The School of Athens
Raphael (1509)

In order to explain the role of Plato’s Republic in helping me become more open to the Catholic understanding of St. Peter’s unique office in the Church, I need to lay out the broader line of reasoning to which it contributed. That line of reasoning was as follows:

First, it is reasonable to expect that Christ, being God and therefore all-wise, would establish for His Church the best form of government, not a form of government faulty in some respect. That does not mean that the government that Christ established for His Church would never err, only that the form of this government would be the best one.

Second, the best form of government is one that is capable of preserving the unity of the society it governs. Consider how important unity is to the existence and continuation of a society. Plato writes:

Is there any greater evil for a polis than that which splits it and makes it many instead of one; or any greater good than that which binds it together and makes it a unity? (Republic, 462a9-b2)

Why is there no greater good for a society than its unity, and no greater evil than that which divides it? In other words, how is unity related to goodness? In order to answer that question, we need to consider the metaphysical relation between being and unity and goodness.

These three (and two more that I am not discussing) are called transcendentals, because they can be said of all categories of being. Consider the relation of being and goodness. The Manicheans had taught that there were two fundamental principles or sources of all things: a purely good deity called “the Father of Greatness,” and a purely evil deity called the “King of Darkness.” Neither deity was omnipotent, or created by the other. In this way the Manichean system was fundamentally dualistic. St. Augustine, drawing from the insights of the neo-Platonic tradition, argued against the Manicheans that evil is fundamentally a privation of good, not a parallel principle to good.¹ Moreover, in this way the Manichean system fundamentally separated being and goodness, allowing for the possibility of a being having no goodness, i.e. a being that is purely evil.

St. Augustine argued against this, showing that because of the perfect unity of God, from whom all things that exist have their being and their goodness, goodness and being cannot be separated. Wherever there is being, there is goodness. Therefore, there can be no being that is purely evil. It follows that evil is not only a privation of goodness, but also a privation of being. St. Thomas says more about this in Summa Theologica I Q.5 a.1, where he answers the question “Whether goodness differs really from being?”

Having considered the relation of being and goodness, notice the implications for the relation of being and unity. In Summa Theologica I Q. 11 a.1, St. Thomas writes:

“Nothing which exists is not in some way one,” which would be false if “one” were an addition to “being,” in the sense of limiting it. Therefore “one” is not an addition to “being.”

I answer that, “One” does not add any reality to “being”; but is only a negation of division; for “one” means undivided “being.” This is the very reason why “one” is the same as “being.” Now every being is either simple or compound. But what is simple is undivided, both actually and potentially. Whereas what is compound, has not being whilst its parts are divided, but after they make up and compose it. Hence it is manifest that the being of anything consists in undivision; and hence it is that everything guards its unity as it guards its being.²

Seeing that being, unity and goodness are related in this way, as co-referential, it follows that wherever there is a privation of unity, there is a privation of goodness.³ But a privation of goodness is what evil is, as discussed above. Therefore privation of unity is evil, and the greater the privation of unity, the greater the evil. Likewise, the greater the unity of a thing in the fulfillment of its telos, the greater its goodness, all other things being equal. This explains why according to Plato there is no greater good for a society than its unity, and no greater evil than that which divides it, because unity and goodness are related in this way.

Third, given that Christ would not leave His Church with a faulty form of government, and given that there is no greater evil for a polis than that which splits it and makes it many instead of one, and no greater good than that which binds it together and makes it a unity, it follows that Christ would establish His Church with a government that by its very form would preserve the unity of the Church and protect it from division (i.e. schism), between the time of His Ascension and His future return in glory.

So what form of government, by its very form, preserves the unity of a society, and protects it from division? The answer is a government that is itself indivisible, that is, a government in which one person has a primacy of authority.

In Book VIII of Plato’s Republic, he describes a descent from the highest/best form of government (aristocracy, i.e. rule by the best) to the lowest/worst form of government (tyranny). This descent from aristocracy to tyranny passes through three intermediate forms of government:

Aristocracy
Timocracy
Oligarchy
Democracy
[anarchy]
Tyranny

It is not Plato’s purpose in Book VIII of the Republic to focus explicitly on unity. And it is easy to misunderstand what he is saying here, especially if we are not attentive to what he means by his terms. For example, he is not criticizing democracy in the sense of rule by the people, but rather democracy in the sense of rule by people of a certain moral character. For Plato, monarchy, as opposed to tyranny, would be a form of aristocracy, defined as rule by the wise and virtuous. But there is clearly something in this devolution of polities (from aristocracy to tyranny) that moves away from unity toward disunity, until finally out of the utter disunity of anarchy, there arises the occasion for tyranny, the perverse form of monarchy.

We can draw from Plato’s explication of these forms of government that all other things being equal, a unified form of government is a better government, because it is most capable of preserving the unity of the governed. And that form of government that is intrinsically most capable of being unified and preserving unity is that in which the highest political authority belongs to a single individual at a time. This is precisely why countries do not have multiple presidents at the same time, and companies do not have multiple CEOs at the same time, and Protestant congregations does not have multiple head pastors at the same time. Both natural societies and man-made societies require unified leadership. In Scripture we find that there are heads of families. The Church herself is described as “God’s household” (1 Timothy 3:15; Ephesians 2:19), the “family of believers” (Galatians 6:10) and the “family of God” (1 Peter 4:17). Hence it would be odd if this family (i.e. the Church) did not also have a primary visible head for its government. A body with multiple heads is divided (and potentially divisible) in a way that a body with one head is not.⁴ So we should expect there to be a visible head for the visible society which is the “one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church” Christ founded.⁵

Aristotle presents a similar evaluation of the various forms of government in his Nicomachean Ethics VIII.10. (He discusses this also in his Politics.) In the Nicomachean Ethics he argues that tyranny is the contrary form of kingship (i.e. virtuous monarchy).

Kingship: corrupt form is Tyranny
Aristocracy: corrupt form is Oligarchy
Timocracy: corrupt form is Democracy

St. Thomas also discusses this in his work On Kingship, and at Summa Theologica I-II Q. 105 a.1, where the question is “Whether the Old Law enjoined fitting precepts concerning rulers?” There St. Thomas argues that the best form of government is one that provides the benefits of each of the other forms of government, through their mutual integration. Hence he argues that the best government should be partly democratic, in that all persons should take some share in the government, because there is a peace and stability intrinsic to the democratic form of government. He also argues that the best form of government should be partly aristocratic, in that those who know more about how best to rule should serve in the various ruling capacities. And he also argues that the best form of government should be partly monarchical, in that there should be a primacy of authority held by one person, because having one head provides for unity.

Earlier in the Summa, St. Thomas had addressed the question “Whether the world is governed by one?” He answered:

We must of necessity say that the world is governed by one. For since the end of the government of the world is that which is essentially good, which is the greatest good; the government of the world must be the best kind of government. Now the best government is the government by one. The reason of this is that government is nothing but the directing of the things governed to the end; which consists in some good. But unity belongs to the idea of goodness, as Boethius proves (De Consol. iii, 11) from this, that, as all things desire good, so do they desire unity; without which they would cease to exist. For a thing so far exists as it is one. Whence we observe that things resist division, as far as they can; and the dissolution of a thing arises from defect therein. Therefore the intention of a ruler over a multitude is unity, or peace. Now the proper cause of unity is one. For it is clear that several cannot be the cause of unity or concord, except so far as they are united. Furthermore, what is one in itself is a more apt and a better cause of unity than several things united. Therefore a multitude is better governed by one than by several. From this it follows that the government of the world, being the best form of government, must be by one. This is expressed by the Philosopher [Aristotle] (Metaphysics. xii, Did. xi, 10): “Things refuse to be ill governed; and multiplicity of authorities is a bad thing, therefore there should be one ruler.” (Summa Theologica I Q. 103, a.3.)

