"You Are Gods" Excerpt

YOU ARE GODS

ON NATURE AND SUPERNATURE

University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana

CONTENTS

Introduction xi

ONE

Waking the Gods: Theosis as Reason’s Natural End 1

TWO

The Treasure of Delight: Nicholas of Cusa on Infinite Desire 21

THREE

That Judgment Whereby You Judge: Beauty and Discernment 35

FOUR

Pia Fraus: Our Words and God’s Truth 51

FIVE

Geist’s Kaleidoscope: Some Questions for Cyril O’Regan 63

SIX

The Chiasmus: The Created Supernatural and the Natural Divine 97 Notes 125 Index 137

INTRODUCTION

In recent years, the theological—and, more specifically, Roman Catholic—question of “the supernatural” has made an astonishing re turn from seeming oblivion. Until very recently indeed, most theolo gians with any knowledge of the question’s history had been working under the impression that the issue was more or less settled, and that the early modern theology of supernature and nature that had been briefly dominant in Catholic thought—the infamous “two-tier” system of “manualist” or “commentary” or “second scholastic” Thomism—had been decisively defeated by the far superior and more orthodox the ologies of grace that had displaced it. Certainly, those two or three re markable generations of systematic theologians who made the twentieth century one of the genuinely golden epochs of Roman Catholic thought seemed to have been able to accomplish as much as they did precisely because they had freed themselves from the desiccating atmosphere of that tradition. After all, as we had all been led to believe, the theological proposals of the manualist schools had been curious anomalies in the history of Christian thought, so alien to the whole of patristic tradition, and to most of the mediaeval, and so plainly irreconcilable with car dinal tenets of classical Christian thought and dogma, that they were incapable of producing theology of any particular range or substance, or of exercising much influence outside the small circle in which they had been gestated. Taken together, they appeared to constitute a depress ingly sterile system, one that was eerily immune to any kind of enrich ment or healthy development, inasmuch as any attempt at either could

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only expose its internal incoherence; at most, the system could be cu rated, defended, and endlessly reiterated by the small but indefatigable faction devoted to it.

It seemed only natural, therefore, to suppose that, once something better, fuller, finer, and more rational had come along (call it la nouvelle théologie or ressourcement or the patristic restoration or even “the East ward turn”), nothing as morbidly barren, impoverished, and unattractive as the manualist tradition would ever again have the power or allure to inspire any sane soul’s allegiance. Why, after all, would anyone want to set aside the lush, velvety, heady wines of Catholicism’s magnificent twentieth-century theological renaissance to quaff the thin, acrid waters of Wormwood from a rusting tin cup? Why, in particular, would today’s students of Thomas want to retreat from the repristinated figure of mod ern research—an inheritor of the fathers and a truly mediaeval metaphy sician possessed of genuine synthetic genius—to recover the caricature produced by manualism, which spoke in an attenuated early modern lan guage of causality, presumed an early modern vision of desacralized na ture, and practiced an early modern style of propositional logic? Surely the whole sordid episode of commentary Thomism could now be written off as a closed chapter in theological history, a curious anecdote that had briefly interrupted the authentic narrative of Catholic dogma and the ology. Alas, it was not so. Die Wiederkehr des Verdrängten is a law as much of institutional as of personal psychology. And so now this once seem ingly very dead tradition is enjoying a revival (or, better, recrudescence) in certain traditionalist Catholic sects, most especially here in America, where some odd perversity of our national temperament forbids us from ever allowing any ideological project or alliance, no matter how diseased, to die with dignity.

