The Josias Podcast, Episode XXIX: The Movies

Contributors to The Josias and Ius & Iusitium pick their favorite movies and discuss them. 

The result of the draft:

To vote for a winner click here.

Bibliography

Tertullian, De Spectaculis (On the Shows)

John Francis Nieto, A Study of Film.

Music: Max Steiner, “Tara Theme” from Gone with the Wind. 

If you have questions or comments, please send them to editors(at)thejosias.com.

Follow us on Facebook and Twitter.

Many thanks to our generous supporters on Patreon, who enable us to pay for podcast hosting. If you have not yet joined them, please do so. You can set up a one-time or recurring donation in any amount. Even $1 a month would be splendid.

The Politics of Hell

By Urban Hannon

The following lecture was delivered at the Pro Civitate Dei summer school in La Londe-les-Maures, France on June 12, 2022.

Listen to audio of this essay here.

Let’s start with a little guided meditation. I want you to imagine a society—a society made up of self-absorbed, atomized individuals—a society in which the various members tolerate each other, because they know they need each other, but only so that each of them can achieve his own private ambitions and desires—a society, moreover, that is in open rebellion against its own origins. Sound familiar yet? Now I want you to imagine that, once upon a time, this society had been noble, and civil, and good—but that its citizens—especially its elite citizens—out of a disordered sense of pride, effected a revolution against that received ancient order. Imagine, if you will, that this revolution had some ironic consequences, such as that, in the name of liberating themselves from being subject to any official king, these citizens wound up creating for themselves an even more oppressive and authoritarian regime—and that their honorable hierarchy, which in their pettiness they would have liked to dissolve altogether, was merely replaced by a dishonorable hierarchy—that they traded an ordered harmony for hostile power relations, and a common good for private vices. Now imagine that this populace—who, again, hate their own heritage and devote all their time and energy to contradicting it, loudly—is in fact deeply unsatisfied, frustrated, lonely, sad. And yet imagine that, despite their unhappiness in this society, they also live in constant, ever-growing fear—fear that this society of theirs, and everything it stands for, is on the verge of defeat. Imagine, finally, that this hysterical anxiety of theirs makes them even more odious and offensive and obnoxious. Probably by now you are not having to imagine, because unfortunately what I have been describing is not imaginary. This is a society—or at least, a “society”—which is very real, which is all around us, and with which we are forced to interact on a daily basis. I am speaking, of course, of the society of Satan and his demons. This is a talk about the politics of hell.

Before we descend into the Inferno, however, I should say one preliminary word of thanks. Now I had hoped that the good Pater Edmund Waldstein might be here with us today, not because he’s who I am thanking, but because I was hoping at this point to get to troll him a bit with acronyms. You see, as some of you might already know, our friend Pater Edmund despises acronyms, complaining that “they impede signification and thought”—and so it is a good thing that Pater lives in Vienna rather than Rome, like me, because in the Eternal City the Church uses a seeming infinity of them. Every document, every dicastery, every degree has its own two- or three-letter abbreviation, and to keep up in conversation you are expected to be familiar with a rolodex worth, else you’re going to be confused by “CDW”—err, “DDW”—and alarmed by “STD.” My favorite Roman acronym, however, is for the Pontificia Academia Sancti Thomae Aquinatis, the Pontifical Academy of St. Thomas Aquinas: P-A-S-T-A: PASTA. And my word of thanks today is for the PASTA president, who, ironically, is a Frenchman. Fr. Serge-Thomas Bonino is a Dominican friar of the Toulouse province, my professor at the Angelicum, and probably the world’s foremost expert on the angelology of St. Thomas Aquinas. (The only person who could maybe compete for that title is Tobias Hoffmann, previously of CUA and now of the Sorbonne, who works on the fall of the demons and its implications for action theory—but I digress.) Fr. Serge-Thomas Bonino teaches in Italian and publishes almost exclusively in French, but his one book that is presently available in English translation is relevant to our topic today: Angels and Demons, of no-not-that-AngelsandDemons fame. Even more relevant, for those who have French, is an essay Fr. Bonino wrote in Revue Thomiste back in 2013, “Les écailles de Léviathan: ou de l’organisation de la société des démons selon les théologiens du treizième siécle”—“The Scales of Leviathan: Or On the Organization of the Demons’ Society According to Thirteenth-Century Theologians.” Most relevant of all, however, for those who have Italian—and a sabbatical—are Fr. Bonino’s classes in Rome. I was blessed to take one with him this past semester on evil, the final dispensa for which ended up coming in at exactly 666 kilobytes (I don’t think he planned that but I also wouldn’t put it past him)—as well as one on Satan and the demons, fittingly located in Room 6, which you might remember as the name of Christine Taylor’s 2006 horror movie about devil-worshipping doctors. All of this just to say: I will be borrowing heavily from Fr. Bonino in this lecture—which is not to imply that he would necessarily endorse all of its integralist conclusions—and if you are interested in learning more about these things after today there is no better man to turn to than Fr. Bonino. Thus concludes the acronyms-and-acknowledgements section of this talk.

As we turn to consider the demons themselves, I should warn you that we will not really be getting to their politics proper until the second half of this lecture. I hope it is fair to assume that I am not speaking to a room of professional angelologists, so we will have a good amount of ground to cover on our way there, so that we can appreciate what we will find when we arrive. I think it is best to begin by situating demonology within the whole of Christian theology, because there is always a risk of exaggerating the importance of Satan, or of becoming inordinately curious about the workings of the underworld. Don’t get me wrong: The demons are very real, and so is spiritual warfare. But, it turns out, indulging a morbid fascination with the devil is a great way to lose in that spiritual warfare. To steal St. John the Divine’s phrase from his letters to the churches in the Apocalypse: Beware of “scrutinizing the depths of Satan.” The demons have their place in our Catholic doctrine, therefore, but it is important to be clear about what that place is, and not to let them leave it. Here is how Fr. Bonino began our course this year:

The Catholic Church’s teaching on Satan and the demons is not at all the center of Christian revelation. It is a side teaching, a marginal doctrine, that is, a peripheral truth in the hierarchy of revealed truths. It needs to remain so. A preaching of the Christian faith obsessed with the devil would be completely unbalanced. Indeed, the doctrine on Satan must be subordinated to and integrated with the most fundamental truths of the faith: the mystery of God and of his loving plans brought about by the victory of Christ, which frees believers from the powers of evil. Therefore, Satan’s place in the Christian faith is precisely under the feet of the risen Christ.

End quote, and mic drop. Now, obviously I would not be talking about the politics of hell today if I didn’t think there were something valuable for us to learn from it. But the point is that our interest needs to be mortified, limited to what we can know from the science of metaphysics and from sacra doctrina, and exclusively ordered to our Christian beatitude and the glory of God.

Allora, to understand the demons’ politics, which is part of what they do, first we need to know something about the demons’ nature and condition, which is part of what they are. Agere sequitur esse, right?: “Action follows being,” second act follows on first act. We’ll take two different paths to try to get there: from above, and from the side—that is, by considering what these spiritual substances are in general, and by contrasting the demons with their angelic counterparts. Let’s take the first one first, because it is always better to treat common things before particular ones, or else you end up just having to repeat yourself. (That, by the way—short side rant here—is why in the Summa St. Thomas considers the divine essence before he considers the processions of the divine persons, De Deo Uno before De Deo Trino. It was fashionable in the twentieth century to complain that St. Thomas was thereby subordinating the Most Holy Trinity to merely philosophical questions about God’s simplicity and goodness and perfection and infinity and so forth, but the truth is that St. Thomas was just better at methodology than his critics. If he had started with the persons, then in treating the Father he’d have had to talk about the Father’s simplicity and goodness etc., and then have more articles later about the Son’s simplicity and goodness etc., and then again for the Holy Spirit. It should have been obvious that he is beginning not with some deist rationalist God of the philosophers, but rather with what the three divine persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—have in common.)

So then, when it comes to the angels and demons, to “angels” considered indifferently, what do they have in common? We get a first clue from St. Thomas’ preferred name for them: not “angels,” which he usually reserves just for the lowest of the choirs, but rather—a term and an idea that originates in Aristotle—“separated substances.” Separated, one might rightly wonder, from what? And the answer, in a word, is: matter. The angels are substances—analogically but truly—beings which exist in themselves and not in another. But unlike any of the substances we experience here below, they have no matter whatsoever, but are pure form. St. Bonaventure would object to this, and indeed he tried to find some kind of non-bodily “spiritual matter” for the angels to have to distinguish them from the totally immaterial God, but St. Thomas will have none of it, since this spiritual matter of Bonaventure’s in principle cannot play the metaphysical role he would need it to play. We can’t enter into the details of that De Ente et Essentia argument (it’s in number 70, if you would like to check it yourself). But in the Thomistic picture—the correct picture—that I am sketching for you today, the angels are going to be totally immaterial. They are still infinitely inferior to God, because their angelic simplicity does not reach to the distinction of being and essence. But in terms of essence itself, the angels really are immaterial and simple.

They are forms, and so minds, and so, by Boethius’ famous definition, persons. Each one is “an individual substance of a rational nature”—or, better, an individual substance which also just is a rational nature—or an intellectual nature, to be more precise. For each of the angels is a species and indeed a genus unto himself, since matter is precisely what multiplies individual instances of a particular species, and the matter-form distinction is the basis of the genus-difference distinction. Lacking matter, every angel is individual and species and genus unto himself, and in the angel there is no real difference between these. It would be as though “James” and “rational” and “animal” were all identical and coextensive—in reality if not in concept—which is wild to try to wrap your mind around. Therefore, the words “angel” and “seraphim” and “separated substance” and incredibly even “substance” itself, when applied to them, do not correspond to essential kinds of things, a common sort of nature shared among many of them. Instead, these names are just convenient designators for us as we try to talk about all of these spirits who are simpler and higher than we are in the great chain of being. Our human knowledge is proportioned to sensible stuff, and so when we think or speak about angels we are already out of our depth, and we cannot see or say precisely what each of them is. So we speak in generalizations, even while knowing that there is nothing general in any of their natures, but only in the order of our minds. This was perhaps the greatest improvement Aristotle made over Plato: the insight that knowledge is in the mode of the knower, which does not necessarily correspond to the mode of the thing known. We men understand and speak of angels as though they were composed of genus and species, but that tells you something about how we think, not about how they are. For each of them is absolutely unique, and completely exhausts what he is, in a way that no individual man or dog or oak could totally actualize all the potencies of its species. In terms of his nature, therefore, every angel is simple and even relatively infinite and, in the proper sense, perfect.

As for the relations between these perfect substances, since each is a species unto himself, no two are alike, and—see Metaphysics Book Eight—therefore no two are equal. Each one is either higher or lower than any other one, such that they all come together to form a great linear hierarchy, a single-file line from the highest seraph down to the lowest guardian angel, with an innumerable multitude in between. On the subject of that multitude: One of the rare times that St. Thomas Aquinas criticizes Aristotle is over the number of these separated substances. Aristotle had been far too stingy in estimating that number, admitting only as many angels as there were distinct and irreducible kinds of motion, each one, he thought, initiated by a different separate substance. In the De Substantiis Separatis, St. Thomas prefers Plato’s much more generous reckoning of the number of angels, going so far as to describe Plato as representing the via sufficientior, in contradistinction to Aristotle’s via manifestior. Aristotle may proceed along “the more manifest way,” taking us by the hand and leading us step by step from things that are better known to us to their lesser-known implications. But Plato offers “the more sufficient way,” harder to see along but arriving at a more sweeping view of the truth of things—in this case, the enormity of the heavenly host. St. Thomas quotes the prophet Daniel for a scriptural warrant here, who says of the Ancient of Days, “Thousands of thousands ministered to him, and ten thousand times a hundred thousand stood before him.” St. Thomas reasons that, in creating, God intends chiefly the perfection of the universe, and so, the more perfect something is, the more of it we ought to expect to find in the created universe. But spirits are more perfect than bodies, so there will be even more angels in creation than there are corporeal substances—maybe vastly more. We might also think of the “myriads of angels” from Hebrews—or of the Church Fathers’ taking the one lost sheep to be mankind, in comparison with the ninety-nine angels. In fact, properly speaking “number” cannot apply to angels anyway, since number follows upon dimensive quantity which presupposes matter. And so the separated substances are strictly numberless. As Thomas quotes Denys as saying of the angels: “Many are the blessed armies of the supernal minds, exceeding the weak and constricted measure of our material numbers.”

What, then, does this numberless hierarchy do—or, we should ask instead: What is it supposed to do? Here we turn from our consideration of separated substances in general to a quick consideration of the good angels in particular, because we want to understand the demons and our weak intellects tend to appreciate things more by contrast with their opposites, but also because evil can only be understood indirectly anyway, in relation to the good. The good angels live peacefully in their hierarchy, etymologically their “sacred principate,” where St. Thomas defines “principate” as “one multitude ordered in one way under the government of a prince.” In this case, of course, the prince of the hierarchy is God himself. Now the angels have three functions in their hierarchy, for the sake of those below them in line: to purge or cleanse, to illumine or enlighten, and to perfect or unite to God. St. Thomas receives this threefold procedure from St. Denys the Areopagite—the “Pseudo-Dionysius,” if you like, and I do not—from his great treatise on the angels The Celestial Hierarchy. (Fun fact: The word “hierarchy” seems to have been invented by St. Denys himself in this very work.) You might recognize this triad from more modern spirituality literature, which tries to divvy up people’s Christian progress into the purgative way, the illuminative way, and the unitive way. I’ll be honest with you: I usually find such attempts unhelpful, too narcissistic and too experientialist, trying to make a science of something that just isn’t scientific, wanting to discern—or impose—a set of universalizable phenomena upon the spiritual life, which doesn’t work, and isn’t the point. But I flag it here just to note that the origin of the purgative, illuminative, and unitive is precisely the angelic hierarchy—and then the ecclesiastical sacraments that are our human participation in it. The good angels are constantly communicating God’s goodness to those further down the hierarchy, drawing them further up and further into the happiness of God, by purifying, enlightening, and perfecting those entrusted to their care.