The gist of his argument here is that the end (i.e. purpose) of the world is the greatest good, and therefore the government of the world must be the best kind of government in order to guide it to that greatest good which is its end, because the purpose of government is to direct the governed to their end. But the greatest good must include unity and peace, because of the co-referential relation of goodness and unity, as explained above. Therefore the best kind of government must be ordered to the unity and peace of the governed. However, the proper cause of unity and concord must itself be united, for nothing can give what it does not have. But what is one in itself is more suited to causing unity than what is several, since the former has unity intrinsically, while the latter only per accidens. As he says elsewhere, “Several are said to be united according as they come closer to being one. So one man rules better than several who come near being one.” This echoes Homer’s claim that “it is not good to have a rule of many” (Iliad II 204), where each is equal in authority and there is no one higher in authority. Therefore, a multitude is better governed by one than by several, since one ruler is more suited to bringing the ruled to the unity and concord which is their end. And therefore from these premises it follows that “the government of the world, being the best form of government, must be by one.”

What was fascinating to me about this argument (both in the Summa and in On Kingship) is that the term ‘world’ could be replaced by the term ‘church.’ The world is a natural society, but the Church is a supernatural society, and is therefore likewise ordered to the greatest good. Moreover, the Church is a visible society.⁶ So if St. Thomas’ argument provides good reason to believe that the world is governed by one, then it also in the say way provides good reason to believe that the Church is best governed by a single visible leader.

In his work On Kingship St. Thomas offered a similar argument for the thesis that monarchy is the most natural and suitable form of government. Here is a selection from his argument:

[W]e must now inquire what is better for a province or a city: whether to be ruled by one man or by many. This question may be considered first from the viewpoint of the purpose of government. The aim of any ruler should be directed towards securing the welfare of that which he undertakes to rule. The duty of the pilot, for instance, is to preserve his ship amidst the perils of the sea and to bring it unharmed to the port of safety. Now the welfare and safety of a multitude formed into a society lies in the preservation of its unity, which is called peace. If this is removed, the benefit of social life is lost and, moreover, the multitude in its disagreement becomes a burden to itself. The chief concern of the ruler of a multitude, therefore, is to procure the unity of peace. It is not even legitimate for him to deliberate whether he shall establish peace in the multitude subject to him, just as a physician does not deliberate whether he shall heal the sick man encharged to him, for no one should deliberate about an end which he is obliged to seek, but only about the means to attain that end. Wherefore the Apostle, having commended the unity of the faithful people, says: “Be ye careful to keep the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace” (Eph 4:3). Thus, the more efficacious a government is in keeping the unity of peace, the more useful it will be. For we call that more useful which leads more directly to the end. Now it is manifest that what is itself one can more efficaciously bring about unity than several–just as the most efficacious cause of heat is that which is by its nature hot. Therefore the rule of one man is more useful than the rule of many.

Furthermore, it is evident that several persons could by no means preserve the stability of the community if they totally disagreed. For union is necessary among them if they are to rule at all: several men, for instance, could not pull a ship in one direction unless joined together in some fashion. Now several are said to be united according as they come closer to being one. So one man rules better than several who come near being one.

Again, whatever is in accord with nature is best, for in all things nature does what is best. Now, every natural governance is governance by one. In the multitude of bodily members there is one which is the principal mover, namely, the heart; and among the powers of the soul one power presides as chief, namely, the reason. Among bees there is one king bee and in the whole universe there is One God, Maker and Ruler of all things. And there is a reason for this. Every multitude is derived from unity. Wherefore, if artificial things are an imitation of natural things and a work of art is better according as it attains a closer likeness to what is in nature, it follows that it is best for a human multitude to be ruled by one person.

This is also evident from experience. For provinces or cities which are not ruled by one person are torn with dissensions and tossed about without peace, so that the complaint seems to be fulfilled which the Lord uttered through the Prophet: “Many pastors have destroyed my vineyard” (Jer 12:10). On the other hand, provinces and cities which are ruled under one king enjoy peace, flourish in justice, and delight in prosperity. Hence, the Lord by His prophets promises to His people as a great reward that He will give them one head and that “one Prince will be in the midst of them” (Ezek 34:24; Jer 30:21). (On Kingship to the King of Cyprus [De Regno Ad Regem Cypri], translated by Gerald B. Phelan (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1949) pp. 11-13.)

The welfare of the governed society depends upon the preservation of its unity, which is called peace. But the chief concern of the governor of a society must be the welfare of the governed society, and therefore must include the pursuit and preservation of that society’s unity and peace. The more effective a government is at keeping the unity of peace, the better that government is, all other things being equal. And since what is itself one can more efficaciously keep the unity of peace than can what is itself several, therefore the rule of one man is better than the rule of man, all other things being equal. According to St. Thomas even nature teaches us that governance by one is best, and he provides various examples. And in man-made societies, this same principle applies, as experience itself teaches us. Cities or provinces not ruled by one person are “torn with dissensions and tossed about without peace.” But provinces and cities having a form of government in which one person rules, enjoy peace, all other things being equal. In short, nature and experience teach that the rule of one man is more capable than rule by many of preserving the peace and unity necessary for the welfare of any society.

Fourth, given what we have seen above, we should expect Christ to have established for the Church an enduring office for her government, an office occupied by one person at a time, one which is invested with the highest governing authority, for the sake of the peace and unity of the Church. And St. Cyprian (Bishop of Carthage, d. 258) confirms that the Petrine office has that very role, as the source and principle of visible ecclesial unity. (See “St. Cyprian on the Unity of the Catholic Church.”) And so does St. Optatus (see “St. Optatus on Schism and the Bishop of Rome.”) In fact we see this notion over and over in the Church Fathers, in their repeated reference to the role of the Chair of St. Peter. (See my post titled “The Chair of St. Peter.”) Here’s one example, from St. Jerome. He writes:

The Church was founded upon Peter: although elsewhere the same is attributed to all the Apostles, and they all receive the keys of the kingdom of heaven, the strength of the Church depends upon them all alike, yet one among the twelve is chosen so that when a head has been appointed, there may be no occasion for schism. (Against Jovinianus 1.26)

The notion in the Church Fathers that one of the Apostles was chosen by Christ to be head, so that there would be no occasion for schism intrinsic to the form of ecclesial government, is what we would expect if Plato and Aristotle and Boethius and St. Thomas were right about the nature of the best form of government as one that includes a unified head, and if Christ did not fail to provide His Church with the best form of government. By contrast, an ecclesiology in which each person has highest interpretive authority for himself, and is thus essentially his own pope, goes against what reason itself teaches us regarding what is required for the peace and unity of a society. It is the ecclesial equivalent of what Plato referred to as political anarchy. In this way, the arguments from philosophy concerning the best form of government helped make me more open to the hypothesis that the evidence for the papacy I saw in the Church Fathers was not a symptom of ecclesial deism, but was the development of something that Christ Himself had established in Matthew 16 when He changed Simon’s name to “Peter,” promised to build His Church on this Rock, and gave to him the keys of the Kingdom, which is the Church.

Christ Handing the Keys to St. Peter
Pietro Perugino (1481-82)

(This is an updated version of an essay I wrote in April of 2008.)

