De locis theologicis

WHAT THE QUESTIONS OR CONCLUSIONS OF THEOLOGY ARE

Having explained theology’s causes, we should next explain its effects, which, when called into question, are questions, and when established by reasoning, conclusions. We shall first explain what a theological question is and what its parts are, since every theologian’s labor concerns it; afterward we shall explain how it should be treated. To prevent anyone from being misled by the ambiguity of the name, understand that “theological question” is sometimes used for any proposition that some theologian has happened to doubt, even rashly. But if we extend the subject and question of theology so broadly, the theological question will be judged not by the nature of this discipline but by the whim of foolish people. Then we shall include among theological questions such things as: Can baptism be performed separately in matter or form if, by divine power, the form of water is separated from its matter? Can a donkey drink baptism? And other questions of the same kind, which I omit for brevity lest I weary the reader. I have no desire to include within theology’s bounds foolish and undisciplined questions, which the Apostle commands us to avoid (2 Tim. 2). By the bounds and limits of disciplines I mean their conclusions. As we briefly touched on at the beginning of this chapter, a question and a conclusion are the same thing: when a matter is put forward for debate in the form of a question, it is a question; when it is derived by reasoning, it is a conclusion. If a theologian establishes and proves through arguments the very matter that had been brought into question, those foolish things should neither be called theological questions nor can they be: they cannot be settled and resolved from the principles of theology, and so are not conclusions of that discipline either, but fictitious chimeras of ignorant people. What, then, do we understand by a theological question? I think it is one that plainly concerns the subject matter, that is, theology. Empty, foolish, and harmful questions do not concern it, but sound, fitting, and useful ones do. “I am your God, teaching you what is useful” (Isaiah 48). Theology, then, which is the teaching of God, draws no useless conclusions. Indeed, it builds upon the foundation of faith laid by the Apostles with gold, silver, and precious stones; those who build with wood, hay, and stubble (1 Cor. 3) do so not from theology but from error. Let it therefore stand that a conclusion properly called theological arises from the principles of theology as effects arise from their causes. Hence it follows that no question should be considered theological unless it can be referred to such principles and resolved from them by apt and coherent reasoning. ¹

Although some questions are like appendices, and may rightly and not absurdly be called theological by a kind of likeness, closeness, or even order, because they are aptly and seriously joined to the explanation of questions that are truly and properly theological, here and now we are speaking of the theological question according to the nature and order of the discipline. Sometimes, not only in theology but in nearly all the other human disciplines, things that are by their nature principles and therefore ought to be assumed by the student, if matters proceeded in their proper order, are brought into doubt and proved by argument, given the character of the human mind. Thus the order of things is disturbed and reversed: later causes are put first and earlier effects are assumed. This is why St. Thomas and the other theologians also include among theological questions such matters as whether God exists, along with others of the same kind. There is no doubt that first and certain principles are thereby called into question and, as though they were connections within this discipline, linked from other supposed principles. This also led Aristotle to introduce four kinds of questions into all the sciences: whether a thing exists, what it is, what kind it is, and for what cause it is so. The last two questions can be resolved rightly and in the natural order; the first two cannot, except when there are two definitions of the same thing, one explaining its nature through its material cause and the other through its final cause. Then the latter definition is demonstrated from the former in a way that preserves, in some sense, the reasoning and order of nature. Yet the definition that answers the second question is known, so to speak, from effects, which, although later by nature, come first for us—that is, in our knowledge. In theology, as in other fields, principles themselves may either be arranged and ordered among themselves, as causes are divided into four kinds and have an order of priority, or they may be connected and linked so that, once both are granted, we can reach conclusions about either of two disputed matters. Therefore, if an opponent admits some principles, even while denying others, we can derive what he denies from what he admits, especially when the principles are mutually linked. Thus the ancient theologians prove the Old Testament from the New, and conversely the New from the Old; they assert the Church’s authority from the sacred books, and in turn the authority of the sacred books from the Church. There is therefore no single principle in theology that theologians have not brought into question, so that if someone denies it while perhaps admitting other principles, we are ready to defeat him from what he grants and, as it were, strike him down with a drawn sword. This was carefully explained in book 2 and will be explained more carefully in the final book. Theologians raise questions about their principles not only for these reasons, but also to explain and expound them. As we learned as boys in rhetoric, everyone who discusses a matter has a question before him—not only one who tosses about disputed matters in debate, but historians and poets as well, who solve the questions before them by exposition rather than argument. Exposition often wins the hearer’s belief; argument establishes it. I have often laughed at some of our own people who work so hard to defend the arguments St. Thomas repeatedly offers as appropriate explanations of the faith, as though they were certain and obvious demonstrations. I also often laugh at his opponents, who attack him as if he were an enemy precisely where St. Thomas has shown himself an excellent servant of the faith. They do not understand, being more ready to fight than to teach, that questions of faith are raised with the utmost gravity and reverence not because we are trying to make a doubting hearer believe, but because we are trying to explain to a believer what he understands and perceives only imperfectly.

