Scholasticism Reformed : Essays in Honour of Willem J. Van Asselt [1 ed.] 9789004193772, 9789004183179

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Scholasticism Reformed

Studies in Theology and Religion (STAR) Edited on behalf of the Netherlands School for Advanced Studies in Theology and Religion (NOSTER) Editor

Jan Willem van Henten Associate Editors

Herman Beck, Meerten ter Borg, Kees van der Kooi, Daniela Müller Assistant

Ingeborg Löwisch Editorial Board

Marcel Sarot, Ruard Ganzevoort, Gerard Wiegers, Henk Vroom, Wim Drees, Ellen van Wolde VOLUME 14

Prof. Willem J. van Asselt

Scholasticism Reformed Essays in Honour of Willem J. van Asselt

Edited by

Maarten Wisse Marcel Sarot Willemien Otten

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2010

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

ISSN 1566-208X ISBN 978 90 04 18317 9 Copyright 2010 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS Introduction. Reforming Views of Reformed Scholasticism................1 Maarten Wisse and Marcel Sarot PART I REFORMED SCHOLASTICISM AND THE SCOTIST HERITAGE Reentering Sites of Truth. Teaching Reformed Scholasticism in the Contemporary Classroom .........................................................31 Martijn Bac and Theo Pleizier Scholasticism and the Problem of Intellectual Reform .............................................................................55 Willemien Otten Modalities in Francis Turrettin. An Essay in Reformed Ontology..............................................................................................74 Antonie Vos and Eef Dekker In the Steps of Voetius. Synchronic Contingency and the Significance of Cornelis Elleboogius’ Disputationes de Tetragrammato to the Analysis of his Life and Work ........................92 R. A. Mylius PART II REFORMED SCHOLASTICISM AT HOME AND OVERSEAS Melanchthonian Thought in Gisbertus Voetius’ Scholastic Doctrine of God ................................................................................107 Andreas J. Beck Gisbertus Voetius, God’s Gardener. The Pattern of Godliness in the Selectae Disputationes ...........................................127 F. G. M. Broeyer

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Justification by Faith and the Early Arminian Controversy .............155 Aza Goudriaan Thomas Barlow on the Liabilities of “New Philosophy”. Perceptions of a Rebellious Ancilla in the Era of Protestant Orthodoxy .........................................................................................179 Richard A. Muller The Harvest of Reformation Mythology? Patrick Gillespie and the Covenant of Redemption......................................................196 Carl R. Trueman The Rhetoric of Reform. William Perkins on Preaching and the Purification of the Church ....................................................215 Raymond A. Blacketer PART III SCHOLASTICISM AND MODERN SYSTEMATIC THEOLOGY Understanding and Misunderstanding in the Conversation of Karl Barth with Amandus Polanus. The Main Characteristic of the homo viator in his Ectypal Theology......................................241 Rinse H. Reeling Brouwer The Inseparable Bond between Covenant and Predestination. Cocceius and Barth ...........................................................................259 Maarten Wisse Omniscient and Eternal God .............................................................280 Marcel Sarot An Edwardsian Theodicy..................................................................303 Sebastian Rehnman Reformed Scholasticism and the Trinitarian Renaissance ................322 Gijsbert van den Brink Why a Trinitarian Dynamics Requires Open Scholasticism.............341 Luco J. van den Brom

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About Method and Matter. Scholasticism and the Realism-Conceptualism Controversy in Contemporary Theology ...363 Bert Loonstra Bibliography of Willem J. van Asselt ...............................................377 Index of Names .................................................................................384

INTRODUCTION REFORMING VIEWS OF REFORMED SCHOLASTICISM Maarten Wisse and Marcel Sarot

1. Introduction The title of the present work is intentionally ambiguous: Scholasticism Reformed. It may be read, firstly, as a simple reversion of “Reformed scholasticism,” as indeed some of the contributions to this volume study aspects of the type of theology between the early Reformation and the Enlightenment that continued to use the traditional methods rooted in the medieval period. However, many of the contributions to this volume mirror the work of Willem J. van Asselt in going beyond the mere study of aspects of Reformed scholasticism. Either they contribute to a new interpretation of scholasticism, a “reformed” way of thinking about it and of evaluating its value and significance for contemporary theology, or they are contributions to contemporary theology that explicitly draw upon Reformed scholasticism. Thus, this Festschrift contributes to the resurgent interest in (medieval and) Reformed scholasticism, in which the scholar to whom it is dedicated has played such a major role. In this introduction we aim to do three things at once. First, we will sketch the renaissance of interest in Reformed scholasticism and the radical reassessment brought about by recent scholarship. Given the role that Willem van Asselt has played in this revaluation, sketching it will go hand in hand with our second aim: introducing the main foci of van Asselt’s scholarly interests. Finally, since all contributions to the present volume are somehow connected to van Asselt’s work, we will introduce them in the course of our description of the resurgence of interest in Reformed scholasticism and van Asselt’s contribution to it. 2. The Road towards the “New School” When van Asselt studied theology in the 1960s, candidates for the ministry in the Dutch Reformed Church (Nederlandse Hervormde

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Kerk) had to obtain a bachelor’s degree in theology followed by a separate curriculum offered within the University on behalf of the church. After completing this curriculum, van Asselt became a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church (Hervormde gemeente) of Uitwijk in 1972. In 1977, he went to Steenwijk. In the meantime, he continued to study for a master’s degree, preparing his master’s thesis on Cocceius’ doctrine of God. The topic of this thesis was suggested to him by professor Simon van der Linde (1905–1995), who taught the history of Reformed Protestantism at Utrecht University from 1954–1976.1 Van der Linde was known for his expertise on the “Nadere Reformatie” or “Further Reformation” in Dutch Reformed theology, a pietist movement starting with the Synod of Dordt (1618–1619) and ending towards the end of the eighteenth century, a movement parallel to English Puritanism and German Pietism. Some of the champions of the Further Reformation movement were leading Reformed scholastics; Gisbertus Voetius is the most famous example. Simon van der Linde and his contemporaries shared a common picture of both the Further Reformation movement and the Reformed scholastics, a view that van Asselt would later call the “old school” view of Reformed scholasticism. The common description of this view is the following: The Further Reformation movement started as an attempt to carry on Luther’s and Calvin’s Reformation into the practical life of the church. However, it soon began to degenerate under the pressure of an increasing emphasis on the doctrine of predestination. What started as a return to Scripture in the Reformation ended in a dogmatic system under the influence of a reintroduction of a scholastic way of thinking. Thus, both the Middle Ages and Reformed scholasticism were portrayed in strongly negative terms. The Reformation was portrayed as an initial break with the dark Middle Ages, a break that, unfortunately, was not fully completed until a new interest in the Bible arose by the emergence of historical-critical exegesis. The doctrine of predestination played a crucial role in this view. It was widely believed that particularly Theodore Beza reframed Calvin’s teaching of a double predestination— 1 Aart de Groot and Otto J. de Jong, eds., Vier eeuwen theologie in Utrecht: Bijdragen tot de geschiedenis van de theologische faculteit aan de Universiteit Utrecht (Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2001), 75, 77, 85, 371; Aart de Groot, “Simon van der Linde,” in Biografisch Lexikon voor de Geschiedenis van het Nederlandse protestantisme, ed. J. W. Buisman and G. Brinkman (Kampen: Kok, 2006), 6:170–172.

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which was held to be still ambiguous in Calvin himself—in scholastic terms, making it the foundational2 doctrine from which all other Reformed doctrines had to be derived—the famous idea of a “Zentraldogma” that directs everything in a doctrinal system.3 The choice of Cocceius wholly fits into this picture, as van der Linde believed that Cocceius was among the first to correct the degenerate views of the Reformed scholastics, for instance, by introducing more biblical concepts into Reformed systematic theology, by being more open towards Enlightenment ideas—Descartes—and by introducing a more friendly “Zentraldogma” into Reformed theology, namely that of the covenant rather than that of predestination. Thus, van der Linde had good reason to draw van Asselt’s attention to Cocceius. The choice proved a lucky one: twenty-five years later, van Asselt has broken with his teacher’s views but is still fascinated by Cocceius, on whom he is now the world’s leading expert. The completion of van Asselt’s master’s thesis in 1980 took place after Simon van der Linde’s retirement. Hence the supervision of van Asselt’s dissertation, likewise on Cocceius, was undertaken by van der Linde’s successor, Cornelis Graafland (1928–2004; professor of Reformed theology 1972–1993). Graafland was a renowned expert in the field of Reformed Protestantism, who shared his teacher’s approach to its history. In his two magna opera, From Calvin to Barth4 and From Calvin to Comrie,5 he first traced the history of the doctrine of predestination, and then described the rise and development of the doctrine of the covenant. The dominant matrix is that of the antagonism between a theology based on predestination and a theology based on the covenant. In due time, van Asselt would come to look on this matrix as a main mark of the “old school” approach to Reformed Protestantism in general, and Reformed scholasticism in particular.

2 Simon van der Linde, “Calvijn, calvinisme en Nadere Reformatie: Een omstreden onderwerp,” Documentatieblad Nadere Reformatie 6 (1982): 73–88. 3 Willem J. van Asselt and Eef Dekker, “Introduction,” in Reformed Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise, ed. idem, Texts and Studies in Reformation and postReformation Thought (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic, 2001), 11–43. 4 C. Graafland, Van Calvijn tot Barth (’s-Gravenhage: Boekencentrum, 1987). 5 Graafland, Van Calvijn tot Comrie: Oorsprong en ontwikkeling van de leer van het verbond in het gereformeerd protestantisme, 3 vols. (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1992–1996).

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During van Asselt’s doctoral studies, still carried out alongside his tasks as a fulltime minister, first in Steenwijk and later on in Bennekom, the seeds for the new approach were sown. He became an active member of Antonie Vos’ new Research Group Classic Reformed Theology (onderzoeksgroep “Oude gereformeerde theologie”), founded in 1982. A number of Utrecht faculty members participated in this group: the systematic theologians J. M. (Hans) Hasselaar and his successor H. W. (Hans) de Knijff, and later on H. (Henri) Veldhuis. Among the philosophers of religion were L. J. (Luco) van den Brom, E. (Eef) Dekker, and later on, G. (Gijsbert) van den Brink. Quite a number of them have contributed to the present volume. The formation of the Research Group Classic Reformed Theology led to the application of the methods of Anglo-Saxon post-Wittgensteinian analytic philosophy to the study of Reformed scholasticism. Analytic philosophy of religion had been introduced in Utrecht by Vincent Brümmer, who was a professor of the philosophy of religion from 1967–1997.6 Brümmer studied at Stellenbosch, Harvard, Amsterdam, Utrecht and Oxford, and contributed to the development of a new post-positivist philosophical approach to religion, in which the task of the philosopher was not so much to prove or refute the truth of religious claims, but to think through religious claims and practices in terms of their “deep grammar,” as Wittgenstein called it.7 This thinking through was done with the aid of conceptual analysis and, especially by Vos, modal logic. In this way Vos and others were able to throw new light on the argumentative structures of medieval and post-Reformation scholastic theology. Simultaneously, a similar development took place in the English speaking countries. The rise of Anglo-Saxon philosophical theology, as this type of philosophy of religion came to be called

6 All students of theology became acquainted with the methodology through the obligatory philosophy of religion course on philosophical method, where they studied (the original Dutch 1975 edition of) Vincent Brümmer, Theology and Philosophical Inquiry: An Introduction (London: Macmillan, 1981). 7 Brümmer describes the development of his thought in: “Meanders in My Thinking: A Brief Intellectual Autobiography,” in Brümmer on Meaning and the Christian faith: Collected Writings of Vincent Brümmer, Ashgate Contemporary Thinkers on Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 3–27. Cf. Gijsbert van den Brink and Marcel Sarot, “Contemporary Philosophical Theology,” in Understanding the Attributes of God, ed. Gijsbert van den Brink and Marcel Sarot, Contributions to Philosophical Theology 1 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1998), 9–32.

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later on,8 was closely intertwined with the new interest in both medieval and post-Reformation scholasticism.9 Van Asselt completed his dissertation, of which various chapters had been discussed in the Research Group Classic Reformed Theology, in 1988.10 Though at that time a more favorable approach to Reformed scholasticism had already been introduced by Antoon Vos during various sessions of the research group, van Asselt’s dissertation still strongly reflected the “old school” reading of post-Reformation Reformed theology. The turn came in the early nineties. In these years one of the members of the research group, Eef Dekker, was preparing his dissertation on the theology of Jacob Arminius, Gomarus’ famous opponent.11 In 1992, his attention was drawn to a monograph on Arminius by Richard A. Muller;12 after that, Dekker contacted Muller and visited him in 1994. At the time, Muller had already published Christ and the Decree (1986),13 in which he criticized the idea of predestination as a “Zentraldogma,” and the first volume of the PostReformation Reformed Dogmatics, where he did the same but addressed methodological issues more extensively.14 8 Norman Kretzman, “Reason in Mystery,” in The Philosophy in Theology, ed. G.N. Vesey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 15–39. 9 See, e.g., Marilyn McCord Adams, William Ockham (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1987); Richard Cross, Duns Scotus, Great Medieval Thinkers (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999); Richard Cross, Duns Scotus on God, Ashgate Studies in the History of Philosophical Theology (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005); Brian Davies and Brian Leftow, eds., The Cambridge Companion to Anselm (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Paul Helm and Oliver Crisp, eds., Jonathan Edwards: Philosophical Theologian (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003); Norman Kretzmann, Anthony J. P. Kenny and Jan Pinborg, eds., The Cambridge History of Later Medieval Philosophy: From the Rediscovery of Aristotle to the Disintegration of Scholasticism, 1100–1600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982); Norman Kretzmann and Eleonore Stump, eds., The Cambridge Companion to Aquinas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Craig Paterson and Matthew S. Pugh, eds., Analytical Thomism: Traditions in Dialogue (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006). 10 Willem J. van Asselt, Amicitia Dei: Een onderzoek naar de structuur van de theologie van Johannes Coccejus (1603–1669) (s.l.: s.n., 1988). 11 Eef Dekker, Rijker dan Midas: Vrijheid, genade en predestinatie in de theologie van Jacobus Arminius (1559–1609) (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1993). 12 Richard A. Muller, God, Creation, and Providence in the Thought of Jacob Arminius: Sources and Directions of Scholastic Protestantism in the Era of Early Orthodoxy (Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1991). 13 Richard A. Muller, Christ and the Decree: Christology and Predestination in Reformed Theology from Calvin to Perkins, Studies in Historical Theology 2 (Durham, N.C.: Labyrinth Press, 1986).

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When van Asselt became a Lecturer in the history of Reformed Protestantism at the Utrecht Faculty of Theology in 1993, he had already read the first volume of the PRRD, but it was Dekker who made in 1994 a first appointment for a guest lecture by van Asselt at Calvin Theological Seminary—without van Asselt’s prior consent! During and after van Asselt’s visit to Grand Rapids Richard Muller and he had a number of thorough-going discussions on Cocceius and post-Reformation Reformed theology in general. These discussions contributed to van Asselt’s “conversion” to the “new approach.” 3. Scotist Influences on Reformed Scholasticism The Research Group Classic Reformed Theology, and the views of its founder, Antonie Vos Jaczn., had a major impact on van Asselt’s research. Vos wrote a PhD thesis in the philosophy of religion supervised by Vincent Brümmer.15 In the medieval intellectual tradition and especially in the philosophy of John Duns Scotus, he discovered a distinctly Christian philosophy able to meet the challenges of various atheist philosophies. At the root of Vos’ theological thought lies a profound conviction of the philosophical credibility and—even more—superiority of Christian faith in what he considers to be its supreme articulation, that of the Augustinian-Franciscan tradition. Vos argues that from its very beginnings, Christianity has struggled with the Greek philosophical tradition, in which the relationship between the world and the absolute was thought of as a relationship of necessity.16 Christianity had to break away from this view of the relationship between God and the world, as it left no room for the ideas of creation, freedom, revelation and incarnation, all of them constitutive elements of the Christian tradition. Augustine and Anselm were important landmarks in the process of breaking with the logic of necessity, a break that was completed by John 14 Richard A. Muller, Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics I (Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1987). 15 Antonie Vos, Kennis en noodzakelijkheid: Een kritische analyse van het absolute evidentialisme in wijsbegeerte en theologie, Dissertationes Neerlandicae 5 (Kampen: Kok, 1981). Other influences on Vos’ thought include his studies at Oxford and his studies in medieval history and philosophy with L. M. de Rijk. 16 Antonie Vos, “Ab uno disce omnes,” Bijdragen 60 (1999): 173–204.

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Duns Scotus’ idea of “synchronic contingency.”17 This process led to various major innovations in philosophy during the Middle Ages, for example the development of modal categories in logic, and an innovative rethinking of various forms of implication. Vos’ view of the history of the Christian tradition offered those working on Reformed scholasticism an important insight into the relationship between the use of logical analysis in theological reflection and the content of that reflection. On the “old view” of scholastic theology, it was assumed that the mere use of Aristotelian logic and distinctions would make a theologian materially dependent on Aristotelian philosophy, and thus prone to “distorting” the pureness of Christian faith with pagan philosophical concepts.18 Vos’ insight into the flexible and transformative use of philosophical terminology during the Middle Ages—which owes much to L. M. de Rijk19—enabled him to correct these oversimplified views of the interaction between Greek philosophy and the Christian tradition. This opened up a wealth of new questions and fields of research with regard to Reformed scholasticism. Where most of the older studies concluded from the employment of Aristotelian or Thomist terminology that Aristotelian or Thomist positions were assumed, the question now became: if someone incorporated a philosophical concept, what use did he make of it? To what extent is the meaning of this concept changed by this use, and what is the exact theological claim made by means of it? Here, the post-Wittgensteinian II insight that terms acquire their meanings only when they are used in specific contexts20 is applied to the history of ideas. The meanings of philosophical concepts are no longer seen as fixed by their origins in Greek philosophy, but as subject to change. They are dependent on the 17 John Duns Scotus, Contingency and Freedom = Lectura I 3, ed. Antonie Vos et al., The New Synthese Historical Library 42 (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1994). See most recently Antonie Vos, The Philosophy of John Duns Scotus (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006). 18 Of course, Von Harnack’s famous thesis of the Hellenisation of Christianity played a major role in the background. 19 L. M. de Rijk, Logica modernorum II: A Contribution to the History of Early Terminist Logic. The Origin and Early Development of the Theory of Supposition (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1967). Vos was in close contact with L. M. de Rijk from 1964 onwards, and de Rijk had a major impact on his work. 20 See Garth Hallett, Wittgenstein's Definition of Meaning as Use, The Orestes Brownson Series on Contemporary Thought and Affairs 6 (New York: Fordham University Press, 1967).