1. Note well that a ‘privation’ of good is not merely an absence of good, but an absence of a good where a good ought to be.
2. For additional explication of the relation between goodness, unity, and being, see also Book III of Boethius’ The Consolation of Philosophy, from page 89 to page 93.
3. Again, a ‘privation’ here is not merely an absence, but an absence of unity where unity ought to be, according to the teleology of a nature.
4. One need only think of the mythical Hydra. I am not denying the potential dangers of monarchy; I am only seeking here to show which form of government is most intrinsically united and therefore most capable of uniting and preserving the unity of the governed. The potential dangers of monarchy do not remove the need for a unified visible head of a visible society, in order to preserve the unity of that society. Even nature teaches that no society can function as a unity without a unified head. We can expect that if Christ established a visible Church, and if for the reasons explained in this post this Church needs a unified visible head, then Christ would establish some way of preserving that visible head such that this visible head preserves the faith entrusted to the Church by the Apostles.
5. See “Christ Founded a Visible Church.”
6. Ibid.

For Michael the film is fundamentally about nature and grace. Toward the beginning of the film, the narrator defines the terms ‘nature’ and ‘grace’ in the following way, as Michael describes:

Toward the beginning—I think it may be the opening spoken lines, the narrator says that “there are two ways through life, the way of nature and the way of grace.” “Nature is willful, it only wants to please itself, to have its own way.” On the other hand, “grace” is “smiling through all things.” According to the way of grace, “the only way to be happy is to love.”

It is very important to note that these are not the Catholic definitions of these terms. In Catholic theological anthropology, human nature is not selfish or sinful; human nature is good. Christ received our human nature, and yet was without sin. Moreover, even at the level of human nature, the only way to be truly happy (with the natural happiness proportional to man’s nature) is to love both God and neighbor. That is, even if God had not given grace to Adam and Eve prior to the Fall, their happiness would still have required love for and justice to God as their Creator, and love for and justice to each other. Religion is a natural virtue, pertaining fundamentally and first to human nature, for we know by nature that our Maker is due adoration and gratitude. By nature mankind is inclined to worship his Creator, and this religious disposition has been present in every culture, even when it has been distorted through ignorance and sin. Grace does not destroy religion, but perfects, informs, and elevates it. Hence grace is not opposed to the natural virtue of religion. (Cf. “Angels trapped in stinkin’ flesh.”) Similarly, because man is naturally a social animal, virtuous friendship is necessary for natural human happiness, on account of human nature. Even by nature alone we are happier when we pursue the common good, than when we focus only on our own well-being.¹

Some Reformed Christians think Catholic anthropology makes nature evil because in Catholic theology some additional divine gift (over and above the gift of human nature itself) is necessary to ameliorate what the Catholic tradition calls ‘concupiscence, i.e. a disordered inclination toward sin.’ (Cf. CCC 2515, 1264) In other words, the Reformed argument is that since concupiscence is a flaw or defect, and since Catholic theology maintains that without an additional gift (called ‘integrity’) from God, humans will have concupiscence, therefore Catholic theology treats human nature as inherently flawed or defective. It is worth pointing out in reply first that in Catholic theology concupiscence is not the absence of grace. Since the Fall of Adam and Eve, all those who come to living faith have grace in their hearts, and yet they still have concupiscence. Concupiscence is due to the absence of the preternatural gift of integrity, which is one of three preternatural gifts. (See Fr. Hardon’s explanation of the preternatural gifts.) This preternatural gift of integrity is shown to be not intrinsic to human nature by the fact that otherwise we could not lose it without ceasing to be human. But Adam did not cease to be human when he sinned, nor are we a different species from Adam.

Why is integrity not intrinsic to human nature? Because man is both body and soul, and matter by its nature cannot be intrinsically ordered to the good as such, as reason is. That inability is not a defect in matter; it is merely a natural limitation of matter. For example, arrows are not naturally ordered to their target, but this is not a defect or imperfection in arrows. Similarly, not being the Creator is not a defect or imperfection in creatures; it is a limitation that necessarily accompanies being a creature. So likewise, not being intrinsically ordered to the good as such is not a defect or imperfection in matter; it is merely an intrinsic limitation of matter. And therefore the need for the preternatural gift of integrity, in order for there to be no concupiscence, is not an indication that human nature is imperfect or flawed.²

Michael knows that the film narrator’s way of defining nature and grace is not the Catholic way of defining these terms, but he does not point this out, or explain how nature and grace are distinguished in Catholic theology. He writes:

Basically, the nature-grace thing is told with a pretty Roman Catholic twist, too. Malick, who was raised in the Bible belt (interestingly, Waco), attended an Episcopal school and went on to study philosophy at Harvard and Oxford (Magdalen College, with philosopher Gilbert Ryle as his supervisor). Reformed theologians have been tweaking Roman Catholic tails for some time now over the way in which the latter seems to turn everything into a nature-grace instead of a sin-grace problem. Briefly put, Rome teaches that grace elevates or perfects nature, raising it from its imperfect natural state into a supernatural condition. A perennial Reformed objection is that this makes nature—creation—inherently flawed and demands that it becomes something other than what God created it to be in order to be truly “good.” And that also means that grace is the infusion of divine goodness and love into the soul, to raise the creature from being trapped in earthly (material) things.

Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this ‘tweaking,’ as he puts it. The distinction between nature and grace is not the distinction between sin and grace. They are two different distinctions, precisely because nature is not sin; that would be Manicheanism. And it is quite possible that the dualistic philosophy Michael perceives in the film is a kind of Manicheanism. But the Catholic distinction between nature and grace is not Manichean dualism. To deny the distinction between nature and grace is to deny the Creator-creature distinction, because grace is a participation in the divine nature. (2 Peter 1:4. cf. Summa Theologica Q.110 a.2.) Since Michael believes that grace is undeserved divine favor in response to human sin, and that nature is what God created, Michael himself does not believe that nature is grace. Of course Michael believes that everything God has created is an undeserved gift. But he does not believe that God’s undeserved divine favor toward us in response to sin is the same thing as human nature. So, we’re agreed at least that nature and grace are not the same thing. And therefore Michael gains no advantage in pointing out that the Catholic Church distinguishes between nature and grace, since he too distinguishes between them.

Michael, however, seems to think that in Catholic theology there is only a nature-grace problem, not a sin-grace problem. But in fact, if Adam and Eve had never sinned, they could not have entered into heaven without grace. Claiming otherwise leads to Pelagianism, as Barrett Turner explained in “Pelagian Westminster?.” The problem with Pelagianism is not fundamentally a sin problem; it is that heaven is infinitely above our human nature, and we cannot attain that supernatural end without grace. But that does not mean that there is not a sin problem in the post-Fall condition. Yes, there is a sin problem, and that is why Christ came, to make atonement for our sins. (cf. “Catholic and Reformed Conceptions of the Atonement.”) But we do not have to choose between a Pelagian notion of salvation prior to the Fall, and a denial of the Fall. Hence we can affirm both a nature-grace ‘problem’ and a sin-grace ‘problem.’ And these two problems interpenetrate in our human history, because Adam, by sinning, both forfeited the grace he had been given, and incurred a debt of punishment he could not pay. Hence we not only need grace, as Adam and Eve did before the Fall, we also need forgiveness, which they would not have needed had they not sinned.