We have said enough about what a theological question is when defined according to the order and nature of the discipline, and what it is when judged according to our own intellectual habits; about which questions in theology are primary and which are appendices; and about which are resolved chiefly by argument and which chiefly by exposition. Now we must divide the question, so that what seems scattered and limitless can be brought together in one view through orderly classification. Theological questions, whatever their subject, belong to two kinds: one concerns knowledge, the other action. Questions of knowledge aim at scientific understanding. For example: Are the Father and Son one principle of the Holy Spirit or two? Are the divine Persons distinguished by relative or absolute properties? Questions of action include, for example: Is penance necessary for salvation as a means, or also as a precept? Do the sacraments of the New Law confer grace and virtues? Questions of knowledge, generally speaking, are divided into four kinds: whether God, an angel, or a rational soul exists; what it is; what kind it is; and why it is so. As we have said, the first two are explained according to the condition of our intellect, and the second and third according to the nature of things and the discipline itself. Questions of action also have two kinds: one concerns what is necessary for salvation, the other things that seem useful. Questions of the first kind include: if, for example, Christ’s honor or even a neighbor’s spiritual salvation is at risk, should a Christian die for these things or not? Is there a Gospel precept to receive baptism? Examples of the second kind include questions such as: Does holy water, as the scholastics call blessed water, by its own force and, as they say, ex opere operato, wash away venial sins and entirely remove the penalties of sin, or does it do so rather through the merit of the person acting? Does the sacrament of the Eucharist make a person who is attrite contrite? Likewise, does it take effect when the obstacle is removed, as baptism and penance do? The Summa of St. Thomas is full of such questions. A theologian does not always discuss necessities, but sometimes also matters without which salvation and religion remain intact. Since we are covering everything, we should also say that a theological question, whether it concerns contemplation or conduct, may be natural or supernatural. I think we may call a question supernatural if it is resolved only from supernatural principles; a natural question is one whose explanation can be given by the constant order of nature. There is also a middle kind, depending partly on a supernatural principle and partly on a natural one. An example of the first kind is: Have we all died? Paul resolves this question by the argument: “If Christ died for all, then all have died”; but Christ died for all. Likewise: Will we all rise? The Apostle settles it thus: Christ has risen, therefore we too shall rise. Examples of the second kind are: Is God everywhere? Is he immutable? Is the human soul immortal? Can it be divided and cut into parts? Although proofs of these matters may be drawn from Scripture, since they pertain to the faith, they are clear and evident in the light of nature and for that reason are not questions of faith in themselves, but, as we have said, so only by accident. Examples of the third kind include: Is Christ capable of laughter? Does he have two wills and two intellects, and likewise two operations of each power? These become clear from both kinds of principles. The first is established from these premises: Christ is a human being, and every human being is capable of laughter.

The remaining questions are established from these premises: Christ has two perfect natures, divine and human; but every perfect nature claims for itself its own operation and power. Finally, there is another division of the theological question, whatever its kind. Some questions of faith are such that, since they concern the faith, a theologian must risk even his life for their truth. Other questions can be either misunderstood or denied without loss of faith. Augustine recalls this distinction often, among other places in book 2 of De peccato originali contra Pelagium et Celestium, chapter 23. This division must be not only committed to memory but constantly kept before our eyes if we wish to be complete theologians. Here are examples of both kinds. The first kind includes: Did Christ’s soul see God clearly as soon as it was joined to the Word? Is there a purgatorial fire in the lower regions where the souls of the faithful pay the penalties for their sins? Augustine says that questions of the second kind are varied and countless, and difficult to gather and define under any one heading. His examples include questions about the nature or location of Paradise, where God placed the man he formed from dust, although Christian faith does not doubt that Paradise exists; where Elijah or Enoch is now, whether there or somewhere else, though we do not doubt that they live in the bodies in which they were born; whether the Apostle was caught up to the third heaven in or out of the body, although it is shameless for those who wish to know what the Apostle himself, to whom it was granted, testifies that he does not know—while his faith remains intact; how many heavens there are, to the third of which he says he was caught up; whether the elements of this visible world are four or more; what causes the sun or moon to be eclipsed in the ways astrologers are accustomed to predict by exact reckoning of time; why the ancient people lived as long as Holy Scripture attests, and whether, in proportion to their longer life, they began to beget children at a later age; where Methuselah could have lived, since he was not in the ark yet, according to the years counted in most Greek and Latin manuscripts, he seems to have survived the Flood—or whether one should rather believe the very few manuscripts in which the number of years is written so as to show that he died before the Flood. So much for Augustine’s examples. In this category St. Thomas (2 Contra gentiles, chapter 70) places the question whether heaven is animate, which Jerome lists among Origen’s other errors in his letter to Avitus; Augustine in Enchiridion, chapter 57, also seems to agree with St. Thomas. But lest I detain the reader any longer, I shall briefly explain my view of this whole class of questions and the precepts I think should be given about them. No firm and lasting precepts about theological questions can be given except by those who have long and extensively practiced in the schools. Such instruction therefore properly belongs to the scholastics. Those who think the schools should be neglected have no sound, precise, or distinguished discussion of theological questions; they are far from being teachers of matters they have never learned through practice. The matter prompts me here to lament the interruption, if not the destruction, of scholastic theology, but I fear that while complaining about other universities I might praise my own Spain excessively, where scholastic theology flourishes greatly in these times. Even among us, however, we see that when theologians have died, hope remains in very few and ability in even fewer, while boldness is found in many. I will say nothing about myself; I would gladly speak of my teacher, who so remarkably adorned the Spanish universities with his talent and learning, and made them so respected and beloved by our people that they flocked to them eagerly, indeed rushed to them. If he had written

