quarta-feira, 21 de agosto de 2019

Thomas Aquinas on participation in God (Nikolaos Loudovikos)

As the first axiom of Thomas’ theo-logic postulates, God is of course pure act, as “he has not admixture of potency” (SCG I, 16, 5). This is because “what is not wholly act, acts not with the whole of itself but with part of itself. But what does not act with the whole of itself is not the first agent, since it does not act through its essence but through participation in something”. It is clear that “motion is the act of that which exists in potency”. But God is absolutely impassible and immutable, and that means that God has no part of passive potency, i.e. he is pure act” (SCG I, 16, 6). While matter is then pure potency (SCG I, 17), the other beings are composite as they consist in act and potency; for the same reason there is no composition in God (SCG I, 18), and of course no accident in him, as there is no potentiality in God (SCG I, 23, 4).

Some other Thomist assertions bring us closer to the subject of this essay. Thomas claims, first, that no addition of substantial difference is possible for God because “this would be a part of the essence, which means that God will be composed of essential parts” (SCG I, 24, 4). Second, he claims that God is not the being of all things, because if he is part of all things he cannot be over them (SCG I, 26, 8). The necessary conclusion then is that of SCG I, 45, 6: “every substance exists for the sake of its operation. If, then, the operation of God is other than the divine substance, the end of God will be something other than God, thus God will not be his goodness, since the good of each thing is its end” – for the same reason even “the primary and essential object of God’s intellect is nothing other than himself” (SCG I, 48). It therefore seems at first sight obvious that it is impossible for this theo-logic to admit any divine act/operation/energy going ad extra, as this would mean composition in God, in the sense that there is a potency in him, acting not through his essence but through participation in something outside him. For strong onto-theo-logical reasons God cannot enter the being of other beings, and “he knows other beings as seen in his essence” (SCG I, 49, 5), while “all things, in their proper forms, are in him, according to his active power, since God is the principle of every being” (SCG I, 50, 8). This active power is totally identical to his essence, as theo-logic demands that any possibility of distinction between essence and will in God is onto-logically unacceptable. The only moment where this postulate seems to have been forgotten, namely in SCG II, 1, where a distinction between an internal and an external operation in God seems possible, is very quickly covered by theo-logical assertions of the aforementioned type. Is Thomas for or against such a distinction?

Thus, “God’s will is his essence”, as “God’s being does not need superadded perfection” (SCG I, 73, 3). Here the perfection of essence cages in the will in a theo-logical way: in different case, divine essence would relate to the will as potency to act, creating composition in God (SCG I, 73, 5). Moreover, “the will is the intellect” (SCG I, 72, 3), says Aquinas following Aristotle, and so, “the principle object of the divine will is the divine essence. If the principal object of the divine will is different from the divine essence, it will follow that there is something higher than the divine will moving it” (SCG I, 74, 3). Now onto-theo-logic swallows existence up and forbids any existential freedom of God to act without its permission. God is not left free to really desire something that is “inferior” to him – a position that also, of course, ignores the fact that what God loves is, in a way that escapes onto-theo-logic, more valuable for him than his essence. Paradoxically, theo-logic here seems also to insert a curious complementarity between being and willing-to-being in God, which smacks of narcissism that entraps God in a sort of psychological vicious circle: is there any real otherness outside God? Thomas claims that God wills beings through the will for his being, that is, by willing and loving himself, or, in other words, that God wills everything through himself and by willing himself. It is exactly because of this onto-theo-logic that Thomas adopts his famous position concerning participation of beings in God through likeness (SCG I, 75, 4) – the only way for beings to participate in God without disturbing his gaze at himself.

It is clear that Thomas does not say that God wills us for himself, as Augustine did; on the contrary, he seems to say that God wills himself through us. Thus, “God’s action is his essence” (SCG I, 87, 4) which now means that it is impossible for God to will some thing for the sake of itself – exactly because everything is ontologically inferior to him. Now narcissism is absolutely logical: “again, joy and delight are a certain resting of the will in its object. But God, who is his own principle object willed, is supremely at rest in himself, as containing all abundance in himself. God therefore, through his will supremely rejoices of himself” (SCG I, 90, 4). Note the complete absence of any reference to Divine Persons here; any such reference would prevent us from thinking that this abyssal self-love is identical to the abyssal self-love of a ‘great celibate’, to employ Olivier du Roy’s ironical expression. How can we avoid thinking that the germ of modern ‘detached’ (according to Charles Taylor’s expression) subjectivism, as a happy coincidence of essence and self-enclosed will to a detached self-fulfilment (which finally becomes will to power), is already present here? I think that it has already become clear that Thomist theo-logic tends to confine God to what metaphysics could admit and support, although he at times gives the impression that he wants to somehow overcome metaphysics. But the problem here does not lie in the fact that for onto-logical reasons we must admit that act, existence, will, operation, essence, love are identical in God; the problem is that we cannot confine God to this theo-logic. If we avoid such a confinement, could then all the above theo-logic perhaps be somehow acceptable? Because one could perhaps somehow endorse this identification for serious theological reasons, as Palamas for example did, without exclusively confining God’s reality to it. It seems that Thomas understood at some point that there is a problem here.

But let me return to SCG. Because of this absence of any strong theoretical possibility of distinction between essence and will/power/action, after and along with the onto-theo-logical assertion of their identity, it is clear that for Thomas God’s external relations “have no real being in God” (SCG II, 12, 3). That means that these relations refer to God only “in accordance with our manner of understanding” (SCG II, 13–14). For the same reason “God is everywhere in the fashion of an agent cause” (SCG III, 68, 11). It can be therefore seriously doubted if this sort of presence implies a real presence either of creation in God (without of course this being confused with his essence), or of God in creation. Besides, in the same perspective, and “as the ultimate end of things is to become like God” (SCG III, 19) this can be only achieved by imitation of his goodness (SCG III, 20), in the sense that the creatures “participate somewhat in his likeness” (SCG III, 25, 1). It is clear that here participation seems, at first sight, to have nothing to do with any real participation in God’s being, in the sense proclaimed in the Scripture. This is the theo-logic of participation; but this is not all that Thomas has to say about participation, as we shall see later.

But it is also necessary to investigate the anthropological aspects in SCG. Thomas’ anthropology is characterized by the refutation of the Platonic position that the soul is connected to the body as mover to movable or a man to his clothes (SCG II, 57, 10). That means that man’s intellect is not a separate substance (SCG II, 59), but man, in a more Aristotelian way, consists of an intellective soul, imagination and the body with its senses (SCG II, 58). That means that the intellect is united to the body as its form (SCG II, 70) but also, on the other hand, in a fashion that is not so remote from that of Palamas, “intellectual receptiveness and operation are altogether without a corporeal organ” (SCG II, 69, 11), although, for Palamas, this is true only concerning nous and not dianoia, which needs the brain as its corporeal organ. Therefore, “happiness or felicity, consists substantially and principally in an act of the intellect rather than in an act of the will.” (SCG III, 26, 8) This is exactly because, in an Aristotelian way, will is under intellect’s control, as any existential understanding of the will sometimes escaping intellect (this happens, for example, in Maximus the Confessor) is totally lacking. Thus “happiness essentially consists in understanding rather than in an act of will (i.e. desire, or love, or delight)” (SCG III, 26, 11).

Thus, it is obvious that when Thomas claims that “man’s ultimate felicity consists only in the contemplation of God” (SCG III, 37, 8-9) it is difficult for him to combine his perfectly holistic anthropology with his anthropology of participation. Man now becomes an intellect again62 and the rest of his composite hypostasis is passively precluded from any real participation in God. Here is his terrible corollary: “the mind which sees the divine substance must be completely cut off from the bodily senses, either by death or by ecstasy” (SCG III, 46, 2). Any possibility of a transformation of the bodily senses, so familiar in the Greek Patristic tradition, is completely lacking here, as for Thomas the main reason for the weakness of our intellect’s ability to see God is its connection with the body. Consequently, all who saw God in this life saw him “either in reference to an imaginary vision, or even a corporeal one” (SCG III, 46, 3), as the presence of the body seems to be an insurmountable obstacle for this vision. It is thus clear that the Neoplatonico-Aristotelian presuppositions of Aquinatian anthropology powerfully persist: “every intellect naturally desires the vision of the divine substance, but natural desire cannot be incapable of fulfillment. Therefore, any created intellect whatsoever can attain the vision of the divine substance, and the inferiority of its nature is no impediment” (SCG III, 57, 4). No other presuppositions seem to be required here in order for the intellect to see God, other than its natural kinship with him. Not of course to see him completely, as for the Christian Thomas, this kinship has a certain limit, imposed by the intellect’s createdness. Thus, for Thomas, the intellect can see God only through a light, which is “a likeness of God” and is supernatural (SCG III, 54, 10-11) – without of course accepting that this light is uncreated, as we would then run the danger of pantheism. In this way, this light “in its power, falls far short of the clarity of the divine intellect. So it is impossible for the divine substance to be seen as perfectly by means of this kind of light, as it is seen by the divine intellect itself” (SCG III, 55, 2). Therefore, “it is not possible for a created intellect to comprehend the divine substance”, as “it is not seen as perfectly by the created intellect as its visibility would permit” (SCG III, 55, 5-6), and consequently different degrees of participation in this light imply different degrees of seeing God’s substance (SCG III, 58, 1). In this way, “the created intellect becomes a partaker in the eternal life through this vision” (SCG III, 61), because “the intellect which sees the divine substance contemplates all things at once and not in succession” (SCG III, 60).