Why this has happened I cannot really guess. It turns out that all those prejudices that those who came after the perceived fall of the twotierist systems were taught to hold, when examined closely and scrupu lously, are not mere prejudices at all, but simple statements of fact. So the system’s return is an altogether shocking reversal of all expectations, rather as if some adventurer long thought dead and buried (or eaten, or frozen, or drowned) in some unknown and far-flung quarter of the un charted wilds—one who has been pronounced legally deceased, whose

estate has already been apportioned to his heirs, and whose wife of many years is now wed to another man—were suddenly to appear at the door of his old home, gray and gaunt and marked by the ravages of time and misfortune, but very much alive and adamantly demanding the resto ration of everything he has lost in his absence. In either case, that of the obsolete theological system or that of the truant adventurer, the return has come too late in the day to be a cause of much rejoicing; the newer generations of theologians, the heirs of the estate, the widow secundum legem, even some older theologians formed in the abandoned system, or even some of the forgotten explorer’s lifelong friends—all of them are more likely to find the new situation far more of a predicament than a blessing. I tend to think that the current enthusiasm for early modern Thomism is a matter for psychological or sociological investigation rather than something that can be explained in terms of logic or of some genuine spiritual imperative. But I cannot say that this is so with perfect con fidence, since I cannot enter imaginatively into minds that find, say, Garrigou-Lagrange’s books deeply moving, or even vaguely palatable. The whole phenomenon must remain a mystery to me, one whose more occult causes will forever be veiled from my eyes behind a curtain of Baroque fustian (or perhaps sickly puce).

If, by the way, my language to this point seems a bit weighted toward one side of the debate, I can only assure readers that my motives are en tirely sincere and disinterested. I am not Roman Catholic, after all, and so none of this concerns me personally; and, really, the future of Catholic theology is of no consequence to me at all. The topic interests me only insofar as it raises issues of a more general kind regarding the contents of Christian faith. Precisely because I regard the “two-tier” understanding of nature and supernature as irreparably defective, and in fact among the most defective understandings of Christianity imaginable—in many ways the diametric opposite of everything the Christian story has to say about reality and about the relation of creation to God and about the person of Christ—the unwelcome return of this superannuated vagabond provokes me just enough to make me want to advance an altogether different pic ture. Perhaps I cannot lay the ghost of two-tierism, or exorcise it from modern theological discourse. But I can, at the very least, take advantage of the moment.

You Are Gods

The essays collected here were all written within a relatively short span, each for a particular occasion, but all in pursuit of much the same intellectual quarry. Each in its way addresses the topic of the “natural supernatural,” and all were shaped by the same stream of reflections. The first, “Waking the Gods,” was originally delivered in somewhat different form at Fordham University for the Patterson Triennial Conference, “Faith, Reason, and Theosis,” in June 2019; the original version of the lec ture is printed in Faith, Reason, and Theosis, ed. Aristotle Papanikolaou and George Demacopoulos (New York: Fordham University Press, 2022). Its relevance for this volume is obvious, as it lays out both the issue of the supernatural and the incorrigible logical flaws in the two-tier position. The second, “The Treasure of Delight,” was delivered at the University of Notre Dame at the conference “Cusanus Today” in September 2019. It rather seamlessly resumes one of the principal themes of the preceding essay: to wit, the impossibility of any spiritual nature resting content in a merely natural end. The third, “That Judgment Whereby You Judge,” was delivered at Holy Cross Seminary and Hellenic College as the annual Florovsky Lecture of the Orthodox Theological Society of America in October 2018. Its relevance here is that it is an exercise in erasing any hard and fast partition between the worldly experience of transcendental values and the eschatological experience of divine judgment. The fourth, “Pia Fraus,” was an address for a private society devoted to philosophical ethics delivered in December 2018, though I have revised it here; the original version was published in the Spring 2019 issue of Renovatio, the wonderful journal published by Zaytuna College. It is (hence its rele vance here) a meditation on both the unbroken continuity and the con tinuous brokenness of our “natural” labor to act in accord with our “supernatural” vocation toward transcendental ends—or, rather, on the way in which “natural law” is always subordinate to a supernatural voca tion that is at once its foundation and an apocalyptic force that, for spiri tual natures, must of necessity subvert it continually.