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use theologians make of them.21 The practical consequence of this new approach was that most existing research into Reformed scholasticism was now in need of substantial revision, if it had not to be done all over again. The article by Martijn Bac and Theo Pleizier is a good illustration of this approach. Drawing on the work of L. M. de Rijk, they outline the major innovations of medieval thought, and apply the insights thus acquired to a specific example: William Twisse’s Discovery of Dr Jacksons Vanity. It appears that Twisse used Aquinas’ terminology to develop his own Scotistic position on the efficacy of divine willing. Contrary to Aquinas, Twisse conceives both of the will of God and of that which God wills as radically contingent. Here, Bac and Pleizier draw on Antonie Vos’ discovery of the emergence of the notion of synchronic contingency in the work of John Duns Scotus. Vos’ thesis is that only after Duns Scotus had fully developed the notion of synchronic contingency it became possible to think of the world as a free creation of God and to take account of human freedom. Bac and Pleizier illustrate this thesis by showing how Twisse, unlike Aquinas, by thinking causality in terms of synchronic contingency, was able to think the freedom of divine and human agency. One of the reasons for devoting so much attention to the Scotist revolution and its influence on Reformed Scholasticism is, Vos has argued, that the nineteenth century—as a result of the collapse of the classical university education—brought about a lapse into necessitarianism. In the Netherlands, so Vos’ specific thesis runs, this lapse occurred in 1845–46, when Cornelis Opzoomer revolutionized Dutch theology through his philosophical ideas. In this light, modern reductionist science and the demise of a Christian worldview are a return to the old Greek thinking in terms of a necessary world, a world that has no place neither for God, nor for academic theology. In such a world, faith can at best be considered as an irrational gift from an alien God that cannot be rationally accounted for. It is exactly the tendency to a contemporary appropriation of Reformed scholasticism or scholasticism in general that Willemien Otten challenges in her contribution. She looks at the emphasis on the 21 For a similar development in biblical interpretation, see James Barr’s rebuttal of the “etymological fallacy” in his classic The Semantics of Biblical Language (London: Oxford University Press, 1961).

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methodological character of (Reformed) scholasticism with a sense of irony. Van Asselt and Vos derive their emphasis on the methodological character of Reformed scholasticism from L. M. de Rijk, of whom Otten, like Vos, is a pupil. De Rijk, however, stressed the methodological and theologically neutral character of scholasticism for purposes exactly contrary to those of van Asselt and Vos. For de Rijk, the methodologically neutral intellectual endeavour of the Middle Ages shows an intellectual power that goes far beyond the religious boundaries of Christianity. He interprets the medieval intellectual tradition as a forerunner of secular Enlightenment culture. Van Asselt and Vos, on the other hand, adduce the methodologically neutral character of scholasticism to argue for the methodological and theological soundness of an ecclesial, traditional Reformed theology. Otten takes issue both with de Rijk and with van Asselt and Vos by criticizing the idea of scholasticism as a neutral methodology that they share. The intellectual endeavours of the great medieval thinkers cannot be taken out of their historical context to support either a secular modern culture or a traditional Reformed theology. She exemplifies her point through a discussion of Abelard’s views on divine providence and redemption. According to Otten, Abelard’s intellectual work was deeply embedded in his personal struggle for life, which gave his intellectual and theological work a rather fragmentary character. Life, Otten argues, is harder than any allegedly clean methodology can overcome. Thus, the adoption of a methodology suiting our own contemporary theological interests should take the requirements of our own context into account rather than appropriate some model from the past that as such may never have existed, since by appropriating it we disroot it from the form of life in which it was embedded. Given their theological agenda, the interest of Vos and his followers in the history of theology is largely motivated by exploring how a theology that explicitly builds on the notion of a contingent world—in the sense of synchronic contingency—could be developed; in historical terms: how the ancient pre-Enlightenment fathers, be they pre- or postReformation thinkers, developed a theology in terms of synchronic contingency. This leads to reflection on the doctrine of God, God’s foreknowledge, eternity, omnipotence and will, but also on anthropology, the freedom of the will, and soteriology, the way in which the gift of grace in salvation respects human freedom. The essay by Vos and Dekker on synchronic contingency in Francis Turretin is a fine example

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of this endeavour. In this article, Vos and Dekker explain Turretin’s view of the omnipotence of God, concentrating on the way in which the idea that God can do everything leads Turretin to reflections on the ontological status of the world and the nature of possibility. The upshot of these reflections is that God can indeed do everything, but everything does not include “nothing.” Thus, God cannot actualize a state of affairs that is logically and ontologically impossible. Subsequently, Vos and Dekker discuss the theory of synchronic contingency; they show that for Turretin, what God can do is much more than what God did. In other words, the states of affairs that make up the actual world are just a small subset of what God could have realized. The fact that God decided to create a certain world does not make that world necessary. It remains contingent on God’s will. Though Antonie Vos’ approach to the history of Christianity was a major impetus for a re-reading of scholastic texts, it is not uncontroversial.22 Van Asselt, while fundamentally agreeing with this approach and emphasizing the heuristic value of synchronic contingency, never fell out of his role as a historian whose second nature it has become to question comprehensive theories by confronting them with the particularities of history. In almost Maccovian discussions with foreign colleagues, van Asselt could occasionally relativise the importance of this new “Zentraldogma” by humorously overstating it. These conversations with his friends are reflected in an article by one of them, R. A. Mylius, who describes the adventures of an until now unknown but still important seventeenth-century figure named Cornelis Elleboogius. In this article, the theory of possible worlds and synchronic contingency is questioned by suggesting that it can be misconstrued as leading to unexpected practical implications.

22 An example of a critique of Vos’ reading of Reformed scholasticism is Paul Helm, “Synchronic Contingency in Reformed Scholasticism: A Note of Caution,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 57 (2003): 207–223, with a response by Vos and Beck, “Conceptual Patterns Related to Reformed Scholasticism,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 57 (2003): 224–233.

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4. Reformed Scholasticism in the Netherlands and Abroad: Case Studies Personal characteristics may add as much to one’s academic career as they may hinder it. One characteristic of van Asselt’s personality has greatly helped him in creating a network for the study of Reformed scholasticism: his warm, chivalrous and enthusiastic personality. Van Asselt is always eager to learn from colleagues, and many of them became close friends. The present volume reflects the national and international network of the scholar celebrating his jubilee. Since the national and international cooperation that van Asselt developed in his career went hand in hand with the development of the new approach to Reformed scholasticism, the introduction of a series of case studies that makes up the second part of this volume, provides a good opportunity to describe the further development of van Asselt’s academic work. A first line of research that van Asselt continued to engage in was the research on Cocceius. In his PhD dissertation, attention to Cocceius’ biography had to remain rather limited; this was a gap that was still to be filled. In 1997, van Asselt published a Dutch monograph in which due attention was paid to the biographical details.23 The “new approach” to Reformed scholasticism formed a second incentive to continue the study of Cocceius. In traditional research, Cocceius’ theology was always seen as an exception to scholastic traditionalism. Now that the idea of Reformed scholasticism as mere traditionalism had been proven false, the question of Cocceius’ relationship to Reformed scholasticism became urgent again, and it had to be answered differently. In his Dutch monograph van Asselt already devotes a separate chapter to the question whether Cocceius can be seen as a scholastic; he gives an affirmative answer.24 The reappraisal of Cocceius as a scholastic theologian in a newly discovered sense of the word, returned in the English translation of van Asselt’s dissertation, which appeared in

23 Willem J. van Asselt, Johannes Coccejus: Portret van een zeventiende-eeuws theoloog op oude en nieuwe wegen, Kerkhistorische monografieën 6 (Heerenveen: Groen, 1997). 24 Van Asselt, Johannes Coccejus, 159–164. See also idem, “Cocceius Anti-Scholasticus?” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise, ed. van Asselt and Dekker, 227–251.

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2001.25 We will come back to the struggles surrounding that translation when we introduce Raymond E. Blacketer’s contribution. As a final tribute to the seventeenth-century federal theologian, van Asselt organized a Dutch language conference on Cocceius in 2003, on Cocceius’ 400th birthday.26 The new interest in Reformed scholasticism started to bear fruit, not only in numerous articles, but also in larger projects. A first milestone was the research group’s publication of a selection of disputations of Voetius in Dutch.27 Through this publication, the new approach of the research group was introduced to a wider audience. Each disputation discussed was translated, preceded by a structural overview of its contents, and followed by an explanatory essay by one of the research group’s members. Another milestone that deserves mention is the Introduction to Reformed Scholasticism,28 particularly because it bears witness to a remarkable feature of van Asselt’s teaching: his ability to kindle enthusiasm in his students for academic research. Through the years, various assistants assisted van Asselt in his teaching responsibilities, and a number of them contributed to what finally became the first introduction to Reformed scholasticism that was based on the new approach to the topic. It started as a reader for an introductory course, and grew out into a full scale introduction to the topic, including chapters on the antecedents, a description of the main aspects of scholastic methodology, descriptions of the main periods that can be distinguished in Reformed scholasticism, and discussions of the most important issues and representatives. The book was not only used in Utrecht, but also found its way to Apeldoorn, Kampen, and Amsterdam. Two projects that are currently under way should be briefly mentioned here. Firstly, the above has already made clear why the freedom of the will is an important issue in the research of the Research Group Classic Reformed Theology: the concept of synchronic contin25 Willem J. van Asselt, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603–1669), translated from the Dutch by Raymond A. Blacketer, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 100 (Leiden: Brill, 2001). 26 The conference proceedings were published in Kerk en Theologie 54, no. 4 (2003). 27 W.J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, eds., De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995). 28 Willem J. van Asselt, ed., Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998).

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gency provides a novel tool for the research on Reformed scholastic views on human free will, and how it is related to, for instance, predestination and foreknowledge. The manuscript of a volume on this issue authored by the research group will soon be published by Baker Academic. Van Asselt himself is currently engaged in a major research project on Johannes Maccovius (1588–1644), a professor of theology in Franeker who wrote an invaluable treatise on scholastic theological distinctions and rules29 but who became infamous because his lifestyle “never quite equaled his theology.” An official report on Maccovius states how three students, knowing his talent for imbibing, once plied him with liquor in a brothel in Harlingen, and then as a joke placed him on his animal on the road to Bolsward. Maccovius, expecting to return to Franeker and too drunk to notice he had been put on the wrong road, discovered his mistake only on entering Bolsward.30 It will be clear to all those who know van Asselt in person that this type of cock and bull story in no way reduces the attraction that Maccovius holds for him. While van Asselt is more moderate than Maccovius, he is known for his struggle against the caricature that Calvinists lack the gift of enjoying life, and he has certainly succeeded in living up to his own theoretical insights. Van Asselt is currently preparing a much-needed English translation of Maccovius’ Distinctiones with an Introduction, and hopes to publish a more comprehensive study of Maccovius’ life and work in the future. Whether van Asselt will succeed in completely rehabilitating Maccovius, is a question time will answer. As mentioned above, van Asselt is a man of friendships, developing his academic networks much in that way, not only abroad, but also at home. At home meant, first of all, the Utrecht faculty. At Utrecht, Andreas Beck had been working on a dissertation on Gisbertus Voetius’ doctrine of God under the supervision of van Asselt’s predecessor Graafland. After Beck had left Utrecht to become professor of church history at the Evangelical Theological Faculty at Heverlee, Belgium, he continued to work on the dissertation under this supervision of the two 29 Johannes Maccovius, Distinctiones et regulae theologicae ac philosophicae (Amsterdam: Ludovicus Elzevirius, 1656). Cf. W. J. van Asselt, “The Theologian’s Tool Kit: Johannes Maccovius (1588–1644) and the Development of Reformed Theological Distinctions,” The Westminster Theological Journal 68 (2006): 23–40. 30 Keith L. Sprunger, The Learned Doctor William Ames: Dutch Backgrounds of English and American Puritanism (Urbana: University of Illinois Press 1972), 87–88; John Dykstra Eusden, “Introduction,” in The Marrow of Theology, by William Ames (Durham, N.C.: Labyrinth Press, 1983).

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“Fathers” of the Utrecht Research Group Classic Reformed Theology, Vos and van Asselt. Beck’s magnum opus has been defended in 2007 with the extraordinary professor for Reformed theology A. de Reuver as promotor.31 In his contribution to this volume, Beck investigates the relationship between Melanchthon and Voetius. In older scholarship, it has often been suggested that Melanchthon and Cocceius were close theological allies, over against Voetius. Beck shows that this thesis is completely mistaken, arguing for a basic convergence between Melanchthon’s and Voetius’ views on theology as a science, natural theology, and the concept of God as Trinity. The study of Utrecht University’s founding father Gisbertus Voetius is continued in the contribution by a longstanding colleague from the Utrecht Theology Faculty: Frits Broeyer. Broeyer is a known expert on the post-Reformation church history in the Netherlands, and particularly known for his research on the records of the Reformed church at Utrecht. In this contribution, however, he joins forces with the Utrecht scholastics, providing a cross-section of Voetius’ Selectae Disputationes, with an emphasis on soteriological issues. Although Broeyer takes serious notice of the new approach to scholasticism in which van Asselt has played such a a major role, his approach shows that he is not fully convinced by it. Instead, Broeyer insists on those elements of Voetius’ thought that are not so easily taken up into a contemporary theological framework, placing Voetius firmly into the historical context to which he belongs. When it comes to research into Reformed scholasticism, Aza Goudriaan is a natural ally. Like various others, Aza started his research on Reformed scholasticism as a philosopher of religion rather than as a church historian. He wrote his PhD dissertation in Leiden, supervised by Hendrik J. Adriaanse and inspired by Wolfhart Pannenberg, who has always had a strong interest in the history of seventeenth-century theology. Goudriaan’s dissertation concentrates on the question of the knowledge of God in Suarez, Descartes, and Revius.32 Afterwards, 31 Andreas J. Beck, Gisbertus Voetius (1589-1676): Sein Theologieverständnis und seine Gotteslehre, Forschungen für Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte 92 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007). 32 Aza Goudriaan, Philosophische Gotteserkenntnis bei Suárez und Descartes im Zusammenhang mit der niederländischen reformierten Theologie und Philosophie des 17. Jahrhunderts, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 98 (Leiden: Brill, 1999).

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Goudriaan continued his studies at Leiden University, at the Erasmus University of Rotterdam with a research project on Voetius, Petrus van Mastricht and Antonius Driessen and at the Free University of Amsterdam, where he currently is a lecturer of patristics.33 He also coorganized (with Fred van Lieburg) an international conference on the Synod of Dordt in Dordrecht, where van Asselt gave a lecture. In the meantime, Goudriaan has become a regular member of the Research Group Classic Reformed Theology. It is on the Synod of Dordt that Goudriaan provides a contribution in this volume. The common view is that at the Synod of Dordt, the main controversy circled around predestination and grace. So far, little attention has been paid to the question of justification in the dispute between Arminius and Gomarus. Goudriaan argues that justification by faith was at the heart of the controversy. Through a detailed analysis of the discussion between Arminius and Gomarus, and a similar discussion between the Arminian Bertius and the Reformed orthodox Lubbertus, Goudriaan shows what the consequences of Arminius’ and Gomarus’ views are for the question of justification by faith. If sinful human beings are elected on the basis of foreseen faith—the faith that God foresees people to have according to God’s so-called “middle-knowledge”—then this faith becomes an act in which God plays no determinative role. Although God helps and stimulates the act of faith, the believer is free in a specific and far–reaching sense, to choose either for or against God’s offer of forgiveness. This allowed Arminius to account for the central role of the “justification by faith” in the Reformed tradition in a radical way. In Arminius’ view, it is really on account of the act performed by the believer that the believer is justified. In this sense, the act of faith has the character of a meritorious act. This meritorious nature of the act of faith elicited a furious response from the Reformed orthodox, because they on their part saw in this meritorious character of the act of faith by which we are justified, the end of the Reformed doctrine of justification by faith. If the hand of faith by which we receive Christ is not only an instrument, but a meritorious act, then it is no longer by Christ that we are justified, but by our own work, our act of faith! Goudriaan’s analysis of the debate is an ample illustration of the way in which the 33 Aza Goudriaan, Reformed Orthodoxy and Philosophy, 1625–1750: Gisbertus Voetius, Petrus van Mastricht, and Anthonius Driessen, Brill Studies in Church History 26 (Leiden: Brill, 2006).

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Reformed—on both sides—wrestled with maintaining the crucial role of the act of faith in salvation on the one hand, and maintaining the exclusiveness and sufficiency of Christ’s work in salvation on the other. The connection between Utrecht and Grand Rapids has already been introduced. After the initial visit of van Asselt to Grand Rapids, Muller came to Utrecht, first for short visits, and later on as Belle van Zuylen professor, a guest professorship for half a year.34 A key event in the further extension of the international dimension was the conference held at the occasion of the international conference on Reformation and Scholasticism, held at Utrecht in 1997.35 Vincent Brümmer had been a regular visitor of the University of Nottingham in the context of the Erasmus exchange programme, where he met a young church historian working on a fresh approach to the scholastic theology of the great English puritan John Owen.36 The connection with the Utrecht research context was easily made, and Trueman was invited to give a lecture at the conference on Reformation and scholasticism. Trueman’s work on English Reformed scholasticism added the clear awareness that scholastic methodology, especially when conceived of as a methodology rather than as a shared set of convictions, was a really international phenomenon that crossed confessional and regional borders.37 A third international member of the network who offered a paper at the Utrecht conference was Sebastian Rehnman, whom Trueman knew from their work on John Owen.38 At that time, Rehnman was a PhD student at Oxford University, where John Platt did research into Reformed scholasticism.39 Rehnman now offers a paper on the intersection between Reformed scholasticism and contemporary philosophical theology in part three of this volume. 34

Richard A. Muller, Ad Fontes Argumentorum: The Sources of Reformed Theology in the 17th Century (Utrecht: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, 1999). 35 Van Asselt and Dekker, Reformed Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise. 36 Carl R. Trueman, The Claims of Truth: John Owen’s Trinitarian Theology (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1998). 37 See also Carl R. Trueman and R.S. Clark, eds., Protestant Scholasticism: Essays in Reassessment (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1999). 38 Sebastian Rehnman, Divine Discourse: The Theological Methodology of John Owen (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002). 39 John Platt, Reformed Thought and Scholasticism: The Arguments for the Existence of God in Dutch Theology, 1575–1650, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 29 (Leiden: Brill, 1982).

