Scotus’s Place in the History of Philosophy
July 14, 2008
In his Regensburg Address, Pope Benedict
presented himself as the guardian of “the deposit of faith” and of “right
reason”. In so doing, he asserted
authority over the past, present and future dialogue between two of the many
strands in the western literary tradition, the Catholic theological tradition
and the rationalist strand of the western philosophical tradition.
To anyone other than committed Thomists,
the Pope’s claim reveals a mind-boggling ignorance of the import of the
Cartesian revolution, Hume’s empirical critique of the rationalist tradition,
Nietzsche’s exposure of the will to power which propelled that tradition,
twentieth century Existentialism, linguistic analysis and post-modernist
re-readings of the dialogue among literature, philosophy and theology.
(Scotus laid the literary foundations for the modern and contemporary
critique of the supposition that inquiries governed by “reason” can yield
definitive answers (i.e. answers that bring questioning to an end). In his empirical approach, he also
anticipated Wittgenstein’s insights into the workings of everyday
languages. In the Regensburg Address,
the Pope does violence to Scotus and betrays an embarrassing ignorance of
penetrating critiques of the supposition that a rigorous use of reason can
yield a language which speaks for itself, timelessly and universally. In effect, he advocates a “dogmatic
philosophy” derived from an equally dogmatic theology. And this ignorance matters, since he (and the
Curial officials who impose his prejudices) use the language inherited from
this sort of theologizing to silence dialogue concerning such questions as the
ordination of women to the priesthood.)
As a philosopher, I have been endlessly
intrigued by the evolution of modern philosophy. My dialogue with Hume, Kant, Rousseau, Hegel,
Heidegger, Sartre and Derrida has convinced me that honest searchers must learn
to “read the signs of the times,” listen to the cries of the marginalized and
silenced, and discern the movement of the Spirit. But a dogmatic theology grounded in an
equally dogmatic philosophy fails on all these counts. To expose these failures, I trace the
synthesis advocated by the Pope to (1) the triumph of literacy over orality as
the foundation of western culture, (2) the resulting illusion that languages
function as virtual things-in-themselves, and (3) the added supposition that a
Tradition confined to a dialogue among texts could ultimately generate a
language capable of presenting the whole of reality transparently, in depth and
detail.
Nietzsche’s critique dramatized the
interaction between orality and literacy by exposing the will to power
enshrined in literary traditions governed by the totalizing thrust of
language. In texts which developed his
re-reading of the western literary tradition, he forged two distinctive
literary forms, the archeology of knowledge and the genealogy of morals. As alternatives to the literary form of the
autonomous text, these literary forms exposed the working of a will to power
inherent (1) in the supposition that reason provides a detached, god-like
perspective on the interplay among language, experience and reality and (2) in
the supposition that analyses of everyday languages generated and governed by
reason will yield a belief-system and a moral discourse which speak timelessly
to all persons, regardless of the formative power of the prevailing culture.
Today, the operation of such a will to
power is obvious in the pronouncements of ecclesiastical authorities who assume
that their a wedding of philosophy and theology legitimates judgments intended
to “bind the future.” Thankfully, there
is an abundance of prophets who process everyday experiences in ways that
falsify the implications of the constrictive belief-system they espouse. But these prophets are not invited to enter
the old-boys club.
Sadly, most ecclesiastical authorities are
unaware that they derive the linguistic formulations they seek to impose from a
language which purportedly (1) has a life of its own and (2) presents reality
transparently. Pope Benedict’s stance on
ecumenism offers a paradigm example.
Quite explicitly, he insists that the Catholic tradition is already in
full possession of the truth. On my
part, I can only wish that he and the curial officials he has appointed were
willing to recognize the lessons to be learned from the collapse of Communism.
As a totalitarian belief-system, Communism
functioned as a dogmatic philosophy which pretended to offer a transparent (and
indeed scientific) vision on the whole of reality. As a secular version of the eschatological
themes in the Judaic-Christian Scriptures, it generated a moral discourse which
justified the murder of millions and fostered self-deception among all who
submitted to its reign of terror. Harsh
though my judgment may be, I do not hesitate to insist that attempts by the
Curia to impose an imperial papacy have done the same sort of violence to
individuals and that the temptation of Curial officials, Cardinals and Bishops
to talk only to one another fosters the sort of self-deception which blinds
them to unspeakable atrocities.
(I suggest that the powers-that-be use a dogmatic philosophy to validate
an entrenched form of life and legitimate their privileged positions in its
hierarchical structure. And as long as
their self-deception remains impenetrable, they cannot imagine that Nietzsche’s
dictum, “Nothing is true; everything is
permitted,” is an invitation to explore the call encoded in John, “Love
one another as I have loved you.”
(As a starting point, we do well to remember that Aristotle formulated
his correspondence theory of truth at a time when languages generated by the
Hellenic literary tradition had taken on lives their own. Since he was well aware that languages in
everyday use carved up reality in strikingly different ways, he attempted to
forge a method of analyzing language and experience in a way that would yield a
universal language which mirrored reality, without ambiguity, distortion or
conventionality. Over the course of
centuries, this theory of truth (and knowledge) defined philosophical inquiry
as a search for a language which mirrored, represented or presented the whole
of reality precisely and comprehensively.
To bolster the pretense that they spoke with authority, rationalists
embraced the supposition that a disembodied voice of reason provided a god-like
perspective on language, experience and reality.)
