Editor’s Note
“Tolle, lege” these words inspired St. Augustine to embark on a journey of faith in pursuit of truth. In 2007, these two words became the cornerstone of our journal. For sixteen years we have sought to inspire students through masterly essays in theology and philosophy written by their Mount peers. With this new issue we continue to offer you, our readers, an opportunity to take up your journey toward truth. This year, our editorial board selected eight fantastic essays on a wide variety of topics. The prize essay, Gadamer, Greek Tragedy, and The Liturgy: An Understanding of Passive Participation, written by Lexi Zambito, C’22, analyzes the role of passive perception in the Liturgy by comparing it with Greek tragedy as seen through a philosophical lens. As in previous years, the editorial board selected essays as the result of a blind review. The essays that appear in the pages that follow stood out to our editors for their contemporary relevance and clarity of argument.
I would like to thank the members of our editorial board for their genuine consideration of each of the submissions, and for their dedication in selecting the essays included in this volume. I will never cease to be amazed by the zealous pursuit of truth exhibited by our peers. May we all follow St. Anselm, pursuing understanding not in order that we might believe, but believing in order that we might understand.
Publication of this volume would not have been possible without the support of many members of the Mount St. Mary’s community. We would like to thank the provost, Dr. Boyd Creasman, and the dean of the College of Liberal Arts, Dr. Bryan Zygmont, for their generous financial support. Additionally, we owe special thanks to our faculty advisors, Drs. Joshua Brown and Thane Naberhaus, for their encouragement and guidance. Finally, we want to thank all those students whose submissions made this volume possible.
So tolle, lege take up and read! We hope that through this journal, you will be inspired to participate in a community conversation directed toward the discovery of truth and its revelation to others.
Savannah Laux Editor-in-Chief
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Contributors
Mariano DelValle graduated from Centenary University in 2019 with a degree in biology and a concentration in forensic science. He is currently working on a Master of Arts in Philosophical Studies degree at the Mount and is expecting to graduate in 2024.
Emily Jansen graduated from Mount St. Mary’s in the spring of 2022 with degrees in conflict, peace, and social justice and literary studies, and a minor in theology. She now works for the Catholic Diocese of Richmond, handling marketing and communications for their various ministries.
Jonathan Puckett is a seminarian for the diocese of Peoria, Illinois, who attended Mount St. Mary’s Seminary for his first year of philosophical study. He is currently a seminarian at Mundelein Seminary in Chicago, and he will obtain his master’s degree in philosophy this spring.
McKenna Snow will graduate from Mount St. Mary’s University in the spring of 2023 with a major in theology and a minor in philosophy. After graduation, she hopes to work for a Catholic publishing company, where she can continue to cultivate her love of editing and writing.
William Timmermeyer attended Mount St. Mary’s Seminary and completed the Master of Arts in Philosophical Studies Degree in the spring of 2022. He currently resides near Charleston, West Virginia.
Lexi Zambito graduated from Mount St. Mary’s in the spring of 2022 with degrees in theology, philosophy, and Latin. After her wedding in May 2023, Lexi will move to Washington, D.C., where she hopes to continue her theological studies.
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Gadamer, Greek Tragedy, and t he Liturgy: An Understanding of Passive Participation
Lexi Zambito
Hans-Georg Gadamer’s Truth and Method seeks to explain the ways in which knowledge is attainable not only through the physical sciences as a result of employing the scientific method, but through the human sciences as well. In fact, for Gadamer the truth attained through the human sciences is of even greater importance than any knowledge of the physical world. What could be more important or valuable than the knowledge of humanity, its history, its cultures, its experiences, its languages? Humans need not only know things about the physical world in which they live, but, at a much deeper level, they need to know others and they need to know themselves. The way we come to this knowledge of ourselves and others can be conceived of as a kind of play, a goal-less and dynamic interaction that occurs within set parameters. One particular expression of play that has had a tremendous influence on the development of humanity’s self-understanding is the Greek tragedy. In tragedy, the actor presents the tragic hero who is in conflict with the world and the gods to an audience of people collectively drawn into the action in what culminates as a cathartic event.
The Greek tragedy, as a means of communicating the divine and expressing to the audience how we as humans relate to the divine, is similar in structure to religious liturgies. The liturgy of the Catholic Church, which in this paper refers specifically to the Mass, is a communal experience in which, as in Greek tragedy, participation is first and foremost a passive reception of the divine through which the spectators, or the people in the assembly, come to a fuller knowledge of themselves and the cosmos. This passivity is the most authentic expression of participation in the liturgy and is essential to knowing God, oneself, and others.
To examine this idea of passive participation, we must first discuss the concept of play and what it means to participate in play as a model of knowledge. We will proceed to draw out the parallels between
*** PRIZE ESSAY ***
tragedy and the liturgy as expressions of play. Then we will get to the heart of the matter: the importance of passivity as the true mode of participation in tragedy and the liturgy through which we come to understanding. Lastly, we will examine how this passive participation informs our understanding of the liturgy and culminates in an experience that is fundamentally communal.
When we think of play, we imagine children running around a park, a dog chasing a ball, a family huddled around a board game, or people in costumes. These ideas of play all express something fundamental about its nature, which Gadamer draws out in his discussion of art: play is a gratuitous overflow of creativity and expression. Part of the appeal of play is that we do not play for a specific purpose. There is no real reason for someone to play a board game or for a child to play dress-up, and no culminating event of play, hence why it can be repeated (think of how children will play the same exact game over and over). Here is made manifest the basic idea that play is not oriented toward a particular goal but “renews itself in constant repetition.” 1 It is essential to the nature of play that there is no particular thing toward which it is directed. Play is akin to “Spiel ” or “dance,” a back-and-forth, reciprocal movement between the game and the player. 2 This back-and-forth movement of play both necessitates the participation of the player as well as allows the player to become completely lost in the game. Although play is partly a jest-like playing of the player in which he is able to lose himself, play would not be fun if one did not take one’s reciprocal dance with the game seriously. One would not be able to wholly lose oneself in play if one did not take the game seriously. With certain kinds of play, such as tragedy and the liturgy, this required seriousness can properly be called “sacred.” 3 If the movement between the game and the player is goal-less, how can play be serious? For one thing, “performing a task successfully ‘presents it,’” and in this way performing a task within a game is presenting the play itself, through which the player can come to his own self-presentation. 4 Representation in Greek tragedy is brought about through the actors. The actors are the “players” in a Greek tragedy who are confined
1 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method, trans Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 108.
2 Ibid
3 Ibid., 107.
4 Ibid., 112.
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within the parameters of the drama while also presenting to an audience. The actors in a tragedy not only represent themselves but also point beyond themselves to the reality which they are trying to communicate. They are completely absorbed in their play in a way that makes them identify with their characters. The actor on the stage is no longer himself but rather is Oedipus or Agamemnon. The actor is essential for the being of the drama, as a stage play does not properly exist as printed in a script but only in being performed.
Representation is the task performed by the players, and representation is always for someone, necessitating witnesses to the game. There would not be much of a point to representation if there was no one to witness it, and thus the spectator of the tragedy is an indispensable part of the totality of its being. The actors achieve selfpresentation in their portrayal of mythic figures, as well as represent the story for the audience “which participates by watching.” 5 This “openness toward the spectator is part of the closedness of the play.” 6 It is evident from this that the actors in a tragedy are representing for someone, for the audience, and this audience is part of the totality of the drama. Gadamer is careful to clarify, however, that play is not aimed at an audience, as then the play would run the risk of becoming a gaudy “spectacle.” 7 Just because a tragedy is performed in front of an audience does not mean that it is meant to pander to the spectators; tragedy has its own truth to communicate.
The spectators of the tragedy bring the play to its completeness. The spectator is so essential to the being of tragedy that in his definition of tragedy Aristotle “included its effect (Wirkung) on the spectator.” 8 The tragedy is presented for the spectator, and the tragedy has a meaning that is meant to transcend the actions performed by the actors on stage. The audience is meant to be absorbed into the action of the play. Who could watch a stunning performance of a Shakespearean play and not feel the anguish of Hamlet or the love of Juliet for Romeo? The spectator thus takes the place of the actor, and the spectator becomes “the person for and in whom the play is played.” 9
5 Ibid., 113.
6 Ibid.
7 Ibid.
8 Ibid., 131.
9 Ibid., 114.
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Tragedy is not meant to be ambivalently observed, but the spectator is supposed to sympathize, not with the actors, but with the characters which the actors represent. Gadamer calls this process of change, when the spectators take the place of the actors, “transformation into structure,” the true realization of drama as a work of art. 10 This happens when the drama happening onstage is no longer a fictional work being played out by people from our own time and place but the manifestation of the story itself. The players no longer exist, nor does the world in which the spectators live, but only the world of the drama exists in what Gadamer calls “pure appearance (Erscheinung).” 11 The spectators of the Greek tragedy were not watching an actor pretending to play Oedipus, but they were witnessing the actions of Oedipus and they themselves were participating in the actions and emotions of Oedipus. Spectators may only properly be called such when they are present to the drama so as to experience the actions and emotions on stage as real. As the mode of being of play is self-presentation, the mode of being of the spectator is “his ‘being there present (Dabeisein).’” 12 Now, being present at a drama does not simply mean being physically in the theater. Is a person who attends a drama but spends the duration of the performance discussing the quality of the set design really present? “To be present means to participate.” 13
Gadamer sees a direct connection between the spectator and the concept of theoria, relating to the religious festivals of ancient Greece. A theoros is someone who would attend a religious festival with no real purpose other than to simply be present; thus, this person was truly a spectator. The spectator’s mode of participation as a theoros is through his being present. The word for the “true participation” of the spectator is theoria, “not something active but something passive (pathos), namely being totally involved in and carried away by what one sees.” 14 It is evident from the necessity of the spectator being present at the drama by watching it that his role there is a passive one, a reception of what is happening on the stage as he allows himself to be taken up in place of the actor. The spectator loses himself in a way
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115.
10 Ibid.,
11 Ibid.
12 Ibid., 127.
13 Ibid.
14 Ibid.
that allows him to be outside of himself and within something else, namely, the totality of the drama.
The concept of the spectator as a theoros is thus directly connected to religious rituals. Just as the mode of being of the tragedy is in its being acted out for an audience, “no one will be able to suppose that for religious truth the performance of the ritual is inessential.” 15 The liturgy, by which is meant the Mass, is the religious ritual that will be considered here. Let us briefly examine some of the parallels between the performance of the tragedy and the celebration of the liturgy.
The tragedy presents some sort of trial in which there is a tension between the tragic hero, the will of the gods or fate, and the demands of mortals. The tragic hero converses with himself, the gods, and the audience alike in his quest to discern what should be done. The liturgy presents the Passion of Jesus, as well as the tension between the will of God and the fallen sinfulness of His people. The priest in the liturgy, like the tragic hero who says and performs specific phrases and actions, is in dialogue with God and with the people. The liturgy is filled with Scripture which, as the inspired Word of God, communicates the voice of the divine to the priest and to the people. There is a structure to both the tragedy and the liturgy, as play occurs freely within the confines of specific rules. The liturgy is no exception, celebrated according to the guidelines of detailed and indispensable rubrics. Gadamer is careful to emphasize, however, that the rules that serve as the boundaries of play are not constitutive of the being of drama itself. 16 Drama is not a mere satisfaction of the need to play, but the crux of the drama is what comes to presentation. It is no different with the liturgy: it is not the rubrics that constitute the being of the liturgy, but rather the presentation of Christ’s sacrifice that is celebrated according to these rubrics.
What comes to presentation in tragedy varies between each work, but what comes into existence in the liturgy remains the same throughout all time. Unlike the tragedy which presents a mythical tale, the liturgy is unique in that there is one specific historical event that is presented in each celebration. The presentation of the events of Calvary, just like the tragedy, is not “merely a repetition, a copy, but knowledge of the essence.” 17 The liturgy makes present the saving
15 Ibid., 120.
16 Ibid.
17 Ibid., 119.
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work of Christ, which is “celebrated, not repeated.” 18 What is presented in the liturgy, therefore, is “his own Paschal mystery that Christ signifies and makes present.” 19 Here we see a direct connection to the tragedies and religious festivals of the ancients, as these festivals excluded all “distinction in time experience between present, memory, and expectation,” and thus the “time experience of the festival is rather its celebration, a present time sui generis.” 20 The task of the spectator in the liturgy is “to bring together two moments that are not concurrent, namely, one’s own present and the redeeming act of Christ, and yet so totally to mediate them that the latter is experienced and taken seriously as present (and not as something in a distant past).” 21
Now we must turn to how exactly the saving events of Calvary come to presentation in the liturgy. Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger explains the mediation that presents the saving action of Christ through the distinction between the actio and oratio of the liturgy. Just as the actor in a tragedy performs certain actions and says specific lines, so the liturgy requires specific words and actions to be said and performed by the priest. Here again we are reminded of the similarities between tragedy and liturgy as forms of play, as the priest is presenting something for the people and is also in dialogue with God, so the actor is presenting for the spectators the character who is in dialogue with himself, others, and the gods. Ratzinger refers to the words and actions of the priest as the human actio of the liturgy which prepares for the actio divina, the action of God. 22 This actio divina is what distinguishes the Christian liturgy from other forms of play, as it is God who acts and does what is most important in the liturgy, namely, the transformation of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus. 23 In fact, the word “liturgy” in the Christian tradition means “the participation of the People of God in the ‘work of God.’” 24 It is evident from this, then, that the actions of the priest are subordinated and in service to the actions of God. For Ratzinger, the distinction
18 Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2nd ed. (Doubleday, 2003), §1104.
