22, a. 3:

“The forms of corporeal things cannot be movers, although they can be the principle of motion, as by which something is moved; just as in the motion of the earth, gravity is the principle by which it is moved, but it is not the mover.”

Gravity is not a little engine pushing the stone. It is the formal source from which downward motion flows as naturally as heat flows from fire. The mover is the generator. The principle is the form.

Distinction II: Actus Primus and Actus Secundus

Thomas, following Aristotle, distinguishes two senses of act. Actus primus is the first actualization of pure potentiality by substantial form — the production of a new substance through generation. This requires a genuinely distinct efficient cause, a generans, in actual contact with the matter.

Actus secundus is the exercise or realization of a capacity already fully present in the first act. The geometer who already possesses the science of geometry does not need a new teacher to geometrize; he already has everything required. All that stands between him and geometrizing is the possible presence of an external impediment.

The kinesiological principle — Omne quod movetur ab alio movetur — applies directly and properly to the reduction of radical potentiality to actus primus. It governs generation, the production of new natures. Once a nature is constituted in actus primus, passage to actus secundus requires no new per se efficient cause. The nature operates statim — immediately — and per seipsum, unless there is an impediment. Thomas:

“It is not necessary that it be reduced to a second act by some agent; it operates immediately by itself, unless there is something hindering it.”

— St. Thomas, In VIII Phys., lect. 8, n. 3

With these two distinctions established, the formal arguments follow.

Conclusion I: No Motor Coniunctus is Needed for Natural Motion

Argument from the Nature of a Formal Principle

Major: That which possesses within itself an active formal principle (principium formale activum) of some motion does not require a distinct conjoined efficient mover to produce that same motion.

Minor: But natural inanimate bodies (heavy and light) possess within themselves an active formal principle of their characteristic natural motion.

Conclusion: Therefore, natural inanimate bodies do not require a distinct conjoined efficient mover (motor coniunctus) to explain or sustain their characteristic natural motion. The generans which produced the form is the per se efficient cause; once nature is constituted, it is sufficient to itself for motion.

Proof of the major: An active formal principle is precisely that a quo motion flows immediately (statim), necessarily, and spontaneously, given no impediment, without the intervention of another agent. The function of a principium is not to cause motion by acting on something distinct from itself — that belongs to efficient causality — but to be the inherent source from which motion emanates as from a root. As color is the formal principle by which sight is exercised (without color being a seer), so the substantial form is the formal principle by which motion occurs without being itself a mover. Thomas is explicit: “The forms of corporeal things cannot be movers, although they can be the principle of motion, as by which something is moved.” (De verit., q. 22, a. 3). Where a formal principle is sufficient, an efficient mover is superfluous.

Proof of the minor: Aristotle defines nature precisely as “the principle of motion and rest in those things to which it belongs per se and not as something concomitant” (Phys. II, 1, 192b21–23). In heavy and light bodies, the substantial form is the formal root from which their characteristic local motion follows necessarily, just as their other accidents follow. Thomas states: “In heavy and light bodies, however, it is the formal principle of their movement, because just as other accidents follow substantial form, so also place, and consequently being moved to place.” (In II Phys., lect. 1, n. 4). Empirical confirmation: fire always rises and earth always falls.

The conclusion: the sole per se efficient cause of natural inanimate motion is the generator who produced the form. No additional motor accompanies the falling stone.

Argument from the Two Senses of Act

Major: A body already fully constituted in its actus primus (first act) requires no additional per se efficient cause — no supervening mover — to pass to actus secundus (the exercise of its act).

Minor: But a heavy body in free fall — or any body in natural motion — is precisely a body already constituted in its first act, passing to second act.

Conclusion: Therefore, the natural motion of a heavy or light body requires no per se efficient cause beyond the original generans and (if applicable) the removens prohibens. No motor coniunctus need be invoked.

Proof of the major: Aristotle proves this by the analogy of knowledge (Phys. VIII, 4, 255b1–12): one who possesses geometry in habitu has everything needed to geometrize in actu; no new teacher is required to bring him to actual geometrizing. All that can intervene is either the removal of an external impediment or the will’s own self-determination. The one who taught him in the first place (docens) is therefore the per se cause of both the habitus and of all that necessarily follows from it. Thomas applies this exactly: “It is not necessary that it be reduced to a second act by some agent; it operates immediately by itself, unless there is something hindering it.” (In VIII Phys., lect. 8, n. 3)

Proof of the minor: The heavy body already is a heavy body — it possesses the substantial form from which downward motion follows as from a formal principle. It is not in potency to being heavy; it is heavy in first act. Its downward motion is simply the realization (actus secundus) of what it already fully is. Aristotle: “air is actually light, and will at once realize its proper activity as such unless something prevents it” (Phys. VIII, 4, 255b9–11).