I suggest, therefore, that analyses of the
import of the call to love one another as Jesus loves each of us must be framed
by the hymn in the Prologue of John.
I also suggest that these analyses expose stark differences between the
transcendentalism inherent in Benedict XVI’s embrace of Aquinas’s baptism of
Aristotle’s hierarchically and teleologically structured conception of reality
and Scotus’s search for a theological language capable of calling unique
individuals to intensely personal involvements with Father, Jesus, the Holy
Spirit and to equally unique individuals who entered his life.
In the philosophical arena, there are three
major points of divergence. As a
rigorous thinker, Scotus used reason as a tool in the analysis of language and
experience, not a faculty which offered a detached perspective capable of
demonstrating the existence of a rational and purposive God. As an empiricist, he centered philosophical
inquiries in moral rather than metaphysical issues. And as a theologian inspired by Francis of
Assisi’s intimate involvement with Jesus and profound respect for individuals,
he sought to forge a language of discernment rather than a moral discourse
designed to compel assent and consent to impersonal judgments on human
motivation and behavior.
From a contemporary perspective, therefore,
Scotus’s critique of the contentious dialogue among medieval
philosophers/theologians emerges as a recoil of reason upon itself. I.e., the very structure of Aquinas’s Summa
encoded a promise that analyses of traditional beliefs governed by reason would
yield a comprehensive and closed system of clearly defined doctrines and a
definitive moral discourse (the so-called natural law ethics). But the validity of that promise rested on
the assumption that an abstract conception of reason could generate judgments
which imposed closure on questioning.
Scotus worked within the tradition, but used reason as a tool rather
than a master to expose the constrictive nature of Aquinas’s
belief-system. And to find a god-term
which escaped from the rule of the One at the core of Aquinas’s conception of
reason, he centered his analysis of moral discourse in a language of love, with
at least a rudimentary awareness that there can be no formula for love.
(From an abstract perspective, the way that Aquinas’s use of reason
generated this recoil of reason upon itself can be found in the texts of
contemporary Thomists who pretend to speak from a detached, god-like
perspective which all reasonable people can occupy interchangeably. Since this perspective allows them to speak anonymously,
it insulates them from the suggestion that their judgments reveal a massive
self-deception. As the postmodernist
critique of the rationalist tradition shows, however, the pretense of closure
generates the recoil inherent in the interiorized interrogatory stance of others
who use reason as a tool to expose both the self-deception and the violence it
legitimates.)
(In this context, cursory readings of the decrees emanating from the
Roman Curia reveal the debt of the judgments inscribed in these texts to the a
theological discourse traceable to Aquinas.
Presumably, their anonymous judgments are validated by the authority
acquired by Aquinas in the theological tradition they embrace. To anyone willing to address questions which
propel the postmodernist movement, however, judgments which silence the cries
of the oppressed, dispossessed and marginalized and the protests of prophets
who seek to formulate these cries as the cries of Jesus, a wounded Healer who
shares their pain, anxieties and moral outrage, are little more than disguised
exercises of a will to power.)
The points of divergence between Aquinas
and Scotus have far-reaching implications.
(1) Aquinas assumed that the use
of a conception of reason indebted to Plato and Aristotle would yield
definitive doctrinal and moral judgments.
Presumably, since all human beings are rational animals, all could
occupy the detached perspective offered by this abstract conception
interchangeably. And since this
perspective presumably encompassed the whole of reality, the use of reason
promised the comprehensive and closed belief-system consisting of clear and
distinct doctrinal formulations inscribed in the Summa Theologica. (2)
The application of the critical apparatus generated by the prevailing
conception of reason to the closed belief-systems of his predecessors allowed
Scotus to explore the interplay between an interiorized interrogatory stance (a
stance which enabled unique individuals to voice moral protests against
prevailing power-structures) and the totalizing thrust which promised
definitive descriptive and moral judgments.
This approach found expression in his famous dictum, “In processu
generationis humanae semper crevit notitia veritatis” (“In the process of
human generations, the knowledge of truth constantly increases”). And the approach itself is framed by an
understanding that languages used to process experience are subject to constant
revision.
Despite his prowess as an empiricist and a
logician, however, Scotus could not yet re-formulate the interplay between the
metaphysical and methodological issues in medieval thought. But his embrace of reason as a tool prepared
the way for the privileging of an interiorized interrogatory stance in
Descartes’s methodical doubt, the most dramatic instance of the recoil of
reason upon itself in the history of philosophy. Today, the Cartesian recoil finds its voice
in the postmodernist hermeneutics of suspicion.
This hermeneutics uses reason as a tool to expose the deceptive ways
that voices of authority clothe their judgments with Aristotle’s correspondence
theory of truth, with its promise of an ideal language capable of presenting
the whole of reality transparently, in depth and detail.
Despite its limitations, therefore, Scotus’s
entry into the rationalist tradition as an empiricist and logician led him to
incorporate the interrogatory stance inherent in the interiorization of
literacy in a metaphor which delineated the existence of unique individuals as
a never-ending search for truth on a perpetual journey into the unknown. And since he viewed this search as
never-ending, he anticipated Heidegger’s use of the dictum, “Language
reveals; language conceals,” to argue
that the dialogue among texts which constitutes the western literary tradition
promised continual revelations of the meaning of Being, not judgments which
imposed closure on questioning.