Thus, the anthropological conclusion of SCG’s onto-theo-logic is a natural upshot of its understanding of God: imperfect participation of an imperfect but Godlike intellect, through an imperfect supernatural light, in an imperfect similitude of a splendidly perfect divine transcendent Being. It is clear that Thomas’ primary intention here was precisely to show his God’s magnitude to the audacious pagans, Muslims, etc. Thomas’ God is absolutely onto-theo-logically magnificent, fearless, powerful, invulnerable, unreachable, and everything around him simply has to submit completely to his unsurpassable glory. In other words, Aquinas’ main concern in SCG was to describe God’s supreme unity and coherence, in the metaphysical, ‘logical’ (following Avicenna) language of his time, giving to the rising Papacy the absolute intellectual and doctrinal superiority that it so powerfully claimed at that period of time. But this God was not absolutely sufficient for Thomas’ fellow Christians, as it was obvious that participation here, although encouraged, was not very far-reaching. [...] 

It is not of course without surprise that, after the above claims concerning the touching of the creatures by divine will one reads: “therefore there is no real relation in God to the creatures, whereas in creatures there is a real relation to God; because creatures are contained under the divine order, and their very nature entails dependence on God” (ST I, 28, 1, r. to obj. 3). How can there be no real relation in God to the creatures when “he wills both himself to be and other things to be” (ST I, 19, 2)? Onto-theo-logic can sometimes become an obsession, where action and will tend to retire to their high solipsistic castle. This is why finally, for Thomas, the effect does not participate in its cause but in its similitude – otherwise things could be divine by essence! This similitude is multiplied in many things, and no one has it in its wholeness. Thus, analogical causality implies a deficient likeness, while analogy itself is a reduced similarity and creation is a kind of fall.67 To be precise, there are two kinds of likeness, one to God’s essence and a second to his intellect; creation is a fall in regard to God’s essence, while it is ‘very good’ in regard to his intellect. But, apart from the obvious return to theo-logic, what remains is that God seems here to act in absolute unity of action and essence, being absolutely and essentially present in the world. God projects another being outside him by analogical similitude, and wills it and touches it. Onto-theo-logic can thus, theoretically, become an ontological ground for participation, and then its ‘suspension’ simply means the possibility of its expression in an ontology of participation. But it is clear to me that Thomas cannot do this alone.

But let me now switch to Thomas’ understanding of beatitude. There are two kinds of beatitude here: first, the beatitude of God, i.e., “the perfect good of an intellectual nature”, and, second, the beatitude of every intellectual nature, which “consists in understanding. Now in God to be and to understand are one and the same thing, differing only in the manner of our understanding them. Beatitude must therefore be assigned to God in respect of his intellect; as also to be blessed, who are called blessed (beati) by reason of the assimilation to his beatitude” (ST I, 26, 3, ans.). Furthermore, it is clear that beatitude “is a created thing in beatified creatures; but in God […] it is an uncreated thing” (ibid.). It seems again absolutely impossible for the creatures to participate in God’s being as it really is, because every created beatitude “pre-exists wholly in a more eminent degree in the divine beatitude”, analogically (ST I, 26, 4, ans.), thus creating an onto-theo-logical gap between what God is and what of him is participated in. It is curious enough that the Thomists who complain about Palamas preventing us from participating in God’s essence by his doctrine of the energies, do not see that, for Thomas, any such participation is much more strictly forbidden. What is the reason for the beatitude of the creatures to be created and not, by grace and not of course by nature, uncreated? Anna Williams’s answer is that if beatitude were uncreated, “what was once created can somehow become uncreated”.68 But in Greek Patristic thought we find the concept of the ‘mode of existence’ (a Cappadocian Trinitarian concept that Maximus transferred, through Christology, to the ontology of creation, thus influencing Palamas), which permits us to understand that created nature can be acted upon ‘beyond its terms’, changing its rank of existence into uncreated, by grace, without losing its createdness.
Thus, “as the ultimate beatitude of man consists in the use of highest function, which is the operation of his intellect; if we suppose that the created intellect could never see God, it would neither never attain to beatitude, or its beatitude would consists in something else beside God; which is opposed to faith” (ST I, 12, 1). Furthermore, “there is in every man a natural desire to know the cause of any effect which he sees […]. But if the intellect of the rational creature could not reach so far as to the first cause of things, the natural desire would remain void. Hence it must be absolutely granted that the blessed see the essence of God” (ibid.). Therefore, man’s natural desire is to attain the beatitude of the intellectual vision of the cause of all things in its essence.

Thomas knows that the Greek Fathers preclude any such vision of divine essence, but he claims that when they do so, what they deny in fact is the comprehension of God’s essence (ibid., r. to obj. 1). But the most important problem for him here is that, of course, the intellective power of the creatures cannot be identified with God’s essence; so “there is required some similitude in the visual faculty, namely, the light of glory strengthening the intellect to see God” (ST I, 12, 2). Consequently, this light of glory, which is a similitude of divine essence, is another name for grace that needs to illuminate created intellect: or, else, “it is some supernatural disposition that should be added to the intellect in order that it may be raised up to such a great and sublime height” (ST I, 12, 5, ans.). What does Thomas mean by “supernatural” here? As he explains in the same passage, by supernatural we mean a created light, which is offered to the intellect in order for it “to understand God”. The question here is: how can man see even the slightest part of divine essence, if it is obviously impossible to overcome his created limits through a light that is merely created like him?

Thomas has a provisional answer: “since therefore the created light of glory received into any created intellect cannot be infinite, it is clearly impossible for any created intellect to know God in an infinite degree. Hence it is impossible that it should comprehend God” (ST I, 12, 7). On the other hand, “those who see the divine essence see what they see in God not by any likeness, but by the divine essence itself united to their intellect” (ST I, 12, 9). There is another contradiction here. How we can avoid pantheism in this case remains totally obscure. But this direct vision belongs to the next life, as Thomas writes: “God cannot be seen in his essence by a mere human being, except he be separated from this mortal life” (ST I, 12, 11).This is because, as he explains: “our soul, as long as we live in this life, has its being in corporeal matter; hence naturally it knows only what has a form in matter, or what can be known by such a form”.

But that means that the aforementioned created light/grace is obviously insufficient to liberate the human soul ontologically from the burden of the body in this life, in order for it to unite directly and intellectually unite with the divine essence; but if this is true, then the vision of God after death is not the result of any sort of grace, but is simply a natural result of the liberation of the soul from body. Thus any visit of the created/supernatural grace/light in this life has as its main goal our deliverance from the body. How can we conceive of Chalcedonian Christology in these terms? Is the communication of idioms possible if the human body cannot be transformed, starting in this life? What is the role of the Holy Spirit in Thomas’ vision of God? Is his role confined to helping us to get off our bodily nature, along with the passive part of our soul? And do we need the Spirit at all for something like this?

Despite these shortcomings, always due to the excessive role of onto-theo-logic in Thomas’ mind, which often risks suffocating his ontology of participation, there is a series of challenging claims in his thought that can be read positively. The fact that God’s action is absolutely one and the same with God’s essence, and thus it is God himself who acts outside himself, along with the fact that beings acquire both their essence and their beatitude by participation in God, and that, despite the failure of the created light, this has finally somehow to do with participation in divine essence. These are only some of Thomas’ positive points. What is undoubtedly absent in his theological consideration is, first, the question of the human body, as we have seen, and, second, divino-human synergy.

Thomas deals with synergy in his work Contra Errores Graecorum. In chapter 23 of this work, he deals with the question “how the assertion: the creature cannot cooperate with the Creator, is to be understood”. Thomas distinguishes two kinds of synergy. First, we have synergy “as it effects conjointly with another the same operation, as when two men carry a single burden or drag a boat”. Only the Persons of the Trinity have such a synergy. Second, there exists synergy when we have “work toward the same effect but by a different power, as a servant cooperates with his lord”. Obviously, this is the type of synergy between man and God. Aquinas clarifies that synergy has nothing to do “in respect to those effects which are immediately from God, such as creation and sanctification”. It is clear that here we have a non-dialogical synergy/cooperation between man and God, a synergy that is rather a submission to the will of the Aquinatian onto-theo-logical giant. It is really difficult for Thomas to admit any real dialogue between man and God, concerning for example deification, not because he theologically identifies essence and will in God, (since he also distinguishes them as we have just seen), but because he knows only of this sort of communication between them that is described and confined by the term similitude. Similitude, in this way, is God’s protective wall, it is the analogical locus of divino-human encounter, where God can be touched while left untouchable – while the creatures passively reflect his glory. Although there seems to exist an expression of divine will ad extra, its theo-logical presuppositions do not easily permit a real encounter with a free will outside it. [...] By inexorably binding logic and ontology together in his more or less Aristotelian onto-theo-logic, Thomas has difficulties in convincingly articulating the distinction-in-identity between the active will and the essence. The Greek Patristic distinction between will and essence in God is, in a way, a consequence of this distinction between logic and ontology, which Thomas is afraid of. This is because of their relational construing of essence, both in God and creation, as an event of dialogical circulation, unlike the Thomist philosophical understanding of essence as an event of self-enclosed onto-logical necessity.


From: Striving for Participation: Palamite Analogy as Dialogical Syn-energy and Thomist Analogy as Emanational Similitude by Nikolaos Loudovikos

segunda-feira, 19 de agosto de 2019

Notes on Indulgences, Temporal Punishment, Purgatory, etc


A significant part of the debates at the Council of Ferrara-Florence was dedicated to the question of purgatory and more generally of the forgiveness of sins after death. Both Latins and Greeks agreed that there are Christians who belong to the so-called ‘middle state’ and who, assisted by the suffrages of the Church, will in due course join the group of the saved. But they disagreed as to how these souls will attain to salvation. The Latins emphasized divine justice, punishment, and satisfaction. Divine justice demands that those who have failed to offer full satisfaction for sins forgiven in this life will have to go through fiery punishment in purgatory, until due satisfaction is eventually offered. The Greeks, on the other hand, emphasized God’s love and forgiveness. They repudiated the idea of purgatory and of material fire burning (immaterial) souls, and rejected the Latin view that souls are punished for sins already forgiven. They argued that the souls of people who die with unforgiven minor sins will experience spiritual sufferings in the afterlife, which, however, are not divine punishments but self-inflicted consequences of these sins. These souls will eventually be purified and saved thanks to God’s love and forgiveness.   ... The Latin position, stated [in the Council of Florence] in detailed and unambiguous terms, deserves some attention. Forgiveness does not refer to the damage and the stain that sin causes to the soul, but only to the punishment that is due to it. Purgatory, therefore, is not a place where souls are cleansed and healed in order to reach the spiritual maturity that is necessary for entering heaven. It is only a place of punishment and torture for sins already forgiven. [...]