19 Ibid., §1085.
20 Gadamer, Truth and Method, 128.
21 Ibid., 129.
22 Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, The Spirit of the Liturgy, trans. John Saward (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000), 172.
23 Ibid., 173.
24 Catechism of the Catholic Church, §1069.
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between the actions of the priest and the actio Christi disappear, and the two actions are joined into one unified action.
The actio of the priest and of Christ are indistinguishable from one another, just as in the tragedy the division between the actions of the actor and the character they are representing disappears. The spectators of the tragedy and the assembly of the liturgy witness only the reality being presented, and this is what Gadamer calls “double mimesis”: there is the written word of the tragedy or liturgy to be performed and the actual presentation that fuse together to become indistinguishable. In the liturgy, the separation between the rubrics of the Mass and the actions performed by the priest disappear to form one complete actio Christi, in which the assembly is taken up.
Thus, the actio and oratio of the liturgy do not occur just within the dialogue between the priest and God. As the spectator is an essential part of the being of tragedy, so the liturgy must have its assembly to witness and be taken up into the celebration. The liturgy, because it is the actio Christi, is properly considered “an action of his Church.” 25
What the priest does on the altar is recognized by both himself and the assembly as the saving act of Christ on Calvary. The actions of the priest, the human actio, meant to present the actions of Calvary, create space for the actio divina to operate, and in this space for the actio divina we find the oratio, the prayer. The liturgy is “a participation in Christ’s own prayer addressed to the Father in the Holy Spirit.” 26 The liturgy communicates through Christ’s prayer the mysteries of salvation that are “continued in the heart that prays.” 27 The oratio is an essential part of the liturgy that manifests the mysteries of salvation for the faithful so that they may participate in, and themselves become a part of, Christ’s prayer. The assembly in the liturgy properly participates by being present, watching the events on the altar, and joining themselves to the priest. The priest on the altar is acting in persona Christi, but he is also acting for the people, and thus the members of the congregation can allow themselves to take the place of the priest as offering the sacrifice to God as well.
Here we will examine how the laity can best participate in the Mass so that they may simultaneously offer the sacrifice with the priest and themselves be the sacrifice. Ratzinger’s Spirit of the Liturgy is especially helpful in considering the participation of the laity in the liturgy and
25 Ibid., §1071.
26 Ibid., §1073.
27 Ibid., §2655.
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why this participation is to be understood as primarily passive. According to Ratzinger, “the real ‘action’ in the liturgy in which we are all supposed to participate is the action of God himself.” 28 Because God Himself is acting in the liturgy, “we are drawn into that action of God” in a “prayerful approach to participation.” 29 The laity participates by being truly present in mind, body, and spirit and allowing themselves to be taken up into the actions being performed in front of them. To be truly present to the actions taking place on the altar it is evident that, rather than conceptualizing participation as something active on the part of the assembly, the primary task of those assembled is to provide the space within themselves in which God can work. The liturgy is not about what the priest or the congregation does but about the actio divina happening both through and in the priest and the people. When we come to the oratio in the liturgy, the place in which the actio divina operates, “doing really must stop.” 30
This idea of participation as primarily passive may certainly strike the modern ear as odd. The contemporary conception of participation is one of action, of doing, of being involved in an outward and tangible way. The Church’s call for increased participation from the laity “was very quickly misunderstood to mean something external, entailing a need for general activity, as if as many people as possible, as often as possible, should be visibly engaged in action.” 31 This idea of participation is a fundamental misunderstanding of the kind of authentic participation called for by the liturgy. Recall that Gadamer emphasized that play can quickly devolve into a gaudy spectacle when it is performed for someone. When the liturgy becomes a performance for the sake of the people, to suit their own preferences, it can quickly devolve into a seemingly vapid show that has lost sight of the transcendent truths it presents. When “the liturgy degenerates into general activity, then we have radically misunderstood the ‘theodrama’ of the liturgy and lapsed almost into parody.” 32 This is why the liturgy is not performed for the congregation, but the congregation belongs to the liturgy as part of a cohesive whole.
From our discussion of the spectator of the tragedy and the attendee of the liturgy, it is evident that passivity is the result of an 28
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Ratzinger, The Spirit of the Liturgy, 173. 29 Ibid., 174. 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid., 171.
32 Ibid., 175.
individual’s own inner disposition toward the events performed in front of them; however, both the tragedy and the liturgy are communal events. Gadamer describes the spectator as one who “participates in the communion of being present.” 33 The liturgy necessitates an assembly which serves as a collective witness to the saving actio divina
In order to receive the actio divina, “the assembly should prepare itself to encounter its Lord and to become ‘a people well disposed.’” 34 Gadamer describes this disposition as a kind of comportment through which one purposely disposes oneself to the tasks of the game and allows oneself to more freely participate in the playing that occurs. For the liturgy, it seems as though the kind of comportment required is a conscious and prayerful preparation to passively receive the graces which God wishes to bestow. Receiving from God requires a selfemptying assent to accept what is offered freely as a gift.
Here there is a sense in which the individual members of the assembly are actively participating: each person much choose to abandon himself and allow himself to be taken up into the actio divina with the awareness that the purpose of the actio divina is to subsume and transform both him and everyone present. If the religious experience is to be fruitful, man must from the beginning be “directed to the acquisition of a readiness for renunciation.” 35 This acquisition is something active on the part of the individual, but it is in preparation for something passive and fulfilling, both on an individual and a communal level. It seems evident here that the liturgy requires the participation of individuals as members of a community.
Ratzinger describes the decision to free ourselves to receive what is presented in the liturgy as an “existential experience” whose “decisive factor is not control but letting oneself be controlled and the new way of ‘going where one would rather not go.’” 36 The community allows itself to be led to experiences they know not and accept it as a gift of divine grace. For a true religious experience to occur, we must allow ourselves to participate by being present and, in an effort that is difficult for the modern churchgoer, abandon any hope we have of controlling our experience of God, but rather allowing God to control our experience of Him. This renunciation of our own wills is not a
33 Gadamer, Truth and Method, 134.
34 Catechism of the Catholic Church, §1098.
35 Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology, trans Sr. Mary Frances McCarthy, S.N.D. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1987), 350.
36 Ibid., 349.
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“privative condition, for it arises from devoting one’s full attention to the matter at hand, and this is the spectator’s own positive accomplishment.” 37 There is merit to be found in allowing oneself to fully trust God and the experience He offers through the liturgy. Here we see the relation of the liturgy to the idea of catharsis in Greek tragedy, which is “a specific manner of letting oneself be touched by the disclosure of a truth.” 38 It is necessary that the assembly not be concerned so much with any external action on their end, but focus on a true and passive participation that will allow them the cathartic experience of being drawn into the actio divina, the “transforming power of God” through which God seeks “to transform us and the world.” 39
Participation in the liturgy involves the member of the assembly losing himself to and uniting himself with the presentation occurring on the altar: namely, the sacrifice of Christ on Calvary. A helpful illustration of the presentation that happens at Mass and how we are to participate is a familiar image in religious art of Christ on the cross hanging above the altar during the consecration. Blood and water flow from Christ’s side, the blood representing the redemption offered by His sacrifice, and the water symbolizing grace. In order to receive that redemption and grace, does the member of the assembly not have to empty himself to receive it? The participation of the laity is most perfectly one of passive reception of the salvation and grace of God. After our discussion of play, the parallels between tragedy and the liturgy, and the nature of participation, we can now discuss the relevance of understanding participation in the liturgy as a primarily passive event. There has been a push during the last few decades in the life of the Church for the laity to take a more “active” role in the liturgy, for the liturgy to be more accessible to the laity through its language and incorporation of various cultural elements, and for members of the laity to hold certain ministerial positions within the community, e.g., as lectors, Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion, and ushers. These are all valid developments of the liturgy in the life of the Church, but I think that it has led to a prevailing notion that the more we are actively doing things (lecturing, ushering, distributing Holy Communion), the more we are getting out
37 Gadamer, Truth and Method, 128.
38 Rudolf Bernet, “Gadamer on the Subject’s Participation in the Game of Truth,” The Review of Metaphysics 58, no. 4 (2005): 798.
39 Ratzinger, Spirit of the Liturgy, 175.
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of the liturgy. Participation in the liturgy is now seen in direct relation to how much we say or do. I do not mean to argue that the roles the laity can hold in the liturgy are in any way invalid, but I do not think it would be remiss to maintain that conceiving of participation in the liturgy as primarily active is erroneous.
There is, of course, disagreement about how much the laity should participate in the Mass. Some would like to return to the Extraordinary Form in which the laity, for the most part, hold no active role and are entirely passive, while others would like to see even more participation from the laity. Richard Price offers a helpful overview of the responses said by the assembly in the Ordinary Form and examines how essential to the liturgy these responses are. Price concludes that the responses given by the laity, more often than not, are sporadically placed and are relatively inessential to the liturgy as a whole. He suggests an increase in dialogue between the priest and the people, as well as changing the responses of the laity to be more rich and substantive, as a reflection of their role as a priestly people who are mutually offering the sacrifice with the priest. Price also proffers the helpful observation that when the Ordinary Form is so insistent upon the active role of the laity, the laity can become restless when they are not actively doing something, and perhaps this restlessness precludes their passive participation.
A benefit of the Extraordinary Form, whatever its defects may be in precluding the active participation of the people, is that it at least allows the assembly to be freed from any onus of doing and allows them to be truly present. The parallel between the spectator of the tragedy as a theoros is stronger when considered alongside the assembly of the Extraordinary Form. The roles of both are, as was said above, the “being there present (Dabeisein).” In the Extraordinary Form there is, however, a danger of the laity simply following along with the Mass in their missals. Recall how a play does not properly exist in its script but only in being acted out. In the same way, the liturgy does not exist in the missal but in its being celebrated. To think that the extent to which one follows along in one’s missal which is, admittedly, its own kind of accomplishment for the person who is unfamiliar with the Extraordinary Form is the degree to which one was present to the Mass is also a misunderstanding of what it means to participate.
Perhaps it is a more challenging idea than I realize to state that the truest method of participation in the Mass for the laity is one of passive reception and that the main “actor” in the Mass is therefore the priest. Just as one could not act out a performance on stage
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without extensive preparation, one needs years of spiritual formation and study in order, among other things, to celebrate the liturgy. This is why there is a priestly vocation. I do not mean to advocate here for a kind of clericalism in which the priest, as the one who performs the human actio of the liturgy, is to be given an augmented amount of deference. It is nevertheless true that the role of the priest is an essential one for the liturgy and one that is worthy of respect, not so much for the priest’s sake but due to the grace effected through him by God. The priest has his vocation and we, as the laity, have ours. Our sphere of action is not within the liturgy, but in the world. We are meant to be evangelists in the secular sphere, and in order to evangelize properly we need to be filled with God’s grace through the sacraments, and most especially by our passive participation in the liturgy. The priest may be the one with the active role in celebrating the Paschal Mystery, but he concludes the liturgy with the command, “Ite, missa est.” Go forth. Now it is our turn to act. Deo gratias.
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Modeling Agricultural Virtue in Virgil’s Georgics
Jonathan Puckett
According to the Roman poet Virgil, farming is the basis for all human communities, regardless of religious creed or political constitution. Agricultural work, Virgil thought, is necessary for the survival of human society, and he thus began his poetic career with the pastorals found in his Eclogues and Georgics. But while Virgil’s farmer exemplifies complete virtue, modern agricultural practices do not allow farmers to cultivate good habits of character. Mass production of livestock and produce, as well as the drive for profit in a capitalistic society, create a rupture between Man and the regulated patterns of nature. Noting the virtues of prudence, patience, and generosity in the classical farmer from Virgil’s Georgics, I argue that industrialized farming procedures supplant natural regularity and make virtue more difficult to acquire. I then proffer suggestions for cultivating virtue in light of organic farming and faith-based agronomy.
The classical farmer of Virgil’s Georgics
In his Georgics, Virgil idealizes the classical farmer by endowing him with complete virtue. Because Virgil’s farmer makes the best possible decisions that aim toward the ultimate human good, he ensures happiness for himself and for his community. Virgil’s discourse on the happiness of farmers appears in book II, where he distinguishes pastoral life from vicious urban centers: “O farmers, happy beyond measure, could they but know their blessings!”
1 Even while nearly Edenizing the pastoral scene of farm life, Virgil indicates that those farmers are “blessed who . . . [learn] the laws of nature’s working” in order to provide food for the “country and [their] little grandsons.”
2 Virgil phrases this statement as a beatitude, which is
1 Virgil, Georgics, in Virgil: Eclogues, Georgics, Aeneid, Books 1–6, trans H. R. Fairclough, rev G. P. Goold (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999), 169.
2 Ibid., 171–73.
fitting considering that Aristotle conceives of the ultimate human end as eudaimonia, roughly translated as “happiness” or “beatitude.” 3 Virgil’s conception of the perfect farmer aligns with Aristotle’s notion of complete human bliss, and both writers assert that growth in virtuous habits leads to the attainment of this ultimate end.