(FN: In ancient Greece, the
detachment inherent in writing and reading was initially interiorized as an
interrogatory stance. As the literary
tradition evolved, the so-called pre-Socratics sought to rescue a traditional
participatory existence from the threat that the individualism implicit in an
interrogatory stance would reduce dialogue to babble. To that end, they centered their dialogue of
text with text in a notion of “Being.”
Much later, Aristotle used this purportedly all-encompassing depiction
of reality to frame his correspondence theory of truth. In this context, he concluded that “reason”
provided a detached perspective on language, experience and reality which would
ultimately accredit a language which mirrored (or represented or presented
transparently) the totality referred to as “Being.”
Heidegger invoked the pre-Socratic notion of Being to assert his
authority over both the rationalist strand in the philosophical tradition and
Nietzsche’s re-reading of the dialogue among literature, philosophy and
theology. But he paid little attention
to the critical apparatus which Nietzsche used to expose the will to power at
the core of rationalism’s promise of a comprehensive and precise knowledge of a
finite universe and every item in it. As
Kant realized, however, anyone who ignores Hume’s critique must suppose that
the promise of certain knowledge absolves them from the need to answer
questions concerning foundations. And to
this day, rationalists delight in finding flaws in the belief-systems of their
opponents, but are blind to the ways that they rationalize flaws in their own
rhetorics which are glaringly obvious to others.
Over the course of centuries, the contention among Descartes, Kant and
Hegel has been fruitful precisely because these rationalists sought to
re-establish the rule of the One over the interrogatory stance which exposed
the assumptions of their predecessors.
Hume’s empirical critique played a crucial role in this unfolding
dialogue by showing that the rationalist strand in the philosophical tradition
was dedicated to resolving metaphysical, moral, epistemological and
methodological issues, not to generating testable implications. And as long as philosophers, theologians and
politicians play the role of ideologues, they insulate themselves from
Nietzsche’s accusation that claims to authority over others are motivated by a
will to power, not a search for truth, lest they be forced to acknowledge the
arbitrariness, conventionality, self-deception and arrogance inherent in their
claims to speak with authority on all possible issues.
In this context, prophets who project metaphors designed to give voice
to inarticulate cries of the oppressed and silenced have a different focus than
scientists who formulate hypotheses designed to enable mute nature to give
answers to well-formed questions. But
they, too, respect the way that an interiorized interrogatory stance can be
used to subject the implications of descriptions of person-to-person involvements
to the test of everyday experience.)
---------
An historian of science (A. J. Crombie)
formulated the point at issue in a pregnant dictum: “The way that a question is formulated
determines to a large extent what will count as an answer and what will count
as evidence for that answer.”
Historically, the conception of reason espoused by Benedict XVI
subjected the interrogatory stance to the rule of the One because this move
transformed the threat of endless questioning into fruitful inquiries. [sic] Later, when this rule was personified as a
detached, god-like perspective on the interplay among language, experience and
reality which rational beings could occupy interchangeably, it promised
objective knowledge and unbiased moral judgments. And this rule is exemplified, again and
again, in texts written by Pope Benedict which situate his critique of
contemporary culture in a polar opposition between “absolute truths” and “moral
absolutes,” on the one hand, and an unrestrained secularism, a moral relativity
and a sterile subjectivity, on the other.
To support this polar opposition, the Pope
must ignore a critical apparatus which exposes both the historicity of literary
formulations of foundational issues and the arbitrariness, conventionality or
will to power inherent in questions framed by this polar opposition. On its part, however, this apparatus can do
little more than generate texts and utterances which speak in a hollow voice of
prophetic protest. For a moral discourse
capable of delineating a realizable quest for a more fully human and uniquely
personal existence, one must invoke Wittgenstein’s analysis of the workings of
distinctive forms of life transmitted by everyday languages.
To illustrate the point at issue, Wittgenstein
invites one to draw a line and then be honest enough to acknowledge that a
different line would mark a different distinction. In this context, languages consisting of
words laden with many meanings can be used in metaphorical formulations whose reach
initially exceeds their grasp. When
these formulations are designed to transform a longing or aspiration into a
realizable purpose, they generate testable implications. If the metaphor succeeds, it introduces a
distinctive purpose into the repertoire of purposes which are conducive to the
quest for a more fully human and uniquely personal existence. But there may come a time when drawing lines
differently will yield more attractive purposes.
Working from this insight, Wittgenstein put
to rest the fear that words which did not encode clear and distinct definition
or reference could be made to mean anything whatever. To supplement the insight, he suggested (1)
that words are like ropes woven from many strands, with no strand running all
the way through and (2) that the meaning of a word was therefore its use in a
form of life designed to realize a distinctive purpose. (Note the difference between locating
distinctions in purportedly precise meanings of words and in forms of life
which remain alive in everyday language only as long as language-users seek to
realize the purpose at their center.)
To summarize the point at issue: To counter rationalism’s promise of clear and
distinct ideas in a consistent, coherent, comprehensive and closed system,
Wittgenstein showed that everyday languages are not formal systems. Instead, they are fertile mediums for drawing
lines, for a purpose. By implication,
anyone who pretends to draw a definitive line must acknowledge the purpose they
seek to promote, and they must therefore reveal why they seek to evoke a
commitment on the part of others to that purpose.