Conclusion II: The Mitigated Interpretation is the Authentic Thomistic Sense

First, from explicit textual testimony. Thomas states the same doctrine explicitly, consistently, and repeatedly across every type of his writings:

• “non tamen ita quod forma naturalis sit motor, sed motor est generans, quod dat talem formam, ad quam talis motus consequitur.” — The natural form is not the motor; the motor is the generator who gives the form from which motion follows. (In II Phys., lect. 1, n. 4)

• “Sic igitur generans est per se movens gravia et levia, removens autem prohibens per accidens.” — The generator is the per se mover of heavy and light bodies; the remover of obstacles is only per accidens. (In VIII Phys., lect. 8, n. 7)

• “formae rerum corporalium non possunt esse moventes, quamvis possint esse motus principium.” — Corporeal forms cannot be movers, though they can be principles of motion. (De verit., q. 22, a. 3)

• “Formam enim ipsius elementaris corporis sequitur talis motus... generans dicitur esse movens inquantum dat formam quam consequitur motus.” — Such motion follows the form of the elementary body; the generator is called the mover insofar as it gives the form. (De pot., q. 5, a. 5)

• “impossibile est quod aliqua natura inclinet ad motum secundum seipsum.” — It is impossible that any nature incline toward motion for its own sake. (Sum. cont. gent., III, c. 23, §6)

This is not a marginal or ambiguous position. It is systematic, repeated, argued, and polemically defended against Averroes with the judgment omnino falsum.

Second, from grammatical precision. The Latin passive movetur — and its Greek original κινούμενον — refer to being moved, to the actuation of a passive principle, not to being currently in motion in the active sense. Thomas never writes omne movens ab alio movetur (every mover is moved by another) — that would contradict the unmoved First Mover — nor omne in motu ab alio movetur (everything in motion is being moved by another). The subject movetur refers to nature as passive material principle: to that which was moved in the generation of a new substance, not to that which is currently in the realization of its second act.

Third, from the structure of the First Way itself. St. Thomas’ First Way in Summa theologiae I, q. 2, a. 3 is not an argument about continuous motion requiring continuous pushing. Even though many Thomists tried to see it that way, it isn’t — this unfortunate reading can be seen not only in Lagrange, God: His Existence and His Nature, but also in Billuart, Summa S. Thomae, I, De Deo et ejus attributis, diss. I, art. II; Gonet, Clypeus I, De Deo uno, disp. I, art. II; Goudin, Philosophia Thomistica, II, Physica, pars I, disp. III, q. VI, arts. I–II; Hugon, Tractatus dogmatici, vol. I, De Deo uno, q. I, art. II; and many others. And nothing in the text indicates such a view. It is an argument about the reduction of potency to act: “Nothing can be reduced from potency to act except by something in act.” That is the metaphysical center. The principle as St. Thomas deploys it in the First Way concerns the actuation of real potencies — primarily the production of new natures — not the perpetuation of motion already in actus secundus.

Conclusion III: The Mitigated Interpretation Is Also Aristotle’s Own Authentic Sense

This must be demonstrated explicitly, because the strong reading is habitually presented as “Aristotle’s view” — particularly by modern historians of science, from Duhem to Dijksterhuis. Weisheipl states the correction bluntly: “the position attributed by modern historians to Aristotle is, in fact, the position of Averroes.” And: “the notion of a substantial form of inanimate bodies being a motor coniunctus or causa efficiens motus is entirely foreign to Aristotle’s own philosophy.” Furthermore: “the Greek equivalent of the phrase motor coniunctus is nowhere found in Aristotle.”

Three arguments establish this conclusion.

First, from the grammar of the axiom itself. The Greek original — ἅπαν τὸ κινούμενον ὑπό τινος ἀνάγκη κινεῖσθαι — employs the middle-passive participle κινούμενον, which refers to being in the state of a passive, receptive principle being actuated, not to being currently in active motion. The strong reading illicitly converts this passive into an active, transforming “is being moved” into “is moving” or “is in motion.” This is bad grammar before it is bad philosophy. The grammatical error generates the philosophical error.

Second, from Aristotle’s own words in Physics VIII, 4. Aristotle establishes the kinesiological principle by induction from the three classes of motion. Then he says:

“light things and heavy things, which are moved either by that which brought the thing into existence as such and made it light and heavy, or by that which released what was hindering and preventing it”

— Physics VIII, 4, 255b31

Anneliese Maier has correctly summarized: for Aristotle, there are only two possible efficient causes of natural motion in inanimate bodies — the generans as per se cause, and the removens prohibens as per accidens cause. No third cause — no motor coniunctus — is introduced by Aristotle.

Third, from Aristotle’s definition of nature as ἀρχή. Aristotle defines nature as the ἀρχή — the principle — of motion, not as the αἰτία — the efficient cause. Thomas notes this precisely: “principium” is placed in the definition as a quasi genus because “the word ‘nature’ implies a relationship of principle.” If Aristotle had meant nature to be an efficient mover, he would have defined it as τὸ κινοῦν, not as ἀρχὴ κινήσεως. The word Aristotle chose is itself the refutation of the strong reading.

We may therefore state: the Averroist interpretation did not have to wait until the seventeenth century to be discredited. It was already discredited in the thirteenth on strictly Aristotelian grounds by St. Thomas Aquinas.

Conclusion IV: Impetus Is Not an Efficient Motor of the Projectile

We turn now to violent projectile motion specifically. The question is not whether something like an impressed force (impetus) exists in the projectile — that is a separate and legitimate question. The question is whether impetus, if it exists, functions as an internal efficient mover, a motor, propelling the projectile from within.

St. Thomas gives the decisive text on this in the same passage of In III De Caelo:

“It is not to be understood that the power of a violent mover imparts to a stone that is moved by violence some power by which it is moved, just as the power of a generator imparts to the generated the form that results from natural movement: for then violent motion would be from an intrinsic principle, which is contrary to the nature of violent motion.”