While Virgil’s notion of farming is idealized, he showcases the virtues that should accompany agricultural work even if reality often falls short. In Playing the Farmer: Representations of Rural Life in Vergil’s Georgics, Philip Thibodeau argues that Virgil romanticizes country life as a simpler and more virtuous living space in opposition to city life 4 Virgil’s farmer does not have any vices; rather, he resides in an Edenic state of perfect bliss. This perfectionistic model does not hinder comparisons between classical farming and modern, commercialized agricultural work. On the contrary, by imagining an exemplar, Virgil encourages comparisons to be made to the reality of pastoral life. Showcasing the virtues of prudence, patience, and generosity, Virgil’s pre-industrialized farmer is a template by which virtues and vices in modern agriculture can be measured.
Prudence
The farmer in Virgil’s Georgics requires a prudent awareness of natural patterns to maintain a plentiful harvest of crops. Virgil recognizes the specific difference of man as rationality, as the “great Father himself . . . [sharpens] men’s wits by care, [not] letting his kingdom slumber in heavy lethargy.” 5 Reason sets Man apart from the “lethargy” of the created world, and he thus has a responsibility to cultivate and to order nature. Man must utilize his reason in planting crops efficiently, and agriculture is the human act that engenders fruitful sustenance. Thus, the farmer espouses experience and reason in his work, so that “experience, from taking thought, might little by little forge all manner of skills.” 6 Thus, labor is an artificial act of human choice, and farmers utilize prudence to determine the best ways to work. Virgil does not use the word prudentia, but he would concur with Aristotle’s definition of prudence as a virtue
3 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, trans Robert C. Bartlett and Susan D. Collins (University of Chicago Press, 2011), 1102a5–7
4 Philip Thibodeaux, Playing the Farmer: Representations of Rural Life in Vergil’s Georgics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011).
5 Georgics, 107.
6 Ibid., 109.
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“accompanied by reason and bound up with action ” 7 Like a charioteer, prudence steers the farmer to toil in a specific way. Just as classical agriculture requires practical wisdom based on experience and reason, factory farming has arguably given rise to a willed ignorance concerning animal mistreatment. Nancy M. Williams, an Associate Professor of Philosophy at Wofford College, condemns the culture surrounding industrialized agriculture, stating that producers and consumers alike ignore abuses. Providing statistics from the mechanical assembly lines at these farms, Williams claims that animal cruelty is allowed for the sake of profits, and that both farmers and consumers disassociate themselves from difficult moral questions. 8 A notable example is that of sows enclosed in minute crates where “[d]ysentery, cholera, trichinosis, and other diseases are common. ” 9 These sows contract serious illnesses, but farmers gain greater space to use for their labor. 10 Moral responsibility and intellectual virtues like prudence are removed from farming, and “affected ignorance runs counter to [humanity’s] commitment to . . . responsible [knowledge].” 11 In this way, industrialized farming has generated an economic culture wherein farmers are amoral producers of goods.
Willed ignorance on factory farms is in stark contrast with Virgil’s conception of the prudent farmer. For Virgil, the farmer is prudent insofar as he recognizes the patterns of nature and organizes his work accordingly, and to some degree farmers are subservient to the natural order. Even when farmers “catch game with traps [and] snare birds with lime,” these activities remain in accord with man’s role in nature, and Virgil contrasts them with more violent deeds like warfare. 12 Prudence is concerned with how the farmer properly chooses to labor, and the classical farmer is meant to care for “his willing fields” rather than to force his own will upon nature. 13 The factory farmer imprudently deliberates that his will can dominate nature, placing animals in unnatural enclosures and subjecting them to abuse for the
7 Nicomachean Ethics, 1140b19–22
8 Nancy M. Williams, “Affected Ignorance and Animal Suffering: Why Our Failure to Debate Factory Farming Puts Us at Moral Risk,” Journal of Agricultural and Environmental Ethics 21, no. 4 (January 2008): 374–76, https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=pif&AN= PHL2122543.
9 Ibid., 375
10 Ibid.
11 Ibid., 381.
12 Georgics, 109, 173.
13 Ibid.
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sake of greater profit. Perhaps the underlying vice is greed, though Williams focuses on intellectual disassociation. Williams suggests that all humans are “responsible knowers” but that willed ignorance prevents intellectual virtues like prudence from establishing an ordinate relationship with the created world 14 The ignorance promulgated by industrialized agriculture is contrary to prudent judgment.
Thomas Aquinas would concur with Williams in identifying the culpability of willed ignorance, and he would say that farmers who engage in animal abuse for the sake of profit are at fault. Aquinas posits that “through negligence, ignorance of what one is bound to know, is a sin,” and Williams argues that the assumed ignorance of farmers and consumers who turn a blind eye to the abuse of livestock is blameworthy 15 Just as the imprudent farmer misjudges his priorities, the community of consumers is also partially responsible for allowing viciousness to continue. Consumers can easily disassociate themselves from agricultural life, easily ignoring potential abuses. 16 Farming is such a basic component of human society that all agricultural work affects other classes. Virgil may separate the pastoral and urban spheres in his Georgics, but when vices are apparent on the farm, they also involve the public consumers.
Patience
According to Virgil, the virtuous farmer possesses patience by knowing the appropriate occasions for tillage. Aristotle suggests that patience is the mean between irascibility and lack of spirit. 17 For farmers, too much control of nature hinders production, as Virgil realizes in the cases of fruit trees and olives. Instead, farmers must wait patiently to be “slow to plant and bestow care” on the earth. 18 Virgil contrasts the patient farmer with the hasty followers of Bacchus, a wine-god whose devotees often engaged in orgiastic rites. “[W]hat boon of equal note have the gifts of Bacchus yielded,” Virgil asks, even if they satisfy momentary pleasures? 19 The impatient Baccheans would not recognize the temporal boundaries needed for the slow
14 Williams, “Affected Ignorance,” 381.
15 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, trans Fathers of the English Dominican Province (Benziger Bros., 1948), I, q. 76, a. 2.
16 Williams, “Affected Ignorance,” 377.
17 Nicomachean Ethics, 1108a 4–9
18 Georgics, 167.
19 Ibid., 169.
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production of crops, whereas farmers respect the natural world’s patterns. Virgil also contrasts farmers with the Po River, a “raging stream,” as well as with a group of swarming bees that act in irascible haste. 20 Farmers’ cognizance of seasonal repetitions allows them to exemplify a passive productivity in due time, and it is “not in vain [that they] watch the signs, as they rise and set, and the year, uniform in its four several seasons.” 21 Classical farmers maintain the virtue of patience when it comes to how much and how often they plant and harvest.
Industrialized agriculture promotes the vice of irascibility, allowing for more efficient production of livestock through growth hormones and antibiotics. As John Rossi and Samual A. Garner note, “bovine somatotrophin (BST, bovine growth hormone) is . . . frequently used to increase milk yield in dairy cows,” and some antimicrobials used in animal agriculture are “critical to human health.” 22 To increase production and to maximize profit, farmers are encouraged to treat their livestock with such additives in spite of nature’s regular patterns and public health concerns. Further, the natural animal breeding timeline is often sped up to minimize the time between barn and plate. 23 Rossi and Garner highlight the ethical dilemmas that farmers encounter when meeting consumers’ demands, and I posit that these unnatural means of increasing productivity distort the relationship between Man and the natural world.
Virgil’s farmer “bestow[s] care” on creation, but animals on an industrial farm are subject to stress and disease. 24 Many of the antimicrobials given to livestock help “to combat immunological stress from overcrowding and production-associated diseases such as mastitis or liver abscesses, and to promote faster weight gain.” 25 Whereas the classical farmer patiently tends his livestock as a pastor from the Latin pascere, which is “to lead to pasture” the industrial farmer irascibly increases profits despite the unnatural and sometimes cruel treatment of animals. 26 Virgil composes the Georgics as
20 Ibid.
21 Ibid., 117.
22 John Rossi and Samual A. Garner, “Industrial Farm Animal Production: A Comprehensive Moral Critique,” Journal of Agricultural and Environmental Ethics 27, no. 3 (June 2014): 483, 488. http://msm.idm.oclc.org/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db =pif&AN=PHL2224968.
23 Ibid., 480.
24 Georgics, 167.
25 Rossi and Garner, “Industrial Farm Animal Production,” 483.
26 “Pastor (n.),” Online Etymology Dictionary, https://www.etymonline.com/word/pastor.
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specifically pastoral poetry, which is evident in the concluding lines of book IV: “carmina qui lusi pastorum audaxque iuventa, / Tityre, te patulae cecini sub tegmina fagi.” 27 The nurturing and fatherly relationship between Virgil’s pastoral farmer and the natural world is difficult to maintain in the name of impatient efficiency. Industrial agriculture promotes the vice of impatience by increasing livestock populations to the point of health concerns for the animals.
Generosity
Closeness to the natural world renders the classical farmer generous, for he is removed from the greed typically associated with urban life. Farmers are both “innocent of guile and rich with untold treasures,” as they live in lush pastoral settings separated from the rich and the destitute in cities like Rome 28 They do not desire to make more money than necessary; furthermore, they freely provide the state and even their own “little grandsons” with sustenance. 29 In describing the level of care with which farmers maintain their property, Virgil introduces a sort of intimacy within agriculture that connects the laborer and his farm in a proper relationship. Just as the ultimate end of all humans, including farmers, is eudaimonia, Virgil might recognize farmers’ proximate end to be yielding an ordinate amount of goods to preserve the larger community that is separate from the farm. Thus, the farmer par excellence is appropriately generous with his produce, realizing that his toil is for a good greater than himself. Whereas Virgil’s farmer possesses the leisure to generously provide for himself and the outside community, the modern agricultural industry does not pay farmers enough to sustain virtuous lifestyles. Rossi and Garner suggest that profits in industrialized farming “are distributed highly unevenly, with the benefits accruing primarily to large corporations and consumers at the register.” 30 Many farm laborers are trapped between poverty and the industrialagricultural complex, where leasing farm equipment from large companies and borrowing property prohibits them from certain virtuous behaviors. At any rate, the modern farmer, insofar as he is reliant upon maximizing profits, compromises the virtue of generosity for the sake of survival. Farmers are not “rich with untold treasures”
27 Georgics, 258 (emphasis added).
28 Ibid., 169–71.
29 Ibid., 173.
30 Rossi and Garner, “Industrial Farm Animal Production,” 512.
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as Virgil hopes; rather, they lack the freedom to engage in virtues like generosity. 31 The self-sacrificial aspects of farming are replaced with merely self-sustaining work when poor laborers are dependent upon a vicious industrialized form of agriculture.
Indebtedness to companies limits farmers’ capacity for generosity, or even for virtue more generally. In book I of Plato’s Republic, the elderly Cephalus remarks that wealth facilitates just relationships with others, and the lack of money or property makes the pursuit of virtue more difficult. 32 Generosity is often linked to justice, as Aquinas notes in the Summa Theologica, and liberality is also specifically associated with good stewardship of material, as well as spiritual, goods. 33 In a similar way, farmers at an economic disadvantage are enslaved to industrial processes beyond their control and cannot be good stewards. Not only does this contrast with the liberty apparent in Virgil’s idea of the classical farmer, but it also distorts the relationship between humans and the natural world. The greed once primarily connected to urbanity has made its way into rural farming communities through industry, and the artificial economic components of farm life have overcome its organic and/or natural aspects.
Virtuous farming options in the modern world
Despite the problems caused by the industrialization of agriculture, the Virgilian model of farming that supports virtue and highlights the regularized patterns of nature is not entirely lost to modern man. Since Michael Pollan’s publication of The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals, popular awareness of livestock abuses, chemical treatment of animals and crops, and corporate profiteering has helped to shift the discussion of agriculture to the realm of virtue ethics. 34 In his seminal text, Pollan examines the separation between humans and the natural world, proposing solutions like organic farming that resituate the farmer as a just steward. Joel Salatin’s Polyface Farm in Virginia exemplifies Pollan’s (and Virgil’s) concept of virtuous farming. For Salatin, farming correctly “means simulating an ecosystem in all its diversity and
31 Georgics, 169–71.
32 Plato, Republic, in Plato in Twelve Volumes, vols. 5–6, trans Paul Shorey (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969), 329d–331e, http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus %3Atext%3A1999.01.0168%3Abook%3D1.
33 Summa Theologica, I, q. 117, a. 1, 5
34 Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals (New York: Penguin Books, 2006).
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interdependence, and allowing the species in it ‘to fully express their physiological distinctiveness.’” 35 Practically speaking, Salatin allows his livestock to subsist largely as they would in the wild, including maintaining herd sizes and movement patterns. Farmers like Salatin base their agricultural practices on natural regularity, thus prudently and patiently caring for their property.
Organic farms like Polyface often operate at the expense of largescale business production, and modern virtuous farmers sacrifice profit margins for maintaining “the intrinsic nature of biological systems ” 36 Though now popularized by Pollan’s work, in 2002 Polyface Farm only had around four hundred customers, a very small number in comparison with vastly larger, industrial enterprises. 37 Just as Virgil’s classical farmer does not seek more profit than necessary, so too, non-industrial farms can provide generously to smaller communities in ways that the mainstream industry cannot. For instance, small farms possess a greater capacity to grass-feed their animals and to care for their crops in a more deliberate manner. Because organic farmers like Salatin are more dependent upon natural regularity, consumers are also more cognizant of what is involved in the production of the food they consume (crop seasons, treatment of livestock, animal diets, etc.). Such dependence on nature may limit profits; however, farmers’ freedom is maximized because the virtuous relationship between Man and the natural world is sustained.