When Michael says, “Briefly put, Rome teaches that grace elevates or perfects nature, raising it from its imperfect natural state into a supernatural condition” he makes “imperfect” the antithesis of “supernatural.” But that’s not a justified assumption. Not to be in a supernatural condition, is to be in a natural condition, not necessarily an imperfect condition. That grace perfects what is imperfect does not entail that grace only perfects what is imperfect. Prior to the Fall, Adam and Eve were not imperfect or flawed, and yet prior to the Fall they needed grace in order to attain the beatific vision.³ The fact that the creature is not by nature proportionate to seeing the inner Life of God is not a “flaw” or “imperfection” in the creature; it is a necessary result of the Creator-creature distinction. Creatures are finite; God is infinite. God alone has the beatific vision by His nature; man does not have the beatific vision by his [i.e. man's] nature. And that is why man can attain the beatific vision only by a gratuitous divine gift in addition to our nature. In order for creatures to enter into the divine Life of the Holy Trinity, those creatures must be elevated by being made partakers of the divine nature (2 Peter 1:4). To deny that is either to reduce the divine nature to the level of creatures, or to elevate man’s nature to the very nature of God, and thus deny the Creator-creature distinction.⁴

As for Michael’s claim that the Catholic doctrine of grace “demands that [nature-creation] become something other than what God created it to be in order to be truly ‘good,’” this is a misunderstanding on Michael’s part. In Catholic doctrine, everything is good according to its nature. But, only God is Goodness itself, from which everything else derives its goodness, as Jesus taught in St. Mark 10:18 and St. Luke 18:19. The goodness of a creature is not equivalent to the goodness of God. To be elevated by grace is not [necessarily] to go from not good, to good; it can be (as it was when God bestowed grace on Adam and Eve and all the angels, prior to any sin) an infinite elevation from a natural finite good, to a participation by that creature in the divine nature which is infinite Goodness. But that elevation does not destroy man, or make him something other than what God made him to be. Grace does not distort, negate, corrupt or obliterate nature. Grace elevates nature while preserving nature, and this elevation was something God planned all along. From the beginning He made man with the purpose of bringing man into the fullness of perfect communion in agape with the three divine Persons of the most Holy Trinity.⁵

When Michael says, “And that also means that grace is the infusion of divine goodness and love into the soul, to raise the creature from being trapped in earthly (material) things,” he seems to be implying that believing in infused grace entails a kind of gnoticism in which humans are pure spirits trapped in earthly bodies. One problem with this claim, for Michael, is that Reformed theology also believes in infused grace for sanctification. (If I don’t say that, JJS will have an embolism; see comment #621 and following.) But, regardless of the Reformed position on the infusion of grace for sanctification, it simply does not follow from the proposition “God infuses grace into human hearts for salvation” that therefore “humans are spirits trapped in earthly bodies.” We are by nature rational animals, but Christ in His gratuitous benevolence and mercy has condescended to give to us through the sacraments He established in His Church a participation in His divine Life. This is what eternal life is, a participation in the supreme happiness that is God’s own Life.⁶ That we are given this divine gift does not imply that we are mere spirits, or that we are not animals. One does not have to be an angel in order to receive through infusion a participation in the divine life.

Next Michael writes:

Something of this almost dualistic view of nature and grace forms the philosophical backbone of this story.

That might be so, but the Catholic teaching concerning nature and grace is not dualistic. It does not deny our embodiedness. We receive the grace of Christ through material sacraments precisely because we are animals; this is why sacraments are necessary for our salvation. (Cf. Summa Theologica III Q.61 a.1.) Grace builds on nature, and elevates it; grace is not opposed to nature, and does not destroy nature. So we do not have to choose between nature and grace. We choose between nature-without-grace and nature-with-grace. Nor is it dualistic to affirm the distinction between good and evil, between God and creature, or between what the Didache describes as the way of life and the way of death.

Michael next writes:

I’m going to go out on a limb here, but it’s provoked by the film itself. Intentional or not, the movie exhibits some of the deep ontological flaws in Roman Catholic theology. It’s not just a doctrine here or there, but a worldview in which nature tends toward evil and grace, rather than being God’s favor toward sinners on account of Christ, is a cosmic-metaphysical substance infused into the world to make it, well, less worldly.

It is strange to hear a Calvinist blame “Roman Catholic theology” for believing that nature tends toward evil. Among possible rejoinders that refer to the ‘T’ in TULIP, I wish only to point out that the shoe is on the other foot.⁷ Michael apparently disapproved of the film’s portrayal of nature, but instead of allowing the film’s portrayal of nature to challenge or revise his Calvinistic conception of fallen human nature, he seemingly projected his own theology of fallen nature onto the Catholic Church, and then accused this theology of “deep ontological flaws.”

The Catholic conception of nature is not that nature tends toward evil. All creatures are by nature and providence ordered to their Creator, who is the Good.⁸ Nor in Catholic doctrine is grace a “cosmic-metaphysical substance.” Grace is not a substance at all, but a participation in the divine nature.⁹

Lastly, he writes:

The nature-father vs. grace-mother business is underscored also by the powerful, arbitrary, and destructive forces of cosmic evolution in the stunning vignettes scattered throughout. At least in a lot of popular Roman Catholic devotion, Mary is larger-than-life, like the mother in this film. Wrapped in eternal light with angels in an assumption-like scene, the mother says, “I give you my son.” This is rather different from the biblical gospel, where the Father is the one who “so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son….”

Michael treats the nature-father vs. grace-mother antithesis as though that is either a Catholic teaching or is at least implied by the Catholic distinction between nature and grace. But it should not be necessary to point out that Catholic theology in no way pits grace against nature, or God the Father against Mary, or identifies God the Father with [fallen] nature. God created nature and it is good.

God chose Mary to be the means by which He would send His Son into the world, so that we might be redeemed through Him. Grace therefore comes to us from God the Father, since He sent Christ. But at the same time, and without any contradiction or competition, grace comes to us through Mary, precisely because grace comes to us from Christ, and Christ comes to us from Mary. The notion that nature-is-evil-and-opposed-to-grace, which Michael took away from the film, is not Catholic, but Marcionite. In Marcionite theology, the Father of Jesus is not the Creator of nature, and therefore the grace that comes from Jesus is placed in opposition to nature. But it was the Church at Rome that excommunicated Marcion around AD 144.¹⁰ Catholicism is not Marcionism. If Malick’s Tree of Life contains a Marcionite theology of nature and grace, this should not be mistaken for (or assumed to be) the Catholic doctrine of nature and grace.

Catholicism is known for its both-ands, and here too, in Michael’s closing line he presents what for Catholics is a false dilemma. He points out that in the film, the mother says, “I give you my son.” That is different from the Biblical gospel, he claims, in which it is God the Father who gives us His Son. But why does Michael see these as at odds? The Church Fathers teach that Christ is eternally begotten of the Father, and in time begotten of the Virgin Mary. From God the Father He receives His divine nature, and from Mary He receives His human nature. Did Mary not give permission for the shepherds to adore her Son at the stable in Bethlehem? Did the Magi barge their way in, against her will? Or did the baby Jesus rise up and bid them to bow before Him? Surely not. She gave her Son to them then, and later to the whole world when she stood at the foot of the cross.¹¹

The notion that Christ cannot also be Mary’s gift (or should not also be thought of as Mary’s gift) is a form of docetism that abstracts Jesus from Mary as His maternal source and from the Holy Family. I know that Michael is not a docetist, but there is no good reason for anyone who affirms orthodox Christology to dismiss or disparage the notion that Christ comes to us from Mary, and that Mary, as His Mother, also gave Christ to the world. Marcionism seeks to disconnect Christ from matter, from Eden, and from the Creator. It is precisely in Mary that the Marcionite heresy is defeated, not only because Mary as the Daughter of Zion shows Christ to be the Son of David and the Seed of the Patriarchs, and not only because Mary as the Second Eve shows Christ to be the Redeemer promised in the Garden by the Creator, but also because from Mary and in Mary the natural (i.e. human nature) and supernatural (i.e. divine nature) were made one in the eternal Person of Christ. Mary thus safeguards the truth that the God who made nature is the same God from whom we receive grace.¹²