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Muller devotes his essay to Thomas Barlow’s polemic against the new methodologies of his time. Analysing changes that Barlow’s contemporaries proposed in the understanding of space and time, which hitherto had been seen as accidental properties of objects, Muller shows the dramatic changes that the new philosophies caused for the understanding of traditional theological concepts and doctrines. In the new philosophies, “space” was increasingly reconceptualized as a category of its own rather than an accidental property of an object. Such reconceptualizations had massive theological consequences, as the idea that space is a category of its own destroyed the traditional order of the universe, where all substance was seen as rooted in the creative activity of God. Although the new philosophers by no means wanted to pave the way for atheism, their “disintegration” of the world into a fragmentary world of “atoms,” so Barlow held, was a first step on that way. Interestingly, Muller uses his analysis of Barlow for making a point about the alleged rationalism of the old Aristotelian philosophy. Muller suggests that the early Enlightenment thought that was to replace the classic schoolmen approach to philosophy and theology was much more rationalist than traditional Aristotelianism. If one reads between the lines of Muller’s contribution,40 or pays special attention to the last three words of his article, one can even catch a certain longing for a return to the old scholastic methodology as a way out of the twenty-first-century theological conundrum. Of course to suggest that would go much beyond the church historian’s methodological boundaries. At any rate, these remarks show that behind and running through Muller’s reclaiming of the Reformed scholastic tradition, runs a certain contemporary theological agenda. As Muller told us during one of our lunch-sessions in 1999, he would like to go back to the seventeenth century, except for the state of the medical sciences. Trueman’s contribution to the present volume is an excellent illustration of the international character of Reformed scholasticism. While Johannes Cocceius introduces the first full scale federal theology on the Continent, a similar rise of convenantal theology occurred in England and Scotland. Drawing primarily on the doctrine of the covenant of redemption (what Cocceius calls the pactum salutis, see Wisse’s contri40 E.g.: “Indeed, it is arguable that the predicted dangers of the new philosophies have been fulfilled a hundred-fold in the loss of comprehension of traditional terms, arguments, and categories that characterizes much of what has passed for theology in the twentieth and now passes for it in the twenty-first century.”

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bution) as we find it in Gillespie (and John Owen), Trueman refutes some of the common criticisms of this notorious “eternal” contract between the persons of the Trinity. The main objection against this “piece of mythology,” as Karl Barth called it, is that it is a typical example of rational speculation about something—even in God—apart from any concrete indication for it in Scripture. Furthermore, it is also often claimed that in the covenant of redemption, a “trinitarian subset” is created because the Holy Spirit has no substantial role in the covenant. A final criticism of federal theology in general is that the classical federal theologians mistook the biblical concept of a covenant for some kind of contract. Through an analysis of Gillespie’s federal theology, Trueman shows how well Gillespie was aware of the exegetical issues surrounding the idea of the covenant of redemption, how fully trinitarian in structure Gillespie’s and particularly Owen’s covenantal theology were, and how carefully the British federal theologians distinguished between the various forms of covenant as regards their contractual aspects. Finally, Raymond Blacketer had a special place in the international network. When Heiko A. Oberman expressed his willingness to publish an English version of van Asselt’s dissertation in his famous Brill series, van Asselt’s growing involvement in the “new school” approach to the study of Reformed scholasticism, moved him to substantially revise his dissertation while it was being translated. The old view of Cocceius as the one who, under the influence of René Descartes, started to depart from the timeless rationalist theology that Reformed scholasticism was held to be, could no longer stand. Van Asselt went in search for a translator who had a good reading knowledge of Dutch, a profound knowledge of theological and scholastic technical terminology and an indepth knowledge of the “new school.” Richard Muller brought him in contact with one of his PhD students, Raymond Blacketer. Blacketer turned out to be, as van Asselt himself formulates it in the Foreword to the Brill volume “a translator greater than whom cannot be conceived.”41 Where van Asselt’s revisions were insufficient, Blacketer confronted him with all remaining elements of the “old school heresies.” In this way van Asselt was pushed to rethink a variety of aspects of his interpretation of Cocceius again, thus reworking his reading of

41

Van Asselt, Federal Theology, xiii.

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Cocceius all the more profoundly from a more accurate historical framework. Blacketer, who is by now a pastor in the Christian Reformed Church of Neerlandia, Canada, pursues his research into Calvin’s sermons on Deuteronomy in the direction of Reformed scholasticism with an essay on the homiletics of William Perkins, one of the most important Puritans in England and an important figure behind the Dutch “Further Reformation.” After having briefly introduced Perkins’ life and work, Blacketer describes the chief characteristics of his main homiletic work The Arte of Prophecying, paying due attention to Perkins’ theological methodology as well. Perkins applied the dialectic system of division of Petrus Ramus, a major methodological innovation in sixteenth-century scholastism. Perkins saw the preaching of the Word of God as the main instrument for the reform of the church, which for him was and remained the Church of England. As a key instrument for reform, Perkins did not hesitate to employ all the instruments of classical rhetoric to make the message of the Gospel heard by the audience. Blacketer’s analysis provides a good illustration of the continuity in the Christian tradition when it comes to the use of classical rhetoric in the homiletic praxis, starting with Augustine’s moderate incorporation of rhetorical techniques in De doctrina christiana, and running through the Middle Ages, Reformation and post-Reformation orthodoxy, until it was lost with the decline of the classical university curriculum. 5. Reformed Scholasticism and Contemporary Theology Willem van Asselt has always combined an interest in the history of theology with a passion for contemporary systematic theology. Throughout his career, he has continued direct conversation and cooperation with systematic theologians. Moreover, many of the biases against Reformed scholasticism that he tried to redress were put forward by systematic theologians. In refuting these misunderstandings, he could hardly avoid a more antagonistic engagement with systematic theologians. Therefore it does not come as a surprise that in this Festschrift, a number of contributors have focused on the connection between Reformed theology, Reformed scholasticism and contemporary theology. Three areas feature here: first, the relationship of Reformed scho-

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lasticism/Cocceius to Barth, second, the relationship between Reformed scholasticism and contemporary philosophical theology and finally, the relationship between Reformed scholasticism and Cocceius and contemporary trinitarian theology. The question of the relationship between Reformed scholasticism/ Cocceius and Barth is a natural one, as Barth’s relationship to both Reformed scholasticism and Cocceius is complicated. On the one hand, Barth’s critique of natural theology reinforced much of the critique of Reformed scholasticism and Cocceius as a theology that recognized a source of revelation outside Christ and thus saw a place for human autonomous reason seemingly independent of God. Willem van Asselt himself has argued in an article that for the Reformed scholastics, God revealed himself in nature as genuinely as he did in Christ.42 Both revelations depend on God’s freedom to reveal Godself and thus, neither provides human beings with an argument for the existence of God that is independent of revelation. On the other hand, Barth had a considerable knowledge of both the Reformed and the Lutheran orthodox tradition, and often built on it in a positive way. Barth was well aware, for example, of the fact that the reading of Reformed scholasticism in terms of a “Zentraldogma” was historically unfounded.43 But also materially, Barth’s doctrine of God, for example, can be read as a new reading of traditional concepts of God as a se, transforming the traditional scholastic theological concepts from within. Thus, Barth both reinforced the negative evaluation of Reformed scholasticism, and fostered a new interest in it. In this Festschrift, the essays by Reeling Brouwer and Wisse address the Barth-connection. Reeling Brouwer addresses the relationship between Barth and the Reformed scholastic Amandus Polanus, and Wisse addresses Barth’s relation to Cocceius. Reeling Brouwer discusses Barth’s reading of Polanus’ doctrine of God, more specifically the question of the simplicity of God. He argues that while Barth did not take the historical context of Polanus’ theology sufficiently into account, he had good reasons for rejecting Polanus’ thinking in terms of

42

Van Asselt, “The Fundamental Meaning of Theology: Archetypal and Ectypal Theology in Seventeenth-Century Reformed Thought,” Westminster Theological Journal 64 (2002/3): 319–335. 43 Van Asselt and Dekker, “Introduction,” 11–43.

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radical unity, because Barth lived in a time in which the ideal of a single frame of reference for theology had collapsed. In Wisse’s contribution, Wisse reads Barth in the opposite direction. Whereas Reeling Brouwer stresses plurality in Barth, Wisse stresses a striking singularity in Barth’s soteriology over against the duplexity in Cocceius’ theology. While Cocceius’ federal theology is often perceived as more friendly than scholastic predestinarian theology, Wisse portrays him as one whose soteriology is fully in line with the consensus of Dordt. Wisse shows that Cocceius’ federal theology, rather than moderating Reformed predestinarian thought, is entirely dependent on it. He argues that through the duplexity of Cocceius’ soteriology, one can account for the certainty of salvation on the one hand, and the communicative nature of the Gospel on the other. Barth’s unifold soteriology fails to keep both together: either it leads to hard universalism, emphasizing certainty and implying the idea that all will be saved, or to soft universalism, emphasizing the communicative nature of the Gospel and ending up in Arminianism. As we have mentioned above, the new interest in Reformed scholasticism did not emerge out of the blue. In Utrecht as elsewhere, it was closely related to the rise of philosophical theology. This is particularly true of the discussion concerning the classical attributes of God. One of the classics of analytic philosophy of religion on the question of the eternity of God was written by Eleonore Stump and Norman Kretzman, philosophers of religion who also played a major part in a new AngloAmerican interest in medieval philosophy and theology.44 Here, we see again an example of the very close connections between the historical questions of what exactly the ideas were that the “Fathers” of the Church held, and whether these ideas can still be upheld today. Two essays in this collection address these questions. In the first essay, Marcel Sarot argues against the tenability of the traditional view of the eternity of God as timeless. Contributing to a discussion that is still largely conducted in scholastic terms and by means of scholastic distinctions, Sarot develops his own views in two steps. (1) Arguing against an atemporally existing God, he shows that if God exists atemporally and is aware of a temporally existing world, then either the 44 Eleonore Stump and Norman Kretzmann, “Eternity,” in The Concept of God, ed. Thomas V. Morris (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 219–252. Cf. notes 8–9 above.

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temporality of the world collapses into God’s eternity, or the eternity of God collapses into the temporality of the world. In light of the reality of the temporal nature of the world, Sarot argues that God must exist sempiternally.45 (2) The most common position amongst those who believe that God exists sempiternally—e.g., Open theists—is that the future cannot be fully known, but that all possibilities can be known as possibilities. Sarot argues that this way of articulating God’s knowledge of the future assumes an untenable Aristotelian view of the future as a set of separate possibilia, some of which will be actualized while some will not. Sarot argues that the future should rather be seen along Hartshornian lines as largely consisting of series of continua. Viewed in this light, it is misleading to say that God can know all possibilities, but we should rather say that God can know the limits within which future actualities will have to fit. In the second contribution from philosophical theology, Sebastian Rehnman develops a theodicy out of the work of the eighteenth-century protestant scholastic theologian Jonathan Edwards and defends its intellectual credibility. In contemporary philosophical theology, it is often argued that certain evils exist that an omnipotent God could have averted without loosing greater goods, and that therefore such an omnipotent God does not exist. Rehnman shows that this argument assumes a consequentialist theory of meta-ethics, according to which the moral quality of an act depends on its consequences. However, consequentialism is incompatible with divine perfection even apart from evil in the world, since consequentialism would require a good God to actualize the greatest amount of good, and there is no such thing. Classical theism assumes a form of non-consequentialism. Drawing on Jonathan Edwards, Rehnman argues that the good that God aims at when creating is the intrinsic good consisting of the expression of God’s own perfections, thus communicating God’s own glory. If this is God’s 45 Sarot’s concerns here are parallel to those of Vos and his pupils: Sarot is concerned with the freedom of creation. Sarot takes a further step, however, when he argues that synchronic contingency does not suffice, because even if future free actions are synchronically contingent, they may still be determined and not free in a libertarian sense. Therefore Sarot is not content with ascribing, along the lines of Pleizier and Bac, and Vos and Dekker in their contributions, contingency to God, but argues that we must ascribe temporal—sempiternal!—existence to God as well. Cf. Sarot’s discussion with Nico den Bok and Eef Dekker: M. Sarot, “Alwetendheid en de dialoog tussen theologie en natuurwetenschap,” Tijdschrift voor Filosofie 56 (1994): 237–271; Eef Dekker and Nico den Bok, “Eeuwigheid, tijd en alwetendheid: Een antwoord aan Marcel Sarot,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 48 (1994): 216–229.

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ultimate end, God may permit evil states of affairs as inferior, subordinate ends subservient to the ultimate end. The argument for this controversial position is given in outline, and draws upon a particular form of the meontic tradition: our ontology should not include evil, since evil is not real but is a lack of reality. Even if not everyone will be convinced by Rehnman’s argument, he does make it clear that a study of Reformed scholasticism can help us to avoid some of the more common pitfalls in contemporary philosophical theology. When Barth developed his doctrine of God, he sharply attacked the traditional concept of God as rationalistic, the product of Greek philosophy. Barth, and Karl Rahner on the Catholic side, became the fathers of what is now called the “Trinitarian Renaissance,” an increasing interest in the significance of the doctrine of the Trinity during from the 1980s onwards.46 In traditional theology—Aquinas for example—so it was assumed, the doctrine of the Trinity is a mere Christian appendix to an essentially theistic, Greek philosophical concept of the absolute. It has even been claimed that the death of the God of theism that Nietzsche proclaimed and that became effectuated in large scale secularisation during the twentieth century, was caused by this overly generic concept of God, in which not the God of Christianity, but a god of our own making set the tone.47 As one can easily see, this claim again shows an intrinsic intertwining of historical and systematic assertions. If the historical thesis is right, namely that the doctrine of the Trinity was indeed “forgotten” in the history of (Western) Christianity, then the systematic thesis may also be correct, and the new post-Barthian interest in reconceptualizing the whole of Christian theology in trinitarian terms is perhaps indeed the way to go. If the thesis about the history of Christianity is flawed, however, then there might still be something to be learned from the traditional theology of the Trinity, 46

Christoph Schwöbel, “The Renaissance of Trinitarian Theology: Reasons, Problems and Tasks,” in Trinitarian Theology Today: Essays on Divine Being and Act, ed. idem (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1995), 1–30; Gerald O’Collins SJ, “The Holy Trinity: The State of the Questions,” in The Trinity: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Trinity, ed. Stephen Davis, Daniel Kendall and Gerald O’Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 1–25. 47 See particularly Eberhard Jüngel, God as the Mystery of the World: On the Foundation of the Theology of the Crucified one in the Dispute between Theism and Atheism, translated from the third rev. German ed. by Darrell L. Guder (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1983), and Colin E. Gunton, The One, the Three and the Many: God, Creation and the Culture of Modernity, 2nd rev. ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).

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perhaps even something that the modern trinitarian theologies are unable to account for. The last two essays address these questions, interestingly, in an opposite way. In his essay, Gijsbert van den Brink addresses the historical questions of the “forgotten” Trinity in the West, concentrating on the question whether and to what extent seventeenth-century Reformed orthodoxy may be held responsible for neglecting the doctrine. First, he outlines and subsequently evaluates Placher’s thesis that claims Reformed scholasticism to be responsible for forgetting the Trinity. Although Placher’s argument for his thesis fails to convince, van den Brink argues that Placher still has a point. According to van den Brink, the classic discussion of the an sit, quid sit, quale sit of God led to the negligence of the doctrine of the Trinity, which had little or no impact on the rest of Christian doctrine. Calvin, van den Brink maintains, is an exception to this rule, and in that respect may count as a forerunner to the twentieth-century trinitarian renaissance. Following Barth, Pannenberg and Rahner, van den Brink suggests that the traditional division in the doctrine of God, along with the more biblical orientation of the Reformed orthodox, led to the marginalization of the doctrine of the Trinity. In a second contribution, Luco van den Brom does in fact the reverse. Van den Brom accepts the contemporary turn to trinitarian and relational theology, but he suggests that the theology of a pre-modern theologian, Johannes Cocceius, provides us with insights and clues that point in the direction of what modern theology called “relational” and “trinitarian” theology. In a first move, van den Brom shows that the alleged clash between the post-Kantian historizing of theology and the abstract and timeless system of Reformed scholasticism is based on misguided readings of both post-Kantian theology and scholasticism. Scholasticism was not a timeless system, as dogmatic statements in scholastic theology were embedded in a network of meanings, a theological deep grammar, just like twentieth-century dogmatic statements. In a second move, drawing on the theology of Johannes Cocceius, and especially his doctrine of God, van den Brom argues that Cocceius was indeed deeply aware of the historical and grammatical status of theological claims about God. The fundamentally relational character of Cocceius’ federal theology provides a means to articulate the relational character of theological claims. What can be said within the relationship cannot be taken out of it. This relational theology provides a middle-

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way between a realist type of theology, in which it is claimed that we can describe the nature of God independently of our relationship with God, and an anti-realist position, in which it is claimed that the way God is, is entirely dependent on our conception of God. Partly in response to van den Brom, Bert Loonstra argues, finally, that scholasticism and “scholastic-like” methods are natural allies of theological realism. If we take theological realism as the ontological position according to which the existence and nature of God are objectively given, i.e. are independent of our faith and theology, and if we take the scholastic method as aiming at terminological clarity and logical consistency, the scholastic method presupposes theological realism. As soon as one rejects realism, theology no longer describes an objective given but explores ideas, feelings and questions that sometimes cannot be expressed with clarity, and that, even if they can, need not be expressed with clarity since there is no external standard to measure them against, no given object to do justice to. Loonstra then goes on to argue, against Gerrit Manenschijn, Stanley Hauerwas and Luco van den Brom, that attempts to overcome the divide between realism and non-realism necessarily fail. Finally, he argues, commenting on John Calvin and Karl Barth, that realism without scholasticism either becomes obscure or fails to properly communicate the truths that are being articulated. 6. The Future of Reformed Scholasticism At the end of this introduction, the editors of this collection of essays would like to offer it to Willem van Asselt as a sign of honour and gratitude for all that he has done, both for the Faculty of Theology of the University of Utrecht, his colleagues and friends, and for the academic study of theology, especially the study of seventeenth-century Reformed thought. The collection in itself proves that his work has been fruitful, not only in the sense that van Asselt is a prolific writer, but also in the sense that his work has given much occasion for further reflection, both in the field of church history and systematic theology. The cooperation of so many contributors has made this collection into a good overview of the research into post-Reformation Reformed thought done during the last few decades, including the turn in that research in which van Asselt has played a substantial role. Second, a

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number of contributions have also provided clues to what may be the future of the study of Reformed scholasticism. Of course, the first clear conclusion to be drawn from the various case studies is that there are still many figures in the history of Reformed scholasticism that deserve much more attention from church historians and systematic theologians alike, as even the theology of then major figures like John Owen and Gisbertus Voetius has received little attention until now, not to speak of all those whose names we now even barely know. In addition, the debate concerning the question whether or not scholastic methodology can be seen as neutral deserves closer attention, given the different voices on this point in this collection. Finally, the strong input from the side of systematic theology into this collection raises questions concerning the interdisciplinary relationship between church history and systematic theology. Not only do systematic theologians to a considerable extent rely on research into the history of theology, but also church historians seem considerably entangled in concepts, questions, and presuppositions taken from contemporary theological debates, more than historical-critical methodology have commonly recognized. Thus, there is good reason for church historians and systematic theologians to reflect further on the interrelationships of their disciplines.48 7. Post-scriptum This volume has been long in the making. The occasion for its production was van Asselt’s early retirement from his lectureship in the history of Reformed Protestantism at Utrecht University. Now that this volume approaches completion, it has been announced that van Asselt is appointed a research professor at the Evangelical Theological Faculty of Leuven (Louvain, Belgium) for a five-year period from 1 September 2008 onwards. One of his colleagues there will be Antonie Vos Jaczn., who was simultaneously appointed to a similar position. This underlines

48 Cf. Maarten Wisse, “Towards a Theological Account of Theology: Reconceptualizing Church History and Systematic Theology,” in Orthodoxy, Process & Product: The Meta-Question, ed. Lieven Boeve, Mathijs Lamberigts and Terrence Merrigan, BETL (Leuven: Peeters, 2009).