Faith-based agronomy also recognizes the benefits of virtuous farming, and Catholic initiatives like Stephen McGinley’s Good Soil Farm in Emmitsburg, Maryland, connect Virgilian agriculture to Christian stewardship. Like Salatin’s philosophy, McGinley’s concept of virtuous farming also consists in the proper treatment of animals and crops based on their natural, biological tendencies. McGinley posits that respecting the “inborn laws” of nature allows for greater human flourishing. 38 While Christian agriculture respects natural patterns and encourages growth in prudence, patience, and generosity, the theoretical framework underlying Good Soil Farm is rooted in a properly Catholic environmentalism. That is, McGinley views farming
35 Michael Pollan, “Sustaining Vision,” Gourmet Magazine, 2002, ¶ 6, https://michaelpollan.com /articles-archive/sustaining-vision.
36 Ibid., ¶ 7.
37 Ibid., ¶ 3.
38 “Stephen McGinley, C’10: The Philosopher and The Farmer,” in Catholic Town Podcast, January 24, 2020, podcast, 07:25, https://msmary.edu/alumni-and-friends/stay-connected/ podcast/index.html.
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as a participation in God’s love and as an activity that orients Man’s ontology in relation to other beings like animals and plants. 39 McGinley also feels a greater connection to the parables of Christ, which are often rooted in agricultural practices, through his labor. 40 For Christian farmers, Virgil’s classical notion of the virtuous agrarian is placed within a religious context. Although the theories that promote virtuous farming differ between secular and religious initiatives, the results are practically the same. Both Salatin and McGinley perceive a relationship between anthropology and cosmology, and the proper treatment of the natural world is connected to human prosperity. 41 Virgil’s farmer, who prudently watches the seasons to judge when to plant and to harvest, possesses eudaimonia because of his virtue. Whether a secularized form of virtue ethics or a Christian anthropology drives farmers to act, the results are comparable and beneficial. Distinctions between virtuous secular farming and Christian agriculture are outside of the considerations of this essay, though further research on this matter may prove valuable at a later time. Here it is enough to say that both non-religious and religious grounds for virtuous farming are modern means to realize the classical ideal from Virgil’s Georgics.
Conclusion
Composed roughly two thousand years ago, the Georgics idealize the farmer and grant him a range of virtues, including prudence, patience, and generosity. All of these qualities highlight ways in which Man specifically farmers, but also consumers properly relates to and engages with the natural world. The industrialization of agriculture does not encourage virtue, however, as the drive for profit seeks to maximize production at the cost of animal welfare, natural crop growth, and small farmers’ economic success. This mechanistic approach to the natural world negatively affects Man’s understanding of himself as a steward and limits his ability to possess happiness, his ultimate end. Corrections to the modern agricultural industry are exemplified in organic farms and faith-based initiatives. Further questions to explore might include how a mechanized approach to the natural world developed philosophically and what the distinctions between farming within secular and religious frameworks might be. In
39 Ibid., 35:00
40 Ibid., 06:00
41 Ibid., 57:00.
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any event, Virgil’s ideal farmer continues to be a goal to which all agricultural workers can aim their pursuits.
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To Be or Not to Be: The Ethics of Suicide
Emily Jansen
Suicide, a leading cause of death in America today, is a pressing moral issue that requires input from every area of human society. 1 Should people have the right to kill themselves? At first glance, the majority of people would likely say no: with the high rate of suicide today, it is likely that most people have been impacted by the suicide of someone in their community. 2 Is it ever ethical to commit suicide, given that depression and despair leading to the desire for death prevent one from living a fulfilling life? Rephrased in that way, the answer would likely be hesitant but still no, as we seem naturally opposed to the idea of one taking one’s own life. 3
Yet the issue of suicide is much broader than whether people have the right over their own death. Additionally, the source of suicide lies not only in mental illness and depression, as we commonly think. Euthanasia, the intentional killing of a terminally ill patient “out of a merciful desire to end the patient’s suffering,” has remarkable similarities to the act of self-killing. 4 If we allow those facing terminal illnesses to end their suffering through physician-assisted suicide, why should we not allow those who suffer from mental disorders to have the same opportunity? This is the case in Belgium, where euthanasia is legally available to those with both terminal and mental illnesses. 5 However, the two cases have distinct differences that require different moral justifications.
Separate from its links to euthanasia, suicide has been broadly interpreted throughout history, with thinkers having different
1 “Facts About Suicide,” Center for Disease Control and Prevention, last reviewed October 24, 2022, https://www.cdc.gov/suicide/facts/index.html
2 Ibid.
3 Michael Cholbi, “Suicide,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta (2021), https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/suicide/#MorRatSui
4 William Mattison, Introducing Moral Theology: True Happiness and the Virtues (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2008).
5 Megan Thompson, “The Right to Die in Belgium: An Inside Look at the World’s Most Liberal Euthanasia Law,” PBS News Hour, January 12, 2015, https://www.pbs.org/newshour/ show/right-diebelgium-inside-worlds-liberal-euthanasia-laws.
justifications for its morally correct or incorrect nature. These stances deal with freedom, autonomy, natural law, the common good, and many other aspects of human life that pertain to the issue of selfkilling. In this paper, I will discuss the definition of suicide, examine the diverse historical interpretations of it, present the virtues and vices at play, and conclude with the relation between euthanasia and suicide in order to argue for its immorality. I will argue that although the arguments against suicide are deeply flawed, and that we require much more exposition on this matter, suicide is an immoral action because it is always a preventable death.
Suicide is immensely difficult to define. For example, Adolf Hitler, Socrates, and Judas all died by their own hands, yet it is hard to lump them all together as having the same cause of death. 6 The sources of their deaths are different: Hitler likely died to avoid execution, Socrates was ordered to commit suicide as a criminal punishment, and Judas was driven to kill himself out of immense despair and guilt for betraying Jesus. These three examples show the diverse motivations that can lead people to kill themselves, which changes the act of suicide itself. Common motivations include the avoidance of physical or psychological suffering, martyrdom, the avoidance of prosecution, revenge, and acting in the real or perceived best interest of others. 7 In each of these cases, death is not the desired end but is seen as a means to a greater end. For example, in the case of someone suffering from psychological distress, the individual wants an end to his or her mental anguish, which is perceived as being achievable only through death.
It is also important to note that suicide need not end in death to include all of the issues at stake in this moral discussion. If someone survives a suicide attempt, the person has still “committed suicide” in as much as he or she intended and then acted to bring about the end of his or her own life. Additionally, it is not enough to say that someone died by their own hand, as the intent to die still exists even if someone else is the immediate cause of loss of life, such as with those who commit “suicide by cop,” where the individual incites the police into engaging in fatal conflict. 8
For this paper, suicide will be defined as an individual acting to hasten his or her own death, whether by the individual’s own hand or
6 Cholbi, “Suicide.”
7 Ibid.
8 Ibid.
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by another’s, with the intention of ending his or her own life 9 While this paper heavily focuses on the suicides of those suffering from depression and mental illness, these are not the only conditions in which suicide occurs.
Historically, there have been different opinions about the morality of suicide. Aristotle argued that suicide is not an unjust treatment of oneself because if it is done voluntarily, it is a consensual act. 10 Similarly, the Stoics believed that suicide can be morally good if one is unable to live a flourishing life. 11 In the modern age, John Donne argued that suicide was not contrary to natural law, in opposition to arguments from many Christian thinkers. If this was true, all acts that are contrary to one’s self-interest would be immoral, yet fasting, war, and martyrdom have been praised for centuries. 12 Nietzsche also argued that suicide could be morally permissible, as it could be “a way to lend one’s individual life meaning in an otherwise meaningless world.” 13
Conversely, many Christian thinkers disagreed with this understanding of suicide as morally permissible. St. Augustine deduced that the Fifth Commandment, a prohibition against killing, would apply to the killing of oneself. 14 St. Thomas Aquinas expanded on this argument, claiming that suicide is contrary to the natural love of oneself, that it harms the greater community, and that it contradicts our relationship with God since we are only stewards of our earthly lives, not owners. 15 In the Enlightenment era, Immanuel Kant argued that using one’s life as a means to the end of some external achievement is to reduce humanity to a means. 16 Yet this is not simply a case of religious disagreement; Belgium is a predominantly Roman Catholic country even though it has one of the most liberal laws on euthanasia and suicide today. 17
These thoughts reflect the changes in how suicide has been understood over time. While earlier philosophers focused on the agency of each individual in the act of suicide, modern science came
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9 Ibid. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid. 17 Thompson, “The Right to Die.”
to understand the role that society and psychology play in leading to a person’s own demise. 18
These boil down to two main questions. First, whether the quality of life (access to human flourishing) is more important than the quantity of life (years lived). Is a life worth living if it does not contain happiness and human flourishing? It is not merely about surviving, but thriving about living well, not merely living. Second, whether individuals have the right over their own bodies and lives and, if not, whether conditions involving severe mental anguish would justify the individual’s gaining of these rights. These questions remain important matters of debate that lack sufficient answers.
In terms of vices and virtues, many are at play in the issue of suicide. Many thinkers see suicide as contrary to justice and what we owe to ourselves, our neighbors, and God. In fact, this is the justification the Catholic Church uses, in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, for its view that suicide is contrary to the just love of oneself, one’s neighbor, and God. 19 These justifications are valid, yet they are not compelling enough to prevent someone from committing suicide and likely appeal more to those not afflicted with depression. While the injustice that suicide poses to neighbor and God seem clear, these arguments fail to respond to the mental anguish and suffering faced by the individual. In the explanation of suicide being contrary to the just love of oneself, it is once again valid, but it fails to explain to the suicidal person why he or she should refrain from committing suicide. Therefore, the notion that suicide is contrary to justice is not by itself a sufficient basis to reject suicide.
There is also the issue of prudence. In medical circles today, much debate surrounds the question of whether those at risk of committing suicide are capable of arriving at the decision not to commit suicide by rational means. If they are, patient autonomy may prohibit hospitals and physicians from being able to prevent suicide by restraining patients or forcing them into in-patient therapy. 20 Additionally, not all mental disorders display irrationality and delusions as symptoms, as in the case of schizophrenia. Those who suffer from paranoia and delusions would arguably exhibit the irrationality that justifies the limiting of a patient’s autonomy by a physician in order to prevent
18 Cholbi, “Suicide.”
19 Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2nd ed. (Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2012), §2281.
20 Angela Onkay Ho, “Suicide: Rationality and Responsibility for Life,” Canadian Journal of Psychiatry 59, no. 3 (2014): 141–47, doi:10.1177/070674371405900305.
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suicide, but in the case of clinical depression, these symptoms are not present. 21 This leads to a further dilemma: is depression, by its very nature, a state that prevents rational, logical decision making?
Potentially, depression could serve as a form of erroneous conscience, where one acts on what one thinks is correct even though it is morally wrong. 22 If the only logic and reason available to the patient in the midst of his or her depression leads that person to the outcome of suicide, this may be a coherent, rational judgment but morally incorrect. Furthermore, the state of depression may be evidence of invincible ignorance, where one could not have known the true morally correct position and therefore should not be blamed. 23 If the depression and despair that one is suffering are so severe as to push the sufferer towards ending his or her own life, the state is arguably severe enough to prohibit a well-formed conscience, therefore leaving the sufferer morally inculpable. This is important to discussions of suicide because throughout history and up to today, those who die by suicide are disgraced and looked down upon, at one time even having been denied the proper Christian burial as a result of their sin. 24
Is suicide an expression of the vice of cowardice? Not necessarily. In 2020, 12.2 million people in the United States seriously struggled with suicidal thoughts. 25 However, only 1.2 million of those people actually attempted suicide that year. Even more striking, the number of deaths by suicide was nearly 46,000 a large number, to be sure, and one that should not be discounted, but it is important to note that the number of people who have suicidal thoughts is much larger than those who actually commit suicide. 26
What separates those who die by suicide and those who continue to suffer from suicidal thoughts without resulting in death? Many argue that suicide is a cowardly action, that it is a failure of enduring through psychological or physical suffering. Yet it doesn’t seem fair to call the act of taking one’s own life cowardly, especially if the suicide is not an impulsive act but one that is deliberated over for a period of time. In fact, the act of taking one’s own life may be an exhibition of extreme courage, as death is something challenging to face. The
21 Ibid.
22 Mattison, Introducing Moral Theology, 108.
23 Ibid.
24 Cholbi, “Suicide.”
25 CDC, “Facts about Suicide.”
26 Ibid.
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Enlightenment thinker David Hume argued that suicide was moral because fear of death is natural to human reason. Therefore, any decision to willingly approach death would require deliberate consideration and courage. 27 Therefore, saying suicide represents a failure of fortitude is not a reliable justification for why suicide should be avoided, as it likely takes more courage to attempt suicide, even if this courage is malformed due to an erroneous conscience, as previously discussed.
One virtue that is the most at play is that of hope, in both the theological and secular sense. While the case of euthanizing terminally ill patients is well known, the Belgian law uses the basis of the mentally ill being “completely hopeless” as justification for euthanasia. 28 It seems clear that those suffering from depression are those who lack hope, which could be seen as a remedy for their condition. In fact, mental health counselors and professionals often attempt to increase hope in their suicidal patients, in order to help these patients rightly see the world in which their affliction can be overcome. 29 Here, hope and prudence are linked. If it is a lack of hope that causes the condition, only a restoration of hope will mitigate the suffering, in the secular and theological sense of the word.