1. See, for example, books 8 and 9 of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. More could be said here, especially in relation to Ayn Rand’s notion of the ‘virtue’ of selfishness.
2. Cf. “Aquinas and Trent: Part 7.”
3. Cf. “Pelagians Westminster?.”
4. See Lawrence Feingold’s The Natural Desire to See God According to St. Thomas Aquinas and His Interpreters, (Sapientia, 2010).
5. See Daniel Keating’s Deification and Grace.
6. Cf. “The Gospel and the Meaning of Life.”
7. For example, see Francis Schaeffer’s Escape from Reason for a Reformed critique of St. Thomas Aquinas for allegedly failing to recognize sufficiently the fallen nature of man’s intellect. In “Aquinas and Trent: Part 3” I explain the four wounds of nature resulting from sin, according to St. Thomas.
8. See, for example, what St. Thomas says in the Summa Theologica regarding “Whether the End of the Government of the World is Something Outside the World.”
9. See “Summa Theologica I-II Q.110 a.2.
10. See “Marcionites.”
11. Cf. “Mary as Co-Redemptrix.”
12. See Lux Veritatis, written on the 1500th anniversary of the Council of Ephesus.

“Thou hast written well of me, Thomas; what reward wilt thou have?”

“None other than Thyself, Lord.”

-St. Thomas Aquinas to the Lord Jesus after composing the treatise on the Eucharist, AD 1273.

Joining the Order of Preachers, the Dominicans, at a young age, Thomas devoted himself to the mystery of God throughout his life. Most know that his chief work is the Summa theologica. Few also know that he commented on the Sacred Scriptures, on the philosophical works of Aristotle, and, earlier, on the Sentences of Peter Lombard (the production of the latter being a standard requirement for attaining the bachelor of theology in the thirteenth century). Thomas composed various disputations drawn from his university teaching on topics such as truth, creation, the nature of evil, and the various types of virtues. Today the Church uses many of his hymns and prayers, particularly in her celebration of the Holy Eucharist. For example, Thomas wrote the liturgy for the feast of Corpus Christi. His method and works have been commended by popes to form priests and laity in the sapiential–that is, wisdom-seeking–quest for the knowledge of God, the universe, and the mysteries of salvation.

Archbishop J. Augustine Di Noia, OP

Yesterday the Catholic University of America and the Dominican House of Studies celebrated the feast of St. Thomas early with Archbishop J. Augustine Di Noia, OP, Secretary of the Vatican’s Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments.¹ In his homily, the archbishop correlated two themes one finds in the life of the great saint: an indefatigable thirst for greater understanding of the mystery of God and an intense dedication to Christ Jesus in the Eucharist. One may listen to the homily by watching this video of the Mass, beginning around minute twenty-one. I highly recommend the homily and have prepared a few thoughts in honor of St. Thomas as inspired by Archbishop Di Noia’s preaching.

The first theme is St. Thomas’s understanding that faith is not only compatible with human reason, but that human reason can continually grow in its understanding of the mysteries of faith. The mysteries of faith, according to Archbishop Di Noia, are “by definition without end [...] endlessly comprehensible and explicable [...] Not darkness but too much light [...] An unending and inexhaustible power to attract and transform the minds and hearts of the individual and communal lives in which they are pondered, digested, and ultimately loved and adored.” The light of faith purifies reason and prepares reason to serve the human journey to the blessed communion of the Three Persons. Thomas appropriated elements of Greek philosophy, whether Aristotelian, Platonic, or otherwise, often doing so in conversation with accomplished Jewish and Muslim philosophers of his day. He sat at the feet of the Church Fathers, read and re-read Sacred Scripture, and adverted to the symbols of faith in the Church’s creeds and pronouncements when necessary. St. Thomas thus synthesized various philosophical and theological sources for the mission of understanding more deeply the things of God, the movement of the rational creature to God, and the way in which this is possible in the Lord Jesus Christ. In his writings we can find an astounding coherence to the faith, not only in the correspondence of its various parts but also of the breadth and height of its contents.

A surprising point made by Archbishop Di Noia in this regard is that we often think of a “mystery” as something impenetrable or inscrutable to human reason. “It’s a mystery,” we say as we dismiss further reflection on a topic or event. Yet St. Thomas understood God to be the author of reason and that human reason participates in God’s rationality (cf. I-II q. 94 a. 2 on the eternal law of God and the rational participation therein of the human creature). In fact, God is reason:

Now, the end of each thing is that which is intended by the its first author or mover. But the first author and mover of the universe is an intellect, as will be later shown. The ultimate end of the universe must, therefore, be the good of an intellect. This good is truth. Truth must consequently be the ultimate end of the whole universe, and the consideration of the wise man aims principally at truth. (Summa contra Gentiles, ch. 1)

And because God is infinite, the conclusion is that the mystery of God is infinitely sought by the rational creature. Ultimately man’s journey into the mystery of God is possible only with the ontological, moral, and epistemological elevation of the rational creature to God through grace, but such elevation does not destroy, nullify, or circumvent the human mind. In fact, we pursue with theology now what we behold in substance in the life to come: the unending and limitless expansion of our awe and amazement at the beauty of the Triune God’s very being and love. Although God is simple, we behold the one mystery of God through various means. Included in these means are the seven “mysteries” or sacraments of Christ.

This touches on the the second theme of the homily, which was St. Thomas’s love for Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament and how in that Sacrament Thomas entered into the deep truth of the God who is love. Archbishop Di Noia related how Thomas had the habit of celebrating daily Mass and then attending a second Mass immediately following. At this second Mass, Thomas would serve at the altar. Often the great theologian would be found weeping at the beauty of God’s love shown forth in Christ Jesus. Jean-Pierre Torrell, OP, quotes St. Thomas on the same theme, saying that “the concrete manner in which everything that the Savior did and suffered in the flesh reaches us even today [is...] ‘spiritually through faith and bodily through the sacraments, for Christ’s humanity is simultaneously spirit and body in order that we might be able to receive into ourselves [we who are spirit and body] the effect of the sanctification that comes to us through Christ.’”² Thomas understood that the sacraments are the means of grace, the ways of participating in the divine life. The encounter with the Lord through the consumption of his Body and Blood in the Eucharist vivifies the spirit through the divine nature of Jesus Christ, bringing us to the Father through the work of the Holy Spirit. In the sacraments, believers enter into the mystery of the Triune God, where the inexhaustible mystery may be forever contemplated, searched, and enjoyed. Thomas wept because of the beauty of the mystery.

We who think ourselves theologically attuned can learn many things from St. Thomas. With the collapse of Enlightenment foundationalism under the pressure of the post- or late-modern critique comes also a collapse of confidence in human reason’s ability to wonder at the deep truth’s of existence and, above all, the God who upholds it every moment. Reason has been reduced to innocent delusion at best or hungry quest for power at worst. Sadly, this attitude of suspicion toward reason–even redeemed reason–has had deleterious influence on much modern theology. Despite the origin of man from God, who is pure spirit, many doubt that that which is most spiritual in man–his intellect–is incapable of attaining true sapientia from and in God. St. Thomas Aquinas, the “simple” friar who lived eight-hundred years ago, knew better and his writings stand to show us the way. Let us ask him to help us as we seek the face of the living God in the Body and Blood of the living Savior.

Saint Thomas Aquinas, you always had Jesus, the Wisdom of God and the Bread of God, before your eyes. Pray for us, that we might weep with great joy in His presence!

1. The University news report can be found here.
2. Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 2: Spiritual Master (CUA Press: 2003), 139, quoting De veritate q. 27 a. 4.