What form this action takes depends upon where exactly the angel falls in rank. St. Denys had turned to scripture to learn about the various classes of angels within their overall ordering—to Isaiah, Ezekiel, Colossians, Ephesians, Jude—and so it is to St. Denys that we owe the traditional nine choirs of angels: three hierarchies, each with three orders within them: seraphim, cherubim, thrones; then dominions, virtues, powers; and finally principalities, archangels, and angels. (You might remember the scene from Canto 28 of Dante’s Paradiso, where Beatrice recalls that St. Gregory the Great had arrived into heaven, beheld the angelic orders, and been forced to admit that Denys was right and he was wrong, since he—Gregory—had switched the virtues and the principalities. “Di sé medesmo rise,” Beatrice says: “He smiled at his mistake.” But St. Thomas is nicer than Dante, and he gives St. Gregory the Great a way to save face by saying that both accounts are reasonable and that they might even amount to different words for the same teaching.) We will leave aside the details of the incredibly intricate bureaucracy of this ninefold order, which Fr. Bonino joked would be the envy even of the Italian administrative state. In fact St. Thomas says that, if we knew the angels perfectly, we would know it to be even more intricate, because rather than nine generalized choirs, in which the higher ones tend to look up to God and the lower ones tend to look down for creation, we would see that every single angel has his own particular role to play in the hierarchy. Nonetheless, do notice that the word “choir” is especially appropriate here, since the noblest work of all the angels—even more important than their purifying, illuminating, perfecting—is the laus perennis, the praise of God. The action of the good angels is first and foremost a liturgical action—as ours is meant to be too. And indeed, it is for the sake of God’s glory that the higher angels assist those subject to them in the hierarchy, inviting them to worship God and enabling them to do so as beautifully as possible.

We turn, at last, to the demons themselves. I will not say too much here about the fall of the demons, which—in better ages that could sustain serious speculative theology—was always the subject of controversy. For those who are interested in additional reading, I think St. Thomas’ best treatment of the demons’ fall, which corrects certain problems in his earlier attempt from the Prima Pars of the Summa, comes in Question 16, Article 4 of the De Malo, his Disputed Questions on Evil. Suffice it to say that Thomas presents all the separated substances as having been created in grace, with a first moment of natural knowledge and love for God, and after this another moment in which the angels charitably accepted, and the demons pridefully rejected, the call to a supernatural knowledge and love of God. Fr. Bonino explains the devil’s motivation thus:

Satan, in his pride, considered the conditions [of this supernatural invitation] humiliating. He regarded them as evil and therefore preferred to stick to the enjoyment of his own natural perfection insofar as, first, it belongs to him by right of nature as if he were its master, and, second, it distinguishes him from others. He preferred to remain first in the lower order instead of becoming one among others in the higher order. He has experienced the drama of the little boy who has to leave elementary school, where he is the senior, the “boss,” to move on to sixth grade where he would become the smallest among the big boys.

And so Satan spurned God’s invitation to a supernatural destiny, in a kind of diabolical version of Peter Pan Syndrome, with the other rebel angels as his Lost Boys. As punishment for this narcissism—ever since that moment of perfect, eternal demerit—the demons have experienced the pain of loss: the deprivation of the beatific vision and friendship with God, which is the only true happiness. Additionally, as further consequences of that most capital punishment, the demons’ intellects also have been darkened vis-à-vis supernatural knowledge; their wills have been made obstinate; they have suffered grief in the resistance of their wills to the way things are (Fr. Bonino says that they are “allergic to reality”); and they have been cast into hell and the earth’s dark atmosphere as places of punishment for their original—and perpetual—sin.

What is surprising, however—and what will be especially pertinent to the demons’ political arrangements—is just how much stayed the same for the demons despite their fall. Their natures, in fact, are entirely intact. I’m sure everyone here is familiar with the Thomistic adage “Grace perfects nature,” but the flipside of that is that sin does not destroy nature either—for us or for the demons. Both grace and sin are accidental modifications of a stable underlying substance. Otherwise, if grace were to replace nature rather than perfecting it, then among other absurd consequences, converting to the faith would actually be bad for me, because the me there would cease to exist and give way to some totally different person who would step in to take my place. This is not what the tradition means by “putting off the old man.” Now it’s true that grace, as a participation in the divine life of the Most Holy Trinity, is actually nobler in its essence than the human soul. Nevertheless, in its mode of being it is still just an accident, a quality—an “entitative habitus,” if you like—existing in the substance that is man. So likewise, sin is an accidental corruption, not an essential one. This is not to downplay how bad it is: All of our blessedness or wretchedness is a matter of accidents. Only God is happy just by his essence. But it is to say that sin leaves intact the underlying nature of the sinner. And so, whatever the demons possessed by nature in that first prelapsarian moment of grace, they still have today in their state of punishment. St. Thomas constantly repeats this Dionysian principle from the Celestial Hierarchy: “Certain gifts were bestowed upon the demons which, we say, have not been changed at all, but remain whole and most splendid”—“integra et splendidissima.”

The demons are morally bad, therefore, but still naturally good. The reason for this goes back to St. Augustine: Good and evil are not symmetrical. We do not inhabit a dualistic world, with equal and opposite forces of light and darkness warring against each other. On the contrary, all that is, inasmuch as it is, is good. Evil is merely a perversion, a corruption, the privation of a due good in a subject that ought to have it. And so the demons cannot be evil through and through, because evil is a parasite, and it cannot exist except in a good host. Evil is a perversion, and there cannot be a perversion that is not a perversion of something. In the case of the demons, that something is their good nature, and its good natural powers. They are putting these talents to awful ends, but the talents themselves persist. As St. Thomas says, “Although [the demons] do not have the purity that is through grace, nevertheless they have purity of nature”—“puritas naturae.” But being implies order, and therefore something of their original order remains for them as well. We arrive, at last, at the politics of hell.

The primary place where St. Thomas Aquinas discusses the political order of the demons is in the Summa Theologiae, Prima Pars, Question 109. As I hope you know already, the Prima Pars is about God—specifically, the divine essence, the distinction of divine persons, and the procession of creatures from him. Unsurprisingly, Question 109 falls in the third of those, on the procession of creatures, and more precisely within the final division of that part, on the divine governance of creatures. This question has four articles: Article 1 asks whether there are orders among the demons; Article 2, whether there is authority, or precedence, among them; Article 3, whether they illumine one another; and Article 4, whether they are subject to the authority of the good angels. Let’s take each in turn.

The first article asks of the order of hell utrum sit, “whether it is,” whether the demons have any politics at all. The casual reader of the Summa might find that he relates to the objectors more intuitively than usual with this article, since there seem to be good reasons for believing that the demons’ fall from grace would also be a fall from sociability. It is true, of course, that the will of the demons is permanently perverted, and that they are thus incapable of a genuine communion with others. It is also true that the further one descends away from God, the principle of unity, the less cohesion and the more anarchy one will find. Still, anarchy is like evil—indeed, it just is evil in the realm of political order—and so it can never exist in a pure form. Anarchy must always presume some sort of society as its subject. As Fr. Bonino says,

The idea of chaos or of absolute anarchy is as contradictory as the idea of absolute evil. As evil is a parasite on the good, so anarchy is a parasite on order. If ever anarchy were to triumph, it would immediately self-destruct, like Samson under the ruins of his own victory. In the world of the demons, therefore, there remains a certain order which, in the midst of disaster, continues to bear witness to the goodness and wisdom of God. Thus, according to St. Thomas, the demonic world retains the structure of the various angelic orders from which the rebellious angels fell.

Now, the original hierarchy of the angels according to nature was meant to be fulfilled and perfected in the hierarchy of grace—and, unlike us men whose heavenly glory will depend upon our charity over the extended course of this life, for the angels God distributed grace and thus glory simply according to the proportions of their natures, so that, for the good angels, their hierarchy now corresponds exactly to their hierarchy at creation, only without the would-be-demons in between them. The demons, of course, have definitively fallen from that order of grace. But St. Thomas teaches that the gifts of grace provide the formal element of the angelic hierarchy, and natural gifts the material element. Once again, grace perfects what nature disposes. And so the demons, the fallen angels, keep exactly the same order vis-à-vis their fellow demons that they had before the fall, because those natural dispositions, that matter for the hierarchy, has endured unchanged. Fr. Bonino compared this unfulfilled demonic ordering to the foundations of a house whose construction has been halted for lack of money. And this, by the way, makes some sense out of St. Paul’s continuing to refer to the demons by the names of the angelic choirs: “For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers,” etc. According to St. Thomas, those are the orders to which these demons first belonged, and from which they fell.

There is some question as to whether this ladder of demonic descent still deserves the name “hierarchy.” After all, as we have seen already, “hierarchy” means precisely a holy principate. But the demons are not holy, and neither, especially, is their satanic prince. Nevertheless, St. Thomas is still willing to extend the term “hierarchy” to them, not because the demons’ own wills are holy, abused as these wills are for the sake of evil, but rather because the one who has ordered the demons from their creation is holy: God himself. Moreover, even after their fall, God uses these demonic orders for his own holy ends: to prove the saints and increase their merits, and to exact his divine justice upon the wicked. Even the demons are accounted for in St. Paul’s saying that all things work together for the good of those who love God. And so the demons—despite themselves and their own wicked intentions—somehow still inhabit a hierarchy. There is a twofold ordering of the Inferno: under Satan internally, and under God according to their integration into the general order of divine providence—and this latter satisfies for the definition of “hierarchy.”

Thus everything is still in place, in the demons’ social arrangements, and yet nothing is quite the same. Fr. Bonino suggests two analogies for this phenomenon which are more familiar to our experience:

In a corpse, all order, all structure does not disappear immediately [after death]. Although the soul, the principle of unity for the macrostructure, is absent, nevertheless the microstructures retain their nature, their respective properties as well as their interactions. However, the processes carried out by the microstructures are no longer in the service of the life of the organic whole. Or—to take a less macabre comparison—the collapse of the central political power at the end of the Carolingian Empire did not bring about the disappearance of all social life, but only caused its parceling out and feudalization, with many small local powers. The same happens with the society of the demons. When these angels freely reject their supernatural purpose, still their natural structures, which derive from the ontological relations between the pure spirits, do not disappear. They remain, however, mutilated and perverted.

Even bad men are political animals, and even bad angels are—granted, not animals, but—still political. Their society has an internal coherence and thus a form of unity, meaning that it is undivided in itself and divided from all others. And lest anyone should worry that this is all just Neoplatonists imposing their neurotic cosmic ordering on everything they can imagine, remember that our Lord himself referred to the City of Evil as a “kingdom”—a “βασιλεία,” in the Greek—a “regnum,” in the original language of sacred scripture.

Article 2 of Question 109 concerns the king of this kingdom: the devil, or Satan. Just as the demons’ nature guarantees them some preservation of hierarchy, so it also guarantees them some preservation of headship. The reason, once again, is that agere sequitur esse: “Action follows being”—and since the demons exist in an order, they will act in an order. Satan was the highest of the angels who fell. Whether he was the highest of the angels simply speaking has always been up for debate, with St. Thomas saying probably, but with some Franciscan theologians especially preferring to have Satan as merely the highest of the cherubim so that they might exempt all the fiery loving seraphim from sin—but at the very least we can say that Satan was the loftiest relative to the rest who sinned with him. He sits at the head of their hierarchy, and so he will act at the head of their hierarchy.

He is even, in some way, the cause of the rest of their sin—not by compulsion, which would make their choice involuntary and thus not a choice at all, but by suggestion or exhortation. Recall St. John’s imagery of the dragon sweeping away a third of the stars with its tail—and thus one third as the traditional number of angels who fell: less than half, since sin is against their natural inclination and nature prevails most of the time—but still no meager sum, especially given what we have said already about the innumerable multitudes of separated substances. And all these hordes of demons look to Satan, their model and inspiration, as their master. As St. Peter says in his second epistle, “By whom one has been overcome, of him he is also a slave.” There is a kind of perverse Fourth Way principle here, with the devil as first in the genus of rebel angels, and so, by his example, the cause of the rest of the genus.

St. Augustine and St. Thomas go so far as to speak of the devil’s prelacy as a sick imitation of Christ’s own. Of course with Satan there is no effective ontological link to his demons (or to the damned among men)—he is not the cause of their being, nor does he share his life with them, the way Christ shares his very Sonship by grace. Satan’s is only a moral causality, an evil exemplarity. Still, there is a sort of asymmetrical parallelism between Christ and his Church, on the one hand, and Satan and the City of Evil, on the other. Jesus even refers to “the devil and his angels,” paralleling our Lord’s own good angels. The tradition calls this the corpus diaboli, in explicit comparison and contradistinction to the Mystical Body of Christ. We might think, for example, of the great tympanum of the Premonstratensian church of Conques—the carving of the Last Judgment above the portal of that perfect eleventh-century Romanesque Church, just a few hours’ drive from here in Occitania along the Camino de Santiago (or Chemin de Saint-Jacques), which probably showed up in your high school art history book. In the center of the scene is Christ as Judge, ruling over heaven and earth, but in the lower-right corner is Satan, towering over the underworld in a way that recalls—but pathetically—the majesty of Christ in heaven. Satan is crowned and seated on a throne, directing spirits and souls with his arms—but unlike Christ, with his heavenly halo and mandorla, gesturing in both directions so as to sift according to justice, Satan points only downward into his own fiery kingdom. Christ is robed in glory and attended by angel acolytes; Satan is naked and encircled by snakes. He is not a copy of Christ, but a caricature. All evil can do is ape the good.

Two important objections arise concerning Satan’s authority. First, if Satan is the greatest sinner among them, falling from the highest height and taking the rest down with him, then why is he rewarded by providence with getting to be their king? To this St. Thomas answers that being a leader in evil is “not unto the good of the [leader], but rather unto [his] evil, because since to do evil especially pertains to misery, to excel in evil is to be [even] more miserable.” And so, even if he cannot see it this way, Satan’s rule is really a punishment, greatly contributing to his unhappiness, now and especially at the end of the world.

The second objection is this: Why would any demon choose Satan as his leader rather than God? After all, since the demons’ principal characteristic is their pride, would they not prefer to be subject to one who is infinitely greater, since it seems that much more insulting to pride to have to serve one who is so inferior? As Fr. Bonino puts it, “It is far more humiliating for the proud to submit to a subordinate superior than to the supreme superior. It is more mortifying for the young parochial vicar to obey the petty commands of a dull pastor than to carry out orders received directly from the Holy Father!” St. Thomas responds as follows:

All else being equal, [it is true that] the proud would rather be subject to a superior than to an inferior. But if he should be able to obtain some excellence under an inferior, which he could not obtain from the superior, then he would rather choose to be subject to the inferior than to the superior. And therefore it was not against the pride of the demons that they chose to be subject to an inferior, consenting to his authority, willing to have him as their prince and leader precisely so that they might obtain their ultimate beatitude by [their own] natural power—especially because in the order of nature they were already subject to the supreme angel even then.