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one of the messages of this introduction: the present liber amicorum is not intended as a tribute to a completed achievement, but as a contribution to an ongoing intellectual project. We hope that van Asselt may for a long time continue to have a leading role in this project.

PART I

REFORMED SCHOLASTICISM AND THE SCOTIST HERITAGE

REENTERING SITES OF TRUTH TEACHING REFORMED SCHOLASTICISM IN THE CONTEMPORARY CLASSROOM Martijn Bac and Theo Pleizier

1. Introduction: The Master and his Students Since his arrival in Utrecht in 1993, Willem van Asselt has devoted himself to the study of Reformed scholasticism. In private conversations he sometimes referred to his discovery of “the new school approach” in terms of a conversion-experience and ever since a passion for a historically informed and a theologically adequate, i.e. non-biased approach to classic Reformed thought has been pivotal in both his research and his professional teaching.1 Being van Asselt’s former assistants we have been part of this dynamic reappraisal of Reformed scholasticism in the contemporary classroom in Utrecht, once a flourishing centre of seventeenth-century scholastic theology. To introduce students to the newly discovered world of Reformed scholasticism has been van Asselt’s educational purpose, and in this contribution we wish to pursue the lead of the master who continues to show the attitude of a student himself. 1

Cf. Willem J. van Asselt, ed., Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998); W. J. van Asselt, “De erfenis van de gereformeerde scholastiek,” Kerk en Theologie 47 (1996): 126–36; W. J. van Asselt, “De ontwikkeling van de remonstrantse theologie in de zeventiende eeuw als deel van het internationale calvinisme,” in Theologen in ondertal: Godgeleerdheid, godsdienstwetenschap, het Athenaeum Illustre en de Universiteit van Amsterdam, ed. P. van Rooden and P. J. Knegtmans (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2003); W. J. van Asselt, “De studie van de gereformeerde scholastiek: Verleden en toekomst,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 50 (1996): 290–312; W. J. van Asselt, “Natuurlijke theologie als uitleg van openbaring? Ectypische versus archetypische theologie in de zeventiende-eeuwse gereformeerde dogmatiek,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 57, no. 2 (2003): 135–52; W. J. van Asselt, “Protestant Scholasticism: Some Methodological Considerations in the Study of its Development,” Dutch Review of Church History 81, no. 3 (2001): 265–74; W. J. van Asselt and Eef Dekker, eds., Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001); W. J. van Asselt et al., eds., Reformed Thought on Freedom: The Concept of Free Choice in the History of Early-Modern Reformed Theology (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2007).

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Van Asselt’s efforts to teach his students the study of Reformed scholasticism in its proper historical context, while demonstrating a keen awareness to theologically relevant themes and topics based on his study of primary sources, has generated an array of methodological strategies to be employed. In one of his first publications on the matter he introduced three alternative hermeneutical paradigms about the relationship between medieval scholasticism, the Reformation, and Reformed scholasticism. His conclusion was that the study of Reformed scholasticism needs to proceed from the third paradigm, which posits a positive continuity between these three major movements in the history of Western theology.2 In this view, the major break in church history is the Enlightenment rather than the Reformation and Renaissance period. This attention to proper historical assessment has profound consequences for the correct interpretation of Reformed scholasticism. In addition, several hermeneutical rules, methodological hints and interpretative strategies are developed in this so-called “new school approach.”3 Still, a full-blown didactics, comprising a concrete series of strategies and techniques that describe the exegetical process from text to interpretation, remains a painful gap in the growing body of “new school” publications.4 As a first step towards such a didactics we believe that a more detailed and historiographically informed interpretation of the joint eras of medieval scholasticism, the Reformation period and Reformed Scholasticism is recommended. This entire period is distinct both from earlier and from later times. At scholasticism’s eleventh-century cradle we find the semantic revolution; its final phase set in long before the historic revolution of the nineteenth century.5 To give a proper assessment of the positive continuity between medieval, Reformed and post2 Cf. van Asselt, “De studie van de gereformeerde scholastiek.” A rewritten translation is present in: van Asselt, “Protestant Scholasticism.” To this general framework were added, first, a contextual historical approach including its social, polemical, political, and religious dimensions, and second, a programme of study for the major topics concerning the nature of theology and the doctrine of God before one dives into other areas. Finally, issues that belong to the aspect of literary genre have been raised as well, since it is vital to understand exegetically relevant differences between catechetical texts, written records of sermons, and academic theses, disputations, quaestiones, and matters of topical arrangement. 3 Cf. van Asselt, Reformation and Scholasticism, 39 including further references. 4 Cf. van Asselt, “Protestant Scholasticism,” 265. 5 Both concepts will be elaborated below.

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Reformed theology we need to be aware of this distinctive historical setting. We consider this awareness a particular characteristic of the Utrecht approach to Reformed Scholasticism. This article presents some of its interpretative implications. Our contribution aims at pushing the agenda for a didactics of Reformed Scholasticism. It would be rather presumptuous to suggest that we offer a complete didactics. Yet, we hope that our contribution will not only cause debate about the validity of our exegetical method, but will also inspire a broader felt need to develop a consensus about a set of adequate hermeneutical rules. 2. The Utrecht Desk Since 1982, the Utrecht Research Group Classic Reformed Theology provided a dynamic, interdisciplinary setting within which various exegetical tools and hermeneutic rules have been developed for the study of Reformed Scholasticism.6 In general, the “new approach” takes its point of departure in the hypothesis of an underlying positive continuity linking the aforementioned eras. The Utrecht research group provides a more detailed understanding of the kind of continuity involved by making use of the formative work on medieval scholasticism by L. M. de Rijk.7 According to de Rijk, scholastic theology was both analytical and ahistorical in nature and method. Systematically, it employs conceptual analysis; hermeneutically, it employs reverent exposition. De Rijk is one of the leading medievalists who have disproved the common view of medieval thought as being at best a Christian modification of minor metaphysical points in its general acceptance of ancient

6 The most important joined publications are: W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, eds., De scholastieke Voetius; W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, eds., Reformation and Scholasticism; W. J. van Asselt et al., eds., Reformed Thought. 7 A broader account of the Utrecht approach is found in: W. J. van Asselt, J. M. Bac and R. T. te Velde, “Introduction,” in Reformed Thought.

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philosophy.8 He has listed four major innovations of medieval thought: the development of terminist logic; the use of a distinctive approach both to metaphysics and to epistemology, and the acknowledgement of radical contingency in all created being. These innovations, de Rijk argues, were all inspired by Christian faith.9 The rise of terminist logic is also the historical entry-point for an adequate understanding of scholasticism.10 Within the context of the eleventh-century trivium, the basic education in grammar, dialectics or logic and semantics or rhetoric, new syntactical and semantic theories were developed in grammar. This renewal consisted in a so-called contextual approach to the functions of words in Latin sentences, interpreting terms no longer only in relation to their referential objects but in the context of propositions. Extensive interplay between grammar and logic created the logica modernorum or terminist logic.11 This kind of logic took propositions as the basic logical entities, thereby generating a revolutionary combination of logical and semantic analyses of language.12 This first “linguistic turn” in the history of thought, which may be called the semantic revolution of the eleventh century, gave birth to 8 De Rijk’s international fame is mainly based upon his critical editions of medieval logical works, but his work reveals the original dynamics of medieval thought in contrast to ancient thought much more broadly. Being trained in Aristotle, de Rijk is very sensitive to medieval innovations lacking in ancient philosophy. According to him, Aristotle is generally interpreted too much from a later, Christian framework, which disguises the medieval revolution. Cf. L. M. de Rijk, Logica modernorum II: A Contribution to the History of Early Terminist Logic: The Origin and Early Development of the Theory of Supposition (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1967). L. M. de Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte: Traditie en vernieuwing (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1977). A French translation is present in L. M. de Rijk, La philosophie au moyen âge (Brill: Leiden, 1985). In references to Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte, page numbers of the French translation will be given between brackets. 9 Cf. de Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte, 91–96, 275–76 (69–73, 16–17). 10 In addition to the references above, cf. L. M. de Rijk, “The Origins of the Theory of the Properties of Terms,” in The Cambridge History of Later Medieval Philosophy (CHLMP): From the Rediscovery of Aristotle to the Disintegration of Scholasticism, 1100–1600, ed. J. Pinborg (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 161–173. 11 Terminist logic is the logic of terms according to their functional role in propositions, cf. de Rijk, Logica modernorum II, 109–125. For a more extensive overview of the development of the logica modernorum, compare Martin M. Tweedale, “Logic (i): From the Late Eleventh Century to the Time of Abelard,” in A History of TwelfthCentury Western Philosophy, ed. P. Dronke (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). Klaus Jacobi, “Logic (ii): The Later Twelfth Century,” in A History of TwelfthCentury Western Philosophy, ed. P. Dronke (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1992). 12 Consequently, scholasticism must be interpreted from its “trivial” roots.

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the phenomenon of medieval scholasticism.13 Theological questions were an important trigger for this new kind of language-analysis. Ancient philosophical categories did not fit the Christian understanding of reality. The doctrines of God, Trinity, creation and incarnation could not be articulated in terms of the deterministic philosophy of the Greek First Unmoved Mover. Moreover, language-analysis was able to harmonize seemingly contradictory authoritative texts of Scripture and the Church Fathers. The institutional demise of scholasticism in eighteenth-century Europe preceded the dawn of the historical revolution.14 One of the most important consequences of this revolution is the insight that, while we are now all accustomed to think historically, we must realize that these theologians were not. The fundamental and equally revolutionary historical insight is that the past—though represented in the present— will always remain the past.15 The distance between past and present cannot be undone simply by reading sources within one’s own frame of reference, which was the common approach to texts prior to the historical revolution. The systematic reading of authoritative texts and the use of logic to harmonize them are typical practices of medieval and Reformed scholastics, betraying their ahistorical frame of mind rather than disqualifying their thought. Our three scholastic eras, i.e., that of medieval scholasticism, of the Reformation, and of Reformed scholasticism, are rightly located between the two above-mentioned revolutions. But this observation also alerts us to two important continuities. First, the semantic revolution implies that conceptual analysis constitutes the basic theological method in all three periods, be it reflected in scriptural exegesis or dogmatic disputation. Second, its ending point before the historic revolution indicates that theologians from these periods did not yet read their

13

De Rijk clearly considers it an important innovation, but uses himself the term “contextual approach” specifically to indicate renewal in grammar, while indicating renewal in dialectic as “terminist logic.” We wish to denote both renewals jointly with the term “semantic revolution.” 14 The breakdown of Protestant scholasticism during the eighteenth century is a complex event, which we cannot discuss within the scope of this article. 15 For a historical sketch of the emergence of historical thinking (the “historical revolution”), compare: E. Mackay, Geschiedenis bij de bron: Een onderzoek naar de verhouding van christelijk geloof en historische werkelijkheid in geschiedwetenschap, wijsbegeerte en theologie (Sliedrecht: Merweboek, 1997), particularly 29–264.

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sources historically, but only systematically, that is, explaining them reverentially (exponere reverenter). We now wish to elaborate on these two methodological assumptions developed at the Utrecht desk. 3. Conceptual Analysis Most definitions of scholasticism presuppose its analytic character. De Rijk defines scholasticism as: a collective noun denoting all academic, especially philosophical and theological activity that is carried out according to a certain method, which involves both in research and education the use of a recurring system of concepts, distinctions, proposition-analyses, argumentative strategies and methods of disputation.16

Within the scope of this article we cannot examine the differences between the use of dialectic in medieval scholasticism and of Renaissance logic and rhetoric in Reformed scholasticism more closely. It is clear, however, that “logic” in the sense of the philosophical discipline that studies the structure of propositions and arguments by investigating their formal validity plays a major role in Reformed scholastic theology.17 The other liberal arts, grammar and semantics, are likewise constitutive for scholastic theology. After all, this preparatory knowledge was assumed in theological education and hence, it became part of the professional equipment of every scholastic theologian. The basic elements of a theological argument are concepts, either simple or complex, and propositions (dicta). Within the bounds of a referential theory of language, concepts refer to entities or singulars (res). During the formative period of terministic logic, another type of concept evolved, the syncategoremata, comprising those terms that have meaning only in connection with categorical terms.18 Take for instance the famous Reformed dictum sola gratia. This dictum consists 16

De Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte, 25 (20, 21). Cf. Richard A. Muller, Ad Fontes Argumentorum: The Sources of Reformed Theology in the 17th Century (Utrecht: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid Universiteit Utrecht, 1999). The Reformed theologian Keckermann happily noted that “never from the beginning of the world there was a period so keen on logic, or in which more books on logic were produced and studies of logic flourished more abundantly than the period in which we live,” Praecognitorum Logicorum Tractatus III (Hannover, 1606), 109–10. Like Keckermann, many Reformed theologians published on logic or on its use for theology or even lectured in logic or other philosophical disciplines. 17

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of a categorematic term (gratia) and a syncategorematic term (sola). As syncategorematon sola puts grace into opposition with another categorematic term. Grace is put against something else, say x, and in the opposition between grace and x, the term sola singles out grace: only grace and not x. It is the task of the interpreter to find out what x is supposed to be. Let us pursue this point. Grace is certainly not set in opposition to either Scripture or faith, as both these terms function in different pairs of opposition. Scripture is generally put against tradition, faith against works. To cut a long story short, sola gratia is to be properly read in the context of the Reformed dispute about human meritum opposed to divine “grace.” The Reformation insisted that “only” grace (sola gratia) guarantees humankind’s justification, rather than only meritum or a sophisticated mixture of the two. Semantics and logic are thus closely connected in scholastic terminology. What does this phenomenon of conceptual analysis imply for the study of scholastic texts? First, the student of Reformed scholasticism needs to be able to follow the master’s train of thought, the precise definitions, neat arguments and sometimes even weird conceptualities such as secundum quid and necessitas consequentiae in order to reconstruct the journey to truth undertaken in the text. Therefore, a basic— preferably an advanced—level in the knowledge of medieval logic and semantics is required.19 It is important to be able to locate the terminology used in the history of theology. For example, one must find out that notions such as “natural knowledge” (scientia naturalis) and “free knowledge” (scientia libera) do not only have a rich history, but that their conceptuality has major implications for understanding the nature of God’s interactive relationship with creation. Second, the analytic nature of these texts requires that one makes an important hermeneutical distinction between the level of a text’s words, grammar and language on the one hand, and the conceptual level beyond words and language on the other. Contemporary philosophers of 18 On syncategorematic terms, see Norman Kretzmann, “Syncategoremata, exponibilia, sophismata,” in CHLMP, 211–245. For modal logic see Simo Knuuttila, “Modal logic,” in CHLMP, 342–357, S. Knuuttila, Modalities in Medieval Philosophy (London: Routledge, 1993). 19 For examples of both the basic and the graduate level, see Alexander Broadie, Introduction to Medieval Logic (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993); Paul Vincent Spade, Thoughts, Words and Things: An Introduction to Late Medieval Logic and Semantic Theory, online available at Spade’s homepage, see http://pvspade.com/Logic/docs/ thoughts1_1a.pdf.

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language usually distinguish between a sentence’s locutionary act and its illocutionary act.20 The locutionary level is that of Latin words and phrases, grammatical structures, quotations and allusions, genre-characteristics and formal structures. The illocutionary level, however, indicates what is ultimately referred to, the conceptual position being developed in the text, the concern being resolved etc. Thus, in quoting Aristotle a writer may develop a conceptual position that contradicts the actual Greek philosopher! Even more complex are the references to medieval authors. A text with several citations from Thomas Aquinas may reflect a conceptual pattern opposed to Thomistic thought. Obviously, the student is also reminded of making a correct distinction between his own logical instruments by which he analyses the text, and the conceptual language and methodology used in the texts themselves.21 Of course, there is nothing wrong with the use of modern logical instruments to analyse classic historical texts. It is perfectly legitimate to study history using modern methods and strategies developed after the historical revolution, as long as the historian is aware of the methodological danger of anachronisms. But in the same way as it is inevitable to study the past from the present, implying that the historian will apply modern techniques and methods to approach the past, it is also inevitable to use contemporary analytic tools to study the structure and content of theological treatises. Insofar as conceptual analysis is part of the scholastic text, it clearly inheres in it, thereby qualifying its nature as academic theology. Yet it remains distinct from the researcher’s own analytic tools by which he reconstructs the illocutionary level of the classic text.