— St. Thomas, In III De Caelo, lect. 7, n. 6

This is the mirror text to the doctrine on natural motion. For natural motion: the generator imparts the form; the form is the principle (not the motor). For violent motion: the projector does NOT impart a power that functions as the principle of motion; because if it did, violent motion would have an intrinsic source — contradicting its very definition. The two doctrines are structurally parallel and mutually reinforcing.

Argument from the Definition of Violent Motion

Major: If impetus functioned as a motor (motor coniunctus) of the projectile, then the projectile’s continued motion would arise from an intrinsic principle — namely, the impressed impetus residing in it.

Minor: But by the definition of violent motion, no intrinsic virtue (virtus indita) can be impressed into the projectile from which its continued motion arises as from an internal motive principle.

Conclusion: Therefore, impetus — under the description of an internal motor — is incompatible with the very definition of violent motion. As Thomas states: the projectile that moves violently “nullam virtutem inditam habet, ad quam sequatur talis motus” (In III De caelo, lect. 7, n. 9). The motion is always ab alio, always from without.

The major is easily seen to be true. This is precisely what the impetus theory in its strongest (Buridanian) form asserts: that the projector impresses a quality (impetus) into the projectile, and this quality thereafter acts as the proximate causa movens propelling the projectile. Buridan: “ille impetus est una qualitas innata movere corpus, cui impressa est” — the impetus is a quality capable of moving the body in which it is impressed. Under this description, the projectile would be moved from within, by its own internal quality, which is its motor.

The strength of the argument lies in the minor. Aristotle defines violent motion as “that whose moving principle is outside, the thing compelled contributing nothing” (Phys. VIII, 4, 255a2; De caelo III, 2, 301b17–18). St. Thomas explains the force of this definition: “It is not to be understood that the power of a violent mover imparts to a stone that is moved by violence some power by which it is moved, just as the power of a generator imparts to the generated the form that results from natural movement: for then violent movement would be from an intrinsic principle, which is contrary to the nature of violent movement.” (In III De caelo, lect. 7, n. 6). If an intrinsic virtue were impressed by the projector and the motion arose from that virtue, violent motion would have an intrinsic source — which is precisely what makes it not violent. Therefore the definition of violent motion logically excludes any internal motor. To deny this would be to equate violent motion to another type of motion, such as voluntary motion, which has its principle from within, or a motion in quality, which would only beg the question as to the efficient cause of local motion.

Argument from the Analogy Between Nature and Impetus (from Domingo de Soto, Sup. Lib. Phys., VIII, q. 3)

Major: Just as, in natural motion, the efficient cause (causa efficiens) is the generans and not the natural form or gravity — which are merely the principium — so too, in violent motion, the efficient cause is the proiciens (projector) and not the impetus — which is, at most, a principium or instrumental virtue.

Minor: But impetus, even conceding its existence as an accidental quality in the projectile, is an implanted, alien, and extrinsic quality — not an independent agent really distinct from and superior to the projectile.

Conclusion: Therefore, impetus — if it exists — stands to violent motion as natural form stands to natural motion: as a principium, not as a motor. The one and only per se efficient cause of the projectile’s motion is and remains the proiciens, even after the projectile has left the thrower’s hand.

The major we prove as follows. The analogy between nature and impetus is structurally precise. In natural motion: the generans gives the form, then the form is the principium (not the motor), then the form is not really distinct from the body, therefore no efficient causality inheres in the form, so the generans remains the per se cause. Domingo de Soto makes this analogy explicit: “Just as the one who generates a heavy object gives it a natural quality, which is gravity, by which it moves it all the way to the center, so too the one who throws it strikes the object by which it moves it at a distance.” (Super libros Physicorum, VIII, q. 3, fol. 104v). In both cases, the implanted quality (gravity / impetus) is the principium, not the causa efficiens. Capreolus also claims impetus can be no more than a “detached instrumental cause” of the thrower, not a mover.

The minor is easily verifiable. All impetus theorists agree that impetus is a qualitas impressa — a quality received from without, alien to the projectile’s nature, violently imposed and destined to be overcome by the projectile’s natural inclinations. It is not a substance; it is not an independent agent; it is an accident inherent in the projectile. As such, it lacks the ontological standing of a proper efficient cause (causa efficiens), which must be really distinct from, and able to act upon, the thing it moves.

Argument from the Real Distinction Required Between Mover and Moved

Major: An efficient mover (motor efficiens) of a body must be really distinct from the body it moves, such that the motion genuinely proceeds ab alio and not a seipso.

Minor: Impetus, as a quality inhering in the projectile, is not really distinct from the projectile in the required sense; it inheres in the substance as an accident in a subject, forming with it a single per accidens composite — not two really distinct agents.

Conclusion: Therefore, impetus, lacking real distinction from the subject in which it inheres and lacking suppositum, cannot exercise the role of an efficient mover (motor) upon the projectile. It can only be the vehicle — the instrumental principium — through which the original proiciens continues, in a diminishing way, to be the sole per se efficient cause of the projectile’s violent motion.

This follows from the demonstration of Phys. VII, 1: “everything that is moved must be moved by something else” (242a14–16), because to move and to be moved are really distinct acts requiring distinct subjects. St. Thomas: “To move and to be moved differ, because to move implies active causality, while to be moved implies passive causality.” (In VII Phys., lect. 1). The mover must be aliud — genuinely other — with respect to what is moved.