In spite of their differences, however, Latins and Greeks agreed on two fundamental points. First, there is an intermediate state of souls that are, as it were, in between Heaven and Hell. Second, the prayers, the liturgies, and the suffrages in general of the Church contribute to their salvation.

Nevertheless, it is clear that Greeks and Latins disagreed on why and how these souls are purified and led to salvation. The Latins put forward a metaphysical principle that emphasized divine justice, which demands the punishment of sinners who had already been forgiven, for the sake of satisfaction.  [...] The Latins understood purgation mainly as a punitive process by means of material fire, at the end of which divine justice is satisfied and the soul is at long last allowed to enter Paradise. In this context, the suffrages of the Christians must be understood as vicarious offerings of satisfaction, which thus reduce the amount of time the souls of the deceased will have to spend in purgatory. The highly controversial Latin doctrine of indulgences fits in very well within this theological system.

The Greeks approached the matter from a different angle.  As André de Halleux has argued, they reacted ‘against a scholastic theology that the Latins presented as the faith of the Church’.  Although they repeatedly referred to divine justice,  their emphasis was on divine love, purification, and forgiveness. They understood the sufferings of the souls not as divine punishments, but rather as self-inflicted consequences of sin. They believed that through their painful afterlife experiences the souls are purged and forgiven by divine love, with the assistance of the prayers and in general the suffrages of the Church. [...]

In commenting on the Latin view, Jugie has argued that a soul in purgatory is like a prisoner.  It is sent to serve a certain amount of time in it, and, after this, it is almost automatically released and transferred to Paradise. But according to Mark, Jugie continues, although there is a purification of the souls thanks to their afterlife pains, release comes only from God, from outside, ab extrinseco.  Jugie’s remark is correct. For the Latins, punishment comes from God, whereas release comes by itself. For the Greeks, punishment comes by itself, being a consequence of sin, whereas forgiveness and release from punishment come only from God. The two approaches are clearly different. The Latin emphasis is on God’s justice and punishment. The Greek emphasis is on God’s love and forgiveness.

The examination of the Latin and Greek texts on purgatory at the Council of Ferrara – Florence has led me to the conclusion that the following remarks by John Meyendorff are not far off the mark:

The debate [on purgatory] between Greeks and Latins, in which Mark was the main Greek spokesman, showed a radical difference of perspective. While the Latins took for granted their legalistic approach to divine justice – which, according to them, requires a retribution for every sinful act – the Greeks interpreted sin less in terms of the acts committed than in terms of a moral and spiritual disease which was to be healed by divine forbearance and love. […] Legalism, which applied to individual human destiny the Anselmian doctrine of ‘satisfaction’, is the ratio theologica of the Latin doctrine on purgatory. For Mark of Ephesus, however, salvation is communion and ‘deification’.

And as a representative of the ‘Latin’ side has further claimed in commenting on earlier controversies on purgatory, ‘Byzantine soteriology is conceived less as satisfactory than as deifying and liberating, as recreating the disfigured image and liberating man from slavery to the elements of the world’.

The Greek views on purgatory presented a powerful challenge to the medieval Roman Catholic penitential system, its projection into the afterlife, and the theology that underpinned them. Mark and the Greeks did their best in order to be heard by the Latins. But they were not.  With regard to the doctrines of satisfaction, purgatory, and indulgences, the stakes for the Latins were by then very high.  The Latin Church had developed a fully-fledged penitential system, which extended its power to both this world and the next.  [...]

So, the Latin views on purgatory that the Greeks challenged at the unionist Council of Ferrara – Florence stand behind the emergence of Protestantism and the subsequent, and probably irreversible, destruction of the unity of Western Christianity. In the words of Le Goff, ‘thanks to Purgatory the Church developed the system of indulgences, a source of great power and profit, until it became a dangerous weapon that was ultimately turned back against the Church’.  Even Gill had to admit that ‘the Council of Florence made the Reformation inevitable’.



Source: Love, Purification, and Forgiveness versus Justice, Punishment, and Satisfaction: The Debates on Purgatory and the Forgiveness of Sins at the Council of Ferrara – Florence by Demetrios Bathrellos

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See also a superb discussion of the Homilies refuting the purgatorial fire given by St. Mark of Ephesus at this same Synod: The Soul After Death, by Fr. Seraphim Rose, App. I, pp. 196-213. Here are Fr. Seraphim's introductory remarks on these homilies:

The Orthodox teaching on the state of souls after death is one that is often not fully understood, even by Orthodox Christians themselves; and the comparatively late Latin teaching of "purgatory" has caused further confusion in people's minds. The Orthodox doctrine itself, however, is not at all ambiguous or imprecise. Perhaps the most concise Orthodox exposition of it is to be found in the writings of St. Mark of Ephesus at the Council of Florence in 1439, composed precisely in order to answer the Latin teaching on "purgatory." These writings are especially valuable to us in that coming as they do from the last of the Byzantine Fathers, before the modern era with all its theological confusions, they both point us to the sources of the Orthodox doctrine and instruct us how to approach and understand these sources. These sources are: Scripture, Patristic homilies, church services, Lives of Saints, and certain revelations and visions of life after death, such as those contained in Book IV of the Dialogues of St. Gregory the Great.
Today's academic theologians tend to mistrust the latter two or three kinds of sources, which is why they are often uneasy when speaking on this subject and sometimes prefer to keep an "agnostic reticence" with regard to it (Timothy Ware, The Orthodox Church, p. 259). St. Marks writings, on the other hand, show us how much "at home" with these sources genuine Orthodox theologians are; those who are "uncomfortable" with them perhaps reveal thereby an unsuspected infection with modern unbelief.
Of St. Mark's four replies on purgatory composed at the Council of Florence, the First Homily contains the most concise account of the Orthodox doctrine as against the Latin errors, and it is chiefly from it that this translation has been compiled. The other replies contain mostly illustrative material for the points discussed here, as well as answers to more specific Latin arguments.
The "Latin Chapter" to which St. Mark replies are those written by Julian Cardinal Cesarini (Russian translation in Pogodin, pp. 50-57), giving the Latin teaching, defined at the earlier "Union" Council of Lyons (1270), on the state of souls after death. This teaching strikes the Orthodox reader (as indeed it struck St. Mark) as one of an entirely too "literalistic" and "legalistic" character. The Latins by this time had come to regard heaven and hell as somehow "finished" and "absolute," and those in them as already possessing the fullness of the state they will have after the Last Judgment; thus, there is no need to pray for those in heaven (whose lot is already perfect) or those in hell (for they can never be delivered or cleansed from sin). But since many of the faithful die in a "middle" state—not perfect enough for heaven, but not evil enough for hell—the logic of the Latin arguments required a third place of cleansing (''purgatory"), where even those whose sins had already been forgiven had to be punished or give "satisfaction" for their sins before being sufficiently cleansed to enter heaven. These legalistic arguments of a purely human "justice" (which actually deny God's supreme goodness and love of mankind) the Latins proceeded to support by literalistic interpretations of certain Patristic texts and various visions; almost all of these interpretations are quite contrived and arbitrary, because not even the ancient Latin Fathers spoke of such a place as "purgatory," but only of the "cleansing" from sins after death, which some of them referred to (probably allegorically) as by "fire."
In the Orthodox doctrine, on the other hand, which St. Mark teaches, the faithful who have died with small sins unconfessed, or who have not brought forth fruits of repentance for sins they have confessed, are cleansed of these sins either in the trial of death itself with its fear, or after death, when they are confined (but not permanently) in hell, by the prayers and Liturgies of the Church and good deeds performed for them by the faithful. Even sinners destined for eternal torment can be given a certain relief from their torment in hell by these means also. There is no fire tormenting sinners now, however, either in hell (for the eternal fire will begin to torment them only after the Last Judgment), or much less in any third place like "purgatory"; all visions of fire which are seen by men are as it were images or prophecies of what will be in the future age. All forgiveness of sins after death comes solely from the goodness of God, which extends even to those in hell, with the cooperation of the prayers of men, and no "payment" or "satisfaction" is due for sins which have been forgiven.
It should be noted that St. Mark's writings concern primarily the specific point of the state of souls after death, and barely touch on the history of the events that occur to the soul immediately after death. On the latter point there is an abundant Orthodox literature, but this point was not under discussion at Florence.

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The comments below were taken from the discussion at http://www.orthodoxchristianity.net/forum/index.php/topic,13820.0.html

Purgatory exists to deal with the expiation of the temporal punishment due to post-baptismal personal sin, that part of the punishment which the person has not been able to expiate while on earth.
The purpose of purgatory is the expiation of sin, or the discharge of the debt of temporal punishment (Trent, Session 6, Canon 30). The Catechism of the Catholic Church speaks about "those who are expiating their sins in purgatory" (paragraph 1475). To "expiate" means to make reparation for an offence or injury. This expiation is achieved through suffering of the soul. Unless completed on earth, "expiation must be made in the next life through fire and torments or purifying punishments." And again, those "who had not made satisfaction with adequate penance of their sins and omissions are cleaned after death with punishments designed to purge away their debt" (Vatican II, Apostolic Constitution on the Revision of Indulgences, 1967).