The fifth essay, “Geist ’s Kaleidoscope,” is something of a complicated case. In its original form, it was written for a Festschrift in honor of Cyril O’Regan, one of the great Anglophone Catholic scholars and thinkers of our time, and someone from whom there is always something more to learn, and someone I revere as a friend and as an intellectual force. While both my admiration and my sympathy for O’Regan’s project is enormous,

this piece does touch upon one of the technical areas where I am in some disagreement with him—the genealogical question, that is, of the “haunted narrative” of German idealism and its relation (which to my mind is nearly nonexistent, in both fact and principle) to ancient “gnos ticism.” The essay functions here, however, to advance this collection’s theme by calling into question a number of conventional theological positions regarding the differences between the Christianity of the New Testament and that of the early “gnostic” schools, as well as certain con ventional approaches to the relation between dogmatic tradition and divine revelation. The purpose of doing this, moreover, is not to try to arrive at a particular formulation of the “proper” reading of the theo logical record, but rather to call attention to a number of contradictions in the conceptual configurations we habitually assume when thinking about the “orthodox” understanding of nature and supernature. It seems clearly to be the case, for instance, that what we think of as the “gnostic” denigration of the created order is an exaggeration of a real “qualified” or “provisional dualism” in the New Testament, and as such is in many ways a more authentic continuation of early Christian understanding of a fallen creation than is, say, the two-tier Thomistic theology of pure na ture. According to Christian scripture, we live in the aftermath of an in trinsically divine reality’s alienation from its source, not in an order of nature that is the direct work of God’s creative will, perfectly innocent in itself, into which we were precipitated from the unnatural “supereleva tion” accorded us by an extraordinary grace at the inception of humanity’s spiritual history. At the same time, it seems to me that this gnostic exag geration of the story of the spiritual fall is the absolute opposite (and certainly not the obscure origin) of those modern theologies that—in appropriating various diluted or simplified forms of German idealist thought—have wanted to see the “alienation” of nature and history as in fact the dialectical achievement of the divine identity. Far from opening the door to “theogonic narratives” analogous to those of German ideal ism, the early “gnostic” theologies sealed the truly divine off from cre ation so absolutely as not even to allow room for any true theophany in the material world. And, far from constituting a return of a gnostic im pulse, those modern theologies deep-dyed in German idealism represent a final oblivion of precisely that element of “gnostic” suspicion that is closest to the sensibility of the New Testament.

You Are Gods

It even seems correct to say that the great failure of the “gnostic” theological imagination is its exaggeration of the estrangement of cre ation from the truly supernatural (God in se)—which results not, merci fully, in a concept of “pure nature,” but which does result, every bit as incoherently, in a concept of a reality truly extrinsic and alien to God and therefore beyond all redemption, even through the sorcery of “super elevating grace.” At the same time, the great virtue of this vision is that it preserves a proper sense that whatever possesses a supernatural destiny must be supernatural—must be divine—“naturally,” while anything truly outside the sphere of this natural divinity (were any such thing possible) could never be joined to God. It is no less correct, however, to say that the great failure of theologies inspired by German idealist tradition is the tendency to understand this primordial inseparability of the “natural” and the “supernatural” in the terms of the former: to confine the super natural, in fact, to the limits of what is, in some sense, a mere negative capacity of nature and history—the necessary dependency of the divine on the not-divine in order to achieve its full expression and “spiritual” finality. And, conversely, the great virtue of this vision—paradoxically, perhaps—is precisely the same as that of the “gnostic” vision: the recog nition that whatsoever enters into the life of the divine must always al ready have been divine. More to the point, the “gnostic” vision, despite all its limitations, and despite its ontological and metaphysical naïvetés, is nonetheless nearer to the spirit of the New Testament than any theology that would make room for an autonomous sphere of “nature in itself” apart from fallenness, or for “human nature in itself” apart from hu manity’s supernatural ground and ultimate divine vocation; at the same time, it is also nearer to the New Testament than any theology that would turn the fallenness of creation into a moment within the mystery of the divine, or accord it any probationary or dialectical meaning in itself.