Moreover, Aquinas follows Boethius in arguing that “unity belongs to the idea of goodness” because “a thing exists so far as it is one” and as St. Thomas explains, both goodness and unity are convertible with being. ² Thus, along with goodness and truth, unity is one of the ‘transcendentals’ because it is convertible with being. These transcendentals are simply being apprehended under different modes. This complements St. Augustine’s teaching that evil is not its own being but the corruption of being. All things, in so far as they exist, that is, in so far as they have being, are good and they exist in truth and unity.

Harmony or proportion is also closely related to unity. For harmony is a bringing together of two or more things into a unity while maintaining some aspect of their distinctive identity. Proportion is the perfect representation of another thing or conformity to some good. St. Thomas gives the example of the Son as the perfect image of the Father and thus said to be in perfect proportion. ³ Elsewhere he states that God is beautiful as being “the cause of the harmony and clarity of the universe.” ⁴ He also states that love, which is the most beautiful virtue, is “a certain harmony of the appetite with that which is apprehended as suitable.” ⁵

Unity and harmony, as qualities of beauty, can be understood when we consider the attractiveness of a complex piece of music (or any artwork) over something simple. All other things equal, the complexity makes the piece more beautiful. This is because the act of harmoniously incorporating additional forms and components into a greater unity approximates truth, beauty, and goodness. The unity of the Trinity is the perfect archetype of harmony and pure oneness (out of something like a plurality). A family is beautiful because of its unity; and a well ordered society is for the same reason. That is all to say that unity and harmony point to not just any truth, but to truth itself, God, as do all things beautiful.

The dissolution of a thing arises from a defect therein. Disunity is an evil because its end is the dissolution of a being in the same way that the end of sin is the dissolution of some good. The ugliness of disunity is evidenced by the pain that accompanies it. St. Thomas quotes St. Augustine saying, “what else is pain but a feeling of impatience of division or corruption?” ⁶ and goes on to say, “the good of each thing consists in a certain unity” in defense of his proposition that the desire for unity is a cause of sorrow.⁷

With all of these ideas considered, we followers of Christ ought to sorrow at the disunity of Christians and earnestly pray for the re-unification, the integration, of all Christians into one body: the Church. Unity is beautiful because it is good and Christ intended unity for His Church⁸ because it is His own body. Our theological differences notwithstanding, I hope that Christians of all backgrounds will join together during this week of prayer for Christian unity to petition the Holy Spirit to move on the hearts of men that we may be unified not only in spirit, but in body, that is, in Church.

1. Summa Theologica, 1.39.8
2. Ibid., 1.6.4; 2.36.3
3. Ibid., 1.39.8
4. Ibid., 2b.145.2. Aquinas is quoting Pseudo-Dionysius
5. Ibid., 2.29.1
6. De Lib. Arb. iii, 23
7. Summa Theologica 2.36.3
8. cf. John 17

To download the mp3, click here.

The primary way we both [Catholics and Protestants] talk about justification and about any of God’s operations is based on the way that the Scriptures speak of God. Let me say at the outset that we are not at fault for so doing. But if we use Scriptural language as evidence of philosophical truths, where such language is not intended to do so, we inevitably end up in error. The same thing happens when we use the Scripture to defend scientific propositions, when the Scripture itself is not advocating such propositions. (e.g. Josh 10:13) Some Scriptures do make scientific and philosophical propositions (Gen 1:1), but not all of them do. Deuteronomy 9:8 says “At Horeb you aroused the LORD’s wrath so that he was angry enough to destroy you.” But this is not a denial of God’s immutability because it is not meant to be understood in philosophical terms. Likewise, many errors and miscommunications about justification arise because of subconscious renderings of certain passages as if they were making philosophical claims that are actually false. God does not actually get angry, not in the way that we do. So if we took Deut 9:8 as evidence that God gets angry and is therefore mutable, we would be seriously mistaken.

Now the Scriptures often speak of God’s judgment. (e.g. Ex 6:6; Rom 2:2) But what is involved in judgment (as we mean it)? Judgment starts with an ignorance on the part of the judge and proceeds to knowledge in the same judge based on some quality in the thing judged. e.g. A man does not know whether a fruit is suitable for nutrition; then he examines it and judges it based on some quality in the fruit. That is what we mean by ‘judgment.’ But this is not what is meant by God’s ‘judgment’ because such a process involves ignorance and change, both of which are impossible for God. Judgment, as we mean it, necessarily involves a reaction, but there is no reaction whatsoever in God to anything. God does not react; He acts.

Likewise, the Scriptures often speak of God “seeing.” (e.g. Gen 16:13) But God does not “see” as if He had eyes or as if He didn’t already know what was there. “Seeing” is an analogical way to speak about God’s knowledge. We often say “I see” when we mean that “I understand” or “Do you see?” when we want to know whether someone understands something. This is because sight is an analogy for understanding. God never looks at anything because one only looks at something when he lacks knowledge about the thing and God lacks nothing.

Much of the Protestant-Catholic debate and misunderstanding regarding justification is rooted in understanding Scriptural passages in a philosophical sense when they were never intended to make such propositions. The problem is not with using such analogical language but in basing doctrines on philosophical propositions that seem to be supported by Scriptural language when in fact those propositions are false. That is, it is not wrong to speak of God as if He “sees” something or as if He “judges” us because that is how the Scriptures speak. But if we understand these terms as denoting philosophical claims and then build doctrines on that understanding, then we err.

Let us examine justification by dialogue:

Jack: Justification is by faith alone.

Billy Bob: Faith formed by love right?

Jack: No. True faith is formed by love of course but only the faith part is judged in the process of justification.

Billy Bob: So God looks at us and sees that we have faith and love, but He only considers the faith part (and does not consider the love part) in justification?

Jack: Yes, that is correct.

Billy Bob: But your belief presupposes that God sees, judges, and reacts. If we understand these terms analogically, then nothing you just said makes sense. Your doctrine depends on God’s mutability – on His ability to react.

Jack: No it doesn’t, I too affirm immutability.

Billy Bob: But if God doesn’t actually react, then He reacts neither to faith, nor to love, nor to faith and love, nor to faith alone, nor to faith formed by love. Is that correct?

Jack: Yes.

Billy Bob: Then what prohibits us from agreeing with St. Augustine that “Faith without love profits nothing”? ‘Justification’ seems to fall into the category of “something” so how can faith without love profit justification?  There seems to be no Scriptural case for salvation by faith alone.

Jack: The Scriptural case is that salvation is by faith apart from works. Even if we consider faith as an act of fidelity rather than a passivity, then we include works and attribute something of ourselves to salvation which is impossible. Salvation is by grace alone – nothing originates in us to make us worthy of salvation. Only the free gift of faith justifies.

Billy Bob: I agree. But suppose God’s grace entailed faith, hope, and love.

Jack: It does.

Billy Bob: Then on what basis do we exclude hope and love from justification? God does not judge based on any of them because He does not judge in the way we judge (that His judgment should be a reaction), rather His grace is not distinct from His judgment. To receive God’s grace is to be judged as righteous. To lack God’s grace is its own judgment.

The Reformed position is that God gives us faith and then judges us based on that faith alone. If taken as an absolute description of what actually happens, this is as unintelligible as saying that God gets angry or reacts. The way we Catholics speak of God’s judgment is often unintelligible (taken in that sense) as well. But if we understand this language as analogical rather than absolute then this manner of speaking does not necessarily lead to errors.