I suggest, therefore, that both
postmodernist critics and followers of Aquinas are true offspring of
rationalism and that Wittgenstein offers a far more fruitful critical apparatus
for analyses of the relationships among language, experience and reality. The weakness of rationalism lies its promise
to replace everyday languages which carve up reality differently with a single
comprehensive vision of the whole of reality.
(In effect, the lines inscribed in everyday languages as differences,
forms or boundaries posit different distinctions and impose different
boundaries.) As a code for re-reading
the western literary tradition, the hermeneutics of suspicion exposes this
weakness. In so doing, it protects the
historicity of personal experiences from the impersonality inherent in the
supposition that rational individuals can occupy a detached perspective interchangeably,
and it erases the Cartesian distinction between subjectivity and
objectivity. But its dedication to
subverting authority in any shape or form cannot support a moral discourse
capable of processing experience in ways conducive to deepening person-to-person
involvements.
This moral discourse implies that intimacy
as a realizable form of life invites unique individuals to co-author a shared
journey into the unknown, and the language which enables them to transform the
elusive longing for intimacy into a realizable quest promises that a deepening
trust fostered by vulnerable and respectful interactions can be destroyed by
suspicion in any shape or form.
(Supplementary Aside: The
postmodernist critique of the centerpiece of the myth of Modernity, the
conception of the autonomous individual, is succinctly encapsulated in an
article by Roland Barthe which proclaims the death of the author. This critique targets the appropriation of a
theological formulation depicting the God of the Philosophers by authors of the
myth of Modernity enamored with the ideals of the Enlightenment. In its original version, the formula depicted
a rational and purposive God who was the creator of the unique individuality of
every human being, the master of the universe, the author of an ideal social
order, the Lord of history and the arbiter of human destiny. In the myth of Modernity, autonomous
individuals create their own identities, use the discoveries of science to harness
nature to their purposes, co-author ideal societies and thereby become lords of
history and arbiters of their own destinies.
But in a straightforward application of the postmodernist subversion of
the supposition that reason empowers individuals without pernicious
consequences, Barthe concluded that texts of even the most creative authors in
the western literary tradition were the product of a dialogue among texts and
shaped by an imaginary audience. And if
even the most original authors could not speak in a genuinely personal voice in
linguistic formulations consigned to writing, how could individuals hope to
speak in their own voice in immediate interactions?
In a rather obvious way, Barthe’s announcement of the “death of the
author” echoed Nietzsche’s announcement of “the death of God.” But neither Barthe nor Nietzsche address the
question whether individuals who commit themselves to a quest for deepening
intimacy can co-author a shared journey into the unknown. In any equally obvious way, an analysis of
the form of life derived from the metaphor of intimacy reveals that, to remain
faithful to their initial commitment, individuals must allow experience to
teach them that the longing for deepening person-to-person involvement calls
them to vulnerable and respectful self-revelations in which they speak in their
own voices, albeit it flawed ways.)
In this context, Wittgenstein’s insistence
that language consists of many forms of life, each designed to realize a
distinctive purpose, poses a question for the polemical rhetorics of Thomists
who accuse Scotus of undermining Aquinas’s magnificent synthesis of philosophy
and theology. With malice aforethought,
I formulate the question as an accusation:
On some level, the violence they do to Scotus’s critique of his medieval
predecessors bears witness to the need to deflect attention from the weaknesses
of their philosophical and theological positions.
(Pope Benedict’s Regensburg Address
invokes a violent misreading of Scotus to support his embrace of Aquinas’s
synthesis of philosophy and theology.)
Speaking for Scotus, I suggest that he
would have willingly acknowledged a debt to Aquinas, though his immediate
conversation-partner was Henry of Ghent.
But Aquinas assumed that theological reflections accredited by the
conception of reason he espoused would justify a comprehensive and closed
doctrinal system and definitive moral judgments, while Scotus formulated a
critical apparatus which recovered the hollow center of the interrogatory
stance at the core of the traditional conception of reason. Many years later, Descartes would present this
interrogatory stance as a methodical doubt capable of showing that the medieval
synthesis of theology and philosophy was an edifice erected on sand. And from a literary perspective, Descartes’
methodical doubt would have been inconceivable without Scotus’s empirical and
logical critique of medieval rationalism.
But Scotus could never have subscribed to the myth of pure beginnings
generated by the methodical doubt.
On this point, Scotus anticipated Newman’s
concern with the development of doctrine. As an empiricist, he began in the middle, and
as a theologian, he invoked the hymn in the Prologue of the Gospel of John to
process his own experience in a way that allowed followers of Francis of Assisi
to respond to the gospel call as Francis did.
As a result, he entered the contentious dialogue among medieval
theologians/philosophers with a purpose that differed significantly from the
purpose which led Aquinas to undertake the project of baptizing Aristotle. First and foremost, at a time when others insisted
that philosophical and theological inquiries were irreconcilable, Aquinas was
determined to forge a synthesis which presented philosophy as the handmaid of
theology. Philosophers argued that
philosophy promised universal knowledge.
To reduce philosophy to the status of a handmaiden of theology, Aquinas
allowed a rationalistic conception of reason to govern the construction of his Summa
Theologica. In so doing, he fostered
the illusion that the use of reason could compel universal consent to the theological
system inscribed in that text.