Thus, although Satan harbors the illusion that he is like God, an end for others, really the lower demons submit to him not for that reason, but only because they think that submitting to Satan will let each of them become the ultimate end for himself. They too want to be like God, totally self-sufficient. “Non serviam!” is not just the slogan of their rebellion against the old order, but it is also the animating political philosophy of their new order itself. They are not seeking together the common good of the City of Evil, but rather each one is seeking only the affirmation of his own excellence and interest. As far as the demons are concerned, theirs is merely a kingdom of convenience.

Now, you might think that such coordinated self-interest would not be a very strong basis for political unity. You would be right. There is no true concord in the infernal kingdom, for concordia means “a union of hearts,” and the anti-social principle of pride breeds only discord. As Fr. Bonino says, “Pride nurtures a constant preference for its own good to the disregard of the common good.” One thing that does help to unite the demons, however, is their common enemy. They forge a “social contract,” as it were, in order to wage war more effectively against God and man. Thus St. Thomas writes in the reply to an objection:

The concord of the demons, whereby some obey others, is not from any friendship that they have among themselves; but from their common wickedness, by which they hate men, and fight against the justice of God. For it is proper [also] to wicked men that they should join themselves to one another and be subject to those whom they perceive to be stronger, for carrying out each his own individual wickedness.

Among the demons, therefore, there is no mutual affection. There is no internal and moral concord based on civic friendship, but only an external and instrumental alliance. Again Fr. Bonino: “As we know, external politics is an excellent diversion when there are serious domestic political problems. Sacred union against the external enemy is a remedy against internal political divisions. Thus hatred against God and men brings the demons together, and leads them to moderate their hatred of each other.” Of course this is no true political common good, but only a collectively self-interested compact of the sort one might find among a band of thieves. Satan is not so much a monarch as a mob boss.

All of this is the story the demons tell themselves about why they tolerate Satan and one another. They believe that such political bonds are optional but ultimately advantageous. Each one thinks that this social contract will eventually help him to get what he wants for himself—namely to become his own principle of happiness, and to offend God by causing the damnation of men. As Fr. Bonino puts it, “The unity of the society of demons is founded, from the point of view of subjective intentions, on a convergence of misunderstood interests: a caricature of the common good.” But in fact there is a deeper, truer reason why the demons are united in a society: divine wisdom. St. Thomas quotes the book of Wisdom, which tells how this wisdom “reaches from end to end mightily, and disposes all things sweetly.” Such wisdom, Thomas says, “leaves nothing in the universe inordinate,” or without order. As Fr. Bonino writes, “This type of society is viable not so much in virtue of a very unstable balance of interests as in virtue of the permanence within it of a fundamentally good nature, which, although it may be thwarted or even denied, is nonetheless present and a source of what can be positive in the permanence of this society.” Thus the kingdom of hell is ultimately founded not upon the injustice of the demons, but upon the justice of God, ordering all things by nature and his providential care.

The third article of our Question 109 asks whether the demons can illumine each other. To understand the difficulty, remember the threefold act of the angelic hierarchy: purging, illumining, perfecting. Now, obviously the demons are not purging or perfecting their inferiors, purifying them or uniting them to God. But it is less clear with regard to the illuminative way, because the demons really can communicate with one another. They can and do share truths among themselves. However, the answer must be that such communication is not true illumination, for, explains St. Thomas, “Illumination properly is the manifestation of truth according as it is ordered to God, who illumines every intellect.” But the demons’ speech to one another is meant to lead rather away from God, and thus it ends in greater darkness, not illumination. Theirs is not a communion of minds in the truth they behold, unto its source in the First Truth. They are not contemplating and handing on the things contemplated. Instead they have only a practical aim: to transmit useful information to coordinate their actions more effectively, so that they might exclude men from the illumined divinization from which they have already definitively excluded themselves. “The intention from which this communication arises is always perverse,” Fr. Bonino says: “It is consummated by the evil designs of the devil who is always trying to divert others from God, whereas illumination is a communication of truth that comes from God and whose purpose is to lead to God.” Demonic speech, therefore, is not illuminative. It is not even speculative. It is a mere calculation of efficiency: “the primacy of the practical” taken to its most evil extreme.

Article 4, the last of our question, is about the relation between angels and demons. Granted the demons have a hierarchy of their own, how does it stand in regard to the graced angelic hierarchy of the celestial choirs? This is a consoling consideration: All authority comes from God, and so the closer anyone is to God, the more influence that one will have over others. As such, the good angels rule over the bad, because they are nearer to God, participating more fully in his royal majesty. This is just how the cosmic hierarchy plays itself out.

The angels’ authority over the demons is real even now, but it will become especially manifest on the last day, when St. Michael and the glorious armies of heaven march in full force, when the City of Evil is unequivocally defeated, and Satan and his subjects are banished to hell for eternity. We are living now in the last days, as indeed Christians have been ever since the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us—and the demons are not stupid. Deep down they suspect that their days are numbered, that the war will come to an end, and not in their favor—and the dread and anger of this realization makes them to act out with ever greater ferocity. “Woe to you, O earth and sea,” we read in Revelation: “because the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, knowing that he hath but a short time”—after which he “shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever.” We are witnessing the death throes of the corpus diaboli upon the earth.

This final article, about the angels’ power over the demons, makes sense out of why this question on the society of hell is included in the section of the Prima Pars on divine governance, which might have stuck you as unusual when I first mentioned it. Not even the demons, in their rival city, escape the government of God. “If I descend into hell, thou art present,” chants the Psalmist. Of course the demons do not formally participate in the good of the whole creation, since their entire wills are fixed against it, but materially they cannot escape. All that they do, in their coordinated rebellion, is still ultimately directed by God through his angels. Thus any evil that the angels permit—whether from demons or from men—is always for the sake of some good that follows it. In St. Thomas’ phrase, the angels are “ministers of divine wisdom.” Moreover—and this should be especially comforting, and a nice place to conclude our consideration of the politics of hell—even the very lowest of the guardian angels, even yours or mine, can rule over Satan himself, because “the power of divine justice to which the good angels cleave is stronger than the natural power of the [demons].” Thank God.

I would like for us to return to our thought experiment from the very beginning, now—I hope—with a greater understanding of its implications. I had asked you to imagine a society—a society made up of self-absorbed, atomized individuals—a society in which the various members tolerate each other, because they know they need each other, but only so that each of them can achieve his own private ambitions and desires—a society, moreover, that is in open rebellion against its own origins. Then I asked you to imagine that, once upon a time, this society had been noble, and civil, and good—but that its citizens—especially its elite citizens—out of a disordered sense of pride, effected a revolution against that received ancient order. Next I had you imagine that this revolution had some ironic consequences, such as that, in the name of liberating themselves from being subject to any official king, these citizens wound up creating for themselves an even more oppressive and authoritarian regime—and that their honorable hierarchy, which in their pettiness they would have liked to dissolve altogether, was merely replaced by a dishonorable hierarchy—that they traded an ordered harmony for hostile power relations, and a common good for private vices. You further imagined that this populace—who, again, hate their own heritage and devote all their time and energy to contradicting it, loudly—is in fact deeply unsatisfied, frustrated, lonely, sad. And yet you imagined that, despite their unhappiness in this society, they also live in constant, ever-growing fear—fear that this society of theirs, and everything it stands for, is on the verge of defeat. You imagined, finally, that this hysterical anxiety of theirs makes them even more odious and offensive and obnoxious.

I used to think that St. Thomas Aquinas had never addressed liberalism in his political writings, living, as he did, several centuries before the Enlightenment. I was wrong. He treats it carefully and critically in the text we have just considered: Prima Pars Question 109, on the political arrangement of the demons. It is terrifying how similar St. Thomas’ account of the politics of hell is to Immanuel Kant’s account of the ideal government. Kant even refers to such a state as being perfect for “a population of demons,” secured with general laws for conserving their common accord, laws that pit particular sentiments against each other, so that they might procedurally neutralize the proud egoistic dispositions of each individual. “Kant is here at antipodes with the political thought of St. Thomas Aquinas,” remarks Fr. Bonino. As I expect everyone here will know well, St. Thomas teaches that society arises from the natural sociability of man expressed in civic friendship and ordered to his temporal common good, itself ordered to his spiritual common good attained in and through the Roman Church. It is the Catholic alternative to Kant’s Lutheran individualist state of nature, in—another Protestant’s catchphrase—a war of all against all.

It is the angelic alternative to Kant’s republican rule for a race of demons. For in St. Thomas’ Dionysian worldview, the angelic hierarchy is to serve as the archetype of our human societies, both political and ecclesiastical. James Madison was wrong, therefore, that “If men were angels, no government would be necessary.” As we have seen, the angels have an elaborate government, and theirs is meant to be the model for ours. But alas, too often of late, our states have taken the demons for their political inspiration instead, with our citizens driven only by a narcissistic search for their private interest, rejecting all reference to a common good of the moral order, beginning with the transcendent common good which is God himself. Granted, there are dissimilarities here as well: Unlike the angels, our societies are not founded upon essential inequalities, since all men share a single species; and unlike the demons, no human society is definitively fixed in its rejection of God. Nonetheless, the similarities are pronounced, and they are not accidental. Liberalism has traded a hierarchy unto God for an every-man-for-himself tyranny.

We will conclude with one final quotation from Fr. Serge-Thomas Bonino:

The demonic society offers us an interesting theoretical model, for thinking about the not-always-theoretical possibility of a society that either rejects or disregards any reference to the objective moral good, and merely ensures a more or less peaceful coexistence among individuals who are deemed evil and guided solely by the pursuit of self-interest. Reflection on the demonic city confirms our contemporary experience: Such a society is feasible! It survives by virtue of a certain “a-moral,” unjust, and precarious balance that is established between the subjective interests of each of the individuals involved. However, this society survives above all and most profoundly because the natural tendencies that lead each being toward the objective good of its own nature remain active in it, though disavowed and opposed on the reflective level.

In other words—what is old hat for us by now—liberalism survives by exploiting pre-liberal resources, the resources of the very metaphysical order and natural law that it speculatively denies.

By grace, St. Thomas teaches, we are to be taken up into the orders of the angels, perhaps filling out the places in the celestial hierarchy vacated through the fall. And so our politics should be practicing for that ascent, and indeed helping to accomplish it, by ordering us together toward our true good. Whereas liberalism prepares our souls to be slotted into the demonic order of hell, of which it is an alarmingly accurate imitation. May our better angels prevail.

Regina Angelorum, ora pro nobis.

Omnes angeli Dei, orate pro nobis.

Rights and the Common Good

1. Beginning with the obvious[1]

Some things are difficult to understand because they are very abstract, separated from the concrete and sensible realities surrounding us—this is a difficulty that we experience, for example, in the consideration of the most universal predicates. Other things are difficult to understand because they are so exalted, existing on a higher level of perfection than us—this is the difficulty we find, for example in understanding the hierarchy of the angels. Yet other matters are difficult to understand because they are so complicated, involving so many parts and elements and influences that it is difficult to keep them all in our minds at once—for example, the politics of Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Continue reading “Rights and the Common Good”

Félix Sardá y Salvany on the Word “Integralists”

Editor’s Introduction

The Catalan priest Félix Sardá y Salvany (1841-1916) is most famous for his book Liberalism is a Sin. One of the first mentions of the word “integralism” [or “integrism”] by the Holy See was in response to El proceso del integrismo, an attack on Don Sardá’s book by Canon Celestino de Pazos.[1] Both books had been sent to the Sacred Congregation for the Index, which responded in 1887 that Pazos’s book should be withdrawn from circulation, and praised Fr. Sardá’s book as its “exposition and defense of the sound doctrine therein set forth with solidity, order, and lucidity.”[2] Liberalism is a Sin, become the vade-mecum of the first political movement to be given the name “integralist,” namely the movement founded by the Carlist writer Ramón Nocedal Romea (1842-1907), when he broke with the mainstream of Carlism, because the Carlist claimant to the throne was making what he considered untenable compromises with liberalism.[3] What exactly was meant by calling this movement integralist? In the Manifesto of Burgos, written by Nocedal and signed by a number of Spanish traditionalist newspapers in 1888, which is seen as the beginning of the Integralist party in Spain, reference is made again and again to the “integrity” of the adherence of the signatories to Catholic doctrine and tradition, to “la integridad y pureza de las doctrinas,”and “la integridad de nuestra doctrina y nuestra intransigencia con los errores modernos,”and so on.[4] This is why they were known as integralists: because of their integral adherence to Catholic doctrine, and their intransigent rejection of modern errors. One of the Catholic teachings to which they were particularly insistent in their adherence (since it was under particular attack at the time) was the teaching on the relation of spiritual and temporal power. The Manifesto of Burgos uses the traditional analogy of body and soul to explain the teaching:

As the body to the soul, so must the state be united and subordinated to the Church, the lesser luminary to the greater, the temporal sword to the spiritual sword, according to the terms and conditions that the Church of God lays down, and are established in our traditional laws.[5]

In 1889 El Siglo Futuro, the newspaper edited by Nocedal, printed a talk by Don Sardá entitled “¿Integristas?”.[6]Sardá explains that the name integralists is one that was being given to their movement by its enemies, but he argues that they ought to embrace the name. We are pleased to offer a translation of Don Sardá’s talk below.


Integralists?

A Conference read at the Catholic Academy (before Catholic Youth), of Sabadell by Don Felix Sardá y Salvany, Priest, Counselor of the same and Director of the Revista Popular.

Translated by HHG

The Parrot answered pertly,
As with argument conclusive,—
"You are nothing but a Purist,
Of taste foolishly exclusive."—?
"Thanks for the compliment," quoth Magpie, curtly.
(Iriarte, The Two Parrots and the Magpie)

Integralists? Yes, my dear gentlemen, and I accept the name as an honor. It is about this that I have wished to speak to you here at our beloved Academy—after not being able to speak here for a long time—and have thought it fitting to choose as theme for my familiar Conference the present epithet or sobriquet with which it seems our enemies seek to defame us. Under this name I wish to see you present yourself with saintly loftiness and Christian pride. I assure you that, by the grace of God, this is how I am; I am proud of my faith, of my baptism, of my Catholic education and of my Catholic priesthood and of everything it constitutes. Thanks be to Heaven, regarding my mode of being in the supernatural and Christian order.

Continue reading “Félix Sardá y Salvany on the Word “Integralists””

The Josias Podcast, Special Episode: Lecture on Rights

Do rights exist, or are they moral fictions? What is the significance of the distinction between objective and subjective rights? In this lecture, Pater Edmund Waldstein, O.Cist. Gives an account of rights and their relation to the common good.

Bibliography and Links

Hispanus, Petrus. “Notes on Right and Law.” The Josias (2017).

Legge, Dominic O.P. “Do Thomists Have Rights?” Nova et Vetera, English Edition, 17.1 (2019): pp. 127–147.

MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 3rd ed. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007.

Pappin, Gladden J. “Rights, Moral Theology and Politics in Jean Gerson.” History of Political Thought 36.2 (2015), pp. 234-261.

Pinkoski, Nathan J. “Alasdair MacIntyre and Leo Strauss on the Activity of Philosophy.” The Review of Politics 82 (2020), pp. 97-122.

Rosenblatt, Helena. The Lost History of Liberalism: From Ancient Rome to the Twenty-First Century. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018.

Strauss, Leo. Natural Right and History. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1953.

Tierney, Brian. The Idea of Natural Rights: Studies on Natural Rights, Natural Law, and Church Law 1150-1625. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997.

Header Image: Giovanni di Paolo, The Creation of the World and the Expulsion from Paradise (1445).

If you have questions or comments, please send them to editors(at)thejosias.com.

Follow us on Facebook and Twitter.

Many thanks to our generous supporters on Patreon, who enable us to pay for podcast hosting. If you have not yet joined them, please do so. You can set up a one-time or recurring donation in any amount. Even $1 a month would be splendid.

Integralism as Mystical Theology

Certain critics of Catholic integralism have commonly brought forward the charge that integralists have forsaken mysticism for power, adopting a one-sided predilection for coercion, at the expense of the real essence of the Catholic religion, which is self-emptying love. This is a critique that has been leveled by Michael Hanby,[1] David C. Schindler,[2] and others. According to this critique, integralism forgets the supreme model of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, in which he renounced earthly power for the sake of love. Christ’s sacrifice stands as a model of Christian life, an example of the power of self-giving love over the wielding of worldly power. Integralism, it is argued, neglects this dimension of Christ’s act by adopting worldly forms of power.

In this article, I will respond to such critiques by arguing that it is precisely the mystical dimension of the Catholic faith that legitimizes the use of temporal power in the service of authority, of coercion in the service of truth. For this purpose, it is necessary to dive deeper into the links between politics and mysticism, which can only be discerned from within the bosom of the Church. The Church is the guardian of a profound mystery, a gnosis unattainable to the human intellect on the basis of its natural reason alone. Indeed, even the rational apparatus of sacred theology falls short of the mystery which the Church guards. From this fundamentally apophatic dimension of the Church’s mission, a whole vista of political theology unfolds, and politics is transformed from a worldly game of power into the very means by which souls are purified and prepared for the loving union with God that transcends reason. Integralism has a purpose that is essentially mystical.

I. Apophaticism and the Truth Beyond Reason

The Church’s task in the world is profoundly apophatic: to dictate what may not be said of God, that is, to guard the secret that is God, lest the world, in saying too much, make a mockery of Him through irreverence. By guarding against such irreverence the Church is not protecting God (who is impassible and in need of nothing); rather it is human beings who are protected against the destruction of their own dignity as images of God. Reverence before the infinite mystery is what makes human beings fully human, whereas irreverence destroys their humanity. The highest reverence, indeed, is to know that one does not know God. Thus, Dionysius the Areopagite closes his treatise De Coelesti Hierarchia commenting that “the hiddenness, beyond our capacity, we have honoured by silence.”[4] The same Dionysius’ famous treatises De Mystica Theologia and De Divinis Nominibus speak of the profound darkness of mystical knowledge, the dense but luminous obscurity into which the soul is necessarily plunged when it seeks to know the things of God. The divine darkness is impenetrable, because God is beyond all being, infinitely transcending all things while also containing them.

Consequently, in a “programmatic” passage at the opening of De Mystica Theologia, Dionysius exhorts his student, Timothy, to leave behind his natural faculties, including his rational intelligence, in order to make way for the super-luminous darkness of Him who is beyond all knowledge:

[B]ut thou, O dear Timothy, by thy persistent commerce with the mystic visions, leave behind both sensible perceptions and intellectual efforts, and all objects of sense and intelligence, and all things not being and being, and be raised aloft unknowingly to the union, as far as attainable, with Him Who is above every essence and knowledge. For by the resistless and absolute ecstasy in all purity, from thyself and all, thou wilt be carried on high, to the superessential ray of the Divine darkness, when thou hast cast away all, and become free from all.[5]

Following Dionysius, St. Thomas Aquinas teaches that God can ultimately be known only by being unknown: “Because we cannot know of God what he is, but only what he is not, therefore we cannot consider of God how he is, but only how he is not.”[6] Indeed, Aquinas’ theology is permeated with a Dionysian apophaticism, grounded in the recognition that the natural capacity of the human intellect, tethered to sensation, is only adequate to know sensible creatures, in whom God is represented only ever partially and imperfectly.

Our natural knowledge begins from sense. Hence our natural knowledge can go as far as it can be led by sensible things. But our mind cannot be led by sense so far as to see the essence of God; because the sensible effects of God do not equal the power of God as their cause. Hence from the knowledge of sensible things the whole power of God cannot be known; nor therefore can His essence be seen. But because they are His effects and depend on their cause, we can be led from them so far as to know of God “whether He exists,” and to know of Him what must necessarily belong to Him, as the first cause of all things, exceeding all things caused by Him. Hence we know [of] His relationship with creatures so far as to be the cause of them all; also that creatures differ from Him, inasmuch as He is not in any way part of what is caused by Him; and that creatures are not removed from Him by reason of any defect on His part, but because He super-exceeds them all.[7]

This is one of many passages where Aquinas, following the Areopagite, distinguishes three degrees of knowing God: 1) by way of causality; 2) by way of remotion or negation; and 3) by way of transcendence or eminence. This third way is like a synthesis arising out of the dialectic of the two prior ways, which are positive and negative respectively. The human intellect begins its journey to God through a rational process of discovery, by which it knows God positively or affirmatively as the cause of all things. But it then proceeds to deny of God that which it first discovered, on account of the infinite distance that remains between God and His creatures. Consequently, having undergone this dialectical dance of affirmation and negation, the intellect rests in the knowledge that God infinitely transcends all creatures.

The dialectic of affirmation and negation is a direct consequence of the metaphysical and epistemological condition of human nature, immersed in the diversity of sensible beings. The created world can only represent the unity of God in a particulated, multiplicitous way. It is only because of this that God, who is One, is named by a diversity of names. “[T]he perfections of all things, which belong to the rest of things through diverse forms, must be attributed to God through one and the same power in Him. . . From this we see the necessity of giving to God many names.”[8] Accordingly, each representation simultaneously reveals and conceals God, and thus it must be both affirmed and denied: “As a result, with reference to the mode of signification there is in every name that we use an imperfection, which does not befit God, even though the thing signified in some eminent way does befit God. . . Such names, therefore, as Dionysius teaches [De divinis nominibus I, 5, De caelesti hierarchia II, 3], can be both affirmed and denied of God. They can be affirmed because of the meaning of the name; they can be denied because of the mode of signification.”[9] The task of theology is to collect into a comprehensive unity the multitude of representations which express in a partial way the total unity of God — and then to acknowledge that this complex of representations still falls infinitely short of God.

There is a paradox in Aquinas’ account of human intellectual capacity: at the highest reaches of its capacity, the intellect discovers its incapacity. The use of reason is most at home in the first way of knowing God, where His existence and attributes are demonstrated affirmatively. But subsequently, reason begins to find the foundations of its approach to God shaken, as the way of negation draws the intellect into the awareness of its profound distance from God. It is precisely at this moment, when reason realizes its incapacity, that the intellect reaches the highpoint of its capacity for knowledge, falling silent in the face of God’s infinite transcendence. This is above all what it means to know God: to know that one does not know Him. Thus, St. Thomas writes elsewhere: “Man reaches the highest point of his knowledge about God when he knows that he knows him not, inasmuch as he knows that that which is God transcends whatsoever he conceives of him.”[10]Be still and see that I am God (Psalm 46:10).

It is important to remember that knowledge of God is itself the highest point of all human knowledge. What a remarkable claim, then, that the high point of all knowledge, the endpoint that marks the arrival of the intellect at totality, after having traversed the entire gamut of sciences — this high point consists in the recognition that one does not know. The totality of all knowledge is consummated in ignorance. Moreover, since knowledge is what is most specific to human beings, what distinguishes them from sub-rational creation, the highest activity of human beings simply speaking, what philosophers call their proper ἔργον, their function and purpose, is precisely this docta ignoratia, this learned ignorance.

Thomas insists that the silence of reason before the transcendent God is not on account of any inherent unknowability in God. On the contrary, it is precisely on account of God’s excess of knowability, His infinite intelligibility, that the finite human intellect cannot know Him — as the bat cannot see the sun, which is maximally visible on account of its brightness. Thus:

Since everything is knowable according as it is actual, God, Who is pure act without any admixture of potentiality, is in Himself supremely knowable. But what is supremely knowable in itself, may not be knowable to a particular intellect, on account of the excess of the intelligible object above the intellect; as, for example, the sun, which is supremely visible, cannot be seen by the bat by reason of its excess of light.[11]

Thus, the height of reason’s capacity is at precisely that point where it discovers its incapacity in the face of God’s infinite transcendence and infinite knowability. For the human intellect is finite and tethered to sensible things, which can represent God only partially and diversely. At the heights of its capacity, reason must therefore fall silent, for this is the only appropriate response to a mystery that is beyond all thought and language.

II. Faith and the Apophatic Mission of the Church

It is precisely in this space of reason’s silence that faith enters the scene. Falling silent before the excess knowability of God, the intellect now awaits the self-revelation of God, to which the intellect can only assent through faith. Beyond the threshold of reason’s silence, the things of God can only be known through belief. Thus, in an article on “whether faith is necessary,” from the commentary on Boethius’s De Trinitate, St. Thomas writes:

The truth of things may also not be evident because of defect on our part, as in the case of divine and necessary things which, according to their own nature, are most knowable. Wherefore, to understand them, we are not capable of immediate intellection, from the very beginning, since it is in accordance with our nature to attain from things less knowable and posterior in themselves, to knowledge of those that are themselves more knowable and prior. But since from none of those things that we know last do we have any knowledge of those that we know first, it is needful for us even at first to have some notion of those things that are most knowable in themselves; but this cannot be except by believing.[12]

For example, the truth of the Triune God can in no way be accessed by reason. It pertains so intimately to the transcendent essence of God, before which reason must helplessly stop short, that it can only be known in the intimacy of God’s self-disclosure. St. Thomas could not be clearer that the truth of the Trinity cannot be known even after the threefold progress of causality, negation, or eminence delineated above:

I answer that the truth that God is three and one is altogether a matter of faith; and in no way can it be demonstratively proved. . . Thus there are things that designate His causality and His eminence over creatures and that deny in Him any of the imperfections found in effects. The existence of a Trinity of persons, however, cannot be perceived from a consideration of divine causality, since causality is common to the whole Trinity. Nor can it be known from His lacking any imperfection. Therefore in no way can it be demonstratively proved that God is three and one.[13]

Now, this apophatic dimension of scientific theology, the silent space where reason steps aside for faith, is the proper domain of the Church’s teaching authority. The Church’s role in the world is fundamentally tied to the apophatic character of theology: to administer the Truth beyond reason to Her members, to mediate the self-revelation of God. St. Thomas confirms this when he teaches that faith requires both a formal and a material object: the material object refers to the individual articles of faith themselves, the propositions to which the intellect assents by faith. The formal object refers to the First Truth, in which all individual truths of faith participate, and which is manifested by the authority of God Himself. By extension, the First Truth is also manifested by the authority of the Church, who is God’s representative on earth:

Now the formal object of faith is the First Truth, as manifested in Holy Writ and the teaching of the Church, which proceeds from the First Truth. Consequently whoever does not adhere, as to an infallible and Divine rule, to the teaching of the Church, which proceeds from the First Truth manifested in Holy Writ, has not the habit of faith, but holds that which is of faith otherwise than by faith.[14]

In other words, the virtue of faith cannot be severed from the authority of the First Truth, which is manifested in the Church. This is the dimension of faith in which one simply encounters a Person, or three Persons, made present by the Church: the dimension of communion. But this encounter cannot be severed from the authority of the Person encountered, an authority embodied in that Person’s visible presence on earth. Thus, the rights of the visible, concrete institution of the Church flow directly from the concrete, experiential nature of this encounter with God in faith.

One practical consequence of this is the authority of the Supreme Pontiff to dictate the terms of belief, e.g. by the drawing up of creeds. Thus, in a rare moment when he speaks of ecclesiology, St. Thomas writes:

[A] new edition of the symbol becomes necessary in order to set aside the errors that may arise. Consequently to publish a new edition of the symbol belongs to that authority which is empowered to decide matters of faith finally, so that they may be held by all with unshaken faith. Now this belongs to the authority of the Sovereign Pontiff, “to whom the more important and more difficult questions that arise in the Church are referred,” as stated in the Decretals [*Dist. xvii, Can. 5]. Hence our Lord said to Peter whom he made Sovereign Pontiff (Lk. 22:32): “I have prayed for thee,” Peter, “that thy faith fail not, and thou, being once converted, confirm thy brethren.” The reason of this is that there should be but one faith of the whole Church, according to 1 Cor. 1:10: “That you all speak the same thing, and that there be no schisms among you”: and this could not be secured unless any question of faith that may arise be decided by him who presides over the whole Church, so that the whole Church may hold firmly to his decision. Consequently it belongs to the sole authority of the Sovereign Pontiff to publish a new edition of the symbol, as do all other matters which concern the whole Church, such as to convoke a general council and so forth.[15]

Aquinas thus casts the institutional Church, under the sovereign leadership of the Holy Roman Pontiff, as the supreme administrator of faith — that is, the supreme administrator of the apophatic space wherein reason breaks down in its pursuit of the totality of knowledge. It is thus possible to describe the Church as sovereign over theological language, the sole determiner of what may and may not be said of God, on account of God’s infinite transcendence. In Aquinas, as in all defenders of the authority of the Church since the apostles themselves, there is a keen attention to the practical impossibility of consensus on matters of faith — and indeed, even on matters of reason itself when it approaches the theological heights of its capacity.[16] In this way, the Church is necessary not only as supreme administrator of faith, but as administrator of the highest reaches to which even natural reason aspires. Only the institutional Church is gifted with the infallible charism necessary to navigate the complex dialectics of affirmation and negation through which alone the truth of God can be known.