As previously stated, the morality of suicide has striking similarities to the morality of euthanasia: Do people have autonomy over their own lives? Is it just to let a patient suffer without hope of recovery? The Belgian law seems to imply that it would be unjust, even in the case of only mental suffering. Since both cases are severe and incurable, it would follow that if one allowed euthanasia of the physically ill, one would need to allow euthanasia of the mentally ill. Yet there remains one important difference: in mental suffering, death cannot be foreseen. Medical treatments, such as the administration of certain drugs during end-of-life care, can have consequences which hasten the death of the patient. When hastening the patient’s death is not intended, even though death may be a foreseen consequence, the act would not be considered euthanasia and is considered morally good. 30 However, this is not the case for suicide, as it is a common premise that deaths from suicide are widely
27 Cholbi, “Suicide.”
28 Thompson, “The Right to Die.”
29 Ho, “Suicide: Rationality and Responsibility.”
30 Mattison, Introducing Moral Theology, 384.
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preventable 31 If we can prevent the death of a suicidal patient, this would not follow the same logic as the unintended but consequential death of a terminally ill patient. Therefore, the Belgian law that allows for euthanasia of terminally ill patients cannot be applied using the same logic to those who suffer from depression and mental illness. This discussion over the ethical nature of suicide has been brief due to the diverse interpretations of the issue and the lack of consensus. Additionally, these justifications are widely insufficient, especially since they do little to aid the one suffering from depression and suicidal thoughts. I argue that the suicide of those suffering from mental illness cannot be justified based on arguments for euthanasia because of the lack of conclusive incurability of the condition. Even so, this argument is hardly definitive, for it is true that many people suffer from mental illnesses without recovery, even after different forms of treatment and therapy. However, it remains the case that euthanasia cannot be a justification for the morality of suicide because of its preventability, which seems to be a desire natural to human beings across culture and time.
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31
Ho, “Suicide: Rationality and Responsibility.”
In Defense of Chalmers on the Hard Problem of Consciousness
William Timmermeyer
The question of how we have conscious experience, referred to by David Chalmers as “the hard problem of consciousness,” is the central question of the philosophy of mind. Some thinkers, exemplified by Daniel Dennett, believe that the distinction between the easy and hard problems of consciousness is nothing but an illusion, just as, they think, consciousness itself is. Dennett’s denial of Chalmers’s distinction is expected, for the distinction is inherently anti-materialist, and Dennett is therefore committed to rejecting the hard problem as a separate problem. That being said, much of Dennett’s critique of Chalmers is heavily flawed. The hard problem of consciousness, as it is formulated by Chalmers, is a legitimate problem and is not identical to the easy problems of consciousness, and Dennett’s materialist position on the hard problem is mistaken both philosophically and scientifically. There is no substantial evidence that the experience of consciousness can be causally accounted for entirely as the sum of the physical phenomena that accompany it, so it cannot be considered to be merely another easy problem.
To understand what the hard problem of consciousness is, we must first understand what it is not. Chalmers distinguishes the hard problem of consciousness from assorted “easy” problems of consciousness. The easy problems of consciousness can, at least in theory, be solved by reductive inquiry. These problems provide the explanatory basis for how sensory systems operate, how our brain interacts with sensory information at a biological level, how our neural systems are involved in thought and emotion, and many other processes. Chalmers compares the processes with which the easy problems of consciousness are concerned to a clock’s ability to tell time. The clock’s ability to tell time is a logical consequence of its internal structure. Likewise, the easy problems are sums of their parts in that each one can theoretically be explained in terms of the various
natural structures associated with the processes in question. 1 The hard problem of consciousness, by contrast, presents an entirely different angle of inquiry by introducing the issue of experience.
The basis for the distinction between the easy and hard problems of consciousness is, Chalmers argues, that conscious experience is more than the sum of its parts. 2 The processes with which the easy problems are concerned are reducible, but the questions of why and how those processes are accompanied by what we refer to as “experience” are ones that Chalmers does not believe can be answered in purely material terms. Unlike a clock’s ability to tell time, conscious experience cannot be fully explained in terms of the various internal structures associated with it. Chalmers asserts that these structures could exist without any experience at all. In other words, the structures of the easy problems do not necessarily entail the experiences of the hard problem. Moreover, two physical entities that appear exactly the same in terms of the easy problems may have entirely different sets of experiences. Chalmers demonstrates this point with a thought experiment in which his physical body is perfectly replicated. 3 There is nothing inherent to this replica that entails it will have the same experiences as Chalmers. The replica could have completely inverse experiences of the experiences had by Chalmers. This cannot be said of a clock. A clock that is perfectly physically replicated will still be a clock, and it will function exactly as the clock it replicates does. Chalmers therefore ultimately argues that experience cannot be reducible to or necessarily entailed by purely physical structures and processes, which means that experience cannot be considered an easy problem but rather is something entirely separate: the hard problem of consciousness. 4
One can immediately see that Chalmers’s distinction between the easy and hard problems poses a problem for many theories insofar as it is anti-materialist. If one is committed to a materialist position, then one must maintain that the hard problem of consciousness is not actually a separate problem from the easy problems of explaining the physical systems involved in producing various mental states. For the materialist, solving the hard problem is simply a matter of solving the
1 David John Chalmers, The Conscious Mind: In Search of Fundamental Theory (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 95.
2 Ibid , 95–100.
3 Ibid , 100–05.
4 Ibid., 105–06.
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easy problems. One notable response to this dilemma posed by Chalmers for the materialist comes in the form of an application of eliminative materialism. Eliminative materialism, as described by Paul Churchland, responds to the dilemma by arguing that there is no “oneto-one matchup” between the concepts of folk psychology (commonsense ways of discussing the mind) and the concepts of neuroscience. 5 Rather than trying to reconcile these two sets of concepts, the eliminative materialist simply posits that our common-sense framework of psychology is false and misleading. Consequently, as neuroscience advances and becomes more exact, it will become clear that there is no correspondence with folk psychology, and the older framework will be “eliminated, rather than be reduced, by a matured neuroscience.” 6
Daniel Dennett employs a similar eliminative materialist approach, but he does not stop at the concepts of folk psychology; he extends his eliminative materialism to the hard problem of consciousness. According to Dennett, it is mistaken for Chalmers to assert that there is a hard problem of consciousness. Moreover, Dennett believes it is mistaken to insist that conscious experience exists at all. 7 Dennett’s position lies on the complete opposite end of the spectrum from Chalmers’s. What Chalmers calls the hard problem of consciousness will, according to Dennett, ultimately be solved in the process of solving the easy problems. 8 Dennett frequently uses language such as “magic” and “illusion” to explain the state of conscious experience. When Chalmers insists that there must be some non-physical aspect to consciousness, Dennett responds that he has merely fallen for the illusion. What we refer to as consciousness simply plays tricks on people that make it appear to be something nonphysical, but Dennett maintains that it can eventually be explained through physical explanations alone. 9
Dennett uses the example of change blindness to explain how we may be deceived by what we refer to as consciousness. When one experiences change blindness, one fails to detect changes in scenery in a series of images if the images are similar enough to each other. In the same way that our vision can cause us to perceive an illusion in the
5 Paul M. Churchland, Matter and Consciousness (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1984), 43.
6 Ibid.
7 Daniel Clement Dennett, “Explaining the ‘Magic’ of Consciousness,” Journal of Cultural and Evolutionary Psychology 1 (2003): 7–19.
8 Ibid.
9 Ibid.
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form of change blindness, so too can the physical processes that account for consciousness cause us to perceive an illusion, argues Dennett. 10 To assume our perceptions are always correct would be an overestimation of the accuracy of our brain’s processing capabilities. We commonly accept that we are fooled by external stimuli regarding sights, sounds, etc. Dennett does not find his position controversial, for he is, he says, merely extending this fact of life to consciousness itself. The hard problem is therefore not separate from the easy problems; it should be included among them. To separate the two is to fall for the illusion, thus preventing any real explanatory progress from being made. 11
This eliminative materialist response to the hard problem of consciousness is riddled with flaws and can be challenged from a number of different angles. From the beginning, Dennett’s application of eliminative materialism to conscious experience is subject to a line of criticism similar to a criticism of the eliminative materialist response to folk psychology discussed by Churchland. The first objection to eliminative materialism discussed by Churchland is that it denies assumptions that are so deeply entrenched that they directly reveal the existence of something to which they must correspond. One cannot “eliminate” pains, desires, fears, etc. because their existence is plainly obvious. 12 Likewise, it should be obvious that conscious experience is a real feature of the universe and not a mere illusion, as Dennett claims. Dennett’s argument misses the mark in that it completely ignores the experiential aspect of consciousness. If it seems to me that I am in pain, then I am in pain. How could anything contrary to this be true? Likewise, how could I seem to be conscious but not be conscious? Contrary to what Dennett claims, conscious experience is not comparable to the illusions of a magic show because it is an internal experience. When I see a magic trick, I rely upon senseperception, which can be misled by various external stimuli. By introspection, however, I know I am conscious. There is no means by which I can be misled as I am by the magic trick, for this process of introspection is not something dependent upon external stimuli. One may object to this point, as Churchland does, by saying that I am simply begging the question. Churchland correctly notes that all
10 Daniel Clement Dennett, Consciousness Explained (Boston: Back Bay Books, 2007).
11 Ibid.
12 Churchland, Matter and Consciousness, 47.
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observation occurs within “some system of concepts.” 13 If my conceptual framework is flawed, then it is likely that observational judgments of mine that occur within this framework will also be flawed. Churchland provides the example of an ancient or medieval person insisting that witches exist. This belief may have been selfevident to the person in question, but it seems absurd to many of us today. That is because the belief is reliant upon the conceptual framework that these people possessed, which differs from our more developed and well-informed framework in many of its background assumptions. Thus, to insist on the validity of one’s experiences due to a traditional interpretation of those experiences is to beg the question at hand. The experiences themselves are only called into question due to the eliminative materialist’s rejection of the framework of interpretation that causes them to seem self-evident in the first place. 14 Similarly, Dennett could respond that viewing consciousness as self-evident in this way is the central flaw in Chalmers’s distinction between the hard and easy problems, with which he takes issue. Appealing to a conception of consciousness as self-evident is to disregard the challenges Dennett has raised to the background assumptions behind the hard problem of consciousness.
I, however, am not convinced that this objection is guilty of begging the question. Both Churchland’s response and Dennett’s argument as a whole are dependent upon the distinction between appearances and reality. To an ancient person it may appear that witches exist when, in reality, witches do not exist. There may even be aspects of folk psychology where this is the case. Maybe it appears that I am afraid, but the reality of the situation is that some external stimuli of which I am not actually afraid has produced the same physical responses associated with fear in my body. I am open to the possibility that cases like this exist, though I do not believe that is enough to entirely eliminate the traditional descriptive methods of psychology. An issue arises, however, when this distinction is applied to the hard problem of consciousness. Each of the previous examples is dependent upon conscious experience. Neither the internal states that lead me to believe I am experiencing fear nor observations and reflections that lead me to believe in the existence of witches can occur outside of conscious experience. How, then, could one come to know that consciousness is an illusion? With consciousness itself, the
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13 Ibid. 14 Ibid, 48.
distinction between appearance and reality is erased. They are one, as there is no perspective outside of consciousness from which we can analyze consciousness. If consciousness were like a magician playing tricks on us, as Dennett suggests, why would consciousness allow us to discover that we have been tricked? In order to determine that we had been tricked, we would have to be able to deliberate about something from outside of our conscious experience, for our conscious experience could mislead us at any step. The self-evident nature of conscious experience therefore remains a problem for Dennett’s brand of eliminative materialism.
Moreover, Dennett’s rejection of Chalmers’s easy/hard distinction is reliant upon the hard problem of consciousness eventually being “explained away” by neuroscience. If Dennett’s position is correct, then materialism should find support in the world of neuroscientific discoveries. This does not seem to be the case, though. On the contrary, as our understanding of neuroscience advances, it begins to seriously call materialism into question. Using neuroscience, Donald Hoffman has come to a conclusion regarding the hard problem of consciousness that is effectively the exact opposite of Dennett’s position. Whereas Dennett views conscious experience as being completely explained away by the physical processes and structures that account for the various activities of the brain, Hoffman lays out an idealist theory in which consciousness is the cause of all perceived properties of the physical world. 15
Using mathematical models based in neuroscience, Hoffman has argued that it is evolutionarily advantageous for an organism to adopt a set of rules by which one’s sensory perceptions do not align with underlying objective reality. Hoffman has extensively documented the fact that all of our visual perceptions are constructions. 16 Hoffman’s findings regarding the construction of visual perception is uncontroversial in the world of neuroscience. These findings, combined with his mathematical models regarding evolutionary advantage, serve as the basis of Hoffman’s claim that our constructions occur in accord with a set of rules that conflict with traditional ways of thinking about an objective, material reality. This culminates in Hoffman’s multimodal user interface (MUI) theory, which holds that we do not interact with data reflecting an underlying
15 Donald Hoffman, The Case Against Reality: Why Evolution Hid the Truth from Our Eyes (New York: Norton, 2019).
16 Donald Hoffman, Visual Intelligence (New York: Norton, 2000).
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reality but construct our perceptions in a way that provides the greatest evolutionary benefit for our species. Thus, everything we see, according to Hoffman’s view, is the result of consciousness. Consciousness precedes the physical world, not the other way around, as Dennett insists. I raise Hoffman’s theory in opposition to Dennett’s not as an endorsement of Hoffman’s idealistic conclusions but to demonstrate that the latest in neuroscientific research has not led Hoffman to a materialist view, which seems to deal significant damage to Dennett’s theory, as Dennett claims his position can ultimately be vindicated by the neuroscientific research associated with the easy problems of consciousness, which will eventually show the hard problem to be no problem at all.