20 For the original idea, see J. L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975). For a recent account, see William P. Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000). 21 Some useful conceptual tools are contemporary modal logic: see George E. Hughes and Maxwell J. Cresswell, eds., A New Introduction to Modal Logic (London: Routledge, 1996); analytic philosophy: see Alvin Plantinga, God and Other Minds (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1967), A. Plantinga, The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), A. Plantinga, The Ontological Argument: From St. Anselm to Contemporary Philosophers (Garden City: Doubleday & Co, 1965). Although analytic philosophy and scholasticism have much in common, their historical connection is hard to establish and the nominalist tendency—because of the Wittgensteinian connection—in many analytic proposals today has to be acknowledged beforehand.

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In sum, the student needs to familiarize himself with the text’s locutions. Beyond that, the reconstruction of the conceptual structure of the text is clearly the most important task in the quest to find meaning and to arrive at a historically adequate interpretation. In other words, conceptual analysis is part of the exegetical toolbox by which to study Reformed scholasticism. 4. Reverent Exposition Reformed theologians did not read their sources of Scripture and tradition in a historical sense, i.e., as part of an ongoing tradition, but rather as ‘authorities’ of truth.22 Until the breakdown of scholasticism and the historical revolution, sources were not quoted in a historical way, be they the Bible, Aristotle, Augustine or Thomas Aquinas. A quotation did not indicate a correct historical understanding of what its original author had meant, but was read systematically as bearer of truth. From this it follows that contradictions among authorities were solved logically rather than hermeneutically. Auctoritas was originally a judicial term to denote documentary evidence that constituted a contract or a commitment. In an analogous intellectual sense, an authority is someone whose thought is authoritative on account of his (ecclesiastical or intellectual) position and represents a truth that can only foolishly be neglected. Moreover, authorities were not cited as additional support for one’s own systematic position, but seen as representative of truth itself. Medieval theologians frequently define an authority in their works as “manifested rational truth, which is laid down in writing for the sake of useful application by posterity.” Even more often, they simply appeal to such authorities.23 Note that medieval authors who are used to giving exact definitions do not define these as “testimonies” (to rational truth) or suchlike, but as rational truth itself (rationis aperta veritas). 22

On the idea of authorities, the method of reverent exposition and the ahistorical character of scholasticism, see de Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte, Ch.4 (esp. sections 4.3, 4.4 on authority, 4.7 on exponere reverenter, 4.8 on ahistoricity), 108–38 (87– 105); de Rijk, Logica Modernorum I, 13–178. Cf. also C. F. J. Martin, An Introduction to Medieval Philosophy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1996), esp. Authority and Tradition, 16–44. 23 Ibid., 4.3: 115, 16 (88, 89).

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Therefore, these texts had to be explained with reverence (exponere reverenter), that is, not in historical conformity with a tradition or with the author’s expressed intention but in conformity with truth, i.e., reverently denoted in correspondence with established theological and philosophical truth. This method of reverent exposition involved a hermeneutical procedure that went back to the patristic period.24 To be sure, there was room for some exegesis but, as de Rijk has noted, the scholastics used the hermeneutical norm of objective truth (of the debated subjects: veritas rerum) in addition to a kind of philological exegesis employing semantic criteria for interpretation. This resulted in an incorporation of the authoritative text into one’s own conceptual framework.25 Therefore, identical citations from authoritative authors can be quoted by rather different scholars. When this happens, this does not reflect divergent readings of the auctoritas in question, but opens up various interpretations of (theological and philosophical) truth itself. The various medieval theological schools and orders can all be seen to comment on the same textbooks. Yet, their interpretations differed greatly, even though they all tried to show that their own doctrinal interpretations were indeed present in the authoritative texts. Likewise, the confessional debates in the era of orthodoxy show that various denominations appealed to the same author to validate their own tradition. While Jesuits, Dominicans, Lutherans, Reformed and Remonstrants all refer to Augustine to valorize their position, they are remarkably reluctant to censure Aristotle, although not even the most staunch Thomist would embrace the philosopher’s historic convictions. Reverent exposition transformed sources into contemporary debating partners, whose arguments one had to deal with. The author and his context disappeared behind the topic that was addressed. When difficulties in interpretation were encountered, the historical context was not taken into account, but the text was reinterpreted within one’s own sphere of reasoning. Instead of author-intention, truth-contention was the target of exegesis. Thus there was no awareness of history in the modern sense. Yet we can hardly blame those scholars living before the historical revolution for their unhistorical way of thinking; in like 24 Cf. also: G. R. Evans, The Language and Logic of the Bible: The Earlier Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), Part One. 25 Ibid., 4.7: 133 (102, 103).

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manner, we do not charge them with using an outdated physics simply because they lived prior to the scientific revolutions of Newton, Einstein and others. What does this phenomenon of reverent exposition imply for the study of scholastic texts? First, the student of Reformed scholasticism needs to distinguish between the self-understanding of the author being studied and his own interpretation. The historic revolution sensitizes the historian not to take his authors at face value. The modern historian has an awareness of the at times exotic nature of his sources. Therefore, he must be suspicious of his own intuitive reflexes. For example, when reading a scholastic text the researcher may come across terms from ancient philosophy. His hermeneutical conscience, however, does not allow him simply to label his source as Aristotelian without further qualification, because it is highly improbable that his source refers to Aristotle’s actual conceptual position. In other words, acknowledging the nature of the historical revolution helps the historian to distinguish between his own analytic and historical attitudes, and those of the author he is studying. Consequently, references to Aristotle cannot simply be taken as signs that Greek philosophy has entered the Christian school, because they may not represent an accurate understanding of the Philosopher’s thought. Similarly, citations of Thomas Aquinas must not be taken as straightforward indicators of a Thomistic reception in Reformed Scholasticism. They only reflect what the authoritative texts are to be quoted and who to cite or who not to cite in the context of reverent exposition (expositio reverens). As a rule of thumb, then, it is safer to assume that the author using the quotation or reference does so because he wishes to cite an important text, without any awareness of the original meaning of that text, than to clarify the intention of the present author by looking for the original meaning of the quoted text. This is not to say that texts were arbitrarily quoted or functioned as mere ornaments decking out one’s own discourse. Rather, texts were cited because their truth was considered intrinsically important.

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5. The Text on the Desk The Utrecht assessment of Reformed scholasticism as located between the semantic and the historic revolution takes its point of departure in a twofold qualification of the subject. Scholastic texts proceed on the one hand from a systematics of conceptual analysis and on the other from a hermeneutics of reverent exposition. The student needs to be aware of these phenomena so as to employ interpretive rules that do justice to the original text. We wish to illustrate this in actual practice. Therefore, we have selected a passage from William Twisse’s A Discovery of Dr. Jacksons Vanity.26 In 1628 and 1629, Thomas Jackson published his Treatise of the Divine Essence and Attributes in two parts, constituting his first public account of Arminianism.27 Twisse’s Discovery is a defense of Reformed theology against Arminian intuitions in the first part of Jackson’s Treatise. The part we selected to demonstrate our actual practice of interpretation is taken from Twisse’s reply to one of the main objections raised by Jackson against Reformed theology. Let us now turn to this central argument in the debate. You suppose that some in opposition to Arminius doe maynteyne, that “all thinges were so decreed by God before the Creation of the world, that nothing since the Creation coulde have fallen out otherwise then it hath done; and nothing can be amended that is amisse”. But I knowe none of any such opinion; nay rather they whome I conceave you doe most ayme at, doe directly teache the contrary. We are willing to professe with 26 William Twisse, A Discovery of D. Iacksons Vanitie or A perspective Glasse, whereby the admirers of D. Iacksons profound discourses may see the vanitie and weaknesse of them, in sundry passages, and especially so farre as they tende to the undermining of the doctrine hitherto received (London, 1631). On the debate between Twisse and Jackson, cf. Sarah Hutton, “Thomas Jackson, Oxford Platonist, and William Twisse, Aristotelian,” Journal of the History of Ideas 39, no. 4 (1978): 635–52. For the life of Twisse, cf. E. C. Vernon, “Twisse, William (1577/8–1646),” in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (DNB), ed. H. C. G. Matthew and B. Harrison (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2004). A devout but informative description is provided by: James Reid, “William Twisse,” in Memoirs of the lives and writings of those eminent divines who convened in the famous Assembly at Westminster in the Seventeenth Century, ed. J. Reid (Southampton, 1811). 27 The Treatise makes up the sixth volume of Jackson’s massive, twelve volume series of Commentaries upon the Apostles’ Creed. For Jackson’s life, cf. A. J. Hegarty, “Jackson, Thomas (bap. 1578, d. 1640),” in: DNB. Hegarty remarks: “In 1628 Jackson published the first part of his Treatise of the Divine Essence and Attributes, the sixth book of his commentaries, in which he openly argued against unconditional predestination and sided with Arminius on free will. . . . From this time on, Jackson was publicly associated with Arminianism.”

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Au[gu]stin, that Non aliquid sit, nisi quod omnipotens fieri velit, vel sinendo ut fiat, vel ipse faciendo.28 “Nor ought commeth to passe, but that which the Allmighty will have to come to passe, eyther by suffering it to come to passe, or himselfe working it”. And with the Articles of Ireland, confirmed by our State in the dayes of King James, that “God from all eternity did by his unchangeable counsayle ordeyne, whatsoever in time shoulde come to passe”. Now whatsoever God willethe, he willed eternally. For in God there is no variableness nor shadowe of change (Jam.1). And supposing the will of God that such a thing shall come to passe, eyther by his operation or by his permission; it is impossible in sensu composito, ‘in a compound sense,’ that it shoulde not come to passe. But this impossibility is not absolute but only secundum quid, ‘in respect of somewhat,’ to witt of Gods will, decreeing it, and is allwayes joyned with an absolute possibility of coming to passe otherwise in sensu diviso, ‘in a divided sense’. As for example, it was absolutely possible that Christs bones shoulde be broken, as well as any of the theeves bones that were crucified with him. For bothe his bones were breakable, and the souldiours had power and freewill to breake them, as well as the others bones: but supposinge the decree of God, that Christs bones shoulde not be broken, upon this supposition, I say, it was impossible they shoulde be broken. Nay further we say, that unles thinges impossible to come to passe otherwise then God hathe decreed them upon supposition of Gods decree, be notwithstanding absolutely possible to come to passe otherwise, it were not possible for God to decree that some thinges shall come to passe contingently. For to come to passe contingently, is to come to passe in such sort, as joyned with an absolute possibility of coming to passe otherwise. Thus we say with Aquinas, that the efficacious nature of Gods decree is the cause why contingent things come to passe contingently and necessary thinges necessarily; his words are these: “Seeing the will of God is most effectual, it followeth not only that those things come to passe, which God will have come to passe, but also that they come to passe after the same manner that God will have them come to passe. Now God will have somethinges come to passe necessarily, somethinges contingently, that there may be an order amongst thinges to the complete perfection of the universe.”29 And accordingly God hath ordeyned all sorts of second causes, bothe contingent causes to worke contingently, as the willes of men and Angells; and necessary causes to worke necessarily, as fire in burninge, the Sunne in giving light, heavy things in mooving downewards, and light thinges in moovinge upwardes. And as he hath ordeyned them to be such kindes of Agents thus distinct; so he hathe 28

Augustine, Enchiridion ad Laurentium, ch. 95. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I.q.19.art.8: “Cum voluntas divina sit efficacissima non solum sequitur quod si antea quae Deus vult fieri; sed quod eo modo fiant, quo Deus ea fieri vult. Vult autem quaedam Deus fieri necessario, quaedam contingenter, ut sit ordo in rebus ad complementum universi.” 29

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ordeyned that they shall worke agreably, and he setteth them going in working agreably to their natures, the one contingently the other necessarily. So that whatsoever the will of God is, shall fall out contingently, the same falleth out in such sort, as it might have fallen out otherwise; if good, so as it might have fallen out woorse and bene marred; if ill, yet so as it might have fallen out better and bene amended. And the eleventhe Article of Irelande having professed that “God from all eternity, did by his unchangeable counsayle ordeyne whatsoever in time shoulde come to passé”, addethe hereunto by way of explication that so this was ordeyned “as thereby no violence is offered to the wills of reasonable creatures, and neyther the liberty nor contingency of second causes is taken away, but established rather”. So that the opinions which you make bold to supplant or prevent, are opinions of your own makinge, not of others maynteyninge.

6. The Desk and the Text In the above text Twisse appeals to the authority of Augustine, the articles of Ireland, and Thomas Aquinas to substantiate his criticism of Jackson. The phenomenon of reverent exposition, however, generates suspicion. At first sight, it seems appropriate to assume that Twisse is an Augustinian, a confessional theologian, and that he endorses Aquinas’ version of the medieval position on future contingents. It seems obvious from the sources he quotes, that Twisse must be understood in terms of a mix of Thomism and Augustinianism, a mixture that is quite common among Reformed scholastics. Had Twisse cited Scotus or Suarez in addition, he could legitimately be seen as a prime example of Reformed eclecticism towards medieval authors. The hermeneutical rule of reverent exposition, however, warns the interpreter to postpone his own judgment and deal with the quotes and references with the required scholarly distance. To conclude that Twisse’s position is directly influenced by Aquinas and that this conceptual position should hence be explained in Thomistic terms, disqualifies the insights generated by the historical revolution. Could it be, we ask, that Twisse just quotes Augustine and Aquinas because the literal reading of their texts expresses truth regardless of the intentions, context and semantics of the original authors? The rule of reverent exposition does not only answer this question affirmatively, but it also reveals that a proper critical reading offers us what is probably the most accurate historical interpretation.

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In our exegesis of Twisse’s position, we illustrate how the interaction between the two hermeneutical rules, reverent exposition and conceptual analysis help to understand Twisse’s position as uniquely individual without being overly individualistic. Here, the Utrecht research paradigm helps to understand what is going on in the text conceptually rather than in its plain locutions. The hermeneutical suspicion triggered by the citation of an authoritative text stimulates conceptual analysis, because conceptual analysis shows us how authorities are quoted on the strength of the truths they affirm rather than on account of the author’s original intention. Hence, conceptual analysis confirms how reverent exposition works in Twisse’s handling of the source. Let us concentrate upon Twisse’s reference to Aquinas on the efficacy of divine willing. Both Aquinas and Twisse appeal to the efficacy of divine willing to explain why contingent things happen contingently and necessary ones necessarily. Yet, a closer look to the actual interpretations of the concept of efficacy reveals how Aquinas and Twisse each pursue a rather different train of thought. Aquinas applies the Aristotelian theory of forms to divine intellect and will.30 Divine intellect contains the forms of all things and the will is the actualizing power that strives from potency to act. Although divine will is depicted as free, contingency does not play a substantial part in this model, since necessity and contingency are also explained in Aristotelian fashion.31 Necessity applies to causes that cannot fail to

30 Cf. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I.q.14.art.8: “The knowledge of God is the cause of things. For the knowledge of God is to all creatures what the knowledge of the artificer is to things made by his art. Now the knowledge of the artificer is the cause of the things made by his art from the fact that the artificer works by his intellect. Hence the form of the intellect must be the principle of action; as heat is the principle of heating. Nevertheless, we must observe that a natural form, being a form that remains in that to which it gives existence, denotes a principle of action according only as it has an inclination to an effect; and likewise, the intelligible form does not denote a principle of action in so far as it resides in the one who understands unless there is added to it the inclination to an effect, which inclination is through the will. . . . Now it is manifest that God causes things by His intellect, since His being is His act of understanding; and hence His knowledge must be the cause of things, in so far as His will is joined to it.” 31 Aquinas acknowledges that divine intellect has a relation to opposite things, since the knowledge of an intelligible form also contains its opposite. Yet, this insight is not systematically utilized to overcome the necessitarianism of the Aristotelian potency-act scheme. For a good discussion of Aquinas’ position, cf. J. A. Aertsen, Nature and Creature (Leiden: Brill, 1988).

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produce their effects, whereas contingent causes are inferior in the sense that their production can be prevented by something else. Necessity is taken in its etymological sense of “unavoidable” (ne-cedo). In this sense, the efficacy of divine willing denotes its necessity. Divine will is a perfect cause whose working cannot be hindered. Therefore, God’s concurrence as unfailing First cause with fallible contingent second causes creates the problem of how their common effect can be assured. According to Aquinas, divine efficacy solves the problem. Divine willing cannot be hindered even by transient and contingent secondary causes, as it produces its intended effects in an infallible manner. The very necessity of divine willing assures the contingency of contingent effects: For when a cause is efficacious to act, the effect follows upon the cause, not only as to the thing done, but also as to its manner of being done or of being. Thus from defect of active power in the seed it may happen that a child is born unlike its father in accidental points, that belong to its manner of being. Since then the divine will is perfectly efficacious, it follows not only that things are done, which God wills to be done, but also that they are done in the way that He wills. Now God wills some things to be done necessarily, some contingently, to the right ordering of things, for the building up of the universe. Therefore, to some effects He has attached necessary causes that cannot fail; but to others deficient and contingent causes, from which arise contingent effects. Hence, it is not because the proximate causes are contingent that the effects willed by God happen contingently, but because God prepared contingent causes for them, it being His will that they should happen contingently.32

Aquinas reduces necessity and contingency in created effects to divine will that wants them to happen that way. The comparison with the potency of procreation is telling: a perfect potency bestows both being (essentia) and the proper manner of being (modus essendi) upon its effect, independent of any concurrent cause. The birth of effects in second causes only follows their predetermined mode. Divine will constitutes either the necessity or the contingency of the effects. Therefore, Aquinas expressly denies that necessity and contingency are derived from proximate causes: First, because [then] the effect of a first cause is contingent on account of the secondary cause, from the fact that the effect of the first cause is hindered by deficiency in the second cause, as the sun’s power is hindered 32

Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I.q.19.art.8.