The minor we prove as follows: quality and its composite do not constitute two really distinct agents capable of mutual efficient causality. The quality does not act on the composite as if from outside; it is constituted in it. St. Thomas and Domingo de Soto make this clear: “Because impulse is not a suppositum, it does not act, but is the power of an agent, for example a motor.” (de Soto, op. cit., fol. 104v–105r). What lacks suppositum — subsistence in its own right — cannot properly be a mover.

Synthesis: Compatibility with Newtonian Inertia

We are now in a position to see why Newtonian inertia poses no threat to the authentic Thomistic and Aristotelian doctrine.

Newton’s first law states that a body continues in its state of rest or of uniform rectilinear motion unless compelled to change that state by impressed forces. No continuously acting pusher is required to maintain constant velocity.

The Averroistic doctrine says that every body in motion requires a present motor here and now. Therefore it is in direct conflict with Newtonian inertia.

But the authentic Thomistic doctrine says nothing of the kind. It says:

• The generator who imparted the substantial form is the per se efficient cause of natural motions.

• The projector who imparted an initial impulse is the per se efficient cause of violent motions.

• Thomists do not read the principle as “whatever is in motion is being moved by another.”

• The form and impetus are principles, not motors.

• No conjoined motor accompanies the body in natural or projectile motion.

Far from contradicting inertia, the Thomistic position structurally anticipates its key insight: a body in natural or rectilinear inertial motion does not need a continuously acting external force because it already has, from its generator, everything it needs to move.

Edmund Whittaker, a well-known physicist and historian, published a critique of the First Way arguing that the kinesiological principle “is irreconcilable with sound dynamical science.” But the irony is that he has in fact criticized the Averroist and late Averroist view on sound Thomistic grounds. Whittaker attacked Averroes. He missed St. Thomas entirely.

And interestingly, the Averroist interpretation, presented by modern historians of science as the “Aristotelian view,” did not have to wait until the seventeenth century to be discredited; it was already discredited in the thirteenth on strictly Aristotelian grounds.

V. Thesis V: The Thomistic School, the Moderns, and Garrigou-Lagrange

The authentic Thomistic tradition initially preserved the correct understanding with remarkable clarity. Capreolus and Domingo de Soto accepted the reality of an impressed force in the projectile while insisting, with equal firmness, that this force is not a proper efficient motor.

“The true efficient cause of projectile motion is the thrower. Impetus is at most a separated instrumental cause of the thrower.”

— John Capreolus, Defensiones theologiae divi Thomae, II Sent., dist. 6

Domingo de Soto makes the structural parallel explicit: the generator gives nature from which natural motion follows; the projector gives impetus from which violent motion follows. But nature is not an efficient cause; impetus is not an efficient cause. Nature is an intrinsic formal principle; impetus is an alien, borrowed, impressed principle. In both cases, the efficient cause is the one who gave the principle, not the principle itself.

The stone is thrown by the boy. It is not thrown by a little motor called impetus. The impetus is the instrumental trace of the original thrower’s causality.

Over time, however, this careful balance eroded. The scholastic manuals of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, increasingly influenced by a revived Averroism that came packaged as orthodox Aristotelianism, began treating the impetus as a genuine motor coniunctus. The strong reading re-entered scholastic physics through the back door.

Antoine Goudin, whose manual was widely used, exemplifies this tendency. He says in his Philosophia that the thrower imparts an impetus “capable of serving as motor.” And Garrigou-Lagrange, drawing on Goudin, makes it explicit: the impetus must be posited as a real force capable of serving as present motor. Inertia must therefore be contested.

But as Garrigou writes: “There is no less change in the transition from one position to another in the course of movement, than in the transition from repose to motion itself; if, therefore, this first change demands another cause, the following changes demand it for the same reason.” (God: His Existence and His Nature, vol. I)

This is the Averroistic structure exactly:

• Motion as presently existing requires a present motor.

• If no external motor appears, posit an internal dynamic force.

• Inertia must therefore be rejected.

The Thomistic structure is categorically different:

• Potency requires act for its actualization.

• The natural form is principium quo, not efficient motor.

• The generator gives the form.

• Motion follows upon the form as actus secundus.

• Therefore inertia is not the enemy of the First Way.

To be fair to Garrigou-Lagrange: he is not an Averroist in general. His overall Thomistic metaphysics is acceptable. But on this specific question — the correct interpretation of the kinesiological principle as applied to local motion — his defense of the First Way drifts into the very Averroistic error that Thomas explicitly repudiated.

Summary of Objections and Replies

Objection I

Aquinas says plainly: whatever is moved is moved by another. Therefore, if a stone is falling now, it must be moved by another now.

Reply

I distinguish.

If “moved” (movetur) means: is being reduced from radical potency to actus primus — I grant: it depends upon another, namely the generator.

If “moved” means: possesses continued local motion following upon a form already received and fully constituted in actus primus — I deny that this requires a conjoined external pusher at every instant.

The stone’s form is from another. Its being is from another. Its natural inclination is from another. Its motion follows upon that received nature as actus secundus. So if a stone is falling, the efficient mover of it is the one who imparted the form — for example, the air that cooled the lava, which, in turn, was being moved by the Earth, and so on. The principle is fully preserved without positing a present motor coniunctus.