Without embracing the full extent of Hoffman’s idealistic theory, Chalmers would certainly agree that there is much to be said regarding perception in response to Dennett’s materialist position. Chalmers makes use of Frank Jackson’s Knowledge Argument for this exact purpose. The Knowledge Argument imagines a scientist named Mary who has lived her entire life in a black and white room. Mary has never seen color before, but she knows everything about the neuroscience, physics, etc. regarding color perception. One could say that Mary knows everything there is to know about the color red. Does she know what it looks like, though? Chalmers, following Jackson, argues that she does not, and says that if Mary did see the color red, she would gain new knowledge. 17 This would entail that knowledge of the color red is separate from knowledge of the various scientific aspects of perceiving the color red in our visual systems. If consciousness is accounted for by purely physical means, then how can this be the case? If the knowledge that is gained by perceiving the color red cannot be reduced to a purely physical account, then experience as a whole cannot be reduced to a purely physical account. There must, therefore, be a distinction between the easy and hard problems of consciousness. If Dennett wishes to erase this distinction, he must accept that Mary does not gain new knowledge upon seeing the color red for the first time, which highlights the counter-intuitiveness that lies at the core of Dennett’s position.
As we have seen, the materialist position of Daniel Dennett does not hold up under scrutiny. The hard problem of consciousness must be considered an individual, unique problem in order for any
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17 Chalmers, The Conscious Mind, 153–56.
explanatory progress to be made. By restricting the conversation to purely physical terms, as Dennett wishes to do, we not only will fail to reach any significant conclusions regarding the nature of conscious experience but will fail to even ask the correct questions regarding this experience.
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St. Thomas Aquinas and Mechanistic Philosophy
Mariano DelValle
In “Automata and the Origins of Mechanism and Mechanistic Philosophy,” Derek J. de Solla Price makes the claim that St. Thomas Aquinas states emphatically in his Summa Theologica [ST I-II q.13, a. 2, ad 3] that animals show regular and orderly behavior and must therefore be regarded as machines, distinct from man who has been endowed with a rational soul and therefore acts by reason. 1
Price believes that Aquinas’s view that animals are like machines indicates that he has a mechanistic view of nature. 2 This claim by Price is problematic for several reasons. First of all, it is unclear that Aquinas is arguing in the Summa Theologica that animals should be regarded as machines. Second, the Aristotelian–Thomistic account of nature is at odds with the modern mechanistic philosophy. Third, a mechanistic view of nature, and particularly a mechanistic view of animal behavior, would severely undermine Aquinas’s ethical system. After examining these three considerations, it should be clear that Aquinas would reject a mechanistic view of animal life.
First, the claims of Price should be compared with the section of the Summa Theologica he references. Price claims that Aquinas thinks that animals must be viewed as comparable to machines. This seems to be in reference to how Aquinas discusses human artifacts such as engines and clocks and then states, “Now as artificial things are in comparison to human art, so are all natural things in comparison to the Divine art.” 3 In this quote, Aquinas is making an analogy between human artifacts created by a rational agent, and natural substances
1 Derek J. de Solla Price, “Automata and the Origins of Mechanism and Mechanistic Philosophy,” Technology and Culture 5, no. 1 (1964): 19, https://doi.org/10.2307/3101119.
2 Ibid.
3 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica: Complete American Edition, trans. by Fathers of the English Dominican Province (Coyote Canyon Press, 2018), I, q. 13, a. 2–3.
created by God. However, since this is an analogy, context is needed to understand what Aquinas means by this comparison. Before this statement, Aquinas says that “the power of the mover appears in the movement of that which it moves. Accordingly, in all things moved by reason, the order of reason which moves them is evident, although the things themselves are without reason.” 4 In other words, even brute animals can move according to reason because they have a cause that moves them that does possess reason, namely God. Since God is the divine cause of natural substances, he is able to order them in such a way that they conform to reason. This explains Aquinas’s next statement: “order is to be seen in things moved by nature, just as in things moved by reason.” 5 While brute animals lack reason, they can be ordered to rational ends by God, who endows them with their nature.
However, one concern may be that this still leaves open the possibility of a mechanistic interpretation of Aquinas’s philosophy. Brute animals may simply be no different than automata that have certain ends imposed on them by external rational agents. To better see why a mechanistic interpretation of Aquinas’s view of animals is implausible, we must first understand the Aristotelian–Thomistic view of the difference between natural objects and artifacts.
In book II, chapter 1 of the Physics, Aristotle states, “nature is a type of principle and cause of motion and stability within those things to which it primarily belongs in their own right.” 6 To better understand the Aristotelian–Thomistic account of nature we must first understand the concepts of actuality, potentiality and hylomorphism. In his book Scholastic Metaphysics, the Aristotelian–Thomistic philosopher Edward Feser explains the concepts of actuality and potentiality as follows: “there is being-in-act the ways a thing actually is; and there is being-in-potency the ways a thing could potentially be.” 7 In other words, actuality is how a thing is at any given moment, while potentiality is what a thing may become, given what it is. In the case of an acorn, it is actually an acorn at this given moment, but it has the potential to become an oak tree. Given that something like an acorn can have the potential to become something like an oak tree only if it
4 Ibid.
5 Ibid.
6 Aristotle, Physics, in Aristotle: Selections, trans. Terence Irwin and Gail Fine (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1995), 192b22.
7 Edward Feser, Scholastic Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction (Ontos Verlag, 2014), 32.
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is actually not that already, actuality is prior to potentiality. Feser goes on to explain that “the theory of act and potency also leads us naturally to two intrinsic principles of a thing’s being, namely its material and formal causes.” 8 These intrinsic principles of a being are actuality and potentiality applied to a natural substance. The view of nature as a combination of matter and form is called hylomorphism.
According to the hylomorphic account of nature, all natural substances are a combination of substantial form and prime matter. A substantial form is the form or active principle of a natural substance that corresponds to actuality. It is a form because it is the universal structure or pattern common to all members of its species. For example, there are many different kinds of dogs. Not only are there different dog breeds, but also individual dogs within breeds are different from one other. However, that which they have in common, their dogness in this case, is their substantial form. By contrast, that which causes individuation or which makes it so that there can be a multiplicity of dogs is the prime matter. Prime matter is the passive principle that corresponds to potentiality. Prime matter is simply a natural substance conceived of without form. However, since actuality is prior to potentiality and thus potentiality is unable to exist without actuality, strictly speaking matter is unable to exist without form. It is, however, possible to abstract away the form to understand what prime matter is. Given that natural substances possess matter that has a potential to become other things and form which is the structure of the natural substance, natural substances possess both a principle of change and a principle of rest, as described by Aristotle.
Now that the hylomorphic view of nature has been explained, the next aspects of the Aristotelian–Thomistic conception of nature that need to be addressed are the four causes. These are the material, formal, efficient, and final causes. The first two, the material and formal causes, have already been elucidated. The next two to look at are the efficient and final causes. If some given event is not random, there must be some explanation for why something remains stable and why is moves. When a potentiality ceases to be merely potential and instead becomes actual, there must be an explanation for why it does so. This explanation for the actualization of a potential is the efficient cause. According to Aristotle, the efficient cause is the “primary principle of change or stability” because it explains why a natural
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8 Ibid., 160.
substance is either in motion or at rest 9 However, while the efficient cause explains the actualization of a potential, it does not itself explain why it becomes that particular thing as opposed to another. This is the purpose of the final cause. The final cause is that which something is directed toward. To illustrate this, take the example of an acorn becoming an oak tree. The acorn itself, by being a natural substance, is a combination of matter and form and thus of actuality and potentiality. The efficient cause of the acorn becoming a tree is the sun and rain, which actualize its inherent potential for growth and maturation. The final cause is the full-grown oak that the acorn is directed toward becoming.
With these ideas in mind, it is possible to grasp how Aquinas’s view of natural substances differs from his view of artifacts. For Aquinas, as has been shown above, a natural substance is one that has a principle of stability and motion. This principle is itself an internal goal-directedness that the object possesses. In the case of the acorn becoming a tree, there is something inherent to the acorn, in this case its form and matter, which directs it toward becoming a tree. This is in contrast to Aquinas’s view of artifacts. On Aquinas’s account, artifacts as artifacts lack internal goal-directedness, but are directed by external forces toward an end. In the section of the Summa Theologica referenced by Price, Aquinas illustrates the idea of externally imposed goal-directedness by saying, “an arrow through the motion of the archer goes straight towards the target, as though it were endowed with reason to direct its course.” 10 The arrow has no natural tendency to fly toward the target except when such a tendency is imposed on it by another. However, while artifacts insofar as they are artifacts lack an internal goal-directedness, the natural objects that make up the artifacts still have their own internal principles of stability and motion. To illustrate this, take the example of a hammer made of a steel head and wooden handle. As a hammer, the object is not by nature directed toward hammering nails. An indication of this is that it requires an agent to activate this potency and it does not do so on its own. However, while the artifact, in this case the hammer, needs its end to be imposed on it from the outside, the natural substances that make it up, in this case the steel and the wood, still act toward their natural intrinsic ends. The steel is heavy and falls as steel does, and the wood rots.
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9 Aristotle, Physics, 194b30
10 Aquinas, Summa Theologica, I, q. 1, a. 2–3.
To see if the accusation of mechanistic tendencies in Aquinas stands, we must first understand what mechanistic philosophy entails. According to Edward Feser in his book Aristotle’s Revenge, mechanistic philosophy is the view that “a natural object is to be understood on the model of a machine or artifact, and therefore not in terms of substantial form or intrinsic teleology [goal-directedness].” 11 For example, when we say that an acorn has the end of becoming an oak tree, the mechanistic philosopher would say that in some sense having the end of becoming an oak tree is not part of what it means to be an acorn but is instead something imposed on it by some outside force such as the laws of nature. This should already seem at odds with Aquinas’s view of nature because it essentially reduces natural objects to artifacts. This is especially problematic for the Thomist because on his account, artifacts are made of natural substances. In the example of the hammer, the hammer is dependent for its existence on the natural substances that are the parts that make it up.
In his compilation A Summa of the Summa, Peter Kreeft addresses the seemingly mechanistic tone of Aquinas’s writing cited by Price. In a footnote dealing with this section Kreeft says, St. Thomas is not saying, as Descartes would later say, that animals are mere automata, like clocks, but that although they have sensitive appetite, they do not have reason and will, therefore they cannot direct themselves to their end by choice, but are directed by their Designer through the “wisdom” of their natural instincts. 12
In this quote, Kreeft is clarifying that Aquinas does not view the natural movements of animals as something external that is imposed on them, but as something intrinsic to their being in the form of instincts. Animals are artifacts of God in sense that these instincts are of a divine source and are made to have certain ends. This is in contrast to the Cartesian view of animals as akin to automata which operate not of natural necessity, but because some external force compels them to. In addition, the idea that animals have sense appetite implies that they already have a natural form of goal-directedness that is incompatible with a mechanistic philosophy of nature. Appetitive powers are “powers that incline them [organisms] to seek or avoid the objects with which their knowing powers put them
11 Edward Feser, Aristotle’s Revenge: The Metaphysical Foundations of Physical and Biological Science (Neunkirchen-Seelscheid: Editiones Scholasticae, 2019), 44.
12 Peter Kreeft, A Summa of the Summa (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1990), 411–12.
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in contact ” 13 In other words, when a creature with appetite comes to know some thing, it then not only makes the judgment of whether it is good or not but through the appetitive powers either pursues the apparent good or avoids the apparent evil. In all animals, sensitive appetite is appetite in relation to those things apprehended through sense experience. This can include both things immediately apprehended, such as when a dog sees a rabbit and begins chasing it, or things known from past sense experiences, such as when a dog dreams of a rabbit in its sleep and then begins trying to chase it. The implication of the notion of appetitive powers, of course, is that there is a natural goal-directedness even in animal cognition, where the animal is able to recognize something as good and then is compelled by natural teleology to pursue it.
From what has been stated above, it should be clear that Aquinas would have rejected a mechanistic conception of animal behavior as contrary to his philosophy of nature. In addition to these considerations, the idea that Aquinas would endorse such a view should be called into question because of the fact that the mechanistic view of nature that sees natural objects as artifacts undermines Aquinas’s moral philosophy. While trying to understand the chief good of human life in book I, chapter 7 of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle says, “perhaps we shall find the best good if we first find the function of a human being ” 14 This is because what makes anything a good version of what it is involves its ability to complete the purpose it is directed toward. For example, the eyes are directed toward sight and are thus better as eyes the better they are at seeing. Likewise, humans, as intellectual beings, are directed toward knowledge in such a way that we are better once we obtain it. The reason that we are perfected by this is that we have a potential for what we can be when actualized.