Decades later, when Scotus arrived at the
University of Paris, academic discussions no longer revolved around questions
concerning the relationship between philosophy and theology. In this context, Scotus was free to begin his
analyses of the received belief-system in the middle, and that beginning found
expression in a pregnant dictum: “In the
procession of human generations the knowledge of truth always increases.” (In processu generationis humanae semper crevit
notitia veritatis.)
In short, Aquinas’s entry into the
contentious dialogue among medieval academics was informed by his family’s
embrace of a juridical form of life and shaped by the philosophical inquiries
of Aristotle (and, to a lesser degree, Plato).
Scotus was indebted to an empirical tradition emerging in English
Universities and to Francis of Assisi’s attempt to live the gospel message in a
truly radical way. As a result, his
exploration of philosophical and theological issues addressed very different
concerns that those enshrined in Aquinas’s Summa Theologica.
On his part, Aquinas argued that a Summa
which synthesized theology and philosophy could answer all possible questions
and resolve all possible moral issues timelessly. To support the argument, he accepted
Aristotle’s categorization of human beings as rational animals without
question. On this issue, Scotus’s
concern with the uniqueness of individuals involved him in an unsuccessful
effort to formulate a conception of human reality which respected the mystery
of human freedom. To support these
inquiries, he argued that an infinite God could not be bound by an objective
moral order, even one that he had himself created.
To focus the point at issue: Following Aristotle, Aquinas privileged a
conception of human nature which implies that, as rational animals, all human
beings can occupy a detached, dispassionate, disinterested, god-like
perspective on language, experience and reality. Somehow, Scotus realized that this starting
point could not generate a language capable of evoking the profound respect
that Francis bestowed on every creature, great or small. To that end, he introduced a dynamic
interplay between will and intellect as the foundation for his introduction of haecceitas
as a generative principle of unique individuality.
[Editor’s
note: “haecceitas” is a term coined
by Scotus which can be translated as “thisness. Every reality has a unique
existence characterized by haecceitas.]
(Supplementary Aside: Today, the
postmodernist deconstruction of rationalism’s literary foundations shows why no
one can escape from the formative power of any language they wish to critique. Scotus was no exception. As a child of his age, he trusted “the
natural light of reason.” He did,
however, subject the reigning conception of reason to a critical apparatus
derived from an interplay between empiricism and logical analysis. The results were a mixed bag. On the one hand, in his desire to formulate a
language capable of encoding Francis’s profound respect for the uniqueness of
individuals, he challenged the privileging of universals which forced medieval
theologians to address the question, “How are universals individuated?” from
within. To privilege individuality over
the ruling conception of human nature, he grounded individuation in a
generative principle of individuality called haecceitas.)
From the perspective offered by the
language which transforms the longing for intimacy into a realizable quest, Scotus’s
use of haecceitas is a technical expedient designed to endow
individuality with a positive value. To
place the dispute in its historical context, the answers of both Aquinas and
Scotus to the question, “How are universals individuated?”, have the same
structure. Aquinas traces individuality
to efficient causes which educe a human nature from this bit of matter,
while Scotus traces it to a generative principle called haecceity. But the theories offer divergent accounts of
the process of individuation. Aquinas
locates the process of individuation outside the individual, while Scotus
centers it within the individual.
Nonetheless, their descriptions of the process of individuation differ
radically from the description generated by the metaphor of intimacy. From the latter perspective, intensely
personal interactions between unique individuals expose hidden depths in all
concerned in a way that languages generated by metaphors of individuality
cannot equal, and they alone plunge individuals into a process which enables
them to learn how to speak in their own unique voices.
(In the early decades of the twentieth century, Heidegger echoed Scotus’s
haecceitas in his use of Dasein as the hollow center of a search
for an authentically human stance toward Sein. Presumably, this hollow center freed him from
the formative power of reigning conceptions of human nature, including Kant’s
conception of the autonomous individual.
From this starting point, he proceeded to fill the hollow center with
his delineation of human existence as a quest for the meaning of Being.)
Consequently, I center my critique of
Scotus in the narrative structure of the literary form forged by authors who
used stories to process Israel’s historical experience and the metaphors of
intimacy projected by Israel’s prophets.
Medieval theologians lacked a theory of literary criticism capable of
exposing the crucial roles played by this distinctive literary form and the
metaphors it framed in the emergence of a language capable of presenting the
quest for deepening intimacy as a realizable project. Today, the insights into the workings of this
narrative structure provided by biblical scholarship can be used to expose the
way that philosophical and theological issues govern the Scriptural
interpretations inscribed in the texts of Medieval authors.
In the most obvious instance, the
meta-narrative which depicted the Incarnation as a response to Adam’s sin
rested on readings which interpreted the story of Adam and Eve as an historical
account of how God had acted in the past.
As a child of his age, Scotus could not break completely with the
prevailing interpretative code. As his
insistence that moral issues involved discerning the activity of an
incomprehensible God in the lives of unique individuals indicates, however, his
critique of the Aristotelian metaphysical system baptized by Aquinas was an
abortive effort to replace inquiries structured by the rule of reason with the
narrative structure forged by Hebrew storytellers.