Objection II

If the body continues in motion without a present mover, then motion exists without a cause.

Reply

The cause is not absent simply because it is not a present mechanical pusher. In natural motion, the cause is the generator who gave the form; in projectile motion, the cause is the projector who gave the impressed principle. In both cases, the motion depends upon another. What is denied is only the need for a present conjoined motor continuously pushing at each instant.

Objection III

Newtonian inertia says motion continues without force. Does it not deny causality?

Reply

Newtonian inertia denies the need for impressed force to maintain uniform rectilinear motion. It belongs to mathematical physics and concerns the quantitative conditions of velocity change. It does not deny the need for a cause of being, of nature, of form, of the initial conditions of motion, or of the order of actualization as such. Those questions pertain more properly to philosophy. It does not say that potency actualizes itself. It says only that, within mathematical mechanics, velocity once attained persists without continuous driving force. That is a theorem of mechanics, not a refutation of metaphysics — one that is, in turn, fully compatible with Thomism.

Objection IV

If Aquinas allows motion in a void without resistance, does he not abandon Aristotle?

Reply

No. Thomas distinguishes Aristotle’s dialectical arguments against the atomists — which were never meant as strict demonstrations of the impossibility of motion in a void — from the properly philosophical account of motion. He follows the philosopher Avempace against Averroes on this point: velocity is determined not by resistance from the medium but by the time required to cover a given distance. Natural bodies require time because they have a given distance to traverse in a quantitative space, not because they need something to push against. This is not a departure from Aristotle; it is a purification of Aristotle from Averroes.

Objection V

But if inertia is true, then local motion as uniform rectilinear motion requires no actualization at all. Does this not contradict the act-potency framework?

Reply

Not at all. Local motion, even when uniform, involves the successive actuation of real positional potencies: the body is successively here, then there. Each of these positions is a genuine actus secundus of the nature in question. What inertia denies is not that these actualizations occur, but that they require a continuously impressed external force to continue occurring. This is entirely consistent with the Thomistic account: the generator who imparted the nature is the per se cause of all that follows from it in second act, unless impeded.

Objection VI

Does not this interpretation make the kinesiological principle trivially true?

Reply

The principle as applied in the First Way is not restricted to local motion. Thomas explicitly intends movetur in the widest sense of any coming-into-being, including every actualization of potency and ultimately the actualization of esse itself. The First Way ascends from physical motion to the metaphysical order of act and potency, and from there to the conclusion that there must be a First Actuality, pure act, not reducible from any prior potency. The scope of the principle, properly understood, is fully sufficient for this ascent. Newton does not touch it.

Conclusion

We can now return to the beginning.

Aquinas opens the First Way:

“It is certain, and evident to our senses, that in the world some things are in motion.”

— St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I, q. 2, a. 3

Then:

“Whatever is moved is moved by another.”

— St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I, q. 2, a. 3

And the explanation:

“Nothing can be reduced from potency to act except by something in act.”

— St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae I, q. 2, a. 3

That final line in this section of the argument is the center of gravity of the First Way: not “velocity needs a pusher” but “potency cannot actualize itself.”

This is a metaphysical principle. Not a physical one.

The puck sliding on frictionless ice does not refute it.

The arrow flying after leaving the bow does not refute it.

The stone falling without a visible conjoined motor does not refute it.

None of these things has actualized itself. Each of them presupposes being, a determinate nature, an initial actualization, a causal order. Each of them is what it is because something else made it to be what it is. The principle is not about the persistence of velocity; it is about the dependency of the finite on the actual.

So the next time someone says that Newton refuted Aquinas, ask them a simple question:

Which Aquinas?

If by Aquinas you mean a caricature — the figure who believed that every body with velocity must be continuously pushed by another body — then yes, inertia refutes that. But that figure is Averroes, not Aquinas.

If by Aquinas you mean the philosopher who taught that whatever is reduced from potency to act is reduced by another already in act; that no nature generates itself; that the order of actualization is intelligible only if there is a first actualizer who is not himself reduced from potency; then inertia does not refute him. It does not even address him. It operates on a different plane entirely.

The great irony of the history of this debate is this: many of those who attacked Aquinas were in fact attacking Averroes. And many of those who defended Aquinas were in fact defending Averroes. Both sides accepted the Averroistic framing of the principle, and then fought about whether to affirm or deny it. Neither side looked carefully at what St. Thomas actually wrote.

What St. Thomas wrote, in his commentary on De caelo, is that Averroes’ view is omnino falsum. Altogether false.

The stone falling downward is not being pushed by a hidden motor. Its form is not a little efficient engine. The air is not dragging it. The generator gave the form. The form is the principle by which the motion occurs, not the motor which causes it. The motion follows upon the form as actus secundus follows upon actus primus — immediately, spontaneously, without a supervening agent.

The projectile flying through the air does not need a tiny engine inside it. If there is an impetus, it is not a supposit acting as motor. It is an instrumental virtue from the original projector — an instrument that carries, diminishingly, the causality of the one who threw.

The principle of inertia does not destroy the First Way.

It destroys only the thesis that motion, as velocity, must be continuously sustained by a conjoined pusher.

That thesis was Averroes’.

Thomas rejected it in the thirteenth century.