Describing God’s judgment is emphatically not like describing what happens at our local courthouse. We err when we start understanding God’s judgment as a reaction to something He learns by seeing us (or even seeing His gift in us).  That understanding leads us to think that we have to concoct a doctrine that protects the doctrine of sola gratia. This is what the Protestants have done. If salvation is a gift, then it can’t be a reaction to anything in us (so the Reformed reason). They are right so far. But they err when they deny that there’s anything in us. The sentence is correct: “It’s not a reaction to anything in us” not because there’s nothing in us – but because it’s not a reaction!

It seems to me that the Reformed conception of salvation de fide depends on a reactionary conception of God’s judgment. It looks at an isolated aspect inhering in the salvation process and claims that “this is the basis” on which God judges us. That argument falls apart if it turns out that God doesn’t actually judge in a reactionary sense. According to the Reformed doctrine, it’s as if God gives us a gift and then looks at us to see if we have that gift He gave us and then reacts accordingly. Well that won’t work.

On the contrary, charity is the sine qua non of justification exactly because God is love and justification is nothing but participation in the life of the Trinity. God’s judgment is identical with infused charity which is the gift that leads to participation in the Divine Life.  God is not a reactionary in any sense. He does not even react to His own act – He does not re-act; He simply acts.

Ultimately, when we talk about God’s grace, we’re not referring to something different than His judgment. His grace is His judgment. The (perceived) difference is in us – in our state; not in Him.   As Billy Bob said above, God’s grace includes faith, hope, and love (shall we say His grace is faith without love?) and so if to receive God’s grace is to be judged righteous, then we cannot say that salvation is by faith apart from love.  Salvation is the reception of God’s grace, and God’s grace infuses the gift of faith formed by love into the believer.

A simple answer of why God allowed the Fall of man runs like this. God did not desire man’s sin but He respected man’s free will by allowing him to eat the apple. If that works for you, then I say let it continue to work for you (and don’t continue reading).

But in fact that argument doesn’t work. Imagine the parent that placed a knife in his child’s crib, hoping that the child wouldn’t play with it. The parent does not will for the child to play with it, but he will respect the child’s free will. It would be better, apparently, for the parent to avoid placing dangerous objects in the child’s crib. The parent can preveniently protect the child from evil by not allowing him access to it. This prevenient protection does not violate the child’s free will. On the contrary, it allows the free will to be even freer since it cannot make a dangerous mistake. Likewise, God could have simply not placed the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil in the Garden.

Now could God have created a world without evil? Absolutely speaking, that is possible. God could have created a world where evil didn’t exist. But for at least two reasons, God desired that evil should exist. First, so that all possible good might exist, and second, that we might know Him.

The good of perseverance and fortitude cannot exist without the evil of pain and suffering. Without evil, we would lack the good of martyrs. It was God’s desire that the good of perseverance, etc. would exist.

Another reason why God created a world with evil is so that we might know Him. Following Aquinas, as quoted in my article on the Divine Metaphor, “We can speak of simple things only as though they were like the composite things from which we derive our knowledge.” Now in God there is no evil, nor is there a hierarchy of diversity, one thing more perfect than another.  God is simple, but we can only know the simple through complex things.  Therefore, in order for us to know God, it was necessary to create a complex universe organized into a hierarchy of diversity.

This hierarchy of diversity, which God created, is intended to show us what He is like by analogy. The Scriptures teach us that God is like a king, for example. This is meaningful to us because a king is the highest office; in that particular respect, God is like a king. Of course, we cannot compare God to a human king in any direct sense because whatever can be said of God, in truth cannot be said of anyone or anything else. Our kingship is only like God’s “kingship.” Even the goodness and beauty of the world is only like God who is truly good and truly beautiful. God the Son, is also compared to a lion. This is meaningful for us because lions hold a place of honor among the beasts. They are mightier and fiercer than the other beasts. In this regard, God the Son is like a lion. Rather, a lion is like God the Son.

To simplify this thought, imagine that all beasts were exactly the same. God could not be referred to as a beast because He would not be like a beast. He is only referred to as a lion because lions are greater than other beasts. Imagine if there were no government. God could not be likened unto any human office because no man would be above any other man. But God is above us, and in that way is likened unto a king. This is only a simple way to conceptualize the point I’m trying to make. Imagine (the absurd proposition) that God created a world without this hierarchy of diversity or distinction. If all things were equal, we could in no way relate to God because in our finite capacity, we cannot comprehend God. We only know Him by knowing things which He has revealed to us via the material world. We understand His greatness only by understanding the greatness of kings and lions, etc. and by amplifying that greatness to the best of our ability.

Evil is not a thing that God created. As St. Augustine taught, evil is simply a privation of good as a shadow is a privation of light. But the good of a king cannot be grasped without the privation of that kingly goodness which exists in his subjects. The goodness of the lion cannot be known to us without the privation of that same goodness in his prey or in the lesser beasts. That is: If privation of good didn’t exist in this world, we would have no way to  understand God’s goodness.

God could have instantly given us the capacity to see Him directly (which is the Beatific Vision or Heaven), but He chose not to for reasons given above (that the good of fortitude, perseverance, etc. should exist). Thus, in order for us to know Him at all, without the Beatific Vision, it was necessary to create a world wherein privation of good existed so that there would be a hierarchy of diversity whereby we might know what God is like. Our participation in evil, which is by no means necessary, consists in turning away from the Creator and choosing a created good. Jesus Christ, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, overcame the world by never choosing a created good over God the Creator. May we imitate Him this Easter season and until we finish the race. Amen.

The reason that God cannot lie is simply this. There is nothing which exists except that which God has created, and things exist solely and uniquely by God’s declaration of their existence. God did not say “Let there be light” and then subsequently create light. God said “Let there be light” and by that very act, there was light. It would have been impossible for God to say “Let there be light” and light not exist. Men can say things that are not true or will not become true, but God cannot do such a thing because God is truth. ¹ If God could lie, it would contradict His very essence, which would make Him incoherent with Himself which is impossible. Further, a lie is a corruption of goodness, and no corruption of goodness (evil) comes from God whatsoever; neither can God do any evil.

This truth has a wide range of implications. Among the most prominent is the doctrine of Transubstantiation. For in the same way that a private becomes a captain by the very words of his general, “You are a captain,” so too does the bread become the Body by Christ’s words, “This is My Body.”

But while God cannot lie, He can speak metaphorically. But if He speaks metaphorically of a thing, then its result or consequence must be understood metaphorically.  Obviously it was metaphorical when Jesus spoke of gathering Jerusalem as a hen does her chicks, and so if Jerusalem actually did comply, it would only be metaphorically that the “chicks” (Jerusalem) would be gathered under His ‘wings.’ Likewise, if Jesus spoke metaphorically when He said, “This is My Body,” then it is only metaphorically that we shall receive His Body. i.e. We will not receive His Body any more than Jerusalem shall be gathered under His “wings.” And if God the Father speaks metaphorically when He declares us righteous, then we shall only metaphorically go to Heaven. i.e. We will perish in our trespasses.

But clearly God cannot be speaking metaphorically when He speaks of justification. He is therefore either saying something true (you are justified) or something false (you are Simul justus et peccator). Now we know the second is impossible since God cannot lie, so it must be the case that God’s declaration of man as justified is true. God did not look on man and find him to merit initial justification by anything in him. In the same way that light came into existence by God saying “Let there be light,” grace comes (is infused) into man by God declaring Him righteous because God cannot lie.

1. cf. John 14:6

With difficult questions like these, it is helpful to look at other examples, and I find, though many people are not comfortable with this method, it is helpful to begin with an extreme example. First, what does it mean to have a principled difference between two things? It means that the two things are actually distinct and we can know for certain, how and why they are different. But to lack a principled distinction means one of three things: a) There is no actual difference between the two things b) There is no principled distinction because the two things, by definition, would not have a principled distinction or c) There is an actual distinction, but we cannot know it. In the latter two cases, it is possible for us to treat the things as though they were different even though cannot know how they are different, but in the first case, it is false to treat the two things differently because there is no actual difference between them.