for the French, Germans, and Italians, with the clarity, elegance, and charm he showed in debate, scholastic learning would not now be languishing among those nations. I think some people have come to hate the schools because they encountered crude and harsh treatments of poorly chosen questions, investigated badly and concluded even worse. But, setting that aside, let us pursue what we have undertaken. It is not necessary to set out separate theological precepts for easy questions, since their answers are plain. Nor is it worthwhile to lay down rules for questions that depart far from reason; they are obvious and require little warning or instruction. Difficult matters, which few can understand, require more careful teaching. I therefore consider the first duty of a theologian who is reasoning to be to examine often the question he is about to treat and repeatedly ask himself what kind it is. Questions that enter theology according to the order of nature and the discipline must be settled differently from those raised by the weakness or, perhaps, the malice of human reasoning. One must also reason differently about questions raised so that we may explain them and those raised so that we may prove them. A discussion of a natural question is very different from one of a supernatural question, and different theological topics are suited to each. Questions of knowledge and action, as we have said elsewhere, are generally handled and resolved in almost the same way and from the same topics. But besides carefully examining the kind of each question, we must pay particular attention to whether it lies outside the faith or pertains to faith and religion. With those who err in a question of faith we must, as the saying goes, fight with horse and lance; with those who debate matters about which people can be mistaken, err, or slip while keeping the faith intact, theologians may and sometimes should fight, as I have said elsewhere, but a bloody battle is absolutely forbidden. How ridiculous it is to strain every sinew of body and mind to resolve a question whose ignorance brings no danger and whose error carries no guilt! I have carefully explained in books 8 and 9 how much moderation a theologian should exercise throughout this latter class of questions. Here I say only what suits the present topic and the brevity of this outline; the rest can be found there. I do not wish to repeat the same things at this time and place. The theologian should avoid not only foolish questions, genealogies, disputes, and legal quarrels—which are sometimes harmful—but also every useless and empty question that cannot serve his pursuit of knowledge or action. Jerome counts among these questions (In commentario Epistolae ad Titum, chapter 3): How many years did Methuselah live? At what age did Solomon marry, lest someone suppose Rehoboam was born when Solomon was eleven? In his letter to Vitalis, after answering the latter question in two ways, Jerome concludes, “The Apostle forbids questions of this kind.” A little later he says, “Reread all the books of the Old and New Testaments, and you will find such disagreement in years, and such confusion of numbers between Judah and Israel—that is, between the two kingdoms—that to cling to such questions seems the work of an idle person, not a diligent one.” It is well that he said not to cling to them, not to touch them. For if it is idle and useless to linger over this kind of question, then not only I, who explained many such matters in the preceding book, but Augustine and Jerome himself would also be criticized. We should not linger over these unnecessary questions, even if they seem in some way to concern the truth of sacred history. But in every discussion, and especially in one that concerns—