The removal of teleology from nature undermines Aquinas’s moral philosophy. As discussed earlier, the key aspect of the mechanistic philosophy of nature that separates it from the classical view of nature endorsed by thinkers such as St. Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle is its rejection of teleology or final causality in nature. Given the prominence of final causality in the Aristotelian tradition, a
13 William A. Wallace, The Modeling of Nature: Philosophy of Science and Philosophy of Nature in Synthesis (Washington, D. C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 125.
14 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, in Aristotle: Selections, trans. Terence Irwin and Gail Fine (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1995), 1097b25.
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mechanistic interpretation of Aquinas’s view of nature should immediately seem inaccurate. However, the problem becomes much worse when the ethical implications of a mechanistic view of nature are considered. Take, for example, the idea of appetites, both sensory and intellectual. On the traditional Thomistic psychological account, humans and other animals not only are able to recognize some good or evil but also possess appetitive powers that incline them toward or away from it. However, this inclination is a clear example of goaldirectedness or natural teleology. The mechanistic view of animal nature seems to entail a clear rejection of the appetitive powers that Aquinas and other Aristotelians believe we have. In which case, since there is no natural tendency in creatures to pursue the good, and specifically in animals to pursue the apparent goods known through sense experience, the alternative explanation for their movement would seem to have to be some sort of view of animals as automata that act only because they are compelled to by an external force. Insofar as humans are a kind of animal, this also has negative implications for their actions, such as the problem of the is/ought gap. The is/ought gap or the related idea of the fact/value distinction is the alleged problem that either what is does not tell us what ought to be or that facts of the world do not tell us about what should be valued. Defenders of this view, such as David Hume, may acknowledge that facts such as whether a particular plot of land is good for growing pears may help one know whether one should purchase it, but they insist that in order to act, one must first have a subjective reason for doing the thing under consideration, such as a desire to grow pears for profit or pleasure. A Thomist would not be concerned with this notion, because he will recognize that what one ought to do is grounded in what one is insofar as one’s ends are prescribed by what is good for one. In regard to the relationship between a mechanistic philosophy of nature and the fact/value distinction, Edward Feser says in his introductory book on Aquinas, “A gap between ‘fact’ and ‘value’ could exist only given a mechanisticcum-nominalistic understanding of nature . . . on which the world is devoid of any objective essence or natural ends.” 15 While it seems clear how the Thomistic view of nature connects what something is to what it ought to be, it is less clear why a mechanistic philosophy of nature implies that there are no objective essences. To better understand this
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15 Edward Feser, Aquinas: A Beginner’s Guide (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2019), 172.
requires first understanding the connection between mechanistic philosophy and nominalism.
According to Lloyd Gerson, nominalism is the view that if two or more things are the same, then they must be identical. In other words, there is no conceptual space for sameness that is not identity. Thus, two or more things, just because they are numerically distinct, cannot be the same. 16 A way to better understand nominalism and what it entails is to think of the consequences it has for predication. For example, when someone says that the sky is “blue,” the ocean is “blue,” and a particular crayon is “blue,” the nominalist rejects that the “blue” predicated of all three objects is the same blue or that there is some universal blueness that they all participate in. The connection between nominalism and a mechanistic philosophy of nature may not be immediately apparent. However, the two positions tend to be associated, and for good reasons.
To better understand the connection between mechanistic philosophy and nominalism, imagine a car and its typical use. A car is a vehicle used for personal transportation. That is what it means to be a car. It should be clear that within that definition of a car is the implication that the purpose of a car is for transportation. For if it could not be used to transport someone from one place to another even in principle, it would seem to cease to be a car in anything more than a superficial way, such as when we refer to a toy car as a car because it is made to resemble a vehicle used for personal transportation. Not only can one learn the ends of an object from its function or purpose, but one can also do the reverse as well. For if someone were to say that the purpose of an object was to fasten screws, it could be inferred that what the person was referring to is some sort of screwdriver or drill. If the type of screw was specified further, such a flathead or Phillips, or the source of the object’s power specified as manual or electric, the exact object it is could be more specifically narrowed down. The consequence of this, however, seems to be that the denial of ends in nature also tends toward the denial of natures in general. For if to be a living being is to be a material substance capable of taking in nutrients and reproducing, then the implication is that any living being should have nutrition and reproduction as its ends. On this account, the only way to deny that
16 Lloyd P Gerson, Platonism and Naturalism: The Possibility of Philosophy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2020), 415.
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living beings have these ends is to deny that they have the natures or essences commonly ascribed to them.
The implications of this view of natures or essences deriving from mechanistic philosophy and nominalism are disastrous for any Aristotelian ethical system such as the one defended by Aquinas. One reason is that, if universal predication is not based on some real, objective quality, then it calls into the question the idea of human good in general. For example, given the assumption that humans are rational animals, one can say that what is good for them is to use their rational faculties both for theoretical knowledge and for governing their actions in accordance with the truth. From these two ends are derived the intellectual and moral virtues, respectively. However, if there are no ends in nature, and thus no real, objective natures or essences, one cannot say what is actually good for humans. For a nominalistic view of the world entails that when we say, “X is a human” and “Y is a human,” this is not based on some objective humanity shared by both X and Y. Therefore, the idea of a human good that is grounded in natures or essence becomes impossible.
In conclusion, while Price is mistaken in characterizing St. Thomas Aquinas’s view of animal behavior as mechanistic, his analysis serves as a tool for clarifying the important relationship between final causality and Thomistic ethics. First of all, Price’s interpretation of Aquinas should immediately seem suspicious, as St. Thomas was greatly indebted to Aristotle’s philosophy of nature, which incorporates teleology or final causality as one of the four causes or sources of explanation for physical beings. This is incompatible with the mechanistic conception of nature that rejects the idea of ends in nature. Furthermore, the idea of a mechanistic philosophy that treats natural objects as artifacts is incoherent, given a Thomistic account of artifacts. The reason for this is that for Aquinas, artificial objects are composed of natural ones, so the idea of natural objects themselves being artifacts leads to absurdity. In addition, insofar as the views of St. Thomas expressed in the passages quoted by Price imply a natural instinct in the form of sense appetites, they imply natural teleology. Finally, a mechanistic philosophy of nature would have devastating consequences for St. Thomas’s moral philosophy and his view of the relationship between the natures of beings and how they should behave.
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Dualism in Dante’s De Monarchia
Lexi Zambito
It is perhaps surprising that the mind behind the theological masterwork the Divina Commedia wrote De Monarchia, which advocates for the complete separation of church and state. In the Monarchia, Dante argues that the monarch should have authority over peoples and governments, and that the pontiff should have authority exclusively in spiritual matters and have no role whatsoever in politics. While De Monarchia is primarily a political and philosophical work, there are also theological implications to this proposed separation of church and state. Dante segregates the earthly end of man from the ultimate end of man to justify his argument that the monarch and the pontiff operate in completely separate spheres. Dante concludes De Monarchia with the assertion that the monarch owes filial reverence to the pontiff, a reverence, however, that does not imply obedience. In this way, Dante attempts to remain faithful to his religious convictions while maintaining the separation between the monarch and the pontiff.
This leads to the question of whether Dante’s argument for the absolute separation of the monarch from the pontiff, centered on the distinct temporal and supernatural ends of man, does not present an overly dualistic view of human nature. Ultimately, it would be difficult to argue that Dante personally believes that the temporal and supernatural ends of man are so completely separated, especially given his final concession to the papacy in his father–son analogy. He is simply trying to protect the state from the kind of abuses of papal power that he witnessed in his own lifetime and prevent such abuses from occurring in the future. Dante’s personal beliefs, however, did not prevent the Monarchia from serving as a model for the political thinkers of the Renaissance who would shape the notion of the modern state.
First we must look at the prevailing conceptions of the relationship between the monarch and the pontiff against which Dante argues in the Monarchia. At the beginning of book III, Dante is
especially at pains to dismantle the “two great lights” analogy, used by the “Avignonese hierocrats.” 1 In this analogy, the sun represents the church, which gives its light, or authority, to the moon, the monarchy. While this analogy was originally used to represent the papacy and the monarchy as two celestial bodies contained within the unifying sphere of the church, evidently the analogy was distorted in Dante’s day to assert that the papacy was the direct recipient of divine authority and that it in turn conferred a diminished amount of this authority upon the monarch. 2 After refuting this and other arguments used to assert papal authority over the empire, Dante concludes book III by arguing that the empire receives its authority directly from God. Dante sees the monarch, as a prince, as being in direct relation to God, who is the “prince of the world.” 3
Dante begins his argument for the Monarch’s direct reception of divine power with the basic philosophical concept of man as the meeting point between the corporeal realm and the supernatural realm. According to Aristotle, man is the “horizon” separating “two hemispheres”: that of the soul and that of the body. 4 Man occupies a part of the physical world as an animal, but he also occupies part of the supernatural world as possessing a rational and an immortal soul. Due to man’s rationality, he is the highest of corporal beings in the natural order, and due to his embodiment, he is the lowest creature in the supernatural order. Thus, man occupies a unique place within the hierarchy of being: he simultaneously lives in the corruptible world while a part of him is incorruptible. Man has two goals, then, one corresponding to his corruptibility and one corresponding to his incorruptibility; he must therefore “participate in these two natures.” 5
The first goal of man, corresponding to his corruptibility, is that of “happiness in this life, which consists in the exercise of his own powers,” namely, the “moral and intellectual virtues.” 6 This natural end of man is achieved through the use of philosophy, as exemplified by the virtuous pagans who lived in accordance with the four cardinal virtues and the knowledge that was attainable for them without access
1 Anthony Cassell, “‘Luna Est Eccelsia’: Dante and the ‘Two Great Lights,’” Dante Studies, with the Annual Report of the Dante Society, no. 119 (2001): 1.
2 Ibid., 3.
3 Dante Alighieri, Monarchy and Three Political Letters, trans. Donald Nicholl (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1954), 91.
4 Ibid.
5 Ibid., 92.
6 Ibid.
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to revelation. The second goal of man, corresponding to his incorruptibility, is that of “the enjoyment of the divine countenance,” attainable by man only through “spiritual teaching” and through the employment of “the theological virtues of faith, hope and charity.” 7 To arrive at the beatific vision, man must rely on revealed truths that are unknown to human reason, such as the mysteries of the Incarnation and the Trinity. Man must use this revelation for the purpose of exercising supernatural faith, hope, and love. The theological virtues transcend human reason, for without revelation, man would not know in what he should have faith, for what he should hope, or on whom he should bestow his love. The means to this supernatural end have been revealed through Scripture and the prophets, and most especially by Jesus and His Apostles.
Man, as the horizon situated between the extremes of corruptibility and incorruptibility, thus occupies a unique place in the universe and must unite these two extremes through his participation in both extremes. Thus, “man’s ultimate goal is twofold,” and he requires two separate rulers, one with authority over his temporal end and one with authority over his supernatural end. 8 Dante argues that, despite the aid of philosophy in regard to man’s natural end and the aid of the Scriptures, tradition, and Christ in regard to his supernatural end, man in his viciousness would all too willingly disregard these helps. Thus, the pontiff is meant to guide man in accord with revelation to the ultimate end of his incorruptibility, the beatific vision, and the monarch is to lead man with the aid of philosophy to his natural end, happiness in this life. Temporal happiness can only be achieved by man if he is secure in the peace and freedom to pursue such happiness. Dante argues that it is the role of the monarch to attain this peace for men so that the greatest number of men may come to possess temporal happiness; otherwise, only a limited number of people would be able to achieve their natural end. The monarchy is for the temporal good of all mankind.
It is because the monarch is charged with securing the peace and freedom in which his subjects may flourish that he must receive his authority directly from God. The condition of the world “has to harmonize with the movements of the heavens” in order for the security of peace and freedom to be possible, and thus the monarch must be in communion with the God who transcends all time and can
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7 Ibid. 8 Ibid.
bestow the knowledge of the proper condition of the world. 9 The monarch must be guided directly by God in order to direct temporal affairs in concurrence with the ordering of the universe. Since God has established the conditions of both the world and the heavens and holds the entire universe together in harmony, “God alone elects and confirms the Emperor, since God has no superior.” 10 Thus, the pontiff has no authority whatsoever to appoint a monarch; in fact, the only role the pontiff has in relation to the monarch is to confirm him as God’s appointed ruler. Divine authority is not bound to one recipient but in its infinite goodness can be distributed through independent channels. Dante condemns the avarice of those in the church who seek to appoint a monarch of their own choosing and disregard divine providence.
Despite the independence of the authority of the monarch from the authority of the pontiff, as both receive their authority through separate channels of God’s infinite goodness, the monarch is still in a certain sense subordinate to the pontiff, “since in a certain fashion our temporal happiness is subordinate to our eternal happiness.”
11 Dante likens this subordination of the monarch to the pontiff to the subordination of a son to his father. The monarch is like the first-born son who owes reverence to his father, the pontiff, the living representative of Peter. This reverence of the monarch for the pontiff must extend to the rest of the empire: “when he [the Monarch] is enlightened by paternal grace he may the more powerfully enlighten the world.” 12 The assertion that the temporal monarch owes filial reverence to the pontiff seems to be a reversal of “the biblical exhortation to render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s.”