A child is distinct from an adult, but how? What is the principled difference? We could decide on a precise age as the principle of distinction, but it would be arbitrary. If we chose 13 as the exact age, there isn’t as much difference in 13 and 12 as there is between what we mean by “adult” and “child” so it wouldn’t suffice as an actual principle of distinction for the concepts that we are trying to differentiate. Why is this different from the solo/sola question? As we can affirm an agnosticism regarding the principled distinction between an adult and a child, why can’t we do the same for solo and sola scriptura while still treating them differently? Perhaps a Christian gradually grows from a belief in solo scriptura to the mature belief of sola scriptura as a child grows to be an adult, and while there isn’t any principled difference per se, or we cannot be certain of it, we can still treat the two differently. That is, there might not be an identifiable principle of distinction between the two, but there could still be a practical difference.

Is this sufficient? Before we answer that question, let’s pause to make an observation. While I was a Presbyterian, I did acknowledge a practical difference between my approach to Church authority and certain other Protestants, namely those who explicitly affirm solo scriptura. And while I eventually became convinced of a need to affirm a principle of distinction between us, I counted the difference no less real. That is, I did notice a difference in how the Reformed, and some others, approached the issue of Church authority and its relation to the scriptures, and how certain others did. But could it be that this perceived difference was illusionary in that it was either non existent, i.e. I was deceived, or that it was actual in one sense but only because it was contingent upon something else such that if that thing were altered, the perceived difference would be made transparent and I would realize that there was no real difference at all. Suppose that I saw a practical difference in attitude towards church authority between myself and certain others, but then when my particular church taught something which I strongly believed to be in contradiction with the Scriptures, I realized that I was only a member of that church so long as they didn’t contradict Scripture. Now that they have, I will leave, because I consider that church to have less authority than Scripture. As shown in the article and by Mathison himself, all appeals to Scripture are appeals to private judgments thereof, and because of this, my previous statement reduces to “I consider that church to have less authority than myself to interpret scripture.” In reality, there was no principled distinction between myself and those who believed in solo scriptura. That practical difference that I saw previously, though real in certain limited respects, was ultimately an illusion.

Let us return to the previous question of how this issue is different than the distinction between the adult and child example. Is a perceived practical difference between the two things enough to justify one in holding a position that cannot be differentiated in principle from the other position which is known to be false? The answer is no for at least two reasons.

1. The child/adult example is an example of a thing which is known, by its nature, to exist in gradual stages, and the two positions or concepts in question are, by their own definition, vague referents to the early and latter stages of its particular development. It is possible to treat two ideas as distinct without knowing an exact principle of distinction when the distinction between the two things is, in its definition, not definable in precise terms. e.g. We may not be able to identify the principled difference between a big ball and a small ball without referring one to the other; even so, we may treat these things differently without contradiction because, by definition, the question is inherently relative. This is clearly not the case with the solo vs sola question. The distinction between these two, if real, would be identifiable because the question of authority, is, by definition, one of principle.

2. Bryan and Neal’s article did not merely show that Protestants don’t know the distinction between solo and sola scriptura, or that it is in its nature unknowable; the article actually demonstrated that there is not a principled distinction. It is one thing to say that we cannot know the principle of distinction between two things and quite another to demonstrate that there is, in fact, no principled difference between the two things. Take an example where we have a reason to believe that a principled distinction actually does exist (at least in particular cases): drinking one drop of beer and being sinfully drunk. There is a point in each particular case, though we cannot know it, where one passes from an acceptable amount of alcohol consumption to an unacceptable amount. It is one thing to say: There is a principle of distinction between these two, and we can’t know it, but we can treat the two things different for all practical purposes. It is something entirely different to say: There is no principled difference between these two things. If one could actually demonstrate that there is no principled difference in these two things, then it would be impossible to drink any alcohol whatsoever without being drunk and in sin. This isn’t a stretch; some people believe this, usually the same ones who preach solo scriptura.

Logically then, since Bryan and Neal actually demonstrated there to be no principled difference between solo and sola scriptura, an appeal to a practical difference is insufficient.

Catholic Christianity is something far too big for us to grasp, much less command.  I believe it was Chesterton who said that Paganism was the biggest thing the world had ever seen; Christianity was bigger, and everything since has been comparatively small.    One crucial step in developing humility must be a continual awareness that the Truth is something too big to fit into our finite heads.

Even St. Thomas Aquinas, the greatest doctor of the Church, when granted a vision, said that his writings were but “straw” and could not complete his masterpiece, the Summa Theologica.  Students of Thomism, like myself, might wish that we possessed that final part, but in leaving the work unfinished, he left us something greater: a powerful exhortation to humility.

But none of this means that we can’t know truth nor that we should too readily profess agnosticism.  Arrogance is a danger but skepticism is also dangerous and is not true humility.  Recently, there has been some lively discussion in response to Bryan and Neal’s article on sola vs solo scriptura.  Some have agreed that there is no principled distinction; others are unwilling to grant the distinction, but the sole objection seems to be this: that the Catholic position is no better.  Bryan, myself, and others have given reasons in the combox why we do not believe this to be the case, but I am particularly interested in drawing out a one-liner, not well received and perhaps for good reason, that I left on Chris Donato’s blog.  I claimed that “there is a difference between humility and skepticism.”

Modern philosophy has progressed, if you prefer to call it progression, down a path forged by Descartes.  It has given us existentialism, rationalism, scientism, naturalism, and several other isms but most notably, and I think they all have this in common one way or another, skepticism.  But from a classical point of view, things can be known and some things can be known with certainty.  Following Aquinas, I am an empiricist.  But that doesn’t mean I deny that some things can be known more certainly than others or that I think I can be absolutely certain of everything I believe.

I lack the philosophical training to draw out exactly why I insist on this distinction (between humility and skepticism), but personally I find it intuitively true.  It doesn’t seem that I can know, with a mathematical certainty, that the Catholic Church is the true Church, or that Jesus rose from the dead for that matter.  But I believe both of these things with a confidence that does not feel threatened by skeptical approaches to Church history, for example, or with various theories about what might have historically happened at the putative Resurrection.

I find most counter arguments to be based in skepticism, in fact, and I don’t find that to be a humble approach to history or to truth seeking.  E.g. How can we be certain that there is an unbroken line of Apostolic Succession from the Apostles until now?  We can’t know who is rightfully pope because sometimes there were multiple claims to the See of Peter.   Many of the popes said and did bad things, etc.  Now all of these objections deserve answers in due course; I wouldn’t deny it, but I believe that skepticism is a hindrance to one who is honestly seeking the truth in humility.  In short, I find skepticism to be a counterfeit humility.  True humility consists not in denying knowledge nor in saying that truth is unattainable, but in admitting that one’s knowledge is imperfect and that the truth we do see, is only through a glass darkly.

Speaking for myself, my style has a tendency to come across as overly confident, and to the extant which I have failed to exhibit a humble spirit in dialogues here and elsewhere, I offer my apologies.  There is a constant need for the Christian to be reminded of his place.  Some of us need reminding more often than others.

It is only when we come to appreciate that Catholic Christianity is larger than the Latin Church, larger than Byzantine Christianity, and again larger than the revivals from within Protestantism, that we begin to understand just how small we are in comparison.

It should go without saying that this post isn’t intended to prove anything; it is merely a prayer for myself and others that we would seek the Truth in humility.  I hope you will pray it with me.