The true principle is deeper, and untouchable:

Whatever is in potency cannot actualize itself as potency. Whatever is moved — whatever is brought from potency to act — is moved by another. And unless there is a first unmoved mover, a First Act, a being whose actuality owes nothing to any prior potency, nothing in the universe is ultimately intelligible.

The modern critic aimed at Aquinas.

The bullet hit Averroes.

And the Thomists should stop jumping in front of it.

Appendix A: The Proofs of Omne Quod Movetur Ab Alio Movetur

The principle omne quod movetur ab alio movetur is not properly proved as though it were a remote conclusion. Rather, once the terms are correctly understood, it becomes evident. To be moved is to be reduced from potency to act; and what is in potency, precisely as such, cannot reduce itself to act. Still, because one can easily confuse motion, self-motion, nature, and causality, we can explain and manifest the principle in three ways, as does St. Thomas in the Summa Contra Gentiles.

Proof I: From the Impossibility of Primary Self-Motion in a Divisible Thing

If something moves itself, it must be moved by itself primarily and not merely through one of its parts. Otherwise, it would not be the thing that moves itself, but one part moving another, as in animals: the animal moves because one part is mover and another is moved.

Moreover, everything that is moved is divisible — as is evident from the necessity of partition into potency and act, and from the intermediary states of motion manifesting partly the terms a quo and ad quem during the motion (cf. Aristotle, Physics VI, c. 4, 234b10 ss.; St. Thomas, In Physic., lib. VI, lect. 5, n. 796).

Now, if, while one part rests, another part still moves, then the whole would not be primarily moved; rather, the part that remains in motion would be primarily moved. Therefore, if one part of it comes to rest, the whole must come to rest. But nothing that comes to rest because another comes to rest moves itself. For if the rest of one thing follows upon the rest of another, then the motion of the one also follows upon the motion of the other. Therefore, such a thing is not moved by itself.

Hence, what was supposed to move itself does not in fact move itself. Therefore, whatever is moved is moved by another.

Syllogistically:

Major. Whatever moves itself primarily must not depend, in its being moved, upon another.

Minor. But every moved thing is divisible and depends, in its being moved, upon its parts.

Conclusion. Therefore no divisible moved thing moves itself primarily; whatever is moved is moved by another.

Proof II: From Induction Through All Types of Motion

The second argument is by induction on all the types of motion.

First, as we have seen, objects are moved either per se or accidentally. But to be moved accidentally is not to move oneself, for it is to be moved by another.

Now, if the object is moved per se, it can be moved naturally, by violence, or voluntarily, as we have seen. If naturally, it is moved by the generator and by that which removed the obstacles; if voluntarily, it is the case of animals (one part moved by another); if by violence, it is evident that something is required to contradict nature.

Therefore, we can find a mover for all kinds of motion.

In syllogistic form:

Major. Everything moved falls under one of these modes: accidental motion, violent motion, natural motion of self-movers, or natural motion of heavy and light bodies.

Minor. In each of these modes, we can determine a mover.

Conclusion. Therefore whatever is moved is moved by another.

Note 1: I can see some less attentive readers might think there is some sort of circularity here — in the article we found the movers given the principle, now we prove the principle given the movers. But this is not the case. In the article, we did not assume the principle; we simply found the movers in each case of motion — and thus the principle follows.

Note 2: Throughout the article we have investigated terms such as “violent motion” and “natural motion” for local motion only, but in this case do not forget that it applies to all kinds of “violent motion,” such as the heating of water.

Proof III: From Act and Potency

This third argument is the most famous.

Nothing is, at the same time and under the same aspect, in act and in potency with respect to the same thing. But whatever is moved, insofar as it is moved, is in potency; for motion is the act of what exists in potency insofar as it is in potency. And whatever moves, insofar as it moves, is in act; for nothing acts except insofar as it is in act.

Therefore, nothing is, with respect to the same motion, both mover and moved. Therefore, nothing moves itself. Hence, whatever is moved is moved by another.

In syllogistic form:

Major. Nothing can be simultaneously in act and in potency with respect to the same thing and under the same aspect.

Minor. But the moved, as moved, is in potency; and the mover, as mover, is in act.

Conclusion. Therefore nothing is mover and moved with respect to the same motion; whatever is moved is moved by another.

This is the deepest reason for the principle. The potential, precisely as potential, does not actualize itself. What is moved must therefore be reduced from potency to act by another.

Appendix B: The Fundamentals for Such an Error

While this Appendix deserves a dedicated article, it is nonetheless interesting to outline the following thesis, given its profound structural correlation with the preceding arguments.

The great 20th-century Thomist Cornelio Fabro performed an invaluable service by identifying the various “inflections” or deviations that have historically distorted the Thomistic tradition. A primary concern of his was the introduction of the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR) — the postulate that every effect must possess a sufficient reason to determine why it is such and not otherwise — into the metaphysical deduction of the principle of causality. This conceptual move serves only to obscure the authentic triumph of St. Thomas: the synthesis of Aristotelian horizontal causality with Platonic vertical causality through the profound doctrine of participation.