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by a defect in the plant. But no defect of a secondary cause can hinder God’s will from producing its effect. Secondly, because if the distinction between the contingent and the necessary is to be referred only to secondary causes, this must be independent of the divine intention and will; which is inadmissible. It is better therefore to say that this happens on account of the efficacy of the divine will.33

Reducing the contingency of a contingent effect to its proximate cause would imply that God’s action could be hindered. Again, divine willing is explained in terms of actualizing potency, as a comparison is drawn with the process of vegetative growth induced by the sun. The sun was taken to be a necessary cause, but nevertheless its prospering effect can be hindered by vegetative contingencies. This kind of hindrance cannot apply to divine causation. Referring necessity and contingency only to secondary causes also tends to make these modalities independent of the divine will. Aquinas’ concept of the efficacy of God’s will rules out both any fallibility of contingent effects and any modal independence. Despite the fact that he seems to endorse Aquinas by quoting him, Twisse’s position is essentially different. The causal framework of potency and act is transformed by a detailed consideration of the events as such, apart from how they are effected. First, the possibility of an event itself has to be examined. Twisse provides the classic example of the crucifixion of Christ. Contrary to customary practice, his bones were not broken. Twisse starts with the contingency of that event. The bones of Christ were breakable, and the soldiers could indeed break them, so their breaking was in itself a possible event. In this way, contingency is interpreted in terms of alternativity instead of fallibility. Arguing from this basic possibility, Twisse holds that God’s decree (according to the exegetical tradition revealed in Psalm 34), which determines itself to actualize one of both alternative possibilities, is unfailingly carried out. Yet for Twisse, contrary to Aquinas, this execution of the decree only bears on the factuality and occurrence of the event; the decree itself already presupposes the event’s mode of being, namely that of contingency. The fact that causality becomes interpreted in a framework of contingency has important consequences for the view of divine agency. Efficacy has to do with actuality, but it does not constitute possibility. Nor can efficacy undo contingency, as the divine will decides freely and 33

Ibid., Summa Theologiae I.q.19.art.8.

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contingently. The Thomistic solution represents an admirable effort to overcome determinism, but tries to overcome it by an even more “deterministic” interpretation of the divine will that determines also the mode of being. Instead, Twisse wards off fatalism by situating divine and human agency alike in the realm of possibility. Against his Arminian opponent, who fears fatalism in the Reformed insistence on the divine decree, Twisse is eager to appeal to Thomas. Yet, in the context of his arguments the passage quoted from Thomas takes on a completely different meaning. Twisse does not need divine efficacy to establish contingency, as contingency is simply a given. God wills contingent effects and consequently he establishes contingent causes for them. Naturally, his will is effected, but that only implies a necessity secundum quid. Therefore, Twisse cannot understand the suspicions of his opponent and he is quick to show that Christian tradition is on his side. Although Aquinas appears to be Twisse’s locutionary source, the question of what medieval name fits Twisse’s conceptual position remains as yet unanswered. All kinds of challenging historical hypotheses might come in at this point to be tested. Historians need to distinguish between continuity and discontinuity concerning locutionary sources on the one hand and conceptual positions on the other. 7. The Scholastic Desk: A Quest for Truth Scholasticism is not just a set of formal tools, but it builds on an intentionality that goes beyond mere formality. Scholasticism is about the exploration of the truth of faith. The truth of faith is explored intellectually, and Twisse’s answer to the Arminian opposition is an example of this broad scholastic program originating from Anselm of Canterbury’s project of “faith seeking understanding” (fides quaerens intellectum).34 This theological quest of seeking understanding meant a search for rational arguments for the truth of revealed faith. Whereas faith rests on divine revelation for its truth, understanding can argue its veracity in itself. Therefore, this scholastic kind of theology decidedly 34 An exposition of the relation between faith and knowledge in Anselmus’ work in comparison with later medieval scholasticm (especially Bonaventure and Aquinas and Ockham) is given by de Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte 5, 139–83 (106–122). See also R. W. Southern, Saint Anselm: A Portrait in a Landscape (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990) and G. R. Evans, Anselm (London: Chapman, 1989).

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utilized philosophical disciplines like semantics, logic and metaphysics to articulate the Christian faith with the help of philosophical analyses in order to explain and argue for truth. Medieval but also Reformed scholasticism in all its nuances and shifts may be conceived as an expression of this Anselmian spirit. This reveals how the core of the scholastic method in every period consists of the so-called quaestio technique, which is directed at discovering rational truth.35 Moreover, even in Reformed scholasticism this underlying concept of theology sometimes emerges on the surface of the text. The prominent Dutch Reformed theologian Gisbertus Voetius (1589– 1676) expressly formulated his theological agenda at the start of his career at the academy of Utrecht with a “faith seeking understanding” oration: To Conjoin a Faithful Attitude with Scientific Knowledge (De Pietate cum Scientia Coniungenda).36 Theological truth is also the passion of Twisse. Right at the start of his discussion, he applauds the fact that Jackson intends to oppose error, making clear that only truth is at stake: I should be faithfull unto him and to his truthe in such sort, as to doe nothing against it, but rather ingage all my poore abilitie for it (1 Cor.13:8). And in case I finde your selfe going not the right way to the truthe of God (an errour incident to as great an Apostle as S. Peter, Gal.2:14), I shall take boldness to enterpose my judgment for the discovery of errour, and that I hope without all just blame, or deserved censure in respect of that old acquaintance which hath bene betweene us . . . God forbid, the mayntenance of truthe shoulde be interpreted to proceed from hatred, or want of love to a mans person.37

35 For the four elements of the quaestio, see Muller, PRRD, 1:15,21–39; 2:6–11. Muller counts only works as scholastic that display the fourfold structure of the quaestio, cf. also: Willem J. van Asselt and Evert Dekker, “Introduction,” in Reformation and Scholasticism, 26. 36 The term pietas is hard to translate but at least piety is confusing. Usually the Reformed distinguish “piety” from the “practice of piety” or worship, so it has to do with a spiritual condition which should be practised in worship, service and mission. Richard A. Muller defines pietas as “the personal confidence in, reverence for and fear of God that conduces to true worship of and devotion to God. Thus, piety together with devotion . . . constitutes true religion,” DLGT, 228 (pietas). So, piety comes close to faith. 37 Twisse, Discovery, 1, 2.

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Truth itself is at stake, and Twisse repeatedly censures Jackson for his unscholastic procedures by which to establish truth.38 Now, this quest for truth is not to be debased as the equivalent of either confessional inquisition or rationalist speculation, to mention only the most pervasive prejudices. Twisse hints at his personal acquaintance with Jackson, both men having studied for years together in Oxford.39 It seems that this personal intimacy was one of the driving forces behind Twisse’s constant attempts to convince his friend with all possible power of argument. Approaching the other on the level of arguments is taking him seriously in the joint quest for truth. Moreover, Twisse clarifies that what is intended is nothing other than the precious truth of grace. He intimates that “the sour leaven of Arminianisme . . . which now you beginne to sett a broach in print” was the principal ground for his reaction. Now, Arminianism is not a mere cubbyhole to depreciate Jackson without any further argument. Instead, Twisse utilizes all his logical acumen in a nuanced analysis of what is at stake in the fierce theological controversies of his day. For Twisse, Jackson’s approach puts the personal appreciation of real grace at risk. At the end of his exposition, he questions Jackson’s concept of grace as ‘solliciting men to repentance’ and God’s having compassion “with all those who are touched with the sense of their own misery”: We say his mercy and love and bounty chiefly appears in causing man to be touched with the sense of his owne misery, as also in giving repentance and not only in solliciting thereunto, not only in being gracious unto them that repent . . . as if humility and repentance were a worke of nature, not of grace, a worke of flesh and blood and not of the spirit of God. And alle the way no touch of faith, your discourse favoring of the humour of a naturalist throughout, rather then of a Christian. . . . God is he that justifieth the ungodly (Rom. 4). . . . He takes away their stony hearts and gives them an heart of flesh, and putteth his own spirit within them, and causeth them to walke in his statutes, and keepe his judgements and doe

38 For example: “I desire . . . to entreate you that you would be pleased to take notice of those morall obligations that belong to all, in the way of honesty, namely that you would undertake less, and prove more”, “Why do you take such pleasure in confounding things that differ, at least in not distinguishing them?”, Ibid., 3,5. 39 Twisse entered New College in 1596, became a fellow there in 1598, taking his B.A. in 1600, his M.A. in 1604, his B.D. in 1612 and his D.D. in 1614. Jackson entered Queen’s College in 1595, taking his B.A. in 1599, his M.A. in 1603, his B.D. in 1610, becoming Doctor of Divinity in 1622.

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them (Ezech. 36:27). I am sory to find so little evidence throughout your discourse that your selfe have neede of this.40

The truth of grace is at stake, not merely in general, but most of all in personal existence. Present research generally charges scholasticism with rationalism, a judgment which is applied above all to Twisse. In his own days Twisse was a prominent and highly respected theologian.41 This common esteem sharply contrasts with the general neglect and overly critical attitude in modern studies of Church History and Reformed Theology.42 If not neglected, he is often presented without much consideration for his motives as a staunch Aristotelian or a rigid supra-lapsarian.43 The common denominator in these evaluations is the charge of rationalism and logical quibbling. This scholarly reception of Twisse’s work has much

40

Ibid., 709. A contemporary that did not share Twisse’s convictions described him as “the mightiest man” in the controversies of his age, whereas R. H. Vetch remarks: “As a controversialist, Twisse was courteous and thorough, owing much of his strength to his accurate understanding of his opponent’s position,” R. H. Vetch, “Twisse, William D.D. (1578?–1646),” in: DNB (London, 1899), 398. Reid mentions some of the respectful qualifications made regarding Twisse by leading Reformed theologians of the day such as Owen, Rutherford and Spanheim, see Reid, Memoirs, 59–61. 42 In his homage to Puritan theology James Packer mentions Twisse only once, doing so in a rather dismissive way. Cf. James Packer, A Quest for Godliness: The Puritan Vision of the Christian Life (Wheaton, 1990), 155. This illustrates how recent interest in Puritanism is focused on its piety apart from its theology or at least apart from its scholastic methodology, thereby losing sight of its fundamental structures. Hans Boersma justly stated that “the scholarly attention which Twisse has received is disproportionate to his influence on Calvinist theology in the seventeenth century,” Hans Boersma, A Hot Pepper Corn: Richard Baxter’s Doctrine of Justification in its seventeenth-century Context of Controversy (Zoetermeer: Borken Centrum, 1993), 80. Boersma examines Twisse’s doctrine of justification to an extent, referring to a (small) section on Twisse in a study on Maccovius concerning the object of predestination. A more comprehensive overview is still lacking. 43 In his study of the Reformed doctrine of the Covenant, Stephen Strehle briefly discusses Twisse to illustrate “the approbation of even extreme voluntaristic ideas” among the Calvinists. Strehle argues for an interpretation of Twisse as a nominalist, reporting “a legacy in the improprieties of Ockhamistic speculation,” Stephen Strehle, Calvinism, Federalism, and Scholasticism: A Study of the Reformed Doctrine of Covenant (Bern: Lang, 1988), 104–12. On the other hand, Sarah Hutton depicts Twisse as “a rigid Calvinist” and a staunch Aristotelian with “a narrow supralapsarian outlook,” censuring his work as being “replete with all the tricks of polemical sharp practice,” see Hutton, “Thomas Jackson, Oxford Platonist, and William Twisse, Aristotelian,” 647, 648, 650. 41

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to say about common impediments that still overshadow the sound interpretation of Reformed scholasticism as faith seeking understanding. 8. Scholasticism and the Utrecht Desk As we have tried to demonstrate above, the basic theological paradigm of both medieval and Reformed scholasticism qualifies the nature of scholastic texts in two respects. First, the scholastics looked for truth in their sources without interpreting them historically. The text was validated because of its truth, rather than in virtue of its author. Texts were read as tokens of truth, more precisely, of the truth handed down in Scripture and the confessions of the Church, rather than as expressions uttered by a particular author in a distinct context. Second, the scholastics argued for truth in their own texts and extensively employed conceptual analysis in this enterprise. What turns out to be a fruitful connection of logic and semantics needs to be placed against the background of the development of an academic truth-finding method. The faith-driven quest to understand the truth of Christianity in full gave birth to the European universities with their flourishing departments of grammar, logic and semantics.44 Take for example the new understanding of the contingency of reality that came about in conjunction with the Christian belief in creation as alternative to ancient cosmologies. According to the Christian faith, the origin of creation came with a different concept of God. Furthermore, incarnation and Trinitarian beliefs were considered fundamentally at odds with existing philosophies. Hence, a new language needed to be developed to explore and express the claims of faith truthfully.45 Therefore, the study of Reformed scholasticism, as goes for scholasticism in general, needs to take the semantic revolution that took place in the twelfth and thirteenth 44

See Steven P. Marrone, “Medieval Philosophy in Context,” in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval philosophy, ed. A. S. MacGrade (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) and the various references mentioned in it. 45 For a selection of texts that embody this medieval search for a new language and logic, see Kretzmann and Stump, The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, vol. 1, Logic and Philosophy of Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988).

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centuries into account, to understand its pivotal theological concepts and positions.46 One way of doing so is by thoroughly reconstructing the conceptual structure that lies beyond the texts. In doing so, however, one has to be aware of the fact that these conceptual worlds can only be accessed by minutely studying the same texts that both reveal and hide those logical and semantic dimensions. The Utrecht method takes its point of departure in this faithful quest for theological truth.47 While this approach may be unique in the field at the moment, it is thereby not undisputed. The main issue at stake is whether we will be able to safeguard the text as a historic phenomenon rather than a mere stepping stone for a particular theological agenda. In case the above exercise did not convincingly illustrate the method’s accuracy and adequacy, two concluding remarks may challenge us to rethink the commitment to “faith seeking understanding.” Our goal throughout all this is to safeguard the historical reading of the sources and keep the student of Reformed scholasticism in tune with the rest of the theological curriculum. First, scholars need to acknowledge the medieval connection as the historical entry point from which to understand the Reformed scholastics. The Utrecht contribution tries to turn the facts of the semantic and historical revolutions into exegetical rules. The scholastic quest for truth governed the use of sources and shaped the analytic style of the Reformed scholastics. Studying scholasticism needs to take these two aspects into account. Second, in our opinion the scholastic quest for truth should be taken as indicative for the doing of Church History as a theological discipline. Our interpretation of Twisse is congenial to Twisse’s own position and is not driven by an extrinsic theological agenda. As we saw above, Twisse’s own target is simply to establish truth. Students of Reformed scholasticism do not uphold some kind of distant neutrality, which itself is philosophically rather doubtful. Instead, they exhibit a commitment to a historically adequate method of studying the sources that does not impinge upon the quest for truth. Historians of theology are called to 46 Toivo Holopainen presents four eleventh-century cases that demonstrate how “a new conception of the evaluation of theological method” emerges from the study of scholastic texts with an emphasis upon the specifics of the emerging scholastic dialectics. See T. Holopainen, Dialectic & Theology in the Eleventh Century (Leiden: Brill, 1996). 47 Compare note 7.

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take their place as integral part of, rather than at the margins of the theological curriculum. The didactic method that aids students to study the heritage of the church must do full justice to the canon of history, but it should also fit into the broader educational program of theology. At a twenty-first-century academic institution, students are supposedly not motivated by mere archeological reasons to study the theological tradition. Though intrinsically worthwhile, the conceptual reconstruction of Reformed scholasticism is part of the quest for truth that should inspire the academic training of intellectually responsible theologians. We study Reformed scholasticism according to its own canons, if we keep being interested in the journey for truth. Indeed, the historical enterprise needs to be done with academic rigor rather than forcing an existing theological agenda upon the sources. To study Reformed scholasticism to establish theological truth is neither scholarly suspicious nor historically spurious.

SCHOLASTICISM AND THE PROBLEM OF INTELLECTUAL REFORM Willemien Otten

1. Introduction If there is one theme that holds together the academic career of Dr. Willem van Asselt, it is that of the intellectual heritage of scholastic thought. His central thesis is that scholasticism, especially Reformed scholasticism, should be associated with intellectual, more specifically theological vitality. Rather, scholasticism is best explained as a method or practice not just demonstrating vitality but actually embodying it. This thesis has guided the development of van Asselt’s research and teaching. The success of a career pivoting around scholasticism is no mean achievement, as over the last century the tide for scholasticism has not always been favorable. More often than not it was associated with an outdated, content-related rather than method-based, doctrinal style of (largely) Roman Catholic teaching that was, if anything, dead rather than alive.1 Such a stale view of scholasticism was the opposite of the vivid teaching style of van Asselt himself, moreover, which reflects his gregarious personality. Given this lively teaching style, it is not surprising that his lectures to a crowd of devoted students at the Theological Faculty of Utrecht University, with which he continued after his retirement, were very successful. Through them he actively contributed to a sound and soundly presented intellectual history of Christianity— church history being his theological discipline of choice—through which he complemented the traditional institutional and biographical approaches. He shared this preferred intellectual outlook and approach with many of his Utrecht colleagues in the same field, giving the Utrecht church-historical research group, which included the colleagues from the Catholic Theological University, a unique quality.2

1 Van Asselt points to and corrects this criticism on more than one occasion. See, e.g., his “Protestant Scholasticism: Some Methodological Considerations in the Study of its Development,” Dutch Review of Church History 81 (2001): 265–74.

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With his thesis about scholasticism, in particular Reformed scholasticism, van Asselt countered the view of those students and practitioners of Protestant church history who, adopting a firm Enlightenment perspective, saw it as symbolic of a particular pre-scientific, if not unscientific, theological mindset, leading to decline rather than progress.3 For many the matter was not just that Voetius had proven unable to keep intellectual pace with Descartes, even though he succeeded to run his opponent out of town, but they deemed the scholastic method itself in principle unfit for true intellectual advancement. Scholasticism, be it in its medieval or Reformed guises, was considered generally unable to withstand the confrontation with the more rational interpretation current since Enlightenment theology as well as with the nineteenth-century historical interpretations that were to follow. It certainly did not agree with the neo-orthodox and anti-rational emphasis on revelation that characterized much twentieth-century Protestant thought. With respect to twentieth-century developments, van Asselt’s rehabilitation of scholasticism appeared especially to fly in the face of Protestant scholars advocating a Scripture-based rather than logic-bound view of Reformed theology, as the former tended to reject scholasticism as irreconcilable with the historical event of the Reformation, which was in large part based on the rejection of medieval scholastic theology. Interestingly enough, the thought of Karl Barth himself, who is the main representative of this type of neo-orthodoxy, is deeply impregnated with the wisdom of the Reformed scholastic tradition, as he was only too ready to acknowledge. Here also van Asselt seems closer to the Reformed heart of Barthianism than many of the latter’s followers in Dutch Barthianism, giving a responsible historical interpretation of it. All this warrants the conclusion that van Asselt has good reasons to see things as he does. Most of all, by advocating and demonstrating a new appraisal of scholasticism, by which I will henceforth refer primarily to Reformed scholasticism, he and his colleagues Richard Muller, 2 This collaboration produced to date two conference volumes, i.e., Religious Identity and the Problem of Historical Foundation: The Foundational Character of Authoritative Texts and Traditions in the History of Christianity, ed. J. Frishman, W. Otten and G. A. M. Rouwhorst (Leiden: Brill, 2004) and Iconoclasm and Iconoclash: Struggle for Religious Identity. Second Conference of Church Historians Utrecht, ed. P. van Geest et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 3 In the above mentioned article (n. 1.) van Asselt concludes explicitly that Protestant scholasticism is to be associated with intellectual progress and a result of the Renaissance.