The sixth essay, consisting as it does in a series of theses rather than an argument, defies summary here. It is something of a contrapuntal composition, and rather clumsily fugal at that, and the various themes combined within it have appeared and reappeared in my work with some frequency over the years. Here, perhaps, the implications of some of those themes are unfolded more explicitly than has been the case in the past. But I must leave the “essay” (if that is what it is) to speak—or fail to speak—for itself.

Introduction xvii

A friend has suggested to me that I might have subtitled this collec tion “Studies in Vedantic Christianity.” I have no objection in principle, though I suspect that to have done so would have provoked so much pre liminary consternation and suspicion from some readers as to render the essays incapable of having any effect upon them. And, after all, I might just as well have characterized the position defended in these pages as “Neoplatonic Christianity,” since that says more or less the same thing. I have refrained from doing that as well, though, chiefly because, to my mind, the phrase constitutes something of a pleonasm. Perhaps, however, it would be best simply to note that—on the question of “grace” and “nature”—these pages advance an Eastern Christian view over against a particular set of Western Christian traditions. Indeed, if there is one thing on which all the great Orthodox theologians of the last century were agreed, despite all their differences from one another, it was that the entire problem of grace and nature (which was known to them almost exclusively from Thomist sources, many of them French) was a false di lemma created by an inept reading of Paul and by a catastrophic division into discrete categories of what should never have been divided. There is only χάρις, which is at once that which is freely given, the delight taken in the gift, and the thanksgiving offered up for it; and all those things that a distorted theology converts into oppositions or dialectical contraries or saltations—grace and nature, creation and deification, nature and super nature—are in fact only differing vantages upon, or continuously varying intensities within, a single transcendent act, a single immanent mystery.

I have probably said enough. Even so, before parting, I should like to advance five propositions—five premises, really—in part in order to add provocation to provocation, but mostly in order to elucidate the perspective from which this book is written.

1. The sole sufficient natural end of all spiritual creatures is the super natural, and grace is nothing but the necessary liberation of all crea tures for their natural ends.

2. Nature stands in relation to supernature as (in Aristotelian terms) prime matter to form. Nature in itself has no real existence and can have none; it is entirely an ontological patiency before the formal

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causality of supernature, and only as grace can nature possess any actuality at all.

3. No spiritual creature could fail to achieve its naturally supernatural end unless God himself were the direct moral cause of evil in that creature, which is impossible. Conversely, God saves creatures by re moving extrinsic, physical (that is, non-moral) impediments to their natural union with him.

4. God became human so that humans should become God. Only the God who is always already human can become human. Only a humanity that is always already divine can become God.

5. God is all that is. Whatever is not God exists as becoming divine, and as such is God in the mode of what is other than God. But God is not “the other” of anything.

Waking the Gods

Theosis as Reason’s Natural End

Τί γὰρ θεώσεως τοῖς ἀξίοις ἐρασμιώτερον, καθ᾽ ἣν ὁ Θεὸς Θεοῖς γενομένοις ἑνούμενος τὸ πᾶν ἑαυτοῦ ποιεῖται δι᾽ ἀγαθότητα; Διὸ καὶ ἡδονὴν καὶ πεῖσιν καὶ χαρὰν καλῶς ὠνόμασαν τὴν τοιαύτην κατάστασιν, τὴν τῇ θείᾳ κατανοήσει καὶ τῇ ἑπομένῃ αὐτῇ τῆς εὐφροσύνης ἀπολαύσει ἐγγινομένην, ἡδονὴν μέν, ὡς τέλος οὖσαν τῶν κατὰ φύσιν ἐνεργειῶν (οὕτω γὰρ τὴν ἡδονὴν ὁρίζονται) . . .