Though frequently termed Leibnizian, the PSR was formally anticipated by the Jesuit Sylvester Maurus and finds its earlier roots in the Avicennian De Sufficientia. This principle permeated Scholastic manuals with remarkable speed, eventually contaminating even those claiming the Thomistic mantle; its influence is discernible in Gonet, Goudin, and Billuart, reaching explicit articulation in the works of Pesch, Liberatore, Zigliara, Sanseverino, Garrigou-Lagrange, and many, many others. By founding the principle of causality upon the PSR, these thinkers created a philosophical exigency to seek a motor coniunctus, hic et nunc, to account for the persistence of projectile motion. They demanded a sufficient reason at every instant for the object’s displacement, thereby making the Averroistic interpretation of the kinesiological principle necessary and the adoption of the Buridanian theory of impetus extremely suitable.

The fundamental error, as Fabro rightly insists, is that St. Thomas never employs the PSR as the ground for the principle of causality. And I would go even further than him. The proto-understanding of the PSR by Avicenna was repudiated by St. Thomas (ST Ia, q. 115, a. 6) and further rejected by Cajetan in his commentary — but this will be further expanded on another occasion.

The Fathers and Theologians have always described the sacraments as a sign; it is, of course, unique in the genus of sign insofar as it causes the grace that it signifies, yet a sign nevertheless. A sign garners its precise notion from its order to an intellect. It is meant to cause knowledge of some reality. Therefore, if we are not attentive to the precise nature of a sacrament as a sign, then our sacramentology will be quite deficient.

“Yes, we know that it is a sign, yet we focus on the effect of the sacrament, so what is the harm?” In this common sentiment, there is a subtle error that is quite hard to catch. A sign is determined as such and such a sign by what it primarily signifies. The sacraments primarily signify the internal grace communicated by the sacraments. This much is true. Yet, the subtle error is to go from the premise that the sacraments primarily signify the grace given in the sacrament to the error that the sacraments exclusively signify the grace given in the sacrament.

Since the sacrament is a practical sign, there are two lines that we can distinguish in the sacrament. First, the line of formal causality, i.e., what the sacrament formally gives, the grace that it formally contains, e.g., in baptism the grace of regeneration. Second, the line of intentional causality, i.e., what the sacrament reveals to the intellect.

Let’s say that God chose to sanctify us all at once and perfect man in an instant rather than gradually leading us from grace to glory as he does now; under this supposition, the line of formal causality and the line of intentional causality would be one and the same. There would be no distinction between these two orders. Yet, God has not chosen to sanctify us in this way, choosing to, in accordance with our human condition, gradually bring us step-by-step from grace to glory, through various different stages of the spiritual life. Hence, the graces given in the sacraments signify much more than they formally give. The intentional line, therefore, is much broader than the formal line.

In the formal line are signified sanctifying grace and those particular, unique graces given in each of the sacraments. In the intentional line is signified the total effect of sanctifying grace in general and of those unique graces in particular. Since all are called to mystical perfection, each and every sacrament signifies within itself the total development of the supernatural organism and its highest development (including the unitive way, the perfection of the spiritual life on earth, to which we are all called), along with the glory of heaven. Further, each particular sacrament signifies within itself the perfect development of those particular graces that are given in the sacrament (especially applicable to matrimony and holy orders).

Yet, there is even greater news. There is actually a vital union between these two lines outside of merely the intentional (intellectual) order. Not only do these sacraments signify these perfect realities, but they also cause these perfect realities.

Note that I said that these sacraments signify much more than they formally give. While they only formally give the beginnings and inchoate form of these higher realities, these sacraments virtually give the full development of these higher realities. When one plants a seed into the ground, only a seed is formally given, yet the entire tree in all its vitality is virtually given to the ground.

God, who is faithful and just, always more willing to give than we are to ask, has given and promised the perfection and full development of these graces to those who worthily make use of the ordinary means, including mortification, prayer, and the sacraments. The faithful soul can be assured that God, who infallibly grants these beginnings to those who do not place an obstacle in the way, will also infallibly grant the perfection of these graces to those who make good use of those same sacraments. Thus, the full line of intentional causality is either virtual (for all) or formal (for those who are perfect), yet is absent from none.

The formal cause of something is that which inheres in a thing, actualizing, specifying, and giving entity by its presence. The formal effects are what the form gives to the thing in which it inheres, whether, properly, a) primarily and positively, b) secondarily and privatively, or, improperly, c) consequently and concomitantly. While the first two are proper and per se formal effects, as Ramirez teaches, the last is only improperly a formal effect; it is in the line of efficient cause (effectus quasi effectivi proprie dicti), proceeding from a formal effect per accidens and consequently, in the line of efficient causality (as demeriting). The first takes place in those qualities that begin to reside in the subject (as light illuminates a body). The second takes place in the expulsion of whatever is contrary to the form (as light drives out darkness). The third takes place when something isn’t formally expelled, yet, as a result of some aspect of the form, the reality is dissolved (as when the soul is severed from the body by the corruption of the body).

It is Roman Catholic dogma that the only formal cause required for justification is sanctifying grace. Hence, anything in the line of formal effect in justification must either be grace or be one of the formal effects of grace. This is against the Protestant doctrine that places the personal justice of Christ imputed to us as a formal cause in justification.