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Temporal punishment 
That temporal punishment is due to sin, even after the sin itself has been pardoned by God, is clearly the teaching of Scripture. God indeed brought man out of his first disobedience and gave him power to govern all things (Wisdom 10:2), but still condemned him "to eat his bread in the sweat of his brow" until he returned unto dust. God forgave the incredulity of Moses and Aaron, but in punishment kept them from the "land of promise" (Numbers 20:12). The Lord took away the sin of David, but the life of the child was forfeited because David had made God's enemies blaspheme His Holy Name (2 Samuel 12:13-14). In the New Testament as well as in the Old, almsgiving and fasting, and in general penitential acts are the real fruits of repentance (Matthew 3:8; Luke 17:3; 3:3). The whole penitential system of the Church testifies that the voluntary assumption of penitential works has always been part of true repentance and the Council of Trent (Sess. XIV, can. xi) reminds the faithful that God does not always remit the whole punishment due to sin together with the guilt. God requires satisfaction, and will punish sin, and this doctrine involves as its necessary consequence a belief that the sinner failing to do penance in this life may be punished in another world, and so not be cast off eternally from God. (Catholic Encyclopedia - http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/12575a.htm ) 

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The Pope Benedict XVI does recognize a substantial difference between Orthodox and his church's stand on the matter:
48. A further point must be mentioned here, because it is important for the practice of Christian hope. Early Jewish thought includes the idea that one can help the deceased in their intermediate state through prayer (see for example 2 Macc 12:38-45; first century BC). The equivalent practice was readily adopted by Christians and is common to the Eastern and Western Church. The East does not recognize the purifying and expiatory suffering of souls in the afterlife, but it does acknowledge various levels of beatitude and of suffering in the intermediate state. The souls of the departed can, however, receive “solace and refreshment” through the Eucharist, prayer and almsgiving. The belief that love can reach into the afterlife, that reciprocal giving and receiving is possible, in which our affection for one another continues beyond the limits of death—this has been a fundamental conviction of Christianity throughout the ages and it remains a source of comfort today.  (ENCYCLICAL LETTER Spe Salvi - Pope Benedict XVI) 
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[In the bellow quote] I highlighted the crux of the matter.  I think this dual definition of 'punishment' is entirely absent from Orthodox theology:
1473 The forgiveness of sin and restoration of communion with God entail the remission of the eternal punishment of sin, but temporal punishment of sin remains. While patiently bearing sufferings and trials of all kinds and, when the day comes, serenely facing death, the Christian must strive to accept this temporal punishment of sin as a grace. He should strive by works of mercy and charity, as well as by prayer and the various practices of penance, to put off completely the "old man" and to put on the "new man."
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2. It is a divinely revealed truth that sins bring punishments inflicted by God's sanctity and justice. These must be expiated either on this earth through the sorrows, miseries and calamities of this life and above all through death, or else in the life beyond through fire and torments or "purifying" punishments. Therefore it has always been the conviction of the faithful that the paths of evil are fraught with many stumbling blocks and bring adversities, bitterness and harm to those who follow them. (Indulgentarium Doctrina - Pope Paul VI, 1967)
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Fr Hardon has been one of the pre-eminent apologists of the Catholic Faith over the last 40 years.  His works are everywhere, on EWTN, etc., etc.  Fr Hardon served as a consultant for the drafting of the Catechism of the Catholic Church promulgated by Pope John Paul II in 1992. 

Writers in the Latin tradition are quite unanimous that the fire of purgatory is real and not metaphorical. They argue from the common teaching of the Latin Fathers, of some Greek Fathers, and of certain papal statements like that of Pope Innocent IV, who spoke of “a transitory fire” (DB 456). ("The Doctrine of Purgatory" by Fr. John A. Hardon, S.J.http://www.therealpresence.org/archives/Eschatology/Eschatology_006.htm)

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On the Catholic Encyclopedia:
At the Council of Florence, Bessarion argued against the existence of real purgatorial fire, and the Greeks were assured that the Roman Church had never issued any dogmatic decree on this subject. In the West the belief in the existence of real fire is common. Augustine (Enarration on Psalm 37, no. 3) speaks of the pain which purgatorial fire causes as more severe than anything a man can suffer in this life, "gravior erit ignis quam quidquid potest homo pati in hac vita" (P.L., col. 397). Gregory the Great speaks of those who after this life "will expiate their faults by purgatorial flames," and he adds "that the pain be more intolerable than any one can suffer in this life" (Ps. 3 poenit., n. 1). Following in the footsteps of Gregory, St. Thomas teaches (IV, dist. xxi, q. i, a.1) that besides the separation of the soul from the sight of God, there is the other punishment from fire. "Una poena damni, in quantum scilicet retardantur a divina visione; alia sensus secundum quod ab igne punientur", and St. Bonaventure not only agrees with St. Thomas but adds (IV, dist. xx, p.1, a.1, q. ii) that this punishment by fire is more severe than any punishment which comes to men in this life; "Gravior est omni temporali poena. quam modo sustinet anima carni conjuncta". How this fire affects the souls of the departed the Doctors do not know, and in such matters it is well to heed the warning of the Council of Trent when it commands the bishops "to exclude from their preaching difficult and subtle questions which tend not to edification', and from the discussion of which there is no increase either in piety or devotion" (Sess. XXV, "De Purgatorio"). 

Perhaps there is another problem, and that is differentiating between when a Pope speaks as a matter of doctrine versus when he speaks merely out of personal opinion.  In terms of the Orthodox, since no one person has the status of authoritatively speaking for the Church (we have saints that come close, such as St. John Chrysostom, but I have read Orthodox take issue with this or that thing he said and not be accused of departing from the Church's teaching), then it is much easier for us to dismiss this person or that saint as being 'out on a limb.'  In the West, since the Pope holds the position of supreme authority when it comes to the determination of doctrinal statements, it is assumed that every time a Pope speaks, he is speaking authoritatively on the matter of which he speaks.

This impression was reinforced by a pronouncement regarding 'infallibility' of the Pope's pronouncements, though I have heard that it has been variously attenuated and not even used in recent memory (unless I am mistaken, which is entirely possible in this matter).

The Council of Trent proclaimed "difficult and subtle questions" as Purgatory ought not be discussed (as did the Treaty of Brest), but they certainly are taught as the CCC demonstrates.  To me, it appears the Magisterium of the RCC is not always very comfortable with this topic, given that it has caused them a great deal of controversy and that they are willing to unify with Orthodox who reject the teachings regarding temporal punishment, yet equally insist that such teachings are obligatory for all Roman Catholics.

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[Indulgences] has to do with the Western idea of the "merits of the saints" and binding and loosing. Basically it's been taught in the Roman Catholic Church that there is a treasury of merits in heaven earned by the saints. The pope can therefore issue indulgences, drawing from this treasury of merit, and apply it in expiation of the time one is due to spend in purgatory( where one is being cleanesed of a "residual" stain of forgiven sins for which insufficient pennance was done, or unconfessed venial sins.) The pope issues indulgences, promising either the partial or full removal of time in purgatory. An indulgence may also be applied to the deceased. In order for one to gain an indulgenxe one must will to gain said indulgence, usually attatched to performing some sort of pious act, recieve Comunion, pray for the intentions of the pope and be free from all attatchment to even venial sin. If the last condition of freedom of attatchment to venial sin is not met, the indulgence becomes partial, and not plenary(full).


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The problem is that some of Catholicism's theology is in a state of flux and there are divergent teachings.  So Catholics may use one argument one day and the next day use another if it is more appropriate.

I'd like to pull a post from a mutual friend who writes here.

Do yourself a favor and pick up any book in the 1950's teaching the Roman Catholic Faith...
This is The Faith
Fundamentals of Catholic Dogma
Everyman's Theology
Baltimore Catechism
etc
and you will find the faith taught by the Roman Catholic Church in the 1950's and 'all' of them taught Purgatory, Limbo, etc in the same exact way with very little in common with today's Roman Catholic Theology.
Modern Roman Catholics are all about reductionism. Separating 'depictions' from Doctrine, Traditions from traditions, etc etc. That is because within this kind of reconstruction you would be forced to deal with the contradictions such a move in Theology would create.
I'd recommend that Catholics start rereading the Classics and realize that Post-Vatican II Theology is a departure from what has been taught and thought for one thousand years.
Now you and others may argue that this 'piece' of Classic Theology wasn't 'infallibly' spoken or was only tradition with a small "t".   For me that spin on the reductionism happening within the Roman Catholic Church since Vatican II is such a farce.  It's rationalizing how we 'change the theology of the Roman Catholic Church' without admitting that we are changing the theology of the Roman Catholic Church... and that is weak in my opinion.
For hundreds of years Roman Catholics were taught Purgatory was a 'place and state' and that Limbo was a 'place and state' but in our modern times such certainties have been sidelined to make room for other theological opinions.  I ask, what happened to 'truth'?   I look and I see Catholicism reconstructing itself and pretending that it really isn't because this or that wasn't spoken infallibly or was actually never 'really' part of Tradition but only tradition with a small "t".   I simply can't believe in the Roman Catholic Church because of such nonsense and have simply embraced the Church that Catholicism is attempting to remake itself into... the Holy Orthodox Catholic Church.


segunda-feira, 5 de agosto de 2019

The Roman Catholic doctrine of "transubstantiation" is condemned at the 1691 Orthodox Synod in Constantinople.

[Blog commentary: The synods of the 17th century were responding to Protestants, who denied that there was any real change in the Eucharist. That is why the Synod of Jerusalem (1672)  says that there is "transubstantiation". But soon the Orthodox realized that the Romans Catholics mean something very specific with this term and that they use aristotelian concepts of substance and accident. So, the synod of 1691 replies that it is neither just a symbol (for there is a real change) nor the roman catholic aristotelian explanation. That is, we believe according to apostolic teaching that there is a real change. But the aristotelian definition is simply wrong (and this is the official Roman definition of the Lateran Council of 1215).]