(NB:
Elsewhere, I argue that the meta-narrative which depicts the Incarnation
as a response to sin is grounded in two events, a sin of Adam which supposedly
severed the natural relationship between Creator and creatures and the crucifixion
of the incarnate Word which offered fitting reparation to divine justice for
Adam’s transgression. Logically, this
meta-narrative implies that, in and through the crucifixion, the saving (or
justifying) activity of God was somehow complete, and this implication
generated an immense variety of theories designed to show how the effects of
the crucifixion are to be applied to Adam’s offspring throughout the ages. Aquinas’s Summa presented one such
theory. Note well, however, that his
belief that the use of reason could yield precisely formulated doctrines in a
comprehensive and closed belief-system was logically dependent on a
meta-narrative which centered salvation in a clearly demarcated event.
(In marked contrast, the meta-narrative which frames Scotus’s
incarnational theology ascribes the Incarnation to an over-flowing love which
seeks intimacy with all human beings.
Since a journey to deepening intimacy is a process rather than an event,
any written account of the shared journey requires a narrative structure which,
in turn, guarantees that the workings of God’s activity in the lives of
individuals unfold unpredictably in a never-ending story.
(On a personal note: In my fifty
years as a priest, I have often met one-on-one with individuals who were going
through the “dark valley.” Some were
suicidal; others were filled with rage;
still others were experiencing excruciating emotional pain; still others were despairing or
depressed; and still others experienced
an aching loneliness. In each instance,
I did not know how God’s (saving) love would touch them, but I was called to
walk through the valley of death with them, without judgments or agendas. To do that, I had to relive our meetings with
the Father, Jesus and the Holy Spirit in intensely personal ways. And this involved coming to each of them with
my own pain, anger, fear, loneliness, and depression, listening in silence, and
trusting that what I was to say would be given to me.
(Through these experiences, I have become convinced that we sin because
we are wounded, not because we are wicked.
As a result, I wonder why traditional definitions of God’s saving or
justifying activity seldom call individuals to living encounters with Jesus,
the Wounded Healer.)
To belabor the point at issue, Pope
Benedict assumes that the conception of reason baptized in his Regensburg
Address promises that analyses of language and experience governed by a
principle of logical identity validate the closed belief-system he
espouses. This assumption explains why
he must offer a caricature of Scotus’s voluntarism. The caricature distracts attention from the
fact that an incarnational theology indebted to Scotus is centered in a
narrative structure forged through centuries of a highly literary dialogue
among ancient Hebrew storytellers.
As I argue at length in the chapter on the
story of Adam and Eve in my Christian Ethics: an Ethics of Intimacy, the foundational
stories in the Hebrew narrative tradition are centered in intensely personal
interactions between an incomprehensible God and memorably unique individuals
endowed with unfathomable depths and a mysterious freedom. In this vein, Scotus sought a language which
would enable unique individuals to discern the intensely personal involvement
of a infinite God who is love in the everyday events of their lives. Like Aquinas and other medieval philosophers/theologians,
however, he lacked an understanding of the workings of the narrative structure
of a distinctive literary form, the prose narrative, and this lack limited his
ability to forge a language capable of sorting out tangled longings, passions,
desires, motives and aspirations.
Nonetheless, Scotus’s insistence that an
infinite God could not be bound by an objective morality marked a significant
departure from the traditional supposition that the opposite of absolute truths
is a moral relativity or narcissistic subjectivity. If anything, his incarnational theology
yielded analyses of interactions between and among unique individuals which
reveal the sterility of his use of haecceitas as an individuating
principle at the core of a common nature shared by humans.
In
the final analysis, therefore, Scotus forged a distinctive philosophical
framework designed to accommodate the incarnational theology he derived from a
careful reading of the hymn in the Prologue of the Gospel of John. This hymn framed the evangelist’s original
reflections on the ways that God was active in human history in and through
Jesus. The opening verses of the hymn, “In
the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,
and by and through him were all things made. . . .” place the eternal Word at
the center of the act of creation. Then,
to lay bare the dynamics of the unfolding story of creation, a later passage
attributes the entry of the Word into human history to an out-pouring of divine
love. And in a still later reflection
inspired by this passage, the reformulation of the Second Great Commandment as
a call, “Love one another as I have loved you,” describes the saving activity
of the Word Incarnate as an all-inclusive love and a passionate longing to be
intimately involved in the lives of all.
Looking back, I see now the theological
discourse that I received in the seminary was decidedly Thomistic. As I sought to live with intellectual and
personal integrity in my involvements with others, however, I discovered that
judgments generated by supposedly objective moral principles did not enable me
to discern God’s activity in anyone’s life, including my own. In effect, I learned that there is no formula
for love and that I often substituted appeals to authority for a prayerful
listening to the Holy Spirit urging me to be compassionately present to wounded
individuals, without judgments or agendas.
And when I subjected my judgments and agendas to analysis, I realized
that I endowed a literary construct (a purportedly god-like voice of reason)
with the power to govern my responses to God and to others.
Today, I am saddened by the ingenious ways
that followers of Aquinas interweave themes, metaphors, symbols and conceptions
from the philosophical and biblical traditions to bolster his theology of
transcendence. But they are merely
following the example of Aquinas who wove an uncritical categorization of human
beings as rational animals (1) into his reading of the biblical passage which
proclaimed that human beings were made in the image of the Creator and (2) into
the hermeneutical code he derived from the medieval metaphor of the Two Books,
the Book of Nature and the Book of Salvation-history. In the Summa, he then supplemented the
thesis that God’s moral will could be read off the Book of Nature by “a natural
light of reason” with a philosophical argument which traced the teleological
structure of Aristotelian metaphysics to a rational and purposive Creator who
inscribed his moral will in a Book of Nature and the Scriptural passage which
asserted that humans are made in the image of a rational and purposive God.