—Maximus the Confessor1

I It is a source of constant vexation to me, as I am sure it must be to all of us, that philosophical theology pays such scant attention to root vegeta bles. Obviously, after so many centuries of appalling neglect, this is not a deficiency that can be remedied in a day; but, even so, we should not shirk such small corrective efforts as we are able to undertake. So imag ine, if you will, a turnip. Imagine it set before you on a table. But imag ine also that, only a few moments ago, it was not a turnip, but a rabbit

You Are Gods

instead, and that I have just now magically conjured the one thing out of the other. I do not mean, I hasten to add, that I am an illusionist who has just performed a very clever trick. Rather, mine was a genuine feat of goetic sorcery, probably accomplished with the assistance of a daemon familiar. Contain your wonder. Then tell me: Have I actually trans formed a rabbit into a turnip—is that logically possible—or have I in stead merely annihilated the poor bunny and then recombined its material ingredients into something else altogether? Surely, it seems obvious, the answer must be the latter. It may well be that precisely the same molecules—even the same atoms—once found in the rabbit are now securely invested in the turnip; but there is nothing leporine re maining in the turnip, and neither was there any trace of rapinity (rapi tude?) in the rabbit. I assume that this is uncontroversial. Very well. What, though, if instead I had transformed the rabbit not into another terrestrial organism, especially not one presumably lower in the chain of being, but had instead, so to speak, superelevated it by changing it into a more eminent kind of entity—say, an angel? Much the same question arises: has the rabbit become an angel, or has it again merely perished and been replaced by something else? The answer depends, I suppose, on whether one thinks there is already something angelic about rabbits (as I do, but as many do not); for, if there is no latent angelism in rabbits, even of the most purely potential kind, then again no real metamor phosis has occurred at the level of discrete substances or identities. All that has happened is that I have murdered a harmless bunny and sum moned up a potentially very dangerous spiritual creature to take its place (one that may not at all approve of my callousness toward small helpless animals).

This is, of course, more or less the opposite of the Ship of Theseus conundrum. The question at issue is not a mereological or metaphysical query about whether a substantial form, individuated by its material in stantiation, remains identical with itself as each of its material parts is successively replaced. Rather, it is something more along the lines of asking what continuity exists between, say, a stand of trees and a ship composed from their wood. And it seems obvious that those trees— understood as discrete substances, modes, or just relatively stable objects of deictic reference—have not become a ship, but have instead ceased to

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exist in order that the ship might come into being. Whatever continuity persists between the trees and the ship is found only in a common sub strate, at the level of sheer material plasticity, and is ultimately reducible to that pure indeterminate potency traditionally called prime matter or ὕλη. This alone remains constant across all transformations precisely because it is in itself nothing as such, and so is always absolute: absolved, that is, of all formal identity. It can relinquish one form in order to be subsumed into another without being itself altered because in itself it is nothing other than the abiding reality of pure possibility. There is no “thing” to be altered. At the level of actual forms and natures and deter minate properties, however, nothing can ever truly become anything other than what it already is, at least potentially. A discrete substance can pass through various states proper to itself, achieve diverse stages of natural development, acquire or shed modalities or accidents implicit in its own nature. But it can never become something truly extrinsic to itself without ceasing to be what it was.

If, by the way, I seem to be slipping too easily and unreflectively into an Aristotelian patois, I do so without remorse. For one thing, the par ticular issues I want to discuss here have traditionally been couched in just such terms. More to the point, though, traditional Aristotelian lan guage concerning the relation between potentiality and actuality seems to me merely to express what I take to be a very basic and logically im peccable modal grammar. Every specific possibility is finite; conversely, infinite possibility can never be specific. And this same elementary logical solvency can be ascribed to the whole Aristotelian language of causality, so long as one does not make the mistake—characteristic of much seventeenth-century science, with its agent and patient substances and forces—of imagining that that language concerns “causes” in the modern sense. Really, a better rendering of “aitiai ” or “causae,” in the ancient or mediaeval acceptation, might be “explanations,” “rationales,” “logical descriptions,” or “rational relations.” The fourfold nexus of causality was chiefly a rule of predication, describing the inherent logical structure of anything that exists insofar as it exists, and reflecting a world in which things and events are at once discretely identifiable and yet part of the continuum of the whole. A thing’s aitiai are intrinsic integral logical re lations, not separated forces in only accidental alliance. A final cause is