13 Rather, in this scenario, the monarch renders unto Peter the things which are Peter’s.
It is difficult to understand why, at the conclusion of a work in which Dante unrelentingly argues for the absolute independence of the authority of the monarch from the papacy, he at the very end concedes some type of higher authority to the pontiff. Does Dante, who for the entirety of his work has played the indefatigable logician, in the very last sentence cede ground to those who believe that all
9 Ibid., 93.
10 Ibid.
11 Ibid., 94.
12 Ibid.
13 Timothy G. Sistrunk, “Obligations of the Emperor as the Reverent Son in Dante’s Monarchia,” Dante Studies, with the Annual Report of the Dante Society, no. 105 (1987): 96.
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temporal authority is derived from spiritual authority? To determine whether Dante has made a concession or has made an assertion that is consistent with the rest of his work, we must examine how exactly Dante conceptualizes reverence in the relationship between father and son, and how this is analogized in the relationship between the pontiff and the monarch.
It was commonplace in Dante’s day to conceive of the pontiff as the father of all Christians, and thus it was perfectly acceptable to call the monarch the son of the pontiff. What is unique to Dante, however, is referring to the monarch as the “first-born son” of the pontiff 14 It is due to the temporal authority of the monarch that Dante confers upon him the privilege of being the “first-born son.” The monarch and the pontiff both receive the responsibility and authority to lead man to his respective ends directly from God; thus, the monarch is the closest relation to the pontiff in their mutual and direct reception of divine authority.
Based on Dante’s other works in which he discusses reverence, it is evident that when referring to the reverence owed by the monarch to the pontiff, “he is emphasizing that the obligations of the two parties are carefully limited in scope only to those things which pertain to their respective offices and do not reach beyond these.” 15 Thus, the monarch owes reverence to the pontiff only in regard to his papal office. This office, as we know, pertains solely to man’s supernatural end and the guidance of man to this end: namely, the beatific vision. The means by which the pontiff must lead man to this end are those provided by revelation, namely, by Scripture and tradition through Jesus Christ. As the monarch owes reverence to the pontiff in relation to his office, the pontiff in turn must not infringe upon the divinely appointed authority of the monarch, which is to lead man to his other end of temporal happiness. Despite this separation of spheres, there must still be at least some interaction between the monarch and the pontiff, as no son would be said to revere a father with whom he never interacts, and vice versa.
It is important here to examine what Dante imagines the role of a father to be, and next, what Dante believes to be the duties of a reverent son. It would be untenable for Dante to use “father” here in the biblical sense, in which spiritual elders are fathers of the members of the church, because this implies the father’s authority and the 14 Ibid.,
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98. 15 Ibid., 100.
children’s obedience. 16 It would be impossible for Dante to use the term “father” in this biblical sense without unraveling all of his previous arguments throughout the Monarchia. The fatherhood of the pontiff may be more accurately represented by Virgil’s role in the Divina Commedia, in which he serves as a virtuous example for the pilgrim. Virgil leads the pilgrim in the two ways Dante believes are proper to the role of the father: “first, he must instruct them [his children] to choose the best path to follow in their lives, and second, he must leave an example to them of how to travel on that path.” 17 From this, it is evident that the pontiff, as a father, has the dual role of instructing all Christians in revelation and the exercise of the theological virtues, as well as leading all Christians by his virtuous example so that in following him, they may one day arrive in heaven after him. Dante confines the pontiff to these two duties of the father.
As the pontiff has certain duties he owes as a father to his children, so the monarch has duties he owes in reverence to his father. The duties of the monarch as a son are remarkably similar to those outlined in Roman civil law, namely, showing gratitude to his elders for his life, as well as showing reverence to his father. 18 The monarch is equivalent to the emancipated son in Roman civil law, who is no longer obligated to obey the paterfamilias but who must nonetheless show his father “piety, reverence, gratitude, respectful speech, and aid.” 19 Just like the emancipated son, the monarch does not owe obedience to the pontiff in particular actions. His reverence for the pontiff does not entail obedience. The obligation of the emancipated son was “purely emotional,” and “the father as a man, and not as an authority, was to be respected.” 20 As we have seen, the duties of the pontiff are instruction and example, and the monarch owes gratitude and reverence to the pontiff only insofar has he performs his duties.
As seen through the emancipated son in Roman civil law, the monarch must respect the pontiff as a man but not as an authority; the monarch does not owe any action to the pontiff. Discretion is the means by which the emancipated son is able to “distinguish between things that are distinct in their final goals.” 21 As we recall, the monarchy and the papacy are each directed to the two separate goals
16 Ibid., 101.
17 Ibid.
18 Ibid., 102.
19 Ibid., 107.
20 Ibid., 108.
21 Ibid.
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of man, and the monarch, as an emancipated son, possesses the discretion to distinguish between his end and the end of the pontiff. The emancipated son, no longer obligated to obey the paterfamilias, has the freedom to judge the actions of his father; the monarch, similarly, has the freedom to judge whether or not the pontiff is staying within the bounds of instruction and example regarding man’s supernatural end. The monarch owes reverence to the pontiff as pontiff “because he [the Monarch] honors and appreciates the man both for the importance and sanctity of his office and for the integrity and sanctity of his person.” 22
One has to wonder, however, whether Dante does not draw too sharp a distinction between the two ends of man in order to justify his ideal relationship between the monarch and the pontiff. When considering man in his compositeness of both soul and body, Dante says that “he is corruptible in respect of one, the body, but incorruptible in respect of the other, the soul.” 23 It seems as though one cannot so neatly distinguish between man’s natural end in accordance with his corruptibility, and his supernatural end in accordance with his incorruptibility. The natural end of man is happiness in this life, and the means to come to this earthly happiness are the moral and intellectual virtues. Dante argues that man arrives at his supernatural end through revelation and by exercising the theological virtues. It seems, however, as though Dante refers to incorruptible things, such as the moral and intellectual virtues, when talking of man’s corruptibility. Although these virtues are not infused virtues, they are nonetheless incorruptible, hence why they are able to offer some kind of happiness on earth. The moral and intellectual virtues, although not infused with divine grace for the man using only his reason, are nonetheless a participation in divine truth. Does not man’s use of reason in attaining these virtues for his natural end nevertheless correspond to his incorruptibility? Already we see something of the incorruptible crossing over into what Dante segregates into the realm of the corruptible. Dante seems to acknowledge the inability to completely separate the spiritual from the temporal in his ultimate concession that the monarch owes reverence to the pontiff. It would be absurd to believe that man’s temporal end has no relation to his supernatural end, since it is man’s life on earth that determines his eternity. Without this final concession to the
22 Ibid., 109.
23 Dante, Monarchy, 92.
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papacy, Dante would seem to hold a completely dualistic view of human nature.
One must wonder why Dante, the author of the Divina Commedia, a work which so emphatically affirms man as body–soul composite, would write a political treatise that for all but one sentence aims to separate the natural end of man so distinctly from the supernatural. The context of the tempestuous political arena in which Dante lived will illuminate, at least in part, some of his motivations for composing the Monarchia.
At the time of Dante’s birth, Florence was operating under its first republican constitution, which sharply divided the population between the Guelfs, who supported the pope, and the Ghibellines, who supported the emperor. Although Dante’s family was aristocratic, they supported the pope and were in favor of the Guelfs’ assumption of power in Florence in 1266, shortly after Dante’s birth, which ushered in a period of relative peace for about thirty years. Dante held political office in the city and was eventually, in 1300, elected to the Signoria, one of the most prominent political positions one could hold in Florence. The year 1300 was a turning point in the life of Florence, and thus in the life of Dante. The Guelfs split into the Blacks and the Whites and began a civil war that caused so much discord that the emperor and the pope felt compelled to intervene.
A member of the Whites, Dante, along with others, tried to dissuade Pope Boniface VIII from involving himself in the Florentine civil war. Boniface invited Charles of Valois to settle the war between the Blacks and the Whites, and he supported the Blacks out of his own desire to control Florence. Florence had been a constant object of papal desire for some years, as the popes wanted to expand their power from the Papal States to the rest of Italy. Those who resisted papal incursion into the city-states were excommunicated in an abuse of spiritual authority, as would happen to Dante and the Whites. Popes quickly excommunicated anyone who opposed their desire to control the Regnum Italicum. 24 Once the Blacks assumed power, Dante was fined for corruption but, when he refused to pay, was instead banished from Florence under threat of being burned alive if he ever returned. Departing in 1302, Dante never again returned to his beloved Florence and spent the remaining nineteen years of his life wandering as a vagrant around Italy.
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24 Derek Davis, “Seeds of the Secular State: Dante’s Political Philosophy as Seen in the ‘De Monarchia,’” Journal of Church and State 33, no. 2 (1991): 331.
Dante was thus a firsthand witness to the destruction caused by the papacy’s intervention in temporal affairs. It is no wonder that Dante argues that it is the function of the monarch alone to ensure temporal peace and freedom. The political schemes of the papacy were not without their ideological underpinnings. Throughout the medieval period, there arose the idea of a single unified society under one ruler. 25 The obvious candidate for just such a ruler, someone who could unite the political, economic, social, and religious aspects of society, was the pope, whose divine appointment was already manifest by the nature of his office. 26 On this view, authority was handed down from above, and thus any civil leaders derived their authority from this hierarchy. 27
Pope Gelasius I was a proponent of the view that the temporal authorities and the spiritual authorities were meant to work together toward the realization of the City of God, leading to a dualistic view of authority; however, the spiritual rulers had ultimate authority as being concerned with the supernatural end of man. 28 This led to constant conflict between the popes and the emperors, as the papacy had spiritual, and thus ultimate, primacy, while the emperors possessed the means to temporally exercise power and influence over the large European populations. Eventually, the papacy ascended to an unprecedented amount of power, solidified by Pope Boniface the VIII in his bull Unam Sanctam, which claimed the absolute supremacy of the papacy’s spiritual power over the empire’s temporal power. 29 It was this political situation in which Dante wrote his De Monarchia, as a challenge to the papacy’s grasp for absolute authority.
Dante’s political philosophy is undeniably dualistic in its separation of the natural from the supernatural ends of man, but his intention is not to make an anthropological argument; rather, he uses the dual ends of man to keep the state out of reach of the pontiff. It is for the purpose of protecting the temporal realm from the pontiff that Dante distinguishes between the two ends of man, and not in order to argue that man is by nature a duality. This is evidenced by his ultimate concession that the monarch owes filial reverence to the pontiff. Even if this reverence, conceived after the model of Roman
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25 Ibid 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid., 333.
civil law, does not imply obedience, it still implies some kind of superiority of the pontiff, and thus the influence of the spiritual order over the temporal. “Dante’s determined effort to create an absolute division between the spiritual and temporal spheres gave way, in the end, to the Gelasian view papal supremacy.” 30
Despite Dante’s ultimate concession to papal supremacy, he paved the way toward the absolute separation of church and state that is present today. Dante is unique in that he comes at the liminal period between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and scholars argue about which age he properly belongs to. He is a representative of the culmination of medieval learning in his synthesis of ancient philosophy, Christian theology, astronomy, and ancient myth into one unified worldview. This is reflected most clearly in the Divina Commedia. Dante also helps usher in the humanism that is distinctive of the Renaissance period, which is “the fundamental belief in the dignity and value of man.” 31 Another mark of the Renaissance is neoclassicism, and one of the principal concerns of the Monarchia is to extoll the virtues of the Roman Empire and prove that it was willed by God. Dante also exhibits this neoclassicism by basing the ideal relationship between the monarch and the pontiff on concepts found in Roman civil law.
While Renaissance humanism was neither religious nor antireligious, it still pitted religious concerns against secular concerns, and this separation of religious and secular in the Monarchia “reveals in Dante a dawning humanism seeking to break with the medieval religious orientation of political life.” 32 Thus, Dante serves as “a bridge between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance,” and he prepared the way for secular political theory such as that formulated by Marsilius of Padua and Machiavelli. 33 While the secular political theories formulated by Marsilius and Machiavelli were difficult to implement in a land such as Italy that was so imbued with religion, their ideas were able to take root in a new land without any previous religious ties: the United States.
It is evident to those of us who live in the modern United States that it is no coincidence that the separation of church and state has led to an anthropological dualism which is keen on sacrificing one of
30 Ibid., 340.
31 Ibid., 343.
32 Ibid.
33 Ibid., 344.
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man’s two ends at the expense of the other. How often does our society sacrifice man’s supernatural end for his temporal one? Even so, without man’s supernatural end to inform his natural end, the modern world has difficulty attaining temporal happiness. Dante knew that temporal happiness is not possible without knowledge of man’s incorruptibility, and this is why he was ultimately unable to completely separate man’s two ends.
Dante wrote the Monarchia as a direct response to papal infringement upon temporal affairs, an infringement that had disastrous consequences for his beloved city of Florence. It would be impossible to argue that Dante does not understand man’s union of body and soul, or that he is in some way unfaithful to the Church’s anthropological teaching. Anyone who has read even a single canto of the Divina Commedia would be able to see Dante’s belief that the integrity of the human person is dependent upon the soul informing the matter of the body.
Thus, the sharp contrast in De Monarchia between man’s temporal end and his supernatural end is not meant to posit an anthropological argument, but rather uses anthropology to validate the separation of the monarch from the pontiff. Dante elevates the natural end of man through his argument that the monarch’s authority is not dependent upon anything other than the authority conferred directly by God. 34 It seems, however, that Dante’s elevation of the natural end of man for the protection of the temporal realm, no matter his intentions and ultimate concession to spiritual supremacy, served to pave the way for a dualism in modern political thought that ultimately results in the abandonment of the supernatural end of man.
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34 Ibid., 341.