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CONCILIUM CONSTANTINOPOLITANANUM 1691

SYNOD OF CONSTANTINOPLE 1691 

The Council's chief decision was on Transubstantiation (μετουσίωσις - metousíōsis), the theory by which the bread and wine change substance during consecration. The doctrine was known in the West and had developed within an Aristotelian framework, according to which the substance would change, but the attributes would not. This would explain why the communicant does not physically perceive a change. The first official statement of the doctrine is found in the Fourth Lateran Council (1215). (1) The Latin doctrine of Transubstantiation becomes prominent chiefly with Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274). (2) The Protestant reformation attacked the doctrine. Luther referred to it as Aristotelian Pseudo-Philosophy, (3) while the thirty-nine articles of religion of the Anglican Church (1563) rejected it. (4) Thus, both Catholics and Protestants agreed that there is a change which takes place during the Eucharist, but had divergent opinions on the nature of this change. 

The occasion of the Synod was the publication of the Confession of Dositheos in 1690. In it, the term metousios is accepted. The opponent of the term was Ioannes Karyophylles (1600-1692), who wrote a treatise about the Eucharist that denied the term 'transubstantiation':
(5). This dispute may be interpreted as the end of a series of synods in Constantinople (1638, 1642), Jerusalem (1672), and the present one, which dealt with the relation between Protestant ideas and the Orthodox Church. It also dealt with the relation between Moldavia and Constantinople in this period. It is important to keep in mind that these synods took place at a time of restructuring of the Ottoman influence and power, between the end of the Persian-Ottoman wars (with the Treaty of Zuhab of 1639) and the siege of Vienna in 1683. 

It was convened by Callinicus II Ecumenical Patriarch (1689-1693: 1694-1702) and it defined Transubstantiation as a change. Moreover, it explains that this idea does not derive front the Western Churches (from the Latins), but finds its origins in Greek theology. The text explicitly refers to Gennadios, Patriarch of Constantinople (1454-1464). He employed the term μετουσίωσις (metousíōsis/transubstantiation) to refer to the nature of Christ itself. Indeed, he seems to understand the term as meaning μεταβολή (metabolē/change). (6) The idea that it was a 'change' is indeed traditional. However, the term μετουσίωσις (metousíōsis/transubstantiation) appears as a translation of the term 'transubstantiation' and it had been attacked for this reason. What is clear is that the term as understood by this Synod does not seem to imply the distinction substance/accidents which was important for the Lateran Council of 1215. 

The edition follows that of Karmiris'.




Source: Corpus Christianorum Conciliorum Oecumenicorum Generaliumque Decreta. The Great Councils of the Orthodox Churches: From Constantinople 861 to Moscow 2000

quarta-feira, 31 de julho de 2019

Absolute Divine Simplicity

Divine simplicity follows from the Thomistic doctrine of pure actuality and is affirmed in the Roman Catholic tradition by the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 and reaffirmed in Vatican I (1870).

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"...one of the most fundamental tenets of the Latin theological tradition [is] the doctrine of divine simplicity. Given divine simplicity as the Latin tradition understands it, God is identical with His own eternity, as He is identical with all of His essential attributes. This means that, as Augustine remarks, “eternity is the very substance of God” [1] Plainly since eternity is the divine substance, it cannot be shared by creatures[2]

[1]Expositions of the Psalms, Homily 2 on Psalm 101, ch. 10 (PL 37 1311).
[2]It is true that Aquinas speaks of angels and the blessed as “participating” in eternity, but on close examination this turns out to be an intentional rather than an ontological relationship. Such creatures participate in eternity only inasmuch as they take on the divine essence as an intelligible species. Given the identity of the act of understanding with its object, this means that they are united to God, as Aquinas puts it, not “in the act of being, but only in the act of understanding.” (Summa Contra Gentiles III.54.9; cf. III.61.3.)

David Bradshaw, A Christian Approach to the Philosophy of Time, pp 2, 12

***

"When they [Roman Catholics] speak of operations and energies as distinct from the essence, they are thinking of created effects of the divine essence. Their notion of God admits of nothing but an essential existence for divinity. What is not the essence itself does not belong to the divine being, is not God. Therefore the energies must be either identified with the essence or separated from it completely as actions which are external to it, i.e. as created effects having the essence as their cause." Vladimir Lossky, cited in Aristotle Papanikolaou, Being With God: Trinity, Apophaticism, and Divine Human Communion (University of Notre Dame Press, 2006), p. 26.

"To this argument, Lossky, following Palamas, poses the dilemma that if God’s energies are not uncreated, either the essence is communicated which results not in deification but absorption, or created existence participates in something that is less than divine. In either case, there is no real deification that consists of a real communion with the divine without an annihilation of the integrity of creation. Barlaam’s defense of divine simplicity starts “from a philosophical concept of essence, leads finally to conclusions which are in admissible for practical piety and contrary to the tradition of the Eastern Church.” (Papanikolaou, ibid)

"...It thus becomes clearer what Lossky means when he argues that in Thomism “a rationalistic doctrine of causality is introduced into the doctrine of grace.” The net result is that it reduces knowledge of God to human concepts. For the God who is transcendent and immanent in the creation, this violates God’s transcendence insofar as God becomes that which is necessary according to modes of human thought and logical discourse; it also leads to a God who is not immanent insofar as these modes of human thought and logical discourse are limited to created being and do not bridge the gap between the uncreated and the created. The intellectualization of theology, with the introduction of a “rationalistic doctrine of causality,” leads necessarily to notions of created grace, which is something less than God... The main problem with such an approach to theology is that it fails to establish as its first principle the realism of divine-human communion. It attempts to eliminate the paradoxical nature of the Incarnation when the very core of theology is this antinomy. If the very notion of divine-human communion, of the transcendent and immanent God, is antinomic, then theological discourse itself is grounded in the very being of God and must express, not eliminate, the antinomy. Hence, the necessity for both cataphatic and apophatic theologies to be held in a tension that is transcended in the being of God, and not simply for an apophatic corrective to cataphatic theology. The apophatic affirmation of the God who is beyond being is, ironically for Lossky, the only way to affirm that there can be real immanence in created being and, thus, the realism of divine-human communion.  (ibid, p. 29f.).

Aristotle Papanikolaou

quarta-feira, 26 de junho de 2019

The reception of philosophy: West and East (Aristides Papadakis)


2. Changes in theological method: the West

Unlike the new manner of conceiving the government of the Church, the rise of scholasticism has seldom been viewed as a cause of schism. Besides, Byzantine intellectuals during this period were by no means immune to the attractions of critical theological analysis. The Byzantine philosophers, John Italus and Mich.ad Psellus, and the early scholastics, Peter Abelard and St Anselm, were actually near-contemporaries. Still, the fact remains that the emerging scholasticism of the West was another alarming symptom of the disintegration of the common Christian tradition-the intellectual counterpart to the ecclesiological evolution that has just been described; as with the issue of ecclesial authority, the Latins were before long to alter the rules of the game for the doing of theology as well. 42

Suffice it to say, the rapid rise of higher education in the West of which scholasticism is an expression should not be divorced from its larger historical context. In all essential respect the new interest in learning was part of the general social and political reawakening that characterized Europe after the anarchy and violence of the first feudal age. By the late eleventh century this new vitality was to lead to the rise of towns, the growth of population and a new merchant class, to say nothing of the new monasticism, the renewal in ecclesiastical discipline, and papal authority.43 In general terms, higher education in the central Middle Ages is best explained by the instructional tradition that developed first in the flourishing cathedral schools of the late eleventh century. Though many of these institutions could trace their origin back co the Carolingian period, it was not until the early twelfth century that they were to develop and mature into independent centers of higher learning. This intellectual vitality was due in part to the increasing number of wandering scholars who were all the while attaching themselves to the old schools. Before long, given the increasing mobility and prosperity of the age, the number of students also swelled in proportion. By the end of the century with an expanding enrollment and a more diversified teaching faculty, many of the cathedral schools had crystallized into universities. One of the most influential bequests of the Middle Ages to the modern world had become reality by 1200.

That this spectacular expansion in education affected theological study in various ways has already been implied. In the first place, henceforth all new ideas in theology were to come from these new institutions. Before long, the university of Paris, in point of fact, became the leading theological center in Europe. The setting of theology by 1200 had shifted permanently from the cloister to the classroom. The organized teaching and writing of theology, which had until then been confined primarily to the monk and the monastery, was to be done in the new city schools by secular urban teachers or masters. The prominent part played by the monastery in the preservation, creation, and diffusion of culture in the West since the sixth century was lost. By the end of the twelfth century, quite simply, its leadership of learning had passed over to the new universities situated in the areas of greatest urban development. Granted a number of abbeys continued to hold on to their intellectual primacy for some time, including Bee in the north of France under St Anselrn, and of course Cluny itself. But these were to prove the exception and did not survive the century as centers of learning and theological creativity.44 By 1200, theology was simply no longer the preserve of the rural and remote monastery.