You Are Gods

the inherent natural limit of a particular possibility, not an extrinsically imposed design; it is at once a thing’s intrinsic fullness and its larger par ticipation in the totality of nature. So a causal relation in this scheme is less like a physical exchange of energy than like a mathematical equation, and the final cause is like the inevitable sum determining that relation. And the logic of finality, if one grants it (as one must), tells us that the only substantial transformations that are not essentially annihilations are modifications already virtually embraced within the natural poten tials of the thing transformed. There may be differing modes of lepo rinity, for instance, and any number of possible accidents thereof, but none of these is the condition of being a turnip. A rabbit cannot be—and therefore cannot become—a turnip, any more than a circle can be—or can become—a square.

Why is any of this important here? Principally for historical reasons. It is very easy to forget, after all, that many of the most important theological developments and movements in both Roman Catholic and Eastern Or thodox theology in the first half of the twentieth century—ressourcement, la nouvelle théologie, the neopatristic synthesis, Neopalamism, even cer tain salient aspects of Bulgakov’s mature thought—took shape in the same, largely Parisian intellectual atmosphere, and defined themselves to a significant degree over against what was then the dominant theology of grace in Roman Catholic thought: that of the Baroque “manualist” Thomism whose institutional cry of triumph had rung out so stridently in 1879’s encyclical Aeterni Patris but had already diminished to an as perous death rattle by the time of 1950’s Humani generis. This was the infamous “two-tier” Thomism—or so its detractors called it—that had had no real antecedents in theological tradition much before the de auxiliis controversy of the sixteenth century, that had achieved preemi nence only in the days of the “modernist crisis,” that was already on the way to its well-deserved demise with the publication of Maurice Blondel’s L’action in 1893, and did not long survive Henri de Lubac’s Surnaturel in 1946. And, until very recently, most of us thought it had been laid

Waking the Gods

permanently to rest, in the deepest, dankest, and most dismal of the ology’s unvisited crypts. Apparently, however, someone neglected to drive a stake through its heart and cut off its head, because in the last two decades it has enjoyed a surprisingly robust reviviscence in some of the more militantly necrophile factions of traditionalist Catholicism. And so, now that the damned monster is up from its grave and spas modically lurching about again, spreading terror among the villagers and hill-folk, this might be a propitious time for Orthodox theologians to reconsider what was learned (or should have been learned) in those earlier encounters with it. (Who knows but that it will ultimately be up to them to save the occidental barbarians from themselves?)

From an Eastern perspective, the debate on the “supernatural”— epochal though it was for Catholic theology—can only seem a bit bizarre. What had become the “Thomist” position (which must be distinguished, incidentally, from any position we can confidently attribute to Thomas himself) was that a proper appreciation of the gratuity of salvation and deification can be secured only by insisting that, as the tedious formula goes, “grace is extrinsic to the nature of the creature.” That is to say, human nature has no inherent ordination toward real union with God, and—apart from the infusion of a certain wholly adventitious lumen gloriae —rational creatures are incapable even of conceiving a desire for such union. Even the unremitting agitations of Augustine’s cor inquietum are superadded spiritual motives that, in the current providential order of this world, happen to have been graciously conjoined to the natural intentionalities of created rational wills. But, so the claim goes, none of that need be the case. God could just as well have created a world in a state of natura pura, wherein the rational volitions of spiritual creatures could have achieved all their final ends and ultimate rest in an entirely natural terminus. The only longing for God such creatures would natu rally experience would be an elicited velleity or abstract curiosity ob scurely directed toward some original explanatory principle that might tell them where the world came from. Or, in some cases, for those who may have heard of the possibility of the beatific vision in the abstract, there might be an elicited “conditional” desire to see what it is like; but this would still not be the kind of supernatural appetite and superadded capacity that efficacious grace alone can infuse in a soul. And, even then,