When faith and salvation are not at stake, some flexibility is needed so that dwelling for a long time on these matters does not lead us into useless and tiresome stubbornness. St. Augustine considered it pointless to ask where and how Christ’s body is in heaven (De fide et symbolo, chapter 6). But although he was speaking about faith and the creed before the fathers of a synod, he was instructing new converts. Cajetan, however—whom I dare call the most outstanding in our order not only for talent and learning but also the most restrained in raising questions of this kind—was not afraid to ask about this and explain it briefly while interpreting Scripture. Yet Augustine allows no questions that he says arise from a sick mind (Confessiones, book 11, chapter 30): “What was God doing before he made heaven and earth? What came into his mind to make something, when he had never made anything before?” A person doing penance and confessing sins can scarcely endure necessary questions, still less questions that are less useful, curious, and intrusive. The rule of debate prescribed for a theologian should therefore not be the same when he contends in a lecture hall and when he mourns in his bedroom or even in a church. Here is a rule that accords especially well with reason and the authority of the saints: any theologian about to dispute a supernatural matter—for this is the kind of debate proper to him—should reflect on the name of theology, read his title, “theologian,” often, ask himself not once but repeatedly why he began the debate, and know that he should take up no question unless it concerns the true philosophy of Christ, the Apostles, and the Prophets, which is above nature. Some have forgotten this precept and have been excessively persistent and long-winded in explaining countless questions, especially dialectical, physical, and metaphysical ones. Yet no one is long-winded who stays with his subject, provided he brings in and draws upon something that fits and agrees with his purpose. Still, I do not think these questions, although not so necessary, should be banished. They provide exercise for the mind and intellect, full not only of sharpness but also very useful for theology in the schools. When Augustine says that it makes no difference whether the sky encloses the earth like a sphere, holding it balanced at the center of the world, or covers it from above on one side like a disk, or whether the sky stands still or moves (De genesi ad litteram, book 2, chapters 9 and 10), he says this either to provoke the hatred and resentment of the Manichees, who boasted of learning many such questions from their teacher, or certainly to criticize those who spent too much time raising and solving such questions, time that should be used for salutary matters—as we gladly put it in his own words. Yet, as if in passing, he himself solves this kind of question, although, as he says, neither he as bishop had enough time to take them up and discuss them nor did those whom he wished to instruct have time, since their concern was their own salvation and the necessary benefit of the holy Church. Augustine says something similar in condemning the excessively curious questions of Dioscorus (Epistula 56 [=118]), though he writes that he says this not because such subjects are learned but because they are learned for a vain purpose. He answered some of them briefly and others at length. If a friend asked me about such matters, I would either pass them over discreetly or refuse to answer openly. I would not think them worthy of giving even a little of my time. But Augustine was either more generous to his friends or more indulgent toward Dioscorus. Why say all this? So that those who continually stir up hatred of the schools may understand that controversies about Aristotle are not unworthy of a theologian’s inquiry, if Augustine did not disdain to explain matters that were disputed in Cicero. What is more, Augustine himself (De ordine, book 2— ^{2 3 4}

chapter 16) asserts that someone who does not know what nothing is, what unformed matter is, what an unensouled formed thing is, what a body is, what shape in a body is, what place is, what time is, what is in a place, what is in time, what motion according to place is, what motion not according to place is, what stable motion is, what eternity is, what it means to be neither in a place nor nowhere, to be beyond time and always exist, to be nowhere and not nowhere, never to exist and never not to exist—such a person, I say, can neither rightly ask nor debate anything about God or his own soul. These physical and metaphysical questions should not therefore be expelled from our schools, not even those that Erasmus and others like him considered curious and sophistical. But more on this elsewhere. Now I return to the question of faith. Unless this is first established for the theologian, he can teach nothing by reason or by method. Great effort must therefore be made here if we are to determine the degrees of truth and falsehood in theology. This is especially proper to theology and also the most difficult of all tasks. No one can accomplish it except a perfect and complete theologian. Someone may ask: Are there no signs by which questions of faith can be separated and distinguished from those that are not questions of faith? Certainly there are. But not everyone can reach Corinth, and these are not common, well-worn rules familiar to all. Every question of faith must indeed be established with such signs and with these markers of questions of faith ready at hand; yet this is a very great matter, requiring considerable learning and practice. We shall present them, if we can, shortly, but first a few things must be said. A question of faith is understood in two ways. One concerns faith directly, as do all things that God has revealed to his Church either by word or in writing. The other concerns faith indirectly, such as all conclusions that we can derive and define in the order of the discipline from those first truths. Since these conclusions are not themselves revealed by God but are revealed through other things as principles, they are said to concern faith indirectly; whoever denies them is in this sense said to deny the faith. I also observe that it may not be unreasonable to call questions of faith those matters closely connected with the Church’s teaching, as appendices to the faith because of their affinity with it. This is not because the faith depends on them or is entirely destroyed if they are removed, but because it becomes sick and impaired if the truth of matters attached to it is undermined. For sound teaching and sound speech must exist in the Church, as the Apostle says (1 Tim. 1 and 6; 2 Tim. 2 and 4; Titus 1 and 2). Just as some diseases are deadly while others do not kill a person but still affect his health, so some errors do not extinguish faith but obscure it, do not overturn it but weaken it, and bring sickness rather than death. Just as whatever harms one’s health also harms one’s life, so whatever opposes sound teaching is in some way opposed to faith as well. From this it follows that questions concerning the soundness of Church teaching pertain in a certain way to faith. But we say that controversies of this kind are not properly within the faith, but outside it; and we do not consider those who err in them to err in the faith, but outside the faith. Having now set out these matters simply at the start, we shall examine the rest in greater detail.