It is important to note, at this juncture, that the truth about God is expressed not only in words and theoretical formulations, but also in action. This is necessarily the case insofar as all human action ultimately has God for its end — a doctrine too familiar to substantiate here with citations from the Angelic Doctor. It will suffice to recall that Thomas clearly considered human action to be in some way a matter of language, just as theological knowledge is a matter of language (e.g. the naming of God). Human action, as well as human speech, is capable of signifying something. This observation is borne out in Thomas’ treatment of the virtue of truth: “Now there is a special order whereby our externals, whether words or deeds, are duly ordered in relation to some thing, as sign to thing signified: and thereto man is perfected by the virtue of truth. Wherefore it is evident that truth is a special virtue.”[17] In this sense, a man’s very life is said to be true insofar as it is ordered to the divine law as its rule and measure: “Life like anything else is said to be true, from the fact that it attains its rule and measure, namely, the divine law; since rectitude of life depends on conformity to that law. This truth or rectitude is common to every virtue.”[18] Accordingly, it is not a stretch to say that, since the divine law is itself but the moral component of revelation, it follows that the Church is likewise sovereign over human action, possessing supreme authority to direct human action to signify God, i.e. to “speak” of Him.

The authority of the Church is thus the earthly manifestation of the Truth beyond reason, before which reason must bow in reverence, submission, and apophatic silence. No less than this sovereign authority over thought and action, over faith and morals, is claimed for the Church by Her own immortal teaching, in the dogmatic constitution Pastor Aeternus of the First Vatican Council:

Wherefore we teach and declare that, by divine ordinance, the Roman church possesses a pre-eminence of ordinary power over every other church, and that this jurisdictional power of the Roman pontiff is both episcopal and immediate. Both clergy and faithful, of whatever rite and dignity, both singly and collectively, are bound to submit to this power by the duty of hierarchical subordination and true obedience, and this not only in matters concerning faith and morals, but also in those which regard the discipline and government of the church throughout the world.

III. Integralism and Asceticism

Since the truth which the Church administers is beyond reason, it would be absurd to reduce the Church’s administrative and magisterial role to that of engaging in rational discourse with the world. This would be to reduce the Church to one among many supposedly rational actors inhabiting a neutral public space, the “marketplace of ideas,” on the supposition that through rational discourse a consensus might naturally arise. This is, of course, the ideological core of modern liberalism. But the apophaticism of the Church’s mystical mission in the world is predicated on the fact that such a consensus is quite simply impossible among fallen men. The “beyondness” of truth, especially the truth about God, means that rational discourse is not sufficient to bring about religious consensus — neither the consensus of propositional faith, nor the consensus of a common encounter (communio) with God. Not that rational discourse is unavailable to the Church — scientific theology and apologetics find their home in Her bosom — but that such a method is in itself insufficient for the Church’s mission of guarding the divine mystery. Consequently, the Church may sometimes require other methods of mediating this truth.

What non-discursive (to be distinguished from irrational) methods of administering the truth are available to the Church? There are many, but they all have one particular characteristic in common: they all involve the subordination of the temporal order to the spiritual order, the sacramentalization of the temporal order by making it into a sign and vehicle of the truth beyond reason. For example, Dionysius the Areopagite teaches of the liturgical apparatus by which this mystical truth is communicated to the faithful, by participation in the “ecclesiastical hierarchy” of the sacraments. Indeed, arguably the sacramental rites of the Church are the principal means by which Her mystical heart, Her invisible core, is made visible. The seven sacraments are the Church’s visible instruments of the mediation of grace, the apparatus by which she dispenses the means of salvation to Her members. By their participation in the sacred liturgy, initiated Christians are privileged to experience the gnosis of the Truth that is beyond reason.

St. Thomas explains the sacramental mode, i.e. the poetic form of the sacramental ritual, in terms of its relation to reason. Poetry is used to signify that which is inaccessible to reason, either by being beneath reason (the lower passions) or indeed by being beyond reason (the things of God): “Just as human reason fails to grasp poetical expressions on account of their being lacking in truth, so does it fail to grasp Divine things perfectly, on account of the sublimity of the truth they contain: and therefore in both cases there is need of signs by means of sensible figures.”[19] Thus the entire symbolic edifice of the liturgy is justified on the basis of the apophatic theology of the divine names, as a mode of communicating the truth beyond reason, through a language that is itself beyond rational discourse.

Indeed, the sacramental order encompasses and circumscribes the entire temporal dimension of the Church, not only embodying the telos of Her discipline in the Eucharist, but also defining the very boundaries of Her temporal jurisdiction by Baptism. Baptism is the condition of membership in the mystical body of Christ, which is also citizenship in the City of God. The entire juridical edifice and disciplinary regime of the Church rests on this sacramental foundation. Accordingly, the Church’s juridical order serves the same ends that are served by the sacramental order itself, since it actually participates in and is defined by that order. The same Truth beyond reason is administered by the Church’s juridical discipline as by Her sacramental discipline.

The mode by which the juridical order communicates the Truth beyond reason is, like the sacraments, itself beyond rational discourse — though once again it is not contrary to reason. Certainly, by virtue of its participation in the sacramentality of the Church, the juridical order communicates in one way by being itself a sign or symbol of divine Truth, or of the authority of divine Truth. The ministers of Church law, namely Her priests, bishops, and especially the supreme Pontiff, are constituted by the sacramental order itself. They embody in their persons the symbols and regalia of divine majesty, which they display in both their ceremonial and their legislative offices, not to mention their magisterial offices. (Incidentally, these three offices correspond to the “priest, prophet, and king” triad that is often applied to Christ Himself.)

But in addition to being itself sacramental, the legislative or juridical office of the Church also engages in another mode of non-discursive communication, namely coercion. This is a necessary component of law as it relates to fallen nature, as understood by St. Thomas and included in the Church’s own conception of Herself.[20] Coercion is justified by a logic similar to that which justifies the entire sacramental order: the truth which it teaches is in some sense beyond reason, rational discourse, and rational admonition, and thus it requires some other mode of communication.

To be clear, Aquinas holds that reason is of the essence of law: lawmaking is the paradigmatic form of moral reasoning.[21] Yet it is an act of reason that belongs first to the ruler, and only secondarily to the ruled.[22] In fact, the ruled are initially devoid of this exercise of reason: for them, the moral truth administered by law is indeed beyond reason, and thus they are taught by law through a method that is initially not discursive, namely coercion. Thus, Aquinas distinguishes two modes of teaching virtue: admonition, for those who are already predisposed to virtue; and coercion, for those who, being wicked, are not amenable to the persuasion of rational discourse: “[A]s to those young people who are inclined to acts of virtue, by their good natural disposition, or by custom, or rather by the gift of God, paternal training suffices, which is by admonitions. But since some are found to be depraved, and prone to vice, and not easily amenable to words, it was necessary for such to be restrained from evil by force and fear.”[23]

The doctrine of apophaticism is in the background of this conception of law: precisely because action is speech, and the truth about moral action is in some measure inaccessible to the rational powers of many, it is necessary to teach them by some other way. Coercion is one effective way, though not the only way. This is certainly the case with respect to truths that, although they are in themselves accessible to reason, are known only to the few, since fallen nature has so darkened the intellect that the multitude are guided more by their passions than by reason.[24] It is all the more true with respect to the theological morality, embodied in the infused theological virtues, that is the privilege of the baptized. Even the virtues of faith, hope, and charity are teachable by means of coercion, insofar as those who have been infused with these virtues become subject to the discipline of the moral life that is enforced by the Church.

The claim that even charity may be taught by coercion is doubtless provocative and counterintuitive, perhaps even the greatest stumbling block to those who cannot accept the doctrine of integralism. Is not love only teachable by love itself? Charity, that highest of the virtues which reaches its pinnacle in the mystics, seems to be attainable only by the renunciation of power and coercion, and by the full embrace of cruciform love — in imitation of Christ’s self-emptying sacrifice of the cross. Indeed, such an argument has been repeated many times by the critics of Catholic integralism. As Timothy Troutner, for example, has written, “One enters into the life of the Trinity only through conformity with the one who gave his life so that others might live.”[25]

Yet this objection misses something fundamental to the mystical life itself, and something fundamental to Christ’s very sacrifice. The aspiring mystic must be purged of all his ego-centered illusions, the false identities he constructs over and against his true nature. By participating in the self-emptying and violent death of Christ, the ego-self likewise dies, and what is left is the pure self that was loved into existence by God from the beginning. No man ever became a mystic who did not first purify his life through rigorous discipline and the practice of self-mortification, in imitation of Christ’s profound self-mortification by his death. Indeed, more often than not this purification is not his own doing: it is something that happens to him almost apart from his own will or power to achieve it. The purifying fire of asceticism is prerequisite to mystical union.

As Pater Edmund Waldstein, O.Cist, has observed, the purifying discipline of asceticism is practiced above all in the hierarchical and, indeed, coercive structure of the monastery, where the monk subjects himself to the rule of the abbot for the sake of perfect conformity to Christ: “The form of abbatial authority is truly Christological. The use of punishment in the Rule is a reaction to violation of the peace, meant to lead monks back to Christ, and the witness of monastic saints throughout the centuries testifies to its wisdom.”[26] The monastery enshrines the whole teleology of Catholic political life, as an ideal in which all the states of life should participate in varying degrees, and for which they are prepared by the pedagogical and ascetical power of law. Mysticism is served by self-emptying asceticism, and in the monastery this asceticism is practiced through self-abnegating obedience to the disciplinary regime of the abbot. Just as apophatic theology requires the denial of all created attributes of God, so does mysticism require the ascetical practice of self-abnegation and detachment from the world, through the practice of obedience.

Indeed, the virtues of self-denial, obedience, and detachment, are not merely analogous to but are the direct application and translation of apophatic theology into action. Ascetic discipline accomplishes precisely what Pseudo-Dionysius advised to his disciple Timothy, namely “[to] leave behind both sensible perceptions and intellectual efforts, and all objects of sense and intelligence, and all things not being and being.” Thus, it is impossible to separate the mystical life of self-abnegating love from the coercive pedagogy of ascetical discipline.

This truth is also profoundly Christological: ascetical discipline is precisely how the monk, who is the archetype of the Christian, conforms himself to Christ’s sacrifice. We may look at the example of Christ and rightly see in him the power of a non-violent love, based on the total renunciation of worldly power. Yet from another perspective, the entire purpose of Christ’s sacrifice was to take upon himself the punishment due to humanity on account of sin, and thus to make himself a victim of God’s redemptive violence, a just and holy coercion, for our sakes. Christ became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross (Philippians 2:8). Our conformity to Christ and his supreme charity comes through no other path than our participation in his sacrifice, our sharing in the burden which he bore for our sakes. But even if you should suffer because of righteousness, blessed are you… For Christ also suffered for sins once, the righteous for the sake of the unrighteous, that he might lead you to God. Put to death in the flesh, he was brought to life in the spirit. (1 Peter 3:14,18).

The monastic discipline of obedience is thus no mere worldly form of administration, but the very means by which the monk participates in the form of Christ. Likewise, the discipline of coercion within the context of the Church’s temporal rule is no mere worldly discipline or Machiavellian social technology; rather, it is an integral function within the Church’s greater ascetical and mystical mission: to achieve perfect union with God through self-denying obedience and self-emptying love.

In order to love perfectly, we who are marred by sin and selfishness, and subject to the dominion of the devil, must become victims of the violence of God’s love for us. His love is a purifying fire, and we must be purified. As long as we are imperfect, this love is necessarily experienced as a kind of coercion, even a burden; yet as we are progressively purified, we come to experience it as it is: love itself. The core of this truth has rarely been expressed better than by the poet, John Donne:

Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov’d fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

This is a poetic, and itself deeply mystical, expression of the truth reiterated by Pope St. John Paul II, in Veritatis Splendor, that the impure and the obstinate will inevitably experience love itself as coercion, but a coercion that eventually gives way to the free gift of self in love:

Those who live “by the flesh” experience God’s law as a burden, and indeed as a denial or at least a restriction of their own freedom. On the other hand, those who are impelled by love and “walk by the Spirit” (Gal 5:16), and who desire to serve others, find in God’s Law the fundamental and necessary way in which to practise love as something freely chosen and freely lived out. Indeed, they feel an interior urge — a genuine “necessity” and no longer a form of coercion — not to stop at the minimum demands of the Law, but to live them in their “fullness”.[27]

Conclusion

The Christian life is consummated in mystical contemplation, a pure union with God in self-emptying love and apophatic silence, after the model of Christ’s great act of love on the cross. As the Second Vatican Council taught in Lumen Gentium, this great vocation belongs to all men, and it is the Church’s mission to invite them into this mystery. Essential to this mission is the use of divinely granted authority and power: “In virtue of this power, bishops have the sacred right and duty before the Lord to make laws for their subjects, to pass judgment on them and to moderate everything pertaining to the ordering of worship and the apostolate.”[28] The faithful, in their turn, are obligated to “accept in Christian obedience decisions of their spiritual shepherds, since they are representatives of Christ as well as teachers and rulers in the Church. Let them follow in the example of Christ, who by His obedience even unto death, opened to all men the blessed way of the liberty of the children of God.”[29]

At its essence, Catholic integralism professes nothing other than this profound doctrine of the Church as the community wherein persons are schooled in the love of God through the practice of obedience, in conformity to the example of Christ who was supremely obedient — even to the point of becoming a victim of God’s redemptive violence. The ascetical life, practiced through obedience to the Church’s disciplinary power, is nothing but the Christian’s way of sharing in Christ’s obedience, in preparation for the perfect union of contemplative love.

Footnotes

  1. Hanby, Michael, “For and Against Integralism,” in First Things: https://www.firstthings.com/article/2020/03/for-and-against-integralism
  2. Schindler, David, “Integralism as Fragmentation,” in New Polity, Issue 2.2, May 2021, 21-32.
  3. De Coelesti Hierarchia, XV.9.
  4. De Mystica Theologia, I.1.
  5. Summa Theologiae, I, q.3, Prologue.
  6. ST, I, q.12, a.12.
  7. Summa Contra Gentiles, I.31.
  8. Ibid, I.30.
  9. De Potentia, q.7, a.5, ad.14.
  10. ST, I, q.12, a.1.
  11. Super Boethium De Trinitate, q.3, a.1.
  12. Ibid, q.1, a.4.
  13. ST, II-II, q.5, a.3.
  14. ST, II-II, q.1, a.10.
  15. Cf. ST, I, q.1, a.1: “Even as regards those truths about God which human reason could have discovered, it was necessary that man should be taught by a divine revelation; because the truth about God such as reason could discover, would only be known by a few, and that after a long time, and with the admixture of many errors.”
  16. ST, II-II, q.109, a.2.
  17. Ibid, ad.3.
  18. ST, I-II, q.101, a.2, ad.2.
  19. Code of Canon Law, §1311: “The Church has the innate and proper right to coerce offending members of the Christian faithful with penal sanctions.”
  20. Cf. ST, I-II, q.90, a.1. Cf. also Thomas Pink, “Suarez on Authority as a Coercive Teacher.”
  21. Cf. Ibid, ad.1.
  22. ST, I-II, q.95, a.1.
  23. Cf. ST, I, q.115, a.4, ad 3
  24. https://churchlifejournal.nd.edu/articles/the-integralist-mirroring-of-liberal-ideals/
  25. https://churchlifejournal.nd.edu/articles/integralism-and-the-logic-of-the-cross/
  26. Veritatis Splendor, 18
  27. Lumen Gentium, 27
  28. Ibid, 37.