More fundamentally, by then theology was also no longer liturgical, contemplative, or traditional. Henceforth it was to be shaped almost exclusively by deductive rational thought, or by the techniques learned from the study of dialectic. In its simplest etymological sense scholasticism has often been defined as the instructional methodology developed by the schools of medieval Europe. And yet scholasticism can also be characterized as a system of philosophical speculation in which theology is provided with a logical substructure or content; its essence could be said to lie in the urgent need felt by medieval thinkers to understand Christian doctrine rationally. Exploring the relationship between reason and revelation was always at the heart of the scholastic method. "Once the process had started, there was nothing to stop it, and by the end of the eleventh century the practice of scholastic debate was emerging as a central feature of the educational system."45 The pioneer of the movement was to be the well-known St Anselm (1033-1109), the famous abbot of Bec and later archbishop of Canterbury. Of course long before Anselm medieval thinkers were aware of the Augustinian argument chat theological disputation could be enhanced by the skillful use of philosophy and, indeed, dialectics, the method of rigorous logical analysis and deduction. As a matter of fact a limited knowledge of the latter was available during the early Middle Ages, thanks to Boechius' translations of some of Aristotle's logical treatises. Still, the attempt to organize the data of faith into a rational body of knowledge, to better fathom the mysteries contained in the Scriptures by means of disciplined rational argument is rooted in Anselm and his immediate disciples.46 Specifically, the movement has its beginning in the purely Anselmian conviction (shared by every subsequent scholastic) that rational reasoning could effectively illumine and deepen one's understanding of what is accepted by faith. True, Anselm's famous formula fides quarms intellectum - implied that revealed truth was to be the starting point. "I do no seek to understand that I may believe, but I believe that I may understand: for this I also believe that unless I believe I shall not understand."47 For Anselm, nevertheless, the obvious priority possessed by faith or revelation did not in any way invalidate the use of human reason as a path to truth. Man's striving to understand his faith, to find logical consistency in what he believed, was, on the contrary, a wholly laudable, even essential, exercise. That Anselm was able to put his speculation to the test is well known. His tight logical investigation of such doctrines as the incarnation and atonement (in Cur Deus Homo?) were to earn him the title "founder of scholasticism." The high-medieval rationalism of the thirteenth century does indeed lead back in a straight line to St Anselm.

During the early stages of the movement an equally decisive contribution was to be made by the intellectually independent Peter Abelard (1079-1142). As his Sic et Non illustrates, Abelard was in part responsible for perfecting the scientific method and technique of scholasticism. His ruthless pursuit of theology as a rationalistic activity, in which he insisted that all inconsistencies and discrepancies found in the fathers and Scriptures were to be laid bare for the reader (his aim was to invite question bur not skepticism) was to influence theologians and canonists alike. Peter Lombard's Sententiae and Gratian's Decretum both demonstrate what could be achieved with the help of such techniques. Both authors were also to go beyond the restless Abelard by seeking to reconcile the apparent contradictions in the traditional authorities deliberately left unexplained in Sic et Non. Arguably, by mid-century, early western scholastics were well on the way to reducing the study of doctrine (to say nothing of canon law) to a rigorous and exact science. Granted opposition to this shift in theological method was not unknown. Both Bernard of Clairvaux and Peter Damian were convinced that the new rationalism was unnecessary and perhaps even harmful to salvation. "One knows God, insofar one loves him" was to be St Bernard's argument. And yet in the end such hostility (including the double condemnation of Abelard in 1121 and 1140 engineered by Bernard) was unable to arrest the growth of the new methodology. The desire to penetrate the content of Christian belief by means of logic enlightened by faith was off and running.

Although the creative contributions of the twelfth century scholars were obviously crucial, the full potential of scholasticism was not realized until the following century. For this maturation-the so-called "high scholasticism" of the thirteenth century-the recovery of the full corpus of Aristotle and the growth of the universities, as international degree-granting institutions, was essential. As it happened, the impact of the full translation into Latin of Aristotle on the new intellectual discipline of dialectics was revolutionary. For scholasticism, in particular, the age was one of synthesis and consolidation. The great systematic treatises, commentaries, and summas that were produced, make the century one of the most seminal and significant in the history of systematic theology. Of the great system-builders of the century no one was perhaps as important or gifted as the Dominican, Thomas Aquinas. That his elaborate all-embracing synthesis harked back to Anselm's initial position of faith seeking understanding is not surprising. He, too, was to insist on the autonomy and importance of reason.
Although the natural light of the human mind does not suffice for the manifestation of the things that are made manifest by faith, yet it is impossible that what is divinely taught to us by faith be contrary to the things with which we are endowed by nature. For the one or the other would then have to be false, and, since both come to us from God, God would be to us an author of falsehood, which is impossible. Rather, the situation is this. Since within the imperfect there is a certain imitation of what is perfect, though an incomplete one, in what is known through natural knowledge there is a certain likeness of what is taught to us by faith.
In sum, Thomism also begins from the conviction that an essential harmony exists between revelation and reason; both are compatible, even complementary. Ultimately the gift of grace does not destroy or remove nature but perfects it. After Albertus Magnus and his talented student, St Thomas, one could justifiably argue that the "christianization of Aristotle" had indeed been completed.

On the other hand, the period also produced other system-builders who were by no means always eager to concur with St Thomas. Scholastic theological speculation at any rate should not be equated with Thomism. There were other ways to approach the problems and issues raised in the schools, as the work of Albertus Magnus, Alexander of Halles and others, illustrate. Besides, in addition to the Aristotelian tradition, the Platonic tradition prospered equally at the same time. The latter system had its roots in Augustine, who had of course sought to christianize Plato and the Neoplatonists in the fourth century; one of its more eloquent representatives was the minister-general of the Franciscan order, St Bonaventure, a contemporary of St Thomas. These schools of thought were also at the center of a major medieval philosophical debate regarding the nature of "universals" or Platonic archetypes. But Thomism was frequently questioned in the fourteenth century as well. Time and again it was overtaken, although never altogether overturned, by the teaching of Duns Scotus and William of Ockham. In the western theological landscape Thomism evidently was not sovereign. Diversity instead tended to prevail. And yet, among the different western approaches to theology, Thomism possibly was more faithful to the eastern tradition than some of its opponents. The nominalist approach of the Franciscan Ockham, with its tacit denial of any real possibility of sanctification, for instance, has little in common with patristic teaching. The well-known admiration for St Thomas expressed by the fifteenth century Byzantine, Gennadius Scholarius, was, in the final analysis, not without basis.

Apart from its emphasis on logic, one of the more salient features of the scholastic method concerned its approach to the proof from authority, the so-called argument from biblical and patristic sources. The rejection, or at best deemphasis, of such proof was often at the heart of the transformation of theology into a rationalist activity. Granted, revelation always had precedence over reason. All scholastics, as we have seen, invariably used revealed truth as their point of departure; the authority of the Bible and the fathers governed all their activity. Logic, on the other hand, was supposed to be exploited much like a tool for understanding the content of revealed doctrine. (In the Divine Comedy, significantly, it was Beatrice, symbol of theology, who was destined to guide Dante to eternal beatitude rather than the poet Virgil, symbol of classical rationalism.) And yet, since the whole object was to grasp official theology philosophically, traditional authorities in the last analysis had to be dismissed or ignored in the process. All appeal to tradition had to be firmly excluded. Doctrine was to be defended and proven by intellectual argument only, without the support of biblical and patristic authority, and with "Christ aside"-Christo remoto--as Anselm had boldly phrased it in Cur Deus Homo?49 Indeed, the goal was to try to transcend the boundaries set by traditional theology, with its frequent simple restatement of old answers, by focusing on rational demonstration, on dialectical relationships, and on the definition, identification, and classification of doctrine. Theology was to become a formal academic subject or science-a university discipline. Significantly, it was with Abelard that the term "theology," used until then to designate scriptural studies (sacra pagina), first became identified with the new highly abstract scientific theology of scholasticism. 50 That the reconciliation and synthesis between Greek philosophy and revelation achieved in due time by the Latin world marked a radical shift away from the theological methodology preferred until then by both Churches is indisputable. Doctrine was "analyzed, defined and codified in a way for which there was no previous parallel" in either East or West.51 In the long run this unilateral change in the rules of the game on the part of the Latin world could not but affect the future of East-West relations. Logic-oriented theology at any rate was to widen the distance between the two worlds. 52

As noted earlier, the new dialectic was to affect canon law as well. Church law soon also became an influential discipline, even a science, much like the new systematic study of the evidence of divine revelation. More fundamentally, it was also to become a factor of great importance in the life of the papal revolution. That its great growth was due in part to Gregorian theologians is not surprising. Granted canonists were at first primarily interested in reconciling the conflicts and discrepancies of their authorities and in imposing order on their varied material. Before long, however, they were to become papal propagandists as well, thanks to the Gregorian reformers' need to assert the legislative authority of the pope in the new legal system that was being created at the time. Quite simply, the spectacular advance of this practical discipline is also linked to the reactivated papacy and its apologists who wished to give legal strength and solidity to their abstract assertions of papal sovereignty. It is by no means an accident that the new wave of canonical studies coincided with the rise of papal monarchy in Latin Christendom. It is in point of fact the canonists who were before long to make the Roman pontiff not only supreme judge but supreme legislator in Christendom. The sweeping law-making powers ascribed co the popes by canonists were in the end to give substance and muscle to the new papacy.

Of course, the recovery and study of classical Roman law early in the twelfth century also inspired canonists in developing a corresponding ecclesiastical discipline. The task of systematizing and harmonizing the massive legislation of past councils, and of the precedents and pronouncements of various pontiffs and Church fathers into a single comprehensive collection, was accomplished first at Bologna, by the monk Gratian (1140). The result, his famous Concordance of Discordant Canons, or more commonly, Decretum, was to become the foundation of western canon law. Although manuals of Church law were known before 1140, none had been as complete as the new Decretum. Above all, in contrast with its partial predecessors, the new codification was furnished with a unified design; it was arranged not only topically but systematically, even logically. The entire manual was actually provided with a "dialectical" structure: all existing conflicting authorities, gaps, or discrepancies in the texts, were carefully lined up to be reconciled. As with the new logic-oriented science of theology, in brief, there was a rational weighing-up of arguments for and against, followed by their resolution. The work was at once a text of law and a commentary. This arrangement, as we should expect, was a great benefit to its users, including Gratian's immediate successors and subsequent commentators, the so-called Decretists, who were to continue his work of "harmonization." Why this initially purely private achievement soon became the authoritative text in western ecclesiastical courts and the foundation of all future canonical study in the schools of Europe is obvious.