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Carl Trueman and others have succeeded over the years in disproving various misconceptions.4 Chief among these is the view that the idea of reason (ratio) employed by the Reformed scholastics reflected a backward or primitive sense of Aristotelian reasoning in a forced attempt to ward off any unwelcome innovations brought by the Enlightenment. The strategy that van Asselt cum suis chose to follow was to point out how Reformed scholasticism was deeply connected to the heyday—not its later decline—and the plurality of medieval scholasticism, seeing the development of this method as a matter of longue durée.5 In the process they regarded scholasticism more and more as a scholarly method purposely transcending confessional differences through a skilled use of reason, but not limited to reason.6 In this way, van Asselt’s scholarly career fits in well with the ecumenical approach to church history at Utrecht University,7 even though both the Catholic and Protestant institutions there are at present abandoning this approach.8 Be that as it may, for generations of ministers and pastors trained at Utrecht University, Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus are names that are almost as authoritative as those of Voetius, Coccejus and, indeed, Karl Barth.9 While the present article applauds van Asselt’s accomplishments and underscores the significance of his publications, it wants to question his appraisal of scholasticism. To this aim I take my starting-point in van 4

See R. A. Muller, “The Problem of Protestant Scholasticism: A Review and Definition,” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise, ed. W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001), 45–64. 5 In fact, the idea of continuity between the medieval, Reformation and post-Reformation eras is stressed, with the Enlightenment rather than the Reformation now perceived as the most important historical caesura. See W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, eds., Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001), Introduction, 39. 6 See van Asselt’s and Dekker’s definition of scholasticism: “Scholasticism is a scientific method of research and teaching, and does as such not have a doctrinal content, neither does it have reason as its foundation” in Reformation and Scholasticism, Introduction, 39. In my opinion the latter part of the definition is too forced an attempt to defend the biblical basis (sola scriptura) of the Reformation. 7 As indicated by the title and the contents of the volume Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise, which contains articles on medieval and CounterReformation-scholasticism as well. 8 For a more critical approach to the ecumenical possibilities of scholasticism, see W. van’t Spijker, “Reformation and Scholasticism,” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001), 79–98. Van’t Spijker concludes that in the Reformation scholasticism was merely used for purposes of polemics and apologetics, hence not with the intent to further the unity of the church (96).

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Asselt’s unqualified rehabilitation of scholasticism as a valuable theological tool. Probing the historical roots and philosophical context of early-medieval scholasticism, my own interest and approach differ from van Asselt’s. Rather than questioning whether or not scholasticism was a valuable intellectual method—a point which I can only affirm—I want to ask whether an all-out defense of scholasticism’s methodological validity, thereby suggesting a kind of neutrality, does not inevitably draw one into a theological apology of sorts, thus complicating if not compromising one’s church-historical task. Other than harking back to a theological universe that disappeared, which is the job of any churchhistorian, are we not edging surreptitiously close then to (re)constructing a theological world that may never have existed at all? The question of whether scholasticism is a viable intellectual path seems elegantly located at the crossroads of both van Asselt’s and my own scholarly interests,10 with van Asselt approaching it from the tradition of Reformed theology whose case it would strengthen, while I do so from the perspective of the early-medieval tradition which it replaced. Based on my medievalist’s perspective, I have several problems with the view of scholasticism as a method merely processing intellectual reform and hence devoid of theological content as such, and will try to argue so below. I see it as a fitting “scholastic” tribute to have the viewpoint of an eminent magister challenged by a younger colleague, given that both have the express aim to further scholarship in their designated areas. 2. Modern Praise for Medieval Scholasticism Among contemporary scholars whose work has done much to rehabilitate scholasticism as an adequate vehicle for education and scientific progress, Lambertus M. de Rijk occupies a prominent place. Emphasizing especially scholasticism’s functional role in transmitting knowledge, de Rijk managed to open up debate and stimulate creative 9 One should add the name of Antoon Vos to that of van Asselt as one promoting the interest in scholasticism, especially Scotism. See his article “Scholasticism and Reformation,” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001), 99–119. 10 See also my earlier article “Medieval Scholasticism: Past, Present, and Future,” Dutch Review of Church History 81 (2001): 275–289.

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scholarship in medieval philosophy in ways that had been largely unknown in modern thought.11 One might say that de Rijk stripped scholasticism, considered representative of the medieval school system, of the anti-intellectual bias with which it had been stigmatized and discredited, an intellectual disqualification which had been largely due to its dogmatic use and abuse in nineteenth-century and early twentiethcentury neo-scholastic manuals of Roman Catholic origin. Polished up by de Rijk’s makeover, however, the shining kernel of what was actually being taught in medieval scholasticism was suddenly becoming visible again. As a result, the view of the Middle Ages as an authoritarian and anti-intellectual period underwent rapid correction and interest in medieval scholastic thought blossomed. This development was reinforced by the fact that de Rijk styled himself as a modern-day Abelard, thus strengthening the anti-ideological nature of his case. On the one hand he was living out the scholastic method by valiantly reiterating its philosophical points, while on the other he was fighting off his conservative and dogmatic opponents with a defiant combination of intellectual enjoyment and academic success. In de Rijk’s combination of powerful thought with playful practice, van Asselt cum suis found all the academic credentials for their own reappraisal of scholasticism as a valuable intellectual tool. Far be it from me to quibble with my Doktorvater de Rijk even indirectly, as he put medieval philosophy back on the Dutch academic map nearly single-handedly. Yet the use which van Asselt and others make of his work invites additional comment here. It is especially the perceived flexibility of the scholastic approach that I want to call into question. What attracted de Rijk to the scholastic method in the first place was that it shows us medieval science in action rather than a fully hatched theological (read: Roman Catholic) set of doctrines warding off intellectual progress. The benefit of scholasticism for de Rijk was thus not just that it elevated medieval knowledge above its religious, often monastic context of prayer and meditation, but especially that it allowed the medieval search for truth to proceed as a verifiable, self-enclosed, human intellectual enterprise. It is clear that de Rijk associated scholasticism with the particular non-doctrinal, if not de-theologizing scientific 11 This is especially the effect of his Middeleeuwse Wijsbegeerte: Traditie en Vernieuwing (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1977), which was translated into French as La philosophie au Moyen Âge (Leiden: Brill, 1985).

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method first launched in the twelfth century. Seen from his philosophical perspective, which has no interest in the future development of a Protestant or any other religious Reformation, the mere setting in motion of such an intellectual process could not but put us on the road to modernity. I cannot go into the historical details of the existing intellectual ties between the medieval and the Reformed theological tradition here. Suffice it to say that since the late Heiko Oberman there is generally little doubt that late medieval and Reformation theology shared similar concerns.12 The focus that Antoon Vos, a de Rijk student, and others have brought to Scotism in addition to Thomism has broadened the medieval base under much Reformation theology even more. Still, it is a tribute to de Rijk’s powerful arguments that scholasticism was re-evaluated in such a way that Reformation scholars of the post-Oberman generation have become almost completely oblivious to the pompous and verbose Aristotelianism that Luther so vehemently despised. With regard to the seventeenth century especially, more and more interest has been devoted to the tracing of scholastic influence in post-Reformation theology, especially of the orthodox, i.e. anti-Arminian, and anti-Cartesian kind. van Asselt clearly belongs to that tradition. Without belaboring the point, I cannot help but be struck by a slight irony involved in the use of such a “Catholic” phenomenon as scholasticism, even though this was admittedly the result of neo-scholastic pressure, for explicitly “Protestant” purposes, i.e., the defense of orthodox Protestant seventeenth-century thought. Although according to de Rijk scholastic reasoning can defend different truths, it remains a remarkable coincidence that he needed to untie scholasticism from its Catholic doctrinal content, only to have it used as a suitable vehicle to convey the kind of Protestant content disqualifying the former. Yet my aim is not to gainsay van Asselt c.s. who argue that seventeenth-century Protestant and Catholic scholastic thinkers conformed merely to standard European university practice, much less to pull the rug from under their ecumenical intentions. Instead, this observed irony alerts me to an underlying contradiction involving the place of scholasticism as a prod12 See especially his The Harvest of Medieval Theology: Gabriel Biel and Late Medieval Nominalism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1963), which represents a watershed moment by establishing a connection between medieval and Reformation theology.

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uct of, and hence itself subject to historical development. In my opinion van Asselt and his group apply a quasi-syllogistic position that unfolds as follows: (1) Since scholasticism provides us with a method that can be laden with different teachings, it must be a formal approach. (2) As a formal approach, scholasticism functions as a constructive method useful to authors of different theological stripes and promoting different doctrines. (3) Hence, the study of scholasticism qua method can unlock the secrets of the seventeenth-century Reformed theological tradition in the same way as it unlocks the mysteries of twelfth- and thirteenth-century learning. Whereas de Rijk’s arguments for the scientific viability of medieval scholasticism were largely based on the technical separability of this method both from its religious ambience and from its historical doctrinal content, van Asselt c.s. take an additional step in my opinion by interpreting the neutrality of scholasticism as a sign of its immanent transportability. They consequently seize on it to protect a theological system under attack like Voetius’. The problem I see with this interpretation of de Rijk’s is that the reason for wanting to shield Voetius’ system from Cartesian attacks seems to lie more in an experienced protective affinity with the traditional Reformed content of this Utrecht professor’s theological teaching, which somehow carries over into the method used, than that it regards method alone. The very separability of form and content that lies at the heart of de Rijk’s thesis is thus given up. Personally I refuse to concede any doctrinal monopoly, be it of a theist or an atheist nature, on scholasticism or on any other scientific method. Neither do I subscribe to the separability of method and content, however. Hence, I am as little swayed by de Rijk’s interest in pursuing medieval science apart from medieval religion as I am by van Asselt’s advocacy of Reformed scholastic doctrine. Instead of bracketing specific religious content, which seems to be the main corollary that van Asselt and others have drawn from de Rijk’s methodological relativization of medieval doctrinal truths, I want to integrate them explicitly with my discussion of method, seeing content and method as historically linked. It is not surprising that I especially question the joint move by de Rijk and van Asselt to elevate scholasticism as a successful medieval method of investigation into a timeless model, its very time-

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lessness in my view acting as an impediment, a distorting factor for the production of intellectual meaning as by definition historically informed. 3. Medieval Scholasticism and the Problem of Intellectual Reform Form and Content in Peter Abelard Reconstructing the tradition of early-medieval theology is not an easy matter. The main reason for this is that prior to the twelfth century we cannot speak of a separate theological tradition comparable to logic or philosophy,13 as faith and theology would often go hand in hand. Faith reflected a religious mindset that expressed itself in the first order language of liturgy but could extend without interruption to the level of second order argument. To prevent misunderstanding, furthermore, it is important to state that faith was more a collective than an individualized, let alone a subjective term. As depositum fidei, faith served intellectuals before all as the starting point for their collective conversation, a conversation that given a lack of boundaries between genres was partly professional, partly intuitive and partly literary.14 Hence, earlymedieval theology can best be seen as an attempt to capture the meaning of life, including the life of the divine, in a coherent and synthetic worldview. As the ages progressed and the accumulative weight of tradition increased, there arose a need to unlock the tradition in a more professional manner. The practical relevance of this, besides better teaching, was to adjudicate the differences of opinion that were brought on by a new and blossoming intellectual curiosity, accompanied by a growing confidence that what theologians were doing was far more than just imitating tradition. They were “dwarfs standing on the shoulders of giants” realizing more and more that, however dwarf-like, their vision reached 13 There are no theological companion volumes to John Marenbon, Early Medieval Philosophy (480–1150): An Introduction, rev. ed. (London: Routledge, 1988; first ed. 1983) and Later Medieval Philosophy (1150–1350) (London: Routledge, 1987). 14 See J. J. Pelikan, The Spirit of Medieval Theology, The Etienne Gilson Series 8 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1985). Pelikan sees as the difference between the patristic and the medieval theological tradition that the emphasis of the former is on the formulation and demarcation of what to believe, while the emphasis of the latter is on the reflection why this ought to be believed.

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further than that of the “gigantic” Church Fathers.15 It is especially to escape this pressing intellectual quandary that the scholastic method emerged as a new and efficient way of mapping out the evidence from tradition, creating new space for the magister to unfold his views in the process. Both in how he ordered and weighed the arguments of the Fathers and in how he chose to arrange his questions, the master was firmly put in charge of his game. But his former flexibility to move between genres disappeared, and it is at this point that interpretive problems begin. If there is one author who seized on the scholastic method for his particular agenda of intellectual reform, it is Peter Abelard (1079–1142). He might well be called the true father of scholasticism, had not the same title already been claimed for Anselm of Canterbury, although the latter’s biographer R. W. Southern is sufficiently more nuanced.16 Abelard’s scholastic credentials are not only stronger than Anselm’s but the latter’s roots in the monastic tradition so much deeper that continuation of conventional labeling seems hardly warranted. More than Anselm of Canterbury, therefore, and in explicit defiance of his direct teacher Anselm of Laon, Abelard was keenly aware that the scholarship of his day needed new and alternative ways of coping with the massive weight of tradition. What went under that name in his day was an opaque mass of authorities representing an impenetrable forest of random insights on which no reliable scholarship could be built, be it of a philosophical or a theological nature. Typically, Abelard relished in his self-imposed Herculean task of cleaning house, especially when it allowed him to attack those theological contemporaries who remained loyal to a corrupt tradition, even manipulating it to find their own views reflected rather than striving for intellectual clarity. 15

This expression, ascribed to Bernard of Chartres, is found in John of Salisbury, Metalogicon III, 4: “Dicebat Bernardus Carnotensis nos esse quasi nanos gigantium humeris insidentes, ut possimus plura eis et remotiora videre, non utique proprii visus acumine aut eminentia corporis, sed quia in altum subvehimur et extollimur magnitudine gigantea.” See E. Jeauneau, “Nani gigantum humeris insidentes: Essai d’interprétation de Bernard de Chartres,” in “Lectio philosophorum”: Recherches sur l’Ecole de Chartres (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1973), 51–75, repr. of Vivarium 5 (1967): 79–99. 16 See R. W. Southern, Saint Anselm: A Portrait in a Landscape (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 441. Southern admits to the fascination of the expression “the last of the Fathers and the first of the Scholastics” for Anselm but sees neither qualification as particularly fitting. For him Anselm’s mindset represents the intermediate period called the “Benedictine centuries.”

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Given my above reflections, it is little wonder that Peter Abelard is the true hero of de Rijk, who admires his keen intellect alongside his scathing wit.17 More than a mere scholastic mind, Abelard is considered the perfect embodiment of the twelfth-century renaissance. Alongside the promotion of rational, non-ideological scholarship, his key values are academic progress and intellectual reform, both of which are intensified by his indomitable passion. Yet the trouble with Abelard is that his refusal to fit any prefabricated intellectual mould makes it hard to “read” him accurately. For while it is true that his frequent clashes with peers and superiors demonstrate his great intellectual acumen, they also indicate a structural restlessness beneath which there lies a rare selfconsciousness. Celebrating him as a true scholastic hero in the tradition of de Rijk means that one risks highlighting only one aspect of his intellectual life—his successful intellectual battles—while ignoring how underneath these he constantly wavered: between intellectual positions, between pursuing a scholarly career or preferring an ascetic lifestyle, between believing himself the victim of fate or a sinner in the hands of divine providence.18 Instead of seeing his personal upheavals as merely illustrating his intellectual supremacy, I want to revert to the contrast underlying them, i.e., between Abelard’s triumphant intellectual legacy and his deep awareness of failure of which his personal troubles are symptom rather than cause, in an attempt to arrive at a more historically grounded evaluation of his work. What de Rijk and van Asselt have in common is to approach scholasticism as a mere method, facilitating the distinction between scientia and pietas but transcending time. While de Rijk and other medieval scholars have widened this distinction to a separation, thereby pushing the boundaries of medieval science in an agnostic if not atheist sense by focusing on the science-aspect alone, van Asselt and his group of 17

See the wonderful lecture de Rijk held for the Dutch Academy of Sciences on October 8, 1979, 900 years after Abelard’s birth, Pierre Abélard (1079–1142): Scherpzinnigheid als hartstocht, Akademie van wetenschappen, afd. Letterkunde, Nieuwe Reeks, deel 44, no. 4 (Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgevers Maatschappij, 1980), 147–191. Similar versions of this text can be found in L. M. de Rijk, “Peter Abälard (1079–1142): Meister und Opfer des Scharfsinns,” in Petrus Abaelardus (1079–1142): Person, Werk und Wirkung, ed. R. Thomas et al. (Trier: Paulinus-Verlag, 1980), 125– 138 and “Abelard and Moral Philosophy,” Medioevo 12 (1986): 1–27. 18 This is historiographically brought out by Abelard’s most recent biographer Michael Clanchy, who organized the story of his life according to the various roles he played, e.g. master, lover, knight, monk, logician etc. See M. T. Clanchy, Abelard: A Medieval Life (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997), 19–21.

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Reformation scholars want to reap the fruits of this methodological distinction-cum-separation in the Middle Ages in a different way. Striving to reconnect form and content in Reformed scholasticism along orthodox Protestant lines, they do so by seeing the prime use of scholasticism as that of a verifiable method with which to underscore the tenets of a pre-ordained faith (pietas). What both fail to see, however, and what I hope to bring out through my attention for Peter Abelard is how the use of this premodern method, time-bound as it is, can only be disconnected from its participants’ cultural outlook at the risk of misunderstanding and possibly overrating its value, as faith and science were not to be had in isolation of each other. As much as a scholastic focus may help to clarify their distinction to a modern audience, it should not suppress the fact of their integral coexistence for their historical practitioners. My own profile of Peter Abelard must therefore be an alternative one, as his scholastic procedure, admittedly aiming at greater rational clarity, is not just connected to an experienced need for reform but equally infused by an underlying sense of failure, whose character is as much methodological as it is personal. In my view these two components, rational reform and personal failure, are so intimately connected in Abelard that his intellectual profile must forever hang in the balance, as if forcing him to undo any progress as soon as it is made. Incarnation and Redemption as Ritualizing Rhetoric To pursue his intellectual insecurity I want to focus the discussion of Abelard on the problem of redemption. Abelard’s formal scholastic question about this, found in his Commentary on Romans and in the terminology of a modern study referred to as the “logic of divine love,”19 seems to fit in nicely with the incipient development of scholastic method. Here we have a commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Romans, generally unfolding in a slow and rather unimaginative manner, in which we suddenly find a pearl of clear reasoning, containing the author’s argument. In less than two pages of the modern edition of the work,20 he overthrows the entire closed world of Anselmian reasoning. 19 See R. E. Weingart, The Logic of Divine Love: A Critical Analysis of the Soteriology of Peter Abailard (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970). 20 The argument itself is found in Peter Abelard, Commentaria in Epistolam Pauli ad Romanos, ed. E. M. Buytaert O.F.M. (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969), CCCM 11, 117– 18.