The Liturgy and Society

By the Rev. Jon Tveit


“Liturgia est culmen ad quod actio Ecclesiae tendit et simul fons unde omnis eius virtus emanat.”[1]

These lapidary words from the Second Vatican Council’s constitution on the sacred liturgy have become commonplace in explaining the centrality of the liturgy in the life of the Christian. So too has the document’s declaration that “the full and actual participation of the whole people” in the liturgy is “the primary and indispensable source from which the faithful are to derive the true Christian spirit.”[2] While these statements are often applied to the spiritual life of the individual Christian, their scope is far broader. The action of the Church tends toward the sacred liturgy. Not merely the action of the clergy and hierarchy, but that of the whole of the Church of God together. Not merely as individuals, but as “the whole people,” the Body of Christ in union with its Head. The liturgy—and in a particular way the Eucharist[3]—is the source and the summit of Christian life, not of private life, but of the whole of life. These words, therefore, apply as much to the life of the family and to the life of society as they do to the life of the individual.

Continue reading “The Liturgy and Society”

Reflections on the Moral and Political Work of Charles De Koninck

by Marcel de Corte[1]

Translation by Brian Welter[2]


I have known Charles De Koninck for a long time through his writings. I had the chance to speak with him more than once two years ago during my three-month stay as visiting professor at Laval University in Quebec City, where he teaches. Inconveniently, he was at this time a visiting professor at Notre Dame university in the United States. I could only see De Koninck during his rare visits back home. The few hours of perfectly emotional, intellectual, and spiritual communion that we passed together sealed a friendship that neither time nor distance could weaken.

Continue reading “Reflections on the Moral and Political Work of Charles De Koninck”

Announcement: The Josias in Print

Readers of The Josias will be pleased to learn that a number of the articles we have published over the years are being published in two volumes by the ever-interesting Angelico Press. The first volume is now available to be purchased on Amazon, and it contains a number of excellent essays and reflections on issues relating to the family, the city, and the state. In addition, the volume includes some important philosophical reflections on first-order concepts such as the good, freedom, and virtue. The volume is co-edited by our own editor-in-chief, Pater Edmund Waldstein, O. Cist., and one of our contributors, Dr. Peter Kwasniewski. The official title is Integralism and the Common Good.

Integralism has received some modest publicity these days, and its (slow but steady) emergence on the stage of political discourse signifies a possible shift in the political possibilities available for the future. While much of this public discourse centers around the controversies of current politics, nonetheless enough confusion remains about the precise nature of political Catholicism that it is still necessary to return sometimes to the first principles. From the beginning, it has been the mission of The Josias to expound just these principles, in the light of both natural reason and supernatural faith, with the aim of providing reliable guidance to citizens who are concerned about the current state of politics under the regime of liberalism. We hope that the publication of this volume will be educational and informative for those interested to learn more about the principles underlying a truly Catholic politics.

The Editors

On Dignitatis Humanae – A Reply to Thomas Storck

Thomas Pink

1. Introduction

Thomas Storck has challenged my Leonine interpretation of Dignitatis Humanae, the declaration of the Second Vatican Council that teaches a moral right of the individual, based on their human dignity, to religious liberty. My interpretation is Leonine in that it seeks to establish the declaration’s consistency with previous Catholic teaching by reading it as an application for modern times of the magisterial teaching on church and state of Leo XIII.

Storck rejects this reading by alleging that I employ what was at best a political theology of the counter-reformation, the theology of Suarez and Bellarmine. According to Storck this theology was not shared by Leo XIII, was never magisterially taught, and had nothing to do with the drafting of Dignitatis Humanae.

We shall see that none of Storck’s claims is true. The theology of Suarez and Bellarmine was indeed shared by Leo XIII who did magisterially teach it, and this theology remained central to the understanding of Leo XIII’s teaching in official Catholic theology up to Vatican II. From 1964 to 1965 it was Leonine teaching understood in terms entirely consistent with Suarez’s political theology that was applied at Vatican II by the commission drafting Dignitatis Humanae to explain the declaration’s meaning to the council fathers.

2. Leo XIII and Immortale Dei

According to the teaching of Leo XIII in Immortale Dei human life is governed by two distinct potestates or sovereign authorities with the right to coerce – that is, to issue legal directives that impose moral obligations or duties on those subject to them, and to enforce those obligatory directives by sanctions. There is a religious potestas, the church, directing the good of religion and a civil potestas, the state, directing goods other than religion:

The Almighty, therefore, has given the charge of the human race to two coercive authorities (potestates), the ecclesiastical and the civil, the one being set over divine, and the other over human, things…While one of the two authorities [the state] has for its immediate and chief object care of the goods of this mortal life, the other [the church] provides for goods that are heavenly and everlasting. Whatever, therefore, in human affairs is in any way of a sacred character, whatever belongs either of its own nature or by reason of the end to which it is referred, to the salvation of souls or to the worship of God, falls wholly under the coercive authority of the church and is wholly subject to her judgment (id est omne in potestate arbitrioque ecclesiae). Whatever is to be ranged under the civil and political order is rightly subject to the civil authority. Jesus Christ has himself given command that what is Caesar’s is to be rendered to Caesar, and that what belongs to God is to be rendered to God. Immortale Dei §13–§14

The civil potestas may certainly have a duty to do whatever it can to further the good of religion; but it has no competence to direct people coercively just on its own authority for specifically religious ends. The church is sovereign over the good of religion. Likewise the church has no authority of her own to direct people coercively for the civil ends over which the state is sovereign.

A fundamental concern of Leo XIII is for the harmonious interaction of the two distinct authorities of church and state. Since both authorities are divinely instituted, harmony between them must be possible in principle. Indeed Immortale Dei insists that church-state harmony is divinely ordained – it is God’s declared will, even if given human sin this harmony is not always attainable. Essential to harmony between the two sovereign authorities is that they should never impose conflicting duties on those within their jurisdiction:

But, inasmuch as each of these two powers has authority over the same subjects, and as it might come to pass that one and the same thing – related differently, but still remaining one and the same thing – might belong to the jurisdiction and determination of both, therefore God, who foresees all things, and who is the author of these two powers, has marked out the course of each in right correlation to the other. “For the powers that are, are ordained of God” (Rom.XIII,1). Were this not so, deplorable contentions and conflicts would often arise, and, not infrequently, people, like travellers at the meeting of two roads, would hesitate in anxiety and doubt, not knowing what course to follow. Two distinct sovereign authorities would be commanding contrary things, when it would be a dereliction of duty to disobey either of the two. Immortale Dei §13

Conflict is avoided first by church and state being sovereign over quite distinct spheres. The church is sovereign over a legal order of religion in which law is made and enforced for religious ends, and the state is sovereign over a civil order in which law is made and enforced for other non-religious ends. Then because religion is the supreme good but depends on earthly goods that fall within the competence of the state, just as the good of religion takes priority over other goods, so when the good of religion requires the state must subordinate itself to and assist the church.

Leo XIII introduces an analogy with the relation between the intellectual soul and the body in the human person. This analogy was notably and extensively employed by Suarez and Bellarmine, but is far older, going back to Nazianzen in the patristic period.

There must, accordingly, exist between these two coercive authorities an ordained connection which not without reason may be compared to the union of the soul and body in man. Immortale Dei §14

Church and state should stand in a cooperative union for the good of all those subject to their authority somewhat as intellectual soul and body. In any case when vital functioning alone is at stake, determining heart rate and the like, the body acts without reference to the intellectual soul. But in higher intellectual matters, such as how deliberately to pursue the morally good and true, the body acts at the direction of the intellectual soul, for example by moving from place to place as the soul decides. Just so the state is sovereign over questions that are purely civil but must be ready to legislate for the good of religion at the direction of the church.

The point of the analogy is to convey in matters of religion a principal-agent relation between church and state. The Christian state is sovereign in the civil order; but it can act as agent for the church in the distinct and higher legal order of religion. Where it does so, the state acts not simply as civilis potestas, but as the church’s brachium seculare or temporale, providing its own civil authority and jurisdiction to help secure the supreme good of religion. A Latin term commonly used in the theological tradition to convey the state’s agency role in matters of religion is minister – the term for a servant, official or agent. On the soul-body model the state should act as sovereign in the civil order but as the church’s minister in the order of religion.

Not only may church and state govern the same community, but they will do so sharing a responsibility and a concern for the overall flourishing of that community and its members. Concern for the happiness of each person within the community is a basic requirement of Christian love. So the Christian state will desire not only the earthly happiness of its citizens but also their salvation, and it will do whatever it can to secure that salvation as their chief good. It is not as if the church alone should pursue this end or give it priority. And of course, enjoyment of the benefits of religion and of goods of the civil order are deeply connected. The supreme good of religion is of especial importance to the civil order which is the state’s concern. Loss of grace at the supernatural level will degrade humanity at the level of nature and thereby damage the understanding of and conformity to natural morality that is so vital to the civil order, as the nineteenth century popes frequently emphasised in their teaching. So the state has very great reason to further, in so far as it can, the specifically religious good of salvation, because, as Leo XIII emphasised at the very beginning of Immortale Dei the grace that provides that supernatural good provides many earthly benefits too: it supports the natural virtue both of the people and of the civil authorities themselves. But since, for the reasons Leo XIII founded on church-state harmony, legislative competences must be clearly divided, each of church and state must pursue the happiness of those who are both baptised faithful and political citizens within the limits of its own particular authority. The state may properly legislate for religious ends, making laws specifically aimed at fostering true worship and the salvation of its citizens, and indeed may be under a duty to do so when it has the authority. But it can only legitimately so act as agent for the church.

Suarez understood perfectly well that the religious good was vital to flourishing in the civil order. He emphasised nevertheless that it was the church, not the state, that has the authority to legislate and punish for religious ends, and that a state could only so legislate and punish as the church’s agent or minister:

Punishment of crimes only belongs to civil magistrates in so far as those crimes are contrary to political ends, public peace and human justice; but coercion with respect to those deeds which are opposed to religion and to the salvation of the soul, is essentially a function of coercive authority that is spiritual [the authority of the church], so that the authority to make use of temporal penalties for the purposes of such correction must have been allotted in particular to this spiritual power, whether the penalties are to be inflicted directly by the said power, or whether it avails itself of the ministry of its temporal arm (brachium temporale) that all things may be done decently, in order and efficaciously…. Suarez, Defensio Fidei Catholicae adversus Anglicanae Sectae Errores, book 3, chapter 23 §19

Suarez’s view comes from a work commissioned by pope Paul V to explain to James I of England the proper ordering of church and state. This work, though officially commissioned, was not itself magisterial teaching, as Storck is right to note. But Suarez’s account of this ordering remained approved official theology into modern times. It was very much part of the post-1815 restoration Jesuit intellectual formation that Leo XIII received in his youth, and in the mid-nineteenth century was especially recommended in influential theological work by Leo’s friend Ketteler the bishop of Mainz. We shall see how right up to the Second Vatican Council the work of Suarez and Bellarmine remained central at the highest levels of the church to the official understanding of Leo’s own magisterial teaching on church and state. It was Leonine teaching, very obviously understood in Suarezian terms, that, as we are about to see, was invoked by those drafting Dignitatis Humanae.

My argument is that Dignitatis Humanae represents Leonine political teaching, but for a modern situation where the state is no longer publicly Christian – no longer a political community of the baptised existing in a soul-body union with the church.

As human beings created in the image of God we have a right to liberty from subjection to unauthorised threats of force and sanction. This right is not some mere convention but is based on the dignity of our human nature. It is a dictate of natural law that we should not be subjected to coercion without proper authority. Now according to Leo XIII’s teaching the state acting on its own, apart from the church, has no authority whatever to impose legal obligations on us for religious ends. Hence when the state is acting purely on its own authority, purely as civilis potestas as it now does, we have a moral right, based on the dignity of our nature, to religious liberty against the state or any other body acting in the civil order, just as Dignitatis Humanae teaches. We have a right not to coerced by civil authority for any religious end.

2. Thomas Storck’s objections to my interpretation

Storck allows that Suarez and Bellarmine may have believed that religion lay under the authority of the church alone. He denies that this was the magisterial teaching of Leo XIII.

What is his ground for this denial? That the political community depends for its flourishing on the good of religion and on state recognition of and conformity to religious truth, and that therefore, as Leo XIII did indeed teach, the state has a duty to profess religious truth and legislate in favour of religion and religious truth. Storck infers that the state must therefore have a sovereign authority of its own to legislate in matters of religion. Leo XIII cannot then have meant to deny the state that authority. What he meant to reserve exclusively to the church was authority not over religion itself, but over the church’s ‘internal affairs’:

…the attentive reader will see that Leo is not saying anything regarding state coercion or authority in religious matters in the two quotes from Immortale Dei that Professor Pink adduces. Rather, Leo is pointing out that it is the Church’s task to lead us to heaven, and that her internal affairs – her worship and teaching, for example – are solely her concern, not the state’s.

Whence comes, in Stock’s view, the apparently novel right to religious liberty taught by Dignitatis Humanae, and how is the assertion of this right not a contradiction of previous magisterial teaching? This right and its assertion comes, he claims, from a change in political circumstance that is nothing to do with any detachment of the state from the church. It is simply that religious error and its manifestations are now less of a threat than they once were to the public order guarded by the state. Dignitatis Humanae expressly teaches, after all, that states can legitimately restrict religious activity to protect ‘just public order’.