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those ungraced spirits need never discover that principle or that possible end in itself in order to be wholly satisfied in their rational longings, since God thus “naturally” conceived remains the object of an only incidental inquisitiveness, adequately known in and through creatures. Moreover, supposedly, even in this world, where rational natures do bear the gra cious imprint of a vocation to deification, human nature in itself remains entirely identical to what human nature would have been in a world with out grace. Nature as such has no claim on grace, even where such grace is given, nor does it even have any awareness that such grace is desirable unless that grace is actually given. Hence the term “two-tier” Thomism: Nature is a circumscribed totality, a self-sufficient suppositum, while grace is a superadditum set, as it were, atop it, and only thereby super elevating nature beyond itself. And here too one sees the effect of a certain Thomist tendency to see the Fall as humanity’s descent from a graciously elevated state (Eden) into the state of nature as God had created it in its integrity (including such essential features as suffering and death), as op posed to the Christian view that the Fall was the descent of humanity and the whole cosmos from their original and natural condition into an un natural state of bondage to decay (including such accidental features as suffering and death).

Now, clearly, the two-tier picture is alien to the whole of patristic tradition—indeed, more or less antithetical to it—and probably, I think, to most or all of mediaeval tradition. Its rise in early modernity was the result of an accident of theological history. Thomas himself in many places, and most insistently in the Summa contra gentiles, asserts that “omnis intellectus naturaliter desiderat divinae substantiae visionem,” “every intellect naturally desires the vision of the divine nature”;2 and that no finite intelligible object is sufficient for human happiness because the only final end of natural human desire is the real knowledge of God;3 and that rational mind is created specifically for the purpose of seeing God.4 It is something of a refrain in his writings.5 But, on the threshold of modernity, these claims became suspect, as they seemed to fall afoul of the Aristotelian principle—or, at least, of an inexplicably fashionable exaggeration of the Aristotelian principle—that, as Denis the Carthusian (1402–71) puts it, “no natural desire can exceed natural capacity”:6 an axiom hazily drawn from Aristotle’s claim in De caelo (where it functions

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not really so much as a logical assertion as a “providential” maxim) that “had Nature endowed celestial bodies with an inclination to linear move ment, she would have supplied the means for it as well.”7 There is, admit tedly, a banal truism here, since a “natural” desire is necessarily deter mined toward a specific final cause; but how this should apply to the very special case of rational spirit is precisely the issue that the later Thomist tradition could not coherently answer because it was inhibited by its commitment to a very particular understanding of grace. Cajetan (1469–1534), for instance, took it as established that, for any rational creature, “naturale eius desiderium non se extendit ultra facultatem,” “its natural desire cannot extend beyond its own faculty,”8 and that therefore created intellect does not naturally desire God in se; for it cannot aspire to an object to which the “tota vis naturae,” “the whole power of nature,” is in adequate.9 Therefore, supposedly, it must be the case that when Thomas speaks of the natural desire for God he is referring solely to the present providential order, in which human nature has already received grace’s extrinsic mark. But then, even within this order, we must still acknowl edge two distinct finalities for human beings: the “supposited” natural end and the graciously “superposited” supernatural end. The “first gift” of creation and the “second gift” of deification belong to two discontinu ous moments of divine largesse.

I am indifferent to whether this is the correct reading of Thomas.10 I do, though, think it worthwhile to make a few obvious points. For one thing, as I am hardly the first to note, the principle of proportionality between natural desire and desire’s ends ought not to be mistaken for a rule regarding the range of a creature’s innate spontaneous powers. What is natural for us is not necessarily, by that token, something that we are capable of achieving for ourselves. Indeed, insofar as we are finite and contingent beings, everything “natural” about us—the very possession of any nature at all, in fact—is dependent upon some other source or power not only for its realization, but for its very existence. Thomas, for in stance, drawing on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, plainly states that certain natural inclinations can be fulfilled only through the aid of another, and that there is even a peculiar and superior nobility in those aspects of our nature that require the assistance of friends to bring them to fruition.11 But, really, are such properties even very rare or exceptional