I suggest, then, that Aquinas laid the
literary foundations for the Protestant supposition that the Scriptures can be
read as an autonomous text, self-interpreting and self-referential. Ironically, to support the rejection of the
theory of evolution, Fundamentalists who claim to read the Scriptures literally
must also utilize a code from the Aristotelian belief in the fixity of
species.)
Though Thomists seldom acknowledge the
fact, their embrace of a natural law theory derived from an objective moral
order is still dependent on Aquinas’s supposition that “a natural light of
reason” can show that the universe and every item in it has a teleological structure. But the assumption is credible if, and only
if reason is a natural endowment, Nature is a teleologically structured Book
authored by a rational and purposive Creator, and a fixity of species prevails
in that natural order. As postmodernist
archeologies of knowledge show, however, the conception of reason espoused by
Aquinas is a literary construct, not “a natural light” And as Descartes’ geometrization of the
universe shows, the conception of a hierarchically and teleologically
structured universe is a historical curiosity.
Finally, one must choose between a belief in the fixity of species and a
theory of evolution which is bolstered by a wealth of evidence. On these three counts, I can only wonder how
anyone would seriously maintain that a rational and purposive Creator inscribed
a “natural law” designed to fulfill his moral will in an autonomous Book of
Nature.
Simply stated, postmodernist archeologies
of knowledge which expose the literary origins of rationalism reveal the will
to power at work in judgments which pretend to impose closure on questioning,
silence protests, or devalue the inarticulate cries of the oppressed,
marginalized and outcasts. Consequently,
the only way that anyone who pretends to speak with authority can show the
purity of their motives and the absence of hidden agendas is to show, beyond
question, that their judgments are not motivated by (1) a desire to maintain a
privileged position in the status quo, (2) a fear lest everything
revert to a primordial chaos or the war of all against all depicted so vividly
by Hobbes, (3) a willful determination to ignore Hume’s empirical critique of
rationalism, and, in Heideggerian terms, (4) a determined effort to escape from
the historicity of experience. And even
this would not suffice to justify the claim that they have access to a moral
discourse grounded outside of human reality (in the will of God inscribed in a
changeless natural order or in an eschatological vision of the course of human
history).
Returning to my personal history: I left the seminary as a Thomist in theology,
but a Scotist in philosophy. And I did
not become fully aware of the tension between the two positions until I underwent
an in-depth exposure to Hume, Nietzsche and the Logical Positivists. In his usual provocative way, Nietzsche
suggested that the scientific tradition was propelled by a will to ignorance
rather than a will to knowledge. To
support that challenge, he echoed the central point in Hume’s empirical
critique of rationalism: Since every
item in the universe interacts with every other item, even experiments designed
to test prevailing theories and hypotheses must ignore conditions which cannot
as yet be identified or controlled in order to master those which can. In marked contrast, Logical Positivists
presented their version of the scientific method as the path to certain
knowledge.
If a choice between Nietzsche and Logical
Positivism, on the one hand, and Thomism on the other, were the only
alternatives, I would have had to choose Nietzsche and Logical Positivism. However, since Allan Wolter, OFM, introduced
me to the history of western philosophy, I was aware that he, almost
single-handedly, had inserted Scotus into the emerging dialogue among Catholic
philosophers in the United States, and the influence of Scotus’s empiricism was
evident in his fascination with the philosophy of science. (Years later, his brother, Martin Wolter,
O.F.M. proudly proclaimed that Allan had acquired an international audience of
dozens.) Through him, I was able to see
that Scotus used reason as a useful tool, but refused to submit to its promise
to compel assent and consent to a closed belief-system.
For a time, the discovery that Logical
Positivism was a prescriptive rather than descriptive definition of the
scientific method led me to question the supposition that the scientific method
could produce what it promised. I was
not yet ready to admit that Nietzsche had exposed the workings of a hidden will
to power in the rationalist strand in the western philosophical tradition. But I could not help but see that Husserl’s
phenomenological method, though centered in self-consciousness rather than
empirical data, rests on the assumption introduced by Descartes’ methodical
doubt. In effect, it promised that
metaphysical, epistemological, methodological, moral and literary connotations
could be stripped away by a method which revealed pure data of consciousness
rather than bare empirical data.
On another level, the centrality accorded
to self-consciousness in Husserl’s approach shifted the focus from “teleology,”
a belief that nature was ordered to a final end, to a fascination with the “intentionality
of consciousness.” And while I find a structured
consciousness far more fruitful than a teleologically structured nature order,
I must work from a metaphor of intimacy which implies that human beings are
passionate, linguistic, imaginative and purposive beings who long for an ever
more fully human and uniquely personal existence. From this perspective, questions of purpose
are more foundational than questions of intention.