Furthermore, society has the right to defend itself against possible abuses committed on the pretext of freedom of religion. It is the special duty of government to provide this protection. However, government is not to act in an arbitrary fashion or in an unfair spirit of partisanship. Its action is to be controlled by juridical norms which are in conformity with the objective moral order. These norms arise out of the need for the effective safeguard of the rights of all citizens and for the peaceful settlement of conflicts of rights, also out of the need for an adequate care of genuine public peace, which comes about when men live together in good order and in true justice, and finally out of the need for a proper guardianship of public morality. These matters constitute the basic component of the common welfare: they are what is meant by public order. Dignitatis Humanae §7

When in the past the church did approve of the state restriction of non-Catholic religions, Storck claims that this was because non-Catholic practice and proselytization did once constitute an immediate threat to just public order in Catholic societies. But with the disappearance of traditionally Catholic societies this is no longer so, and need for such restriction on non-Catholic religions to protect just public order has been removed. As Storck has put it:

The “just requirements of public order,” the “due limits,” and considerations of the rights of others and of the common good vary considerably from society to society, and in a society overwhelmingly and traditionally Catholic they could easily include restrictions, and even an outright prohibition, on the public activities of non-Catholic sects, particularly on their proselytizing activities. Storck, Foundations of a Catholic Social Order, (Four Faces Press, 1998), pp28-9

It is because just public order no longer warrants such restrictions and prohibitions that Dignitatis Humanae now teaches a right not to be coerced religiously by the state.

I based my Leonine reading of Dignitatis Humanae on the relationes issued by the drafting commission at sessions of Vatican II up to the final vote to explain the declaration’s content to the council fathers. From the time in 1964 that the declaration changed significantly from being a chapter in the decree on ecumenism to being a stand-alone declaration, these relationes repeatedly and explicitly described the declaration as an application for modern times of the political teaching of Leo XIII. My ‘Suarezian’ reading of these relationes and of the Leonine teaching to which they appealed is ‘anachronistic’, according to Storck. It has nothing to do with their true content or what the commission can have meant in issuing them. To support this Storck claims that at the council there was no discussion of an agency relationship between church and state. Further he notes that at least one theologian involved in the declaration’s preparation, John Courtney Murray, viewed the declaration as bearing, at least by wider implication, on liberty in relation to the authority of the church and not just that of the state.

Storck also claims that the Church’s past support for state restrictions on the public religious practice of non-Christians cannot have been an exercise of her ecclesial authority because non-Christians were not baptised and so were never subject to her jurisdiction. So such state restrictions on non-Christian religious activity must have been the exercise of an authority over religion that was native to the state and was simply approved of by the Church, not directed by her. Although I claimed that these restrictions arose as an indirect or defensive exercise by the Church of her jurisdiction, to resist intrusions on her mission and jurisdiction from without, Storck objects that no text was ever provided by me to establish this.

3. A reply to Storck

Storck claims it clear from the text of Immortale Dei that Leo does not reserve sovereign authority over religion to the church, but only authority over her own internal regulation. The text of the encyclical, however, does not support this.

Immortale Dei reserves to the potestas of the church not merely her internal regulation but, quite generally, all responsibility for what is ‘divine’ as opposed to ‘human’, giving the church the charge not merely for this-worldly ecclesial regulations, but for all those goods that are ‘heavenly and everlasting’. The encyclical more specifically reserves for the authority of the church ‘whatever, therefore, in human affairs is in any way of a sacred character’ which means ‘whatever belongs either of its own nature or by reason of the end to which it is referred, to the salvation of souls or to the worship of God’. So the church’s exclusive competence includes anything sacred in human affairs not just in matters internal to the church. Not only Catholicism, not only revealed Christianity generally, but the worship owed to God just as naturally known creator falls within the sovereign competence of the Church.

Religion in general is included, therefore, if we understand religion to be whatever practice involves worship of a kind which is properly owed to God alone. Religion so conceived clearly meets Leo’s criterion for what falls within the exclusive competence of the church. Such worship, even when practised in defective form, such as in polytheistic idolatry, ‘of its own nature’ belongs ‘to the worship of God’.

This extends the exclusive competence of the church well beyond her own internal regulation. It includes, for example, any legislation that might be aimed at encouraging worship in its proper form, based on religious truth, and at discouraging what is specifically opposed (such as idolatry or other falsehoods in respect of religion, such as atheism). That does not mean that the church has the authority to adopt any measure at all to restrict or prohibit any form of falsehood in religion. There are moral limitations on what the church can do through coercive law, even for a specifically religious end. One such limit (and not the only one) comes from her jurisdiction, which extends only to the baptised. But the lesson of Immortale Dei is that state lacks a native authority for such legislation altogether.

Storck complains that my reading of interpretive relationes issued at Vatican II by the drafting commission is ‘anachronistic’. But he does not address these relationes in detail. This is not surprising. His peculiar reading of Leo XIII’s political teaching (clearly not shared by the drafting commission) makes no sense of them at all.

Consider this key relatio of September 1965, just before the final vote in November. This relatio invokes the authority of Leo XIII to distinguish two legal orders – an order of religion over which the potestas or coercive authority of the church is sovereign, and the civil order over which the potestas of the state is sovereign. It then states that the right to religious liberty taught by the declaration is based on the fact that sovereignty over religion belongs to the church and not the state:

For the schema [the declaration’s pre-vote draft] rests on the traditional doctrine between a double order of human life, that is sacred and profane, civil and religious. In modern times Leo XIII has wonderfully expounded and developed this doctrine, teaching more clearly than ever before that there are two societies, and so two legal orders, and two coercive authorities [potestates], each divinely constituted but in a different way, that is by natural law and by the positive law of Christ. As the nature of religious liberty rests on this distinction of orders [sicut ratio libertatis religiosae in hac distinctione ordinum nititur], so the distinction provides a means to preserving it against the confusions which history has frequently produced. Vatican II Acta Synodalia 4.1 p193 (my emphasis)

In other relationes the drafting commission repeatedly emphasised that the declaration did not address the authority of the church in the order of religion, but only coercion in the civil order. Consider this relatio, again from September 1965 just before the final vote:

There this question of religious liberty, since it has to do with the civil order, is to be distinguished from other questions which are of a theological order. The first of these is of the nature and extent of that evangelical liberty by which Christ has liberated us (Galatians 5,1); the other has to do with relations between freedom and authority within the Church herself. Vatican II, Acta Synodalia 4.1 p185 (my emphases)

So according to these relationes the declaration is not addressing the sovereign authority of the church over religion, but only liberty and coercion exercised in the civil order, and so under the authority of the state. Since according to Leonine teaching this authority never extends to coercion for religious ends, we have a moral right against all such coercion in the civil order, as the declaration teaches.

The commission’s reliance on Leo XIII to establish a natural right to religious liberty against the state, at least when the state is acting just on its own authority in the civil order, seems intelligible enough. It is clear how ‘the nature of religious liberty’ might indeed rest on Leo XIII’s distinction of potestates and legal orders. But that of course requires that we do indeed take the relationes, and Leo XIII as invoked by them, to be reserving legislative competence over religion in general to the church. The relationes refer, after all, to ‘a legal order of religion’, and not to a ‘legal order of internal ecclesial regulation’.

Now on Storck’s reading that legal order of ‘religion’ from which the state’s own authority is excluded does concern only the church’s internal regulation. Suppose that had been the drafting commission’s meaning. Then according to these relationes, religious liberty would simply be about excluding the state from the church’s regulation of her internal affairs. It would have nothing to do, for example, with the liberty of non-Christians from state restrictions on false worship. This would be an absurd account of the declaration, which teaches a right to religious liberty had not just by the church but by everyone, non-Catholics and non-Christians included, against authority in the civil order.

Given Leo XIII’s evident and fundamental concern for a clear division of legislative competences, it is worth asking which potestas on Storck’s reading of Leo has a sovereign authority to coerce for religious ends? The state or the church? It must at least be the church. Why else does the church regulate herself internally but for a further religious end beyond that regulation – the good of salvation? Moreover it is the superiority of the good for which the church is competent that establishes, for Leo XIII, a superiority of the church as the higher soul over the state as a lower body. But that superior good is clearly not just her internal regulation, which it would be an absurd and clericalist ecclesiasticism to take as in itself the source of the church’s superiority over the state, but the further ends that it serves, namely worship and salvation, precisely the wider good of religion itself. And if the superiority of religion itself as a good is to establish the superiority of the church over the state, the state cannot also have a sovereign competence over that good. Indeed if as well as the church the state were also a potestas competent to direct for the good of religion, we should end up with exactly the conflict of sovereign potestates and the opposing duties they might impose that Immortale Dei sought to exclude.

Storck’s concern that the state somehow share sovereign authority over religion with the church is in one respect unmotivated. His own conception of a legitimate state restriction of religious practices simply does not require the state to have an authority of its own over religion.

Storck supposes that such state restrictions, when legitimate, were always understood and approved of by the church because needed to protect ‘just public order’. Now if this were so, then the restrictions would not be justified by the good of religion. They would be justified by needs of the civil order. To be fully justified, of course, such restrictions would have to avoid undue damage to the good of religion itself. But in protecting just public order their immediate purpose would not be to foster right religion. Just public order has to do with goods other than religion, and legislation in its defence is to protect flourishing and virtue in forms that are not specifically religious. Just public order, as Dignitatis Humanae stated in the passage from paragraph 7 cited above, has to do with ‘the rights of all citizens’ ‘public peace’ and ‘public morality’. Provided the genuine good of religion was not harmed thereby, Catholic theology always allowed the state a native authority just as potestas for the civil order to restrict activities that might be religious in character but that also posed an immediate threat to non-religious goods, and of course this remains the case after Dignitatis Humanae.

So before the council a widely read and respected theologian such as Lucien Choupin (author of a standard and frequently reprinted seminary text within the Francophone world on ecclesial authority) would distinguish between the state’s restriction and punishment of religious activity to defend true religion itself, and the state’s restriction and punishment of religious activity to defend civil society. Both forms of coercion might be legitimate. But in defending true religion the state was acting in the name of the church, while in defending the civil order the state acted in its own name (see Valeur des Décisions Doctrinales et Disciplinaires du Saint-Siège, pp270 and 526). Another interpretive relatio issued by the drafting commission in November 1964 uses the same distinction between state coercion aimed at protecting true religion and at protecting the civil order. In 1964, however, the distinction is not used to endorse state coercion in protection of religious truth, but to oppose it.

This relatio again makes very clear that, on the commission’s understanding, ‘the order of religion’ where the state lacks sovereign authority extends well beyond the internal regulation of the church. The relatio condemns any state restriction of a religious practice just on grounds of its falsehood as nefas, illicit, and illicit specifically because an intrusion by the state ‘into the order of religion’. By contrast the relatio allows that state restriction of religious practice may indeed be justified to protect of goods of the civil order – what the declaration itself refers to as ‘just public order’. So, for example, the state can ban religious practice that involves human sacrifice, not because this is defective just as a form of worship and so specifically offends against the good of religion (which arguably it does) but because as murder human sacrifice is a violation of people’s right to life under natural law:

But the public power so acts in the civil order, not however in the order of religion as such. On the other hand it is not permissible for the public power to restrict the public exercise of any religion by law or governmental action on the basis that this or that religion is judged to be false or that its exercise proceeds from an erroneous conscience or that it harms the good of the Church. For then the public power’s coercive action would intrude into the order of religion as such, which is unlawful (nefas). Vatican II Acta Synodalia 3.8 pp462-3

Of course, if non-Catholic practice and proselytisation are now less likely to disturb public order at the civil level even in Catholic cultures, there will be less justification on that basis for restricting them. But the church did not historically call on the state to restrict false religions simply because they threatened goods of the civil order. The church, for one and a half millennia, called on the state to restrict false religions, at least limiting the exposure to them of the Christian community, just because those religions were false, and as false opposed right worship and endangered salvation.

But now, at Vatican II, it is state restriction of false religions just as false and so on specifically religious grounds that is condemned as nefas or illicit. Storck’s appeal to the state’s role in the civil order and change in what just public order might require misses the point. It simply does not address the glaringly apparent doctrinal discontinuity. In the past the church called on the state coercively to privilege and protect true religion not simply to preserve just public order at the civil level, but because the religion to be protected was true, and was the way to salvation; and similarly to restrict false religion just because it was false and an obstacle to salvation. But now state restriction of religion on these grounds is opposed by the church as nefas.

Such state coercion on religious grounds is not only condemned in this relatio. It is condemned in the final declaration, and for precisely the reason presented in that very explicitly Leonine relatio of September 1965 – that religion exists in a distinct legal order where the state as civil potestas lacks authority:

Furthermore, those private and public acts of religion by which people relate themselves to God from the sincerity of their hearts, of their nature transcend the earthly and temporal levels of reality. So the state, whose peculiar purpose it is to provide for the temporal common good, should certainly recognise and promote the religious life of its citizens. With equal certainty it exceeds the limits of its authority if it takes upon itself to direct or prevent religious activity. Dignitatis Humanae §3 (my emphases)

It is not then change in what the civil order requires, but the state’s identity simply as potestas responsible for that order and not the order of religion, that precludes the state from coercively legislating for religion on its own authority. But the church had already taught this limit to state authority under Leo XIII, as that relatio of September 1965 so clearly emphasised. As I have argued, what changed in 1965 was that the state was no longer being addressed by the church as her actual or potential minister in the order of religion, but only as an independent potestas for the civil order. That was why a state protection and privileging of religious truth could be endorsed by the church in the nineteenth century, but in the twentieth century come to be condemned by her as nefas.

Storck’s inference from a duty to legislate for a certain good to the possession of sovereign authority over that good is clearly invalid. All that a duty to legislate implies is authority to do so. It is quite another question where that authority comes from. A pope addressing states on the presupposition that they are to be Christian may well assert duties on the state to legislate in favour of Catholicism as the true religion that would be beyond the competence of a secular state. So we should beware an inference from a state’s having a duty to pursue a good, even to pursue it through coercive legislation, to that state’s having a sovereign authority of its own over that good.

Of course it is true, and Leo XIII clearly taught, that the religious and civil flourishing of a community are profoundly interconnected, and equally true that Church and state share a common duty to foster the overall flourishing of an entire human community, civil and religious. But Leo XIII also taught teaching that church and state cannot each have sovereign authority over every respect of human flourishing, even though every aspect of human flourishing should be of concern to each, otherwise we would be back with what Leo XIII taught had to be avoided – the dilemma of an irresoluble clash of sovereign authorities and of the inconsistent duties that they might impose.

Storck ignores Leo XIII’s concern with the need to avoid conflict between sovereign authorities, and his teaching of a division of legislative competence to avoid it. That is why Storck so readily infers from some good’s mattering to the flourishing of a community for which an authority is a sovereign to that authority’s having some sovereignty over that good. But this inference really is invalid. There may be some other authority that has the sovereignty, and the two authorities must work together. Counterexamples to the validity of Storck’s inference are legion outside political theology. A state has a sovereign authority over economic activity within its jurisdiction. But economic flourishing within its jurisdiction may depend very much on economic activity elsewhere, and in having a duty to foster the economic wellbeing of its citizens a state may also have a duty to foster the economic flourishing of others in the world. But a state has no jurisdiction in the matter beyond its borders and any attempt to assert such a jurisdiction would simply lead to conflict with other states. So any state must fulfil its duty to the world economy through cooperation with the other states that are sovereign elsewhere.