But the Decretum Gratiani became an instrument of papal absolutism as well, to say nothing of its contribution to the growth of papal administrative unity and efficiency. To repeat, it was inevitable that Gregorians from the outset should turn to the canon lawyers for appropriate legal precedents, texts, and arguments, to support both their claims and deliberate aggressive centralization. In particular, their need to define the pope's supreme judicial authority over the Church-as iudex totius ecclesiae--soon became urgent. Indeed, if Gregory VII's Dictatus papae is a faithful guide, the entire canonistic activity of the early reformers was aimed at rediscovering and defining the supposedly forgotten privileges of the Roman pontiff. Gratian's definitive summary was to contribute to this enterprise in a fundamental way, both by the burst of legal scholarship that his codification was to generate and by the emphasis it was to place on papal authority. Quite simply, the reformers' promotion of the Church as a regnum or government, with the pope as monarch, was to become the foundation stone of Gratian's structure. For the monk of Bologna the pope's omnipotence as supreme judge in all ecclesiastical matters, and as the source of juridical authority in the Church, was at any rate never in doubt. For its part, the Roman Church by virtue of its authority was "alone able to judge concerning all men but no one is permitted to make judgment concerning it. "53 Indeed, in the end, the bishop of Rome was not even bound by the laws because he makes the laws.54 Such pronouncements, neatly summarizing the ideological progress made by the Gregorian movement in the period 1050-1150, were of course continued by Gratian's successors. They were helpful in the subsequent full unfolding of a separate law consisting of papal decretals-a new law that was both papal in origin and papal in spirit. Increasingly, in fact, the view of canonists was to be that papal decretals were both equal and superior to the canons of the ecumenical councils.55 Evidently papal authority had absorbed all other authority in the Church! To put it more bluntly, thanks to the decretists, by the end of the twelfth century, the popes were for all intents and purposes in possession of Justinian's sweeping law-making powers. It is a commonplace, but one worth repeating, that "it is in the sphere of canon law that the Gregorian reform strikes the reader as unmistakably revolutionary."56

Given these legal developments, it is not surprising that one of the more fundamental consequences of the Gregorian revolution should have been the transformation of the papacy into the most complex tribunal in Christendom. As early as the pontificate of pope Urban II, the expression curia, normally understood as a law court, was actually being used to describe the papal household. This is to say, in other words, the Curia Romana was beginning to be viewed as the ecclesiastical counterpart of the secular law court of a king or a feudal vassal (curia regis). The new legalism was beginning to affect the papacy deeply. In due course this was co lead co an unending flow of litigants to Rome and, necessarily, to an increase in the volume of legal business for the papacy. As a matter of plain fact legal rather than religious functions were to set the pattern of papal activity for the rest of the central Middle Ages. 57 Practically every papal incumbent in the period 1100-1300 was to be a lawyer. The Western Church was invaded by canonists and, for a time, even occupied by them. In the papal chambers, as St Bernard had once feared, more was being heard of the law of Justinian than of the law of Christ.58 Sadly, by the fourteenth century as we shall see, the papacy's legal involvements were to result in abuse and corruption as well. If the twelfth century satires on the Roman curia can be trusted, abuse was already a problem. This development was to prove tragic in the long run, both for the Western Church as a whole and for the papacy in particular.

3. Currents of thought: the East

Like the West, Byzantium was also attracted to Aristotelian logic and Platonic speculation. It was inevitable that this should be so, given the fact that the tradition of Greek antiquity was an essential element of Byzantine culture. The argument that Byzantine intellectuals felt comfortable and confident with this inheritance is a truism. As the polymath Psellus was to put it, the ancients were Byzantium's "own writers," the very source of its cultural chauvinism. After the Macedonian revival of the ninth century, the tradition of Greek learning was to continue virtually without interruption until the end of the empire. 59 In a very real sense, our present knowledge of Greek classical literature is largely dependent on this renewal in the age of Photius and Arethas of Caesarea. In the eleventh century the tradition was to gain further momentum with the reorganization of the imperial university of Constantinople and its two institutions of learning-the school of philosophy and the school of law. Inevitably, during this centralization of higher education, under the direction of such teachers as John Xiphilinus, John Italus, Michad Psellus, and their friends and pupils, legal and philosophical scholarship flourished. A fresh group of professional academics, a new urban intelligentsia, was emerging. No less inevitable perhaps was the fact that this age of intense intellectual activity and awakening was to be far more creative than its predecessor, the encyclopedic literary revival under the early Macedonians. The scholarly study of Plato and Aristotle, resumed again after centuries of neglect, was no longer purely antiquarian or imitative.

In some ways the renewed preoccupation with philosophy, law, and dialectic, which the more structured Byzantine institutions of higher education began to encourage in the mid-eleventh century, parallels the diverse achievements of the West, especially the growth of scholasticism and legal studies.60 Although the institutionalization of schools and the interest displayed by established law and philosophy faculties in both East and West did not develop in the same direction, the two worlds clearly mirrored each other. The promising "intimations of rationalism," to say nothing of the other changes of a socio-economic nature that occurred in eleventh and twelfth century Byzantium, were related to the broad transformation of the medieval world as a whole. 61 The common intellectual efforts and concerns of the two worlds at any rate indicate that neither was sealed off from the other. Mutual intellectual interchange and contact certainly did exist (to repeat), even if it was often unfriendly.

The prominent pan played by Michael Psellus (1018-79) in the educational innovations connected with the restoration of the university under Constantine IX is well known. Actually he was the first among Byzantium's new urban elite to be appointed professor of philosophy and to carry the title of hypatos ton philosophon. His productive career, vast literary output and, of course, teaching, were to influence a whole generation of scholars. Given his general penchant for philosophical inquiry, particularly Neoplatonism, it is not surprising that he was also a vigorous, even eloquent, supporter of dialectic for theological purpose. In defending himself against the attacks of his jurist-friend and subsequent patriarch, John VIII Xiphilinus (1064-75), Psellus maintained that such inquiry served a practical purpose. Syllogistic reasoning, invented and perfected by Hellenic wisdom, was indeed beneficial to both theology and philosophy. "To argue dialectically is not contrary to Church doctrine nor a method alien to philosophy, but rather only an instrument of truth and the means by which the answer to the question posed is discovered."62 As a hermeneutical tool of reason, at any rate, the device was entirely compatible with true piety and doctrine. On this point Psellus was certain, even immovable. "I may belong entirely to Christ, but I refuse to deny the wiser of our writers or the knowledge of reality, both intelligible and sensible."63 Overall, Psellus' support of syllogistic argument and more broadly of Hellenism, was similar in principle to the defense of dialectic espoused by western scholasticism. St Anselm was Psellus' slightly younger contemporary.

Of course Psellus was sensitive to the fact that the truths of Christianity could not be compromised. Any element in the pagan philosophical systems shown to be incompatible with official Church teaching had to be rejected. Nor could logical analysis be used methodically to resolve every doctrinal problem. Psellus' passionate denial that he was actually entirely under Plato's influence was grounded on such arguments. Doubtless the hypatos of philosophers managed to remain within the traditional boundaries of dogmatic theology. By cautiously formally avoiding any serious collision with the authorities, his religious loyalty never became a matter of public debate. His denials of apostasy or heresy, at any rate, were found convincing, even when his protests were so charged with insincerity and invention that they could not be taken at face value.64 Evidently, his disgrace in 1055, when he lost his faculty position, was temporary since, before long, he was back at the court as imperial tutor. Conceivably, the same would have been true of John ltalus, Psellus' pupil and successor to the chair of philosophy at the university, had he been more cautious. As it turned out, Italus was rather unfortunate in his efforts to interpret Christian doctrine in terms of rational principles. He was eventually brought before the patriarchal tribunal and condemned in two successive synodal proceedings (1076/77 and 1082).65 Not surprising, his errors, enshrined in the eleven anathemas added to the Synodicon by the synods, are virtually all doctrinal in nature. These include the assertion that the incarnation and the hypostatic union could be explained in terms of logic ( 1); perverse explanations or denials of the miracles of Christ and his saints (6); the conviction that the pagan philosophers (the first heresiarchs) were of greater importance than the Church fathers (5); the admission that ideas and matter were eternal (4 and 8); the denial of the bodily resurrection (9); the false belief in the pre-existence of souls (1 O); and the treatment of pagan literature as an independent source of truth rather than as a tool for educational purposes or instruction (7). 66

It is true, Italus' trial was partially politically motivated and reflected the tension between the new intelligentsia and the political establishment; it is likely that the new dynasty of Alexius I Comnenus, founded months before the last synodal proceeding involving John ltalus, was eager to give the appearance of being orthodoxy's protector.67 And yet, the propaganda value of this famous "show-trial" also should not be exaggerated. Although some of the details of the charges leveled against the accused may have been embroidered, there is apparently little reason to believe that he had been as circumspect as Psellus in his teaching. He resembled, it seems, the Latin Abelard both in his lack of caution and in his methodology. As such, he was quite capable of upsetting the authorities. "The vigor of the Orthodox reaction to the unorthodox ideas of the academics," it has been argued, "testifies to the strength of the rationalist threat to tradition ideology."68 No doubt, the Church also felt the need to respond to Italus' rational skepticism toward inherited doctrine in a direct way; it saw the trend as dangerous and, like its condemnation of past heresy, was anxious to make its position clear. As it happens, the notion-implied by many of the sanctions against Italus-that Christianity and Platonism are incompatible was not entirely novel. Actually, Italus' doctrinal deviations, condemned in the end as heretical by the synod, were virtually identical with Origen's own Platonism, anathematized five hundred years before by the fifth ecumenical council (553). Even the comparison between the ancient philosophers and the first heresiarchs was as old, if not older.