Sanctifying grace is a certain supernatural quality that is infused into the soul. Its primary and positive effects are the sanctification of the soul, an adoptive sonship, and right to eternal life. Its secondary and privative effect principally includes the removal of the stain of sin since the stain of sin is a privation of right rectitude, which is exactly what is given by sanctifying grace. Hence, one of the formal effects of sanctifying grace is the “remission of sins” whereby the privation is removed as light drives away darkness and heat drives away cold. Now, as we saw above, the proximate foundation for the obligation to punishment is the order that results from the stain of sin against the order of justice. Hence, the obligation is removed as to its foundation, i.e., consequently and concomitantly, yet not as one of sanctifying grace’s formal effects. The reason for this is that a formal cause and its formal effects change the intrinsic character of the subject in which it inheres. Yet, as a relation, the formal character of the obligation to punishment is found in something relative (respectus), not in something absolute. Hence, the removal of the obligation to punishment is not, properly speaking, a formal effect of sanctifying grace, although it can be described as an effect that is consequent and concomitant to the infusion of sanctifying grace insofar as that quality in which it has its foundation is removed.

Yet, there is more as well. There is a difficulty that is present here in the very order of justice. For, justice ordains that certain acts ought to be punished with proportionate punishments. This rule is upheld ultimately in the eternal law and the very justice of God ordaining it to punishment. Hence, there is a relation of reason on the part of God towards the punishment of the unjust. Now, while the foundation for the obligation to punishment may have been dissolved on the part of the one who is justified, on the part of the penal order and the judge who upholds it, there has not been an adequate satisfaction of the punishment due to such a crime and the judge has not been propitiated as to the punishment he wills to inflict by justice on the one sinning. Hence, while the dissolution of the foundation can explain the removal in the penal order on the part of the one who sins and is justified, yet it does not explain it on the part of the penal order itself (which requires satisfaction) or on the part of the judge who upholds the penal order (which requires propitiation). This is not to say that these other two aspects are not necessarily connected with the removal of the obligation to punishment on the part of the subject, yet it is to say that it does not adequately explain it on its own. Other things are needed. The right to punish is foregone by God by his merciful forgiveness of sins (condonatio). The penal order is satisfied by the voluntary satisfaction of Christ suffering which is imputed to us.

This condonatio must be an objectively conditional decree of God rather than an objectively absolute decree (i.e., “if a man has sanctifying grace and its formal effects along with the satisfaction of Chirst is applied to x, then the punishment will not occur”), which is not purely arbitrary, but based on the real dissolution of the foundation for the obligation to punishment in man from sanctifying grace and the satisfaction of Christ for sins, along with the various inconveniences that would follow from such ordination to eternal punishment from one with sanctifying grace and its primary formal effects.

It would be quite crude to think of this process as we would the appeasing of a wrathful man. The man enraged by an offense receives some beloved object and this quells his wrath, turning him peaceful. Yet, quite the opposite happens on the case of God. The denomination of God as punisher-of-Peter and as not-punisher-of-Peter are each extrinsic and arise from some condition on the part of the object which forms the basis of the relation of reason. God has eternally willed, as an act of justice and mercy, to not punish such-and-such a man if the proper conditions are met on the part of the object (i.e., satisfaction, propitiation, and remission). This is an eternal decree of God; for a man to pass from punished to not-punished does not change anything on the part of God (who is immutable), rather it is some change on the part of the object. It is here that we say that there is a change of extrinsic denomination. To give an analogy, before the creation of the world, God was not ‘Creator’ since ‘Creator’ assumes ‘creation.’ Yet, when creation comes to be, God is now know as ‘Creator’ due to the dual foundation of the eternal act of his immutable will willing creation in time and the actual coming into being of creation in time. There is no change on the part of God, but a change of extrinsic denomination. In a similar manner, God-as-propitiated is an extrinsic denomination as well, based on the dual foundation of his eternal will to accept propitiation (willing not to punish in such a case) and the actual existence of propitiation.

Objection. Doesn’t this make additional formal causes?

It is here that terminological imprecision has tortured the minds of men. Remember this principle from above: the formal cause is that which informs the thing. Not everything can be a formal cause or properly has a formal cause.

First, God has no formal cause. The extinction of the extrinsic order of punishment by God’s merciful forgiveness has no formal cause. What would it be? Who could assert that there is some sort of informing form that actualizes God? Rather, the merciful forgiveness of God is really identical with the simple, eternal, and uncreated act of God. This is simply infallibly connected with the infusion of grace, but does not offer a distinct formal cause. There are many other reasons why such a juridical act would be absurdly labeled as a distinct formal cause, but this is the easiest to see.

Second, the transient act of satisfaction itself cannot be a formal cause. The transient act is only formal in its terminus; a transient act is not form, it produces form in another. Hence, we can either consider it as terminating in God (i.e., ascending to God to impetrate forgiveness) or as terminating in the creature (i.e., descending to us as meritorious cause of grace). In the former case, we can give the same as the first argument. In the latter case, it reduces to our consideration of sanctifying grace above.

Neither of these two aspects to our redemption can be a formal cause for the much simpler reason that they do not inhere and inform some subject, actualizing and specifying that subject. To describe them as a formal cause is a sharp abuse of language.

Hence, when we consider each of the formal effects of justification in the sanctification of man, the expulsion of guilt, and the removal of the foundation for the obligation to punishment, the sole formal cause of these effects is sanctifying grace. Other realities concomitant with or consequent to such an infusion are not additional formal causes, nor can they be in each case that they have been brought forward. Rather, as Catholic theologians teach, such are only properly in the line of efficient cause, not in the line of formal cause.