I have noted that Storck’s own account of why much state restriction of non-Catholic religion was once legitimate did not in fact depend on the state having any authority for religion. His account presupposed only the state’s authority to protect the civil order. In fact his own explanation why we now have a right to religious liberty against the state that we did not previously have actually requires that the state lack an authority of its own for religion.

Why is it wrong for the state to restrict non-Catholic religions when once it was right? On Storck’s account, these religions were once immediately dangerous to civil order, but no longer are. For example, unlike the Calvinists of sixteenth century Lyon, modern Calvinists no longer express themselves religiously by iconoclasm – such as by smashing statuary belonging to Catholics and Catholic institutions. But suppose that beyond its authority to protect the civil order the state did also have an authority of its own to protect true religion. Would not the state remain just as much justified now as in the past in imposing restrictions on false religions, not because they were a threat to civil order, but simply because they were false? In which case why, on Storck’s theory of a native state authority to do just this, would we suddenly have so comprehensive a right to religious liberty against the state?

Leo XIII very importantly teaches that the state is under a duty publicly to profess that Catholicism is true. This is a duty that certainly does not depend on the state’s acting as an agent of the Church. The state has a duty under natural law to acknowledge as true whatever religion God reveals. It is the mere fact of a Catholic revelation that binds the state to acknowledge Catholicism, not any agency relationship to the church. Storck treats this immediate duty on the state to acknowledge Catholicism as implying an equally immediate authority to impose legal obligations in its support. But this simply does not follow. Given that Catholicism has been revealed, the state is indeed under a duty to confess it. But so are we all, even as private individuals, under the same duty. The duty to acknowledge religious truth implies no authority to coerce on its behalf, since it binds those who lack coercive authority altogether.

The state’s duty to acknowledge religious truth certainly does not then presuppose any authority to enforce it. Indeed the opposite is true. A state can impose legal obligations in support of religious truth only if it has first professed it. The state’s authority is public. If a state is to impose legal obligations for some religious end – such as right worship or salvation – that state must publicly admit its purpose to its citizens and defend it to them. Without the prior public profession by the state of the truth that it is supporting, it cannot legitimately impose legal obligations to privilege that truth.

This means that one interpretation Storck gives of my position is not accurate. He claims that on my view Dignitatis Humanae was simply a policy decision by the church. Though the church always has the authority to use states as her agents for the good of religion, in 1965 she decided no longer to do so, and that was what detached states from legislating for religion. Now this may have been part of what happened in some cases – witness the ecclesial pressure under Paul VI and his successors on formerly Catholic states to repeal laws privileging Catholicism over other religions. But it is equally clear that in much of the world by 1965 the church anyway faced a fait accompli, and that the change in church policy was importantly a response to this. Most states were simply no longer prepared to acknowledge Catholicism as true, mainly because they were no longer in any sense political communities of the baptised. So the church no longer had the capacity to employ these states as her religious agents even if she wanted to.

Storck’s view is that no matter the approval of it given by Paul V at the counter-reformation, the political theology of Suarez did not inform Leo XIII’s magisterial teaching and was irrelevant to the subsequent interpretation of that teaching. We have seen that this view is simply not plausible. Unless we understand Leo XIII’s teaching in broadly Suarezian terms, as reserving religion in general to the sovereign authority of the church, we cannot make sense either of the text of Immortale Dei itself or the use made of Leo’s teaching at Vatican II by those drafting Dignitatis Humanae. It should not be surprising then to find that in the period between Immortale Dei and Vatican II Suarez’s political theology was not forgotten counter-reformation history. It was officially approved of and cited right up to Vatican II, certainly not as magisterial teaching in its own right, but as a safe guide to understanding magisterial teaching.

Consider Alfredo Ottaviani’s Compendium iuris publici ecclesiastici, a manual on canon law and ecclesial authority specially abridged for seminary use from Ottaviani’s longer Institutiones. This went into multiple editions up to Vatican II and references here are to the fourth edition of 1954. This standard vade mecum presents Leo XIII’s Immortale Dei as among the most important magisterial teaching about the proper ordering of church and state and presents the political theology of Suarez as an excellent interpretation of that teaching. Far from disapproving of Suarezian political theology as Storck claims, Pius XII had just made this prominent supporter of it both a cardinal and pro-secretary of the Holy Office.[1]

Appealing to Immortale Dei Ottaviani distinguishes between a temporal end served by the state and a spiritual end served by the church. This spiritual end is not some internal church order but lies, exactly as Leo XIII taught, in the worship of God and in salvation. Ottaviani presents this spiritual end as of another and higher order from that served by the state whose own authority extends only to natural goods, namely the protection of rights, the needs of a natural existence and earthly happiness (Compendium p351). The state should protect and support the Church and her mission, but this role implies no state jurisdiction over the spiritual end. Were there such a jurisdiction the state’s role in spiritual matters would be auctoritativa (as it is not) rather than ministerialis (which it is) (Compendium p365). Where religion is concerned, the state is minister rather than potestas. And a state that is not Christian lacks even that ministerial role (Compendium p360).

This doctrine, Ottaviani claims, was taught not by Leo XIII alone, but by popes and general councils throughout the church’s history. He appeals to Suarez’s description of it, as involving a duty of the rulers of a Catholic state to be to be directed by a superior potestas towards the higher end of salvation for which that superior potestas alone is competent. Ottaviani writes of this teaching as one ‘to which Saint Bellarmine and Suarez applied themselves to give polished doctrinal formulation’. ‘Suarez rightly said [the teaching] is a certain and common conclusion for Catholics’ (Compendium p356).

It is hardly surprising then that the commission drafting Dignitatis Humanae expounded Leo XIII’s teaching of the two legal orders, religious and civil, each with its own governing potestas, in (as has become apparent) such very similar terms. The Vatican II conservative Ottaviani and the Vatican II progressives that had charge of the declaration’s drafting were formed and trained within exactly the same theological culture.

The difference between the conservative Ottaviani and the progressives lay not in their shared Leonine understanding of the two legal orders, but in their view of soul-body union and the possibility or even desirability of a continued ministerial role for the state in defence of religious truth.

Storck says there was no sign of a Suarezian understanding of Leonine political teaching at the council because people made no great issue of the church’s role as a religious agent. But it is perfectly clear why the agency role of the state was not central to discussion. For the progressives on the commission, what mattered was the two legal orders, and the removal of religion from the sovereign authority of the state. That secured the moral right to religious liberty in the civil order. The past ministerial role of the state within this juridical structure was regarded by them as history, and irrelevant to the future of church-state relations. For the conservatives what was desirable and necessary was the continued state privileging of Catholicism not just (pace Storck) to protect the civil order, but to protect true religion and salvation. They viewed the abandonment by the state of its support for true religion as very undesirable, and saw any endorsement of this abandonment by the church as itself contrary to historical magisterial teaching, not least that of Leo XIII. Whether the state’s role in defence of true religion was ministerialis rather than auctorativa was not the issue for them. What mattered was the state’s continued fulfilment of that role, and the spiritual need for it.

For some reason Storck treats John Courtney Murray as a decisive authority for the interpretation of the declaration in its final form. But Murray was unusually radical in his rejection of the political teaching of Leo XIII. So far so that he in fact rejected the entire Leonine theology by which from 1964 to the final vote the declaration was being officially explained. He denied the Leonine framework of the two legal orders and two potestates that those drafting the final declaration publicly invoked. The state was the only sovereign coercive authority in human society:

If an authority exists that is empowered to restrain men from public action in accord with their religious beliefs, this authority can reside only in government, which presides over the juridical and social order. “The Declaration on Religious Freedom,” in Vatican II: An Interfaith Appraisal, ed. John H. Miller (Notre Dame, IN: Association Press, 1966), 565–76.

Since the state lacked the authority to coerce for religious ends there was, in his view, no other potestas that possessed it. There was no legal order of religion with its own governing potestas. So of course Murray wanted to understand the right to religious liberty broadly, as holding against all forms of authority. But that does not give his view force against the relationes that at the time of the declaration’s passing very clearly and repeatedly gave an official interpretation of the declaration otherwise. As Yves Congar acknowledged, in 1966, immediately after the council, the coercive authority of the church herself was a ‘distinct question’ which Dignitatis Humanae did not address. In fact even Murray conceded that ‘the conciliar affirmation of the principle of freedom was narrowly limited – in the text.’ But it was that text that became magisterial teaching, not Murray’s opinions.

Other progressives, Maritain and Paul VI included, certainly did not take Murray’s highly revisionary view of the church and her authority. Maritain, who had gained Giovanni Montini, later Paul VI, as an intellectual disciple, thought not only that the church was indeed the coercive potestas for religion but that her past use of the state as her brachium seculare or minister in this sphere had been entirely legitimate. Maritain addressed this use of the state as an ecclesial agent and its past legitimacy very explicitly just before Vatican II in Man and the State. Such use of the state by the church, though once desirable, was in his view no longer spiritually beneficial now. That meant that in his view though Leo XIII’s teaching of the two coercive legal orders with two potestates, civil and religious, was indeed perennially true, the once legitimate appropriation of the state as her minister by the religious potestas was now an outmoded relic. It was of course Paul VI who was in charge when the relationes were presented that interpreted Dignitatis Humanae in terms of this Leonine division of orders, and who continued after the council in papal addresses to emphasise the identity of the church as a coercive potestas, employing stock New Testament proof texts for this conception of the church familiar from the theology of Suarez and Bellarmine. For example in an address in 1970 Paul VI insisted:

The coercive power is also founded on the experience of the primitive Church, and already St Paul was applying it to the Christian community at Corinth (cf I Co 5).

This referred to a passage in which St Paul called for the good of his salvation for a member of the church at Corinth guilty of incest to be ‘handed over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh’ – a passage that Catholic theologians, Suarez included, had long used as scriptural support for the church’s authority (still assumed in the 1983 Code) to impose temporal punishments on the baptised.

It is not surprising that Ottaviani, a leading canonist, held Suarez in such high regard on questions of church and state. The political theology of Suarez long met with official favour because it made especially good sense of the canonical tradition, of which Suarez was one of the leading theological interpreters of his day. So let us now turn to canonical issues. Storck asks for the textual basis for the so long ecclesially supported restrictions on non-Christians, and in particular for their canonical foundation. These restrictions lay especially on Jews and Moslems, who were present in large communities within parts of Christian Europe. These limited their social contact with Christians, forbad prominent sitings of synagogues and mosques in Christian areas, banned Jews and Moslems from public office in Christian states and the like. Our question is not the overall moral defensibility of these restrictions. Many of us now find them morally very objectionable for all sorts of reasons that are not simply to do with questions of jurisdiction between church and state. Our discussion simply concerns the authority under which these restrictions were enacted. Storck questions whether these restrictions could in any way be canonical in basis, since Jews and Moslems as unbaptised were always outside the church’s jurisdiction and unbound by canon law.

The canonical basis for these restrictions is not mysterious or hard to find, and I have already cited it repeatedly in published work. It is to be found within the Corpus Iuris Canonici, such as among the decretals of Gregory IX. This canonical regulation contained with the Corpus may now be defunct. But there can be no doubt that as so contained it is historical canon law.

The juridical force of all this regulation is not mysterious either, once we consider the soul-body model with precision. These restrictions on the conduct of Jews and Moslems were not to force conversions, or to ban the practice of their religions outright, even at the public level, for which there was no authority. These non-Christian religions were practiced by the unbaptised, and so were not a violation of canon law; and as forms of monotheism they did not violate the natural law that based the civil order either. The aim of these restrictions was not to suppress Judaism or Islam as false, but to protect the Christian community by limiting its exposure to non-Christian religious belief and practice. These restrictions were clearly legislated by church authority. Not only do they form part of the canonical Corpus. They consist, for example, in decrees of general councils such as Lateran IV, decrees that do not simply approve of such restrictions, but are clearly instructions addressed to the baptised rulers of Christian states ordering their imposition.

Jews and Moslems as unbaptised were indeed not bound by any canonical obligation imposed by the Church. But they were bound by state jurisdiction and civil law, and it was the law of the state that obligated them to respect the restrictions, not canon law. This is clearly not a problem for the soul-body model, but an illustration of it. Remember that the Christian state was not simply providing the church with coercive force. It was not simply lending police or troops. The Christian state was making its jurisdiction available, for religious ends. And the good of religion justified such restrictions, to the extent they were ever justified, not to enforce the church’s jurisdiction over non-Christians, which did not exist, but to protect the church’s jurisdiction over Christians and the mission served by that jurisdiction. Only the church was able to authorise coercion for this religious end, and her canonical requirement of it could only bind rulers within her jurisdiction – rulers who were themselves baptised. But once the mandated laws were passed the Christian state then provided the jurisdiction that obligated non-Christian observance of them.

To conclude, there is a common pattern to Storck’s misreading of Immortale Dei, his inattention to the continuing reliance up to Vatican II within the official church on the political theology of Suarez, and his failure seriously to engage with the Leonine relationes by which from 1964 the declaration was officially interpreted to the council fathers about to vote on it. Storck treats the state as if it were in effect really the only coercive potestas, at least for all matters save those strictly internal to the church’s own self-regulation.

We now see that this view was certainly not historical church teaching; nor the view of a leading Vatican II conservative such as Ottaviani; nor the view, at least officially, of the leading progressives who took charge of the final drafting of the declaration on religious liberty and its official interpretation; nor the view of Jacques Maritain and his school, to which Paul VI belonged, and at whose bidding Dignitatis Humanae was being thus redrafted and officially explained. That is quite a consensus against Storck, whose striking amnesia regarding historical church teaching about the church as the unique potestas not only for her own regulation but for the good of religion on this earth is unfortunately now all too common among Catholics.


  1. Citing Ci Riesce Storck presents Pius XII as supposedly opposing Suarez. From the passage cited, it is not clear why. Pius XII observes that God may ‘communicate’ a right to the state to restrict religious error. Indeed he might, but this hardly rules out that the right might be communicated via the church to the state as minister. Storck puts weight on Pius talking merely of political rulers being guided by the church in deciding whether to enforce truth, not explicitly of their being subject to ecclesial permission. But the address is clearly not an exact juridical treatise. Pius might effectively be permitting Catholic rulers to use their own political judgment in hard cases on ecclesial advice. If Suarez’s juridically precise account really had been rejected by Pius XII, Ottaviani would certainly not have been presenting Suarez as a sure guide to the magisterium in this area in a standard manual while helping run the Holy Office.