Significantly, the canonical sanctions of 1077/82 (the first to be added to the Synodicon since the final suppression of iconoclasm in 843) were before long supplemented by other decisions and condemnations. Italus' supporters were the first to feel the pressure by being denied any personal contact with their former teacher. This action was followed by the indictments of Theodore Blachernites and the monk Nilus. Then, in 1117 Italus' most famous pupil, Eustratius of Nicaea, the eminent commentator on Aristotle, was in turn condemned for his syllogistic approach to christological issues. According to his accusers he is said to have maintained that Christ had "reasoned in the manner of Aristotle," while Anna Comnena described him as more confident in his powers of rhetoric than the philosophers of antiquity. It was perhaps because of these powers that he had participated together with some of his later accusers in the Latin discussions of 1112. By mid-century the list of indictments was to grow longer as further synodal sanctions were added to the Synodicon. Apparently, despite official discouragement, interest in philosophy and dialectic persisted. The enthusiasm of literary circles for Neo-Platonism is in fact beyond question and is on the whole traceable to the earlier renaissance launched by Psellus and his circle. The well-known refutation of Proclus us by Nicholas of Methane, to say nothing of the polemic against the "Hellenizers" by the patriarch Michael III, must in part be explained by the study of Neo-Platonism by twelfth century Byzantine humanists.69 Indeed, most of the sanctions issued by the authorities were aimed it seems at prominent "liberal" intellectuals, including bishops (one of these was the patriarch-elect of Antioch, Sorerichus Panteugenus) as well as deacons. According to one recent estimate, there were some twenty-five such trials for "intellectual" heresy in the age of the Comnenoi. "And who knows how many do not appear in our patchy records. "70

To be sure, this "repression" should not be overstated. Apart from an occasional exile, brutal punishment was actually rarely used; none of Byzantium's independent-minded humanists was indeed ever condemned to death or burned at the stake. The campaign against them also did not involve the systematic censorship of Greek classical texts. In face, these continued to be read, copied, and studied, down to the breakup of the empire. Their use as school material was by no means discontinued. As sanction seven against Italus clearly implied, using pagan literature "for the sake of education," as opposed to adopting its "foolish" doctrines, was permitted. Official anathemas against "Hellenism" were never accompanied by book-burning. The attitude was characteristically Byzantine.71 To summarize, however high the number of "intellectual" heresy trials may have been, the goal of the Byzantine Church was never the total suppression of Hellenism. And yet, on the other hand, the reality of the opposition between conservative churchmen and secular scholarly humanists was undeniable. The complex cultural history of the age cannot in fact be adequately understood without chis fundamental tension and polarity between Greek thought and the Christian gospel - best symbolized by Italus' trial. Although the attitude of the Church was not inspired by outright suppression, its aim was in the end the practical elimination of Greek philosophy from the sphere traditionally reserved for theology proper. In the course of the Comnenian age, in more general terms, Orthodox Eastern Christendom increasingly argued that philosophy was not essential or indispensable for the solution of theological problems and the exposition of doctrine. Authentic knowledge of God and the truths of the catholic faith were to be grasped by means other than those offered by either Plato or Aristotle. On the whole, the canonical sanctions added to the Synodicon by the various councils of the eleventh and twelfth centuries against the Byzantine disciples of Greek wisdom find their significance in such arguments or convictions. To put it otherwise, the Christian East refused to enter into an alliance with philosophy in its attempt at doctrinal synthesis during this period. Its denunciation of the metaphysical systems of Byzantine intellectuals was, as such, quite consistent.

Arguably, in its rejection of Byzantine humanism, the Church was equally implicitly revealing its attitude towards Latin scholasticism as well. It was at any rate demonstrating that it could be far more hostile to Greek philosophy and the analytical approach to theology than the Latin West. Remarkably, "on the eve of the period when the West would commit its mind to the philosophy of the ancients and enter the great epoch of scholasticism, the Byzantine Church solemnly refused any new synthesis between the Greek mind and Christianity, remaining committed only to the synthesis in the patristic period. It assigned to the West the task of becoming more Greek than it was."72 As a consequence, the Orthodox world was by and large in the end to escape the negative effects of Aristotelian logic on both theology and canon law. In contrast with Latin Christendom the teaching and study of theology in the Christian East kept its religious status.73 Theology, conceived as an intellectual discipline, or as an investigation and systematization of revealed truth in the name of Aristotle, quite simply, remained outside of its theological field of vision.

Undeniably, the contrast between East and West on this issue is striking. By the late twelfth century western theologians by and large had ceased to speculate ad mentem patrum or to work in the same atmosphere of the fathers preferred until then by both Churches. Because of his attitude towards the proof from authority, the new professional Latin theologian was arguably willing to relativize the patristic inheritance. "Once the criticism of authorities has been introduced, even if it was for the sake of harmonizing them, the possibility of progressing beyond passive acceptance of them was suggested .... each of the fathers was situated, delimited, and characterized, with the effect of making his authority only relative."74 Oddly, this denigration of the patristic tradition apparently was furthered by the debate over the Filioque. Some western theologians it seems were soon convinced chat the Greek fathers were somehow not as authoritative as the fathers of the Latin church. Protest against Byzantine theology and the Greek language in the twelfth century was at any rate not uncommon. Robert of Melun, the successor of Abelard at Mount St Genevieve, was even willing to argue that it was unsuitable to use Greek in the exposition of Christian doctrine.75 To be short, increasingly, the Greek patristic heritage was deprived of its strength by the scholastic superstructure. By the thirteenth century, when a purely abstract systematic theology had emerged in the West, little of this legacy had survived. Latin theology was by then almost entirely dependent on human methods of argument, logic and philosophy. Still (to repeat what was said earlier of St Thomas), given the appreciation expressed by some Byzantine theologians for scholasticism, this western theological transition should not be distorted or exaggerated.

If the difference in theological perspective between the two Churches after the twelfth century is to be appreciated, an additional number of points need to be emphasized. In the first place, Byzantine Orthodox theology was never transformed into a school-theology; that is to say, it was never made either in schools or in universities. Genuine theological creativity was to be found far from such institutions as we shall see. Similarly, contrary to western practice, the subject was never studied or taught as a "science" with a formal academic methodology; exploring theology as a scientific discipline of higher education was simply unknown to the East. Finally, the professionalism that was to distinguish theology graduates of western universities everywhere, was altogether exceptional for Byzantium.76 The Orthodox theologian was actually never to know the structured theological training so characteristic of his western coeval. In the last analysis, the remarkable spiritual and theological maturity of such individuals as Theoleptus of Philadelphia, Nicholas Cabasilas or patriarch Gregory II of Cyprus (a contemporary of St Thomas Aquinas) was not the result of any formal theological training whatsoever. In the event, the theology of these and other gifted Byzantine theologians was very different from the theology familiar to Peter Lombard, Abelard, or St Anselm. Time and again the great theological system-builders of the West were to rely on philosophy to an extent incomprehensible for an Orthodox scholar. In contrast, to repeat, Byzantine theology was a continuation of the patristic legacy, and as such, was learned primarily by the reading and hearing of Scripture and of course by praying. It was never at any rate pursued as a purely rationalistic activity. Therefore, overall, it always remained a "kerygmatic theology, even when it was logically arranged and corroborated by intellectual arguments. The ultimate reference was still to faith, to spiritual comprehension ... [As such] it was not just a self-explanatory 'discipline' which could be presented argumentatively, i.e., aristotelikos [in the manner of Aristotle] without a prior spiritual engagement. This theology could only be 'preached' or 'proclaimed,' and not be simply 'taught' in a school-manner."78

Predictably, this fundamentally religious approach to theology was also shared by Byzantine contemplative monasticism. The position taken officially by the Church towards pagan philosophy always had the staunch support of monastics. All allegiance to the "foolish" secular wisdom of the ancients was automatically deemed as abomination by such circles. On the other hand, intellectuals were repeatedly expressing their reservations about monastic irrational mysticism.79 This opposition between Byzantine humanism and monasticism will, as we shall see in a later chapter, become especially obvious during the hesychast controversy in the fourteenth century. It was by no means accidental that the most original spokesmen of monastic theology and spirituality - Gregory Palamas and Symeon the New Theologian - were also adversaries of the secular humanistic currents prevailing during their lifetime. It is worth adding, in this connection, that in Byzantium the monastery remained a significant locus of theological creativity and productivity (in sharp contrast with the Latin cloister of the high Middle Ages). Real creativity, at any rate, was to be found largely in the monastery and not among Byzantium's secular humanist circles or among conservative churchmen. 80 The hesychast debates of the 1300s illustrate this in a forceful and impressive way. Doubtless the fact that the more dynamic theological current in late Byzantine thought was monastic might seem surprising. And yet in the end it is not. As it happens, "it is primarily because theological truth could be neither conceived as a system of concepts to be taught as a scholastic discipline, nor reduced to authoritative pronouncements of the magisterium that creative theologizing in medieval Byzantium was largely pursued in monastic circles."81

Needless to say, it follows from all the above that the change in methodology introduced in the West by scholasticism was to make theological exchange with the East rather difficult. Time and again the western complaint was to be that the Orthodox East was incapable of theologizing professionally or argumentatively. On the other hand, Byzantine churchmen could not understand how theology could be viewed as a rational discipline; listening to the logic-oriented Latin theologians in official debate (at Florence, for example) was for them often an incomprehensible, even loathsome exercise. To be short, the fundamental reorientation of western theology in the twelfth century, along with the papal Petrine claims, must be viewed as factors contributing to the disruption of Christendom. Both scholasticism and the Roman primacy, in a sense, changed the rules of the game and, as a consequence, destroyed the "living continuity with the common past of the Church universal. "82 The synchronous development of Latin scholasticism and schism at any rate was not a purely historical accident. 

From the book 'The Christian East and the Rise of the Papacy' by Aristides Papadakis