(In his break with Husserl, Heidegger developed a hermeneutical theory
designed to read the western literary tradition as the vehicle for the
revelation of the meaning of a creatively active Being. For the god-term which lent coherence to this
theory, he invoked the formulation of the notion of “Being” found in a literary
dialogue in which later pre-Socratics played off the texts of their
predecessors. And since this dialogue
occurred prior to the emergency of significant distinctions among language,
experience and reality in the Hellenic literary tradition, it provided a richly
contextual notion which allowed Heidegger to counter the detached existence
privileged by Descartes’s methodical doubt with a participative sense of
existence. To exploit this context, he
noted a simple fact: When we seek to
express anything whatever, we search for words and for linguistic formulations
in the language at hand. The
conclusion: (1) The romantic supposition that unique
individuals formulate original insights into poetic expressions of the felt
experience of being human is pretentious.
(2) An open responsiveness to
Being is the sign of an authentically human existence. (3)
Such a stance reveals that Being is creative and that language is the
vehicle for the revelation of the meaning of Being.
(Though I found Heidegger’s desire to articulate ways of being human in the
twentieth century plausible, my suspicion of his hermeneutical theory
persisted. I could agree with the way
that it incorporated the structure inscribed in the biblical story in which
words spoken by Yahweh sent Abram forth on a journey into the unknown, but not
with the way that it reduced language to a vehicle for the revelation of the
meaning of Being.
(Moreover, I gradually became aware that the way Sartre used this
structure differed radically from the use made by Husserl and Heidegger. Thus, in Being and Nothingness, Sartre
appropriated the intentional structure of consciousness supposedly laid bare by
Husserl’s phenomenological method for a clearly defined purpose. This text is a tightly woven argument
designed to trace the existence of unique individuals to an eruptive
self-consciousness which plunges unique individuals into a perpetual journey
into the unknown. And since Sartre’s
phenomenological analysis purportedly revealed the workings of a double
nihilation at the center of the intentional structure of consciousness, it
marked an intriguing return to the empty literary space projected by the
Babylonian epics.
(In the end, though, Sartre replaced both Nietzsche and Heidegger as the
main protagonist in my search for intellectual integrity because of his claim
that passionate involvements between unique individuals inexorably degenerated
into sado-masochistic interactions. The
reason is obvious to me now. In Being
and Nothingness, Sartre used themes and conceptions formulated by
Descartes, Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche, Husserl and Heidegger to assert his
authority over the rationalist tradition and over analyses of person-to-person
involvements. If his analysis were true,
love would be an impossible passion, and my urgent longing for intimacy would
reveal the absurdity of human existence.
(Quite the opposite happened. An
excruciatingly painful mid-life crisis forced me to realize that my
understanding of the dynamics of passionate involvements was indebted to Scotus’s
incarnational theology, while my understanding of Scotus’s use of reason
challenged me to mine the metaphor of intimacy for testable implications which
would falsify Sartre’s theses. And that
realization was brought to the surface once again by my recent reaction to Pope
Benedict’s Regensburg Address. As I
wrestled with the violence of my reaction, I discovered that the Pope’s
misreading of Scotus’s role in the western literary tradition enabled me to see
the ways that Scotus undermined the rule of reason which was so essential to
Pope Benedict’s pretense that he was merely the spokesperson for a rational and
purposive Creator. To maintain his pretense,
he had to deprive Scotus of any authority within the tradition, and he did so
shamelessly.
(In the reading of Pope Benedict’s Regensburg Address which emerged, I
was led to wonder how the grounds he invoked to justify his commitment to an
objective morality would be reconciled with the philosophical grounds invoked
by Pope John Paul II to justify the same commitment. Again and again, Pope John Paul II situated
his moral judgments in a Personalism which presumably spoke as the voice of the
intentional structure of an eruptive self-consciousness. In this philosophical context, he replaced
Aristotle’s teleologically structured natural order with Husserl’s
intentionally structured consciousness.
But this replacement merely disguised the will to power inherent in any
promise of certain knowledge, and clear and distinct ideas which offered a
comprehensive vision of the whole of reality.
(Lest this Aside go on forever, I refer any reader who has further
questions to the reflections in which I bear witness to my understanding of the
workings of the Sacraments and of my role in the institutional Church. Here, I hope to limit myself to a succinct
formulation of the point at issue. The
meta-narrative which presents the Incarnation as a response to the sin of Adam
depends on troublesome definitions of justice and mercy. In my relationship with God, I have often
come before God in the words of the Publican, “God, be merciful to me, a
sinner.” Now, however, I come to Jesus
as the wounded Healer. Since I am
profoundly aware that the problem lies in my inability to let each of the three
divine Persons be intimately involved in my life, I cannot come as a humble
suppliant awaiting some dramatic intervention on their part. I can only be honest about the pain, fears,
anger and shame that distorts my involvements with others, as I listen for a
word of love which evokes responses which bring new life in God’s love and the
love of other wounded individuals.
(One further remark. Regarding
the issues which still separate the Catholic and Protestant traditions, those
who perpetuate the polemics accept a meta-narrative which (1) insists that God’s
justice had to demand fitting reparation for the sin of Adam, (2) celebrates a
divine mercy which urged the eternal Word to become incarnate in order to make
such reparation by a cruel death on the Cross, and (3) thereby perpetuates the
dispute which revolves around a distinction between faith and works. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that
neither tradition fostered a spirituality based on an emphasis on the healing
power of the touch of divine love in events in everyday life. Here, I simply suggest that this failure
suffices to show that the distinction between faith and works generates a
misplaced debate. The debate ought to be
centered in differences between a conception of God derived from a metaphor of
power and judgment and a conception of God derived from a metaphor of
intimacy.)