Are Gods

in finite natures? Even Aristotle’s celestial bodies, for instance, perpetu ally enact the cyclophoria of the heavens only because they are drawn ever onward from beyond themselves by the Prime Mover, to which they will never attain. In a sense, almost every natural desire—even, say, for food or for sex—is dependent for its realization on something imparted to it from beyond itself. Even those possibilities most constitutive of us as the finite beings that we are can be fulfilled only in and through the grace of cooperating external causes. It was perfectly natural to me, for instance, as an adult human male, to become both a husband and a father. In a sense, the fullness of my humanity—at least, as the person I happen to be—required no less of me. But I was utterly incapable of achieving that natural end without the assistance of at least two other persons. A final cause must be logically implicit in the potency it actuates, true, but not necessarily as some wholly inherent and autonomous power of ex pression. And there is no logical reason to claim that an end that can be achieved only by supernatural assistance is not, for that reason, a natural possibility. Indeed, if this were the case, the very concept of natural po tential would be meaningless, since any finite reality’s very existence is always already a possibility that has been enacted by a wholly super natural gift of being. A potency can be thoroughly natural in itself even if proportioned to an end that the “whole power of nature” (as we know it, at least) cannot supply. There is no contradiction here. There would be a contradiction only if there were no reality at all corresponding to that natural potency, and so no real final cause implicit in it.

On the other hand—and this again brings us back to the difference between the traditional Thomistic understanding of fallenness (as a de scent from a state of gracious exception from nature into one of “natural” mortality and ignorance) and the Christian view (a descent from a natural state of grace into one of unnatural corruption)—why should one assume that a wholly natural (which is also to say, wholly supernatural) progress into deification lies beyond the capacity of an unfallen rational creature?12 Why would one imagine that the capacity for the desire to see God is not also, apart from the unnatural limitations of sin and death, the natural capacity to achieve deification? Especially if one does not make the error of thinking that such an achievement must be either a work of grace or a work of nature, but realizes instead that such a distinction is a phan tom of fallen consciousness? Even in this life, after all, something of the

the Gods

experience of real divinizing union with God can be vouchsafed to those who are devoted to the spiritual life—ἕνωσις, unio mystica, turiya, fanaa-fillah—and this evidently, however much a gift of grace, is also a real capacity of human nature when that nature is set free from the con straints of an unnatural limitation of consciousness. Every rational nature is already potentially infinite in its embrace of the divine nature, even if that potency can be actualized only as a kind of infinite epektasis.

In truth, this entire issue seems to pose a problem only if one is in tent on maintaining precisely the kind of impermeable partition between nature and grace that a belief in creatio ex nihilo renders meaningless. Grace, to be grace, does not require a prior antithetical suppositum of something devoid of grace—pure nature or nature in itself—nor need it be a purely extrinsic gift at every level of its impartation; it need only be free in its entirety. Finite existence itself is always already nothing but the gracious effect of God calling creatures to himself out of nothingness. All those boring false dilemmas bedeviling Western theology since the Pela gian controversy—the causal priority we assign either to our own work ing out of salvation or to God working in us, either to God’s foreknowl edge or to his sovereignty in election, either to the creature’s merit or to God’s, and so on—are simple category errors. Between the immanent and the transcendent, or the finite and the infinite, such rivalries of agency are not even cogently conceivable. An intrinsic rational desire for God would constitute a “right” to God’s grace only if our nature were our own achievement. Yes, in a sense God does manifestly owe his creatures grace, within the terms of the gift of creation; but that is a debt he owes ulti mately only to his own goodness.

None of that, however, is my principal argument here. I have two very different concerns: one logical (and metaphysical), regarding poten tiality and actuality, the other phenomenological (and metaphysical), regarding the necessary structure of rational volition.

III

As to the former, the issue is that same simple, irresoluble logical im passe with which I began these reflections. The traditionalist Thomist answer to the conundrum of how, according to its scheme, grace can be