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It is as if these two short pages breathe an openness that ushers in a whole new era of logic, humanity and compassion, with as prime assets the idea that Christ’s human teaching plays an important role prior to his sacrificial death and that Christ’s death as a sign of divine love kindles unstoppable human love in response. Since the overall emphasis is on the relational nature of the divine rather than on the avoidance of a harsh judgment, it represents all the optimism of the scholastic era. It is hard to summarize Abelard’s argument in fewer words than he uses in the original. But let us try the following.21 Despite the irreverent gravity of Adam’s sin, Abelard argues, God could have forgiven humanity, as he is after all omnipotent. Nevertheless, he chose to act differently and it is the act (rather than the fact) of his divine choice to do so that becomes the turning factor in Abelard’s argument. By choosing to become human in Jesus Christ, God points the way by teaching humanity in Christ how to live out of obedience and love. This is the meaning of incarnation, yet it is not yet the full story of redemption. So consistently did Christ live according to his own teaching, that in the end he sacrificed his life out of love for humanity. For this sacrifice Abelard uses the famous expression “for a realized gift is more than a promised one,”22 underscoring how Christ’s death fulfills his teaching and cancels it out, accomplishing the salvation which he taught through his own death. Being fully undeserved, Christ’s death is supererogatory, the merit it deserves throwing the door wide open for humanity’s salvation. Abelard argues that it can only be countered by our praise and human love, as Christ’s death is the ultimate sign of God’s great love for humanity. God’s acting out of such profound relational love can only be met with a similarly loving response from humanity, pledging its loyalty in relational return. If this summary of Abelard’s argument is accurate, then one could argue that his entire Commentary on Romans may as well disappear behind this single but far-reaching contribution to the history of Christian thought. Extrapolating from this position, one could summarize Abelard’s entire thinking by concentrating exclusively on the paradig21 See also my attempt to do so in W. Otten, From Paradise to Paradigm: A Study of Twelfth-Century Humanism (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 173–81 to which I will periodically return here. 22 CCCM 11, p. 118 lines 253–55: “Iustior quoque, id est amplius Deum diligens, quisque fit post passionem Christi quam ante, quia amplius in amorem accendit completum beneficium quam speratum.”

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matic arguments with which his thought is interlaced: in addition to the above argument on incarnation and to his logical works, these are the prologue to the Sic et Non, the prologue to the Theologia “Scholarium” and his Ethics, in which he judges moral acts based on the intention of the agent rather than on any formal classification. More often than not, this is indeed how Abelard’s importance is described and it is this kind of reductive view that has made him into the rational and anti-fideistic hero of modern medievalists. By contrast, what I want to argue here is that Abelard’s discourse is much “thicker” than some of his isolated arguments let on. To trace his discourse more fully, we do well to evaluate the isolated pieces of his thought in the context of the overarching frame by which they are found connected. Only when fitting in his scholastic arguments alongside his poetic laments, his monastic lifestyle, and his moral musings, reading them all together, can we do justice to his historical complexity, which is ultimately the complexity of a twelfth-century life. It is to the context of the twelfth-century renaissance, furthermore, that a historical evaluation of his arguments read in the context of his life can make the greatest contribution.23 Following such an approach will yield a rather different outcome than the portrait of a rationalistic mind. Let me end my analysis by enumerating a few possible ingredients that this new profile might contain. This will allow me to indicate as well what I see as the overarching frame of his life, i.e., a simultaneous curiosity and insecurity about divine providence, which affects even such pearls of translucent reasoning as the argument on incarnation. As indicated in the recent book by Eileen Sweeney, Logic, Theology, and Poetry in Boethius, Abelard and Alan of Lille, Abelard’s life is united by struggle and opposition.24 Following a similar logic as I did in the above, Sweeney attempts to tap his external struggles into a larger framework, which she characterizes as his “hermeneutics of suspicion.” Through this hermeneutics of suspicion Abelard “struggles” in a logical 23

In this regard I fully agree with Clanchy’s set-up of his biography, the three major parts of which (scientia, experimentum and religio, under which Clanchy groups Abelard’s various roles) do not only describe Abelard’s approaches to life but also serve as introduction to the culture of the twelfth-century renaissance. 24 See E. C. Sweeney, Logic, Theology, and Poetry in Boethius, Abelard, and Alan of Lille: Words in the Absence of Things (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2006), 63– 125, esp. 79–95.

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as well as a metaphorical sense to come to terms with the fact that the depth of reality cannot be fully represented by his semantic arguments, which are necessarily disjointed.25 As I have demonstrated in my own chapters on Abelard in From Paradise to Paradigm, Abelard is fond of repeating his own arguments throughout his three Theological Treatises, which makes it at times hard to distinguish between these individual works.26 Yet the plot thickens, so to speak, in his Theologia “Scholarium” where he exhibits a profound interest in unraveling the mystery of divine providence.27 It gradually becomes clear not just that his curiosity about salvation has traits of a deeper anxiety,28 but that this does not dissuade him from trying to solve this problem on the horizontal plane of semantics. This is the case, for example, when he distinguishes between two kinds of divine will (velle) in III.24: In two ways can it be said that God wants. One way is according to the arrangement of his providence, according to which he disposes something by himself and deliberates and decides in his providence so as to fulfill it afterwards. The second is according to the exhortation or approbation of his advice by which he admonishes everybody to this thing, for which he is ready to reward them through grace. . . . So he consults every man about his salvation and exhorts him to this, although few obey.29

25 See Sweeney’s conclusion of the chapter on Abelard, Logic, Theology, and Poetry, 124: “What we have seen throughout this chapter is that Abelard’s desire for integrity, for the coherence between word and deed, inside and outside, leads to a kind of dwelling in the absences, disjunctions, and separations.” 26 See Otten, From Paradise to Paradigm, 128–214, esp. 141–58. 27 In the following I paraphrase the more extensive analysis of providence in Abelard that I developed in “Fortune or Failure: The Problem of Grace, Free Will and Providence in Peter Abelard,” Augustiniana 52 (2002): 353–372, which is found slightly revised in From Paradise to Paradigm, 195–208. 28 For Abelard’s anxiety as a kind of inherent flaw of his ingenium, see Otten, From Paradise to Paradigm, 134–36. 29 See Theologia christiana V.26–28, ed. E.M. Buytaert O.F.M. (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969), CCCM 12, 357–58, and Theologia “Scholarium” III. 24–26, ed. E. M. Buytaert O.F.M. and C. J. Mews (Turnhout: Brepols, 1987), CCCM 13, 510: “Velle itaque Deus duobus modis dicitur, aut secundum uidelicet prouidentiae suae ordinationem, secundum quod scilicet aliquid disponit apud se ac deliberat statuitque in sua prouidentia, ut sic postmodum compleat; aut secundum consilii sui adhortationem uel approbationem qua unumquemque ad hoc admonet, quod per gratiam suam remunerare paratus esset. . . . Sic quippe unicuique homini consulit de salute sua et ad hanc adhortatur, cum obediant pauci.”

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We could liken these two kinds of divine will respectively to Abelard’s theological top-down and his bottom-up approach to the issue of divine providence. In the first we see God pondering his motives on the basis of which he then decides and acts, whereas the second is more protreptic, showing us the divine as wanting to counsel, if not court human beings into pursuing their own best interests, for which he rewards them with his grace. From a scholastic viewpoint one could argue that Abelard is giving us two different definitions of the divine will then, namely one ad intra and ad extra, which differ not in material subject but only in terms of their direction. If we continue to follow Abelard’s argument ad extra, however, we notice how Abelard is unable indeed to integrate all the pieces of the providential puzzle, as Sweeney suggested. The resulting anxiety shines through more clearly in another example found in Theologia “Scholarium” III.107. Discussing the meaning of predestination there, which suggests a much firmer divine control of history than mere providence, he attempts to reconcile it with human free will. For Abelard predestination differs from providence precisely because of its ties to salvation. His examples all have a soteriological purpose, therefore, inasmuch as he always wants to leave open the possibility of human salvation, even when being simultaneously engaged in salvaging divine free will. This brings him eventually to the semantically rather complex position that, while by force of grammar it is indeed necessary for God to save every one predestined, it is not thereby necessary that God actually saves this or that man. As he states: For it does not follow that when we accept that it is necessary that every one predestined be saved, we are forced to concede about every single predestined person that it is necessary to say that this one or that one be saved. For if we leave out the noun “predestined,” in which resides the power of necessity just as in the adjectival determination, we do not interpret the phrase “that it is necessary that this or that person be saved” in this way. From this it follows that we accept that it is necessary that he who is predestined be saved in a certain sense, namely, that it is necessary that he who is such that he is predestined, be saved [eum qui talis est, cum sit predestinatus, saluari necesse est . . .].30

Apart from heightening our suspicion of scholastic reasoning, the neartautological statements to which Abelard brings himself here signal before all how he ultimately fails to translate the omnipotence of divine will into the kind of peace of mind for which he so deeply longs.

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It is at this point that we might decide to take another look at his argument on incarnation, and especially, redemption. What I find especially interesting for purposes of this article is that Abelard’s existential and protreptic definition of divine providence with which his musings on sin and guilt started, even though it fails to bring him in the end the peace of mind that he desires, is in essence not unlike the argument on incarnation. If we follow this lead and take another look at the argument on incarnation, seen before as a showpiece of scholastic reasoning, the argument’s subliminal exhortative tenor begins to light up, making one wonder about the ritualistic character of its final meaning. Let us just look at the way in which Abelard introduces his famous quaestio: In what respect have we been made more just through the death of the Son of God than we were before, as we should be set free from punishment? To whom is the price of blood paid that we be bought free, unless to him in whose power we were all along, that is of God himself, who had committed us to his executioner? For not the executioners but the lords exact and receive the price for the captives. How then did he release the prisoners for this price, if he himself first demanded it or instituted for the captives to be liberated?31

It may sound bold, given the eminent status which Abelard’s question on incarnation has since acquired, but one wonders whether its final exposition cannot already be found wrapped in the quasi-anaphoric litany of questions preceding it, with Abelard uttering such lines as “more just through Christ’s death than before,” or “that we should be set free from punishment.” Especially—and here there may be more of an

30

See Theologia “Scholarium” III.107, CCCM 12, 544: “Non enim si recipiamus quia predestinatum omnem necesse est saluari, ideo de singulis predestinatis concedere cogimur ut tam hunc hominem quam illum dicamus quia necesse est saluari. Sublato quippe nomine predestinatorum, in quo est uis necessitatis sicut in apposita determinatione, non ita recipimus quia hunc uel illum necesse est saluari. Hinc in quodam sensu recipimus quod predestinatum necesse est saluari, hoc est eum qui talis est, cum sit predestinatus, saluari necesse est.” 31 See Abelard, Commentaria in Epistolam Pauli ad Romanos II (3:26), ed. E. M. Buytaert O.F.M. (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969), CCCM 11, 117: “In quo etiam iustiores facti sumus per mortem Filii Dei quam ante eramus, ut a poenis iam liberari debeamus? Cui etiam pretium sanguinis datum est ut redimeremur, nisi ei in cuius potestate eramus, hoc est ipsius, ut dictum est, Dei, qui nos tortori suo commiserat? Neque enim tortores, sed domini eorum pretia captiuorum componunt aut suscipiunt. Quomodo etiam hoc pretio captiuos dimisit, si ipse prius hoc pretium exegerit aut instituerit ut captiuos dimitteret?”

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Anselmian echo than one may have expected—the phrase “the lords exact and receive the price for the captives” points to the kind of circular reasoning which Abelard’s arguments normally would want to defeat. If we read the question on incarnation and redemption as a piece of twelfth-century rhetoric rather than (theo)logic, its various features stand out more, lending the whole a more historically embedded character and adding to its relational character as a plea-like means of persuasion. Thus there is the idea that Christ teaches us through word and example (nos tam verbo quam exemplo instituendo), that he binds us to himself even more through love (nos sibi amplius per amorem adstrixit) so that true love will not fear to bear anything for him (nihil iam tolerare propter ipsum vera reformidet caritas), thereby defying the conventional idea of fear of the Lord (timor Domini) as the beginning of wisdom. Our redemption, finally, shows itself in Christ’s superior love through his passion (illa summa in nobis per passionem Christi dilectio) by which we are not just liberated from the serfdom of sin but acquire the true freedom of divine sonship, so that we may fulfill all things out of love rather than fear, as he himself demonstrated such mercy than which no greater can be found, i.e., the laying down of his life. The transition from serfdom of fear to freedom of love is a doubly relational one, for it transforms the entire church from a community of fear into one of love by building Christ’s elevation on his kenotic self-immolation. Rather than a subjective Christology, Abelard’s might be better called a community-generative one.32 Linking Abelard’s argument to its earlier semi-liturgical introduction, what we have here is a celebratory account of humanity’s redemption through Christ’s passion rather than a logical argument from scratch convincing us of the meritoriousness of his death. In consequence, the argument works only inasmuch as one is willing to climb Abelard’s ladder of love to the very top: from discipleship of Christ, through love of Christ, through a willingness to suffer on behalf of Christ, to a cathartic acceptance of his passion by which fearful servi-

32 It would be interesting to pursue this community-generative line of thought more, as it might allow us to insert Abelard’s views in the tradition of medieval eucharistic debates. Putting Abelard’s thought in this context allows us also to account better for the closeness of first order and second order language in the realm of faith and theology which was still operative in the twelfth century.

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tude is changed into loving freedom. If anything, it appears that it is this climb that Abelard wanted to impose on himself, even if it meant that every time he rose two steps he seemed to go down one. 4. Concluding Note: The Paradox of Scholasticism’s Enduring Legacy I have tried to argue in the above that even if we are to concede that Abelard’s rhetoric is highly colored by scholastic reasoning, not only does it go too far to de-contextualize it from its historical surroundings, turning it into a self-enclosed set of arguments, but there is also little benefit in doing so. By imposing what is too artificial and schematic an approach, one falls short in being attentive to the historical seams of a particular author’s thought, seams which hold the different genres in which he may have expressed himself together and which connect him to the outside world by delicate threads. In Abelard’s case, this was the historical world of twelfth-century France, where the future of Christian theology was still hanging in the balance, as it was as yet unclear whether the study of theology would pursue a more technical scholastic course or move into the more open arena of liturgical-rhetorical language, even if at times this language became condensed into mystical shorthand, as in Abelard’s contemporary Bernard of Clairvaux. While it is clear that my article regards especially the position and thought of Peter Abelard, it is also clear that I meant to use my reflections as a case study to point to the wider implications involved. These lead me back to the project in which van Asselt c.s. are involved, namely the rehabilitation of Reformed scholasticism, especially the building of a defense against its denigration as pre-Cartesian and hence generally “unreasonable,” if not altogether “backward.” In criticizing this chosen strategy of rehabilitation, I do not mean to side with van Asselt’s opponents in considering the relevance of scholastic reasoning exhausted, once it was clear that Cartesian reasoning would carry the day. I agree that scholastic reasoning fulfilled an important pedagogical function in spreading the wisdom of Reformed thought, elevating it to higher academic standards by making effective use of the methods practiced in seventeenth-century university education, which had deep roots in the medieval school system. Hence there is a great deal of continuity

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in European learning, which has been demonstrated effectively especially by the multi-volume project by Richard Southern on Scholastic Humanism.33 But it is one thing to point out the enduring legacy of Western European school methods, as Southern did in a convincing way, and quite another to use their longevity as a way to vindicate the actual content of Reformed scholastic teachings. Ultimately my criticism, for which the case study about Peter Abelard served only as an illustration, has two prongs. First and foremost, it is my position that form and content cannot be separated, at least not without doing grave injustice to a complex and fraught thinker like Abelard or, for that matter, Voetius. Indeed, I am rather confident that for at least some of the Reformed scholastic thinkers more complex arguments can and must be made than just pointing to their effectiveness as scholastic minds fighting the just cause of the Reformation. Secondly, other than guaranteeing external consistency of validation, I am not sure that scholasticism, which is after all considered a neutral method, can as such be regarded as having made an actual contribution to the development of Reformed thought. While scholarly concentration on this method can perhaps elucidate some of the Reformed authors’ reasoning processes, it cannot help per se to bring the wisdom of Reformed scholastic thought across, as it has fascinated generations of believers and indeed “worked” for them. For that, a much richer historical picture must be drawn. Especially the connection between Reformed scholasticism and the more experiential movements labeled Pietism, Puritanism or the Dutch “Further Reformation” (“Nadere Reformatie”) stands in need of further investigation. If there is one morale from my study of scholasticism that I would like to hold up to van Asselt’s group, it is that the very longevity of the scholastic method, giving it the appearance of scholarly neutrality, requires the scholars studying it to strive very hard to find fresh ways of decoding it, not just because they need to reveal the individual thought patterns of the historical persons engaged in it, but because it offers us all a unique chance to highlight the multi-faceted richness of their lives and the faith that underlies it. 33 See R. W. Southern, Scholastic Humanism and the Unification of Europe, vol. 1, Foundations (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995); vol. 2, The Heroic Age (Oxford: Blackwell, 2001). Southern died before completing the third volume which would have traced the development of scholastic humanism through the eighteenth century.

MODALITIES IN FRANCIS TURRETTIN AN ESSAY IN REFORMED ONTOLOGY Antonie Vos and Eef Dekker

1. Introduction The first six centuries of the history of the university are the history of the scholastic university (ca.1200–ca.1800). During the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Reformed universities made an impressive contribution to international scholarship, and the university at Leiden outshone most other European institutions. No other country could equal the Dutch Republic in the number and quality of their universities. However, although international scholarship has long neglected such facts, times are changing, as evidenced by the publication of the study by Jonathan Israel and the Dictionary of Seventeenthand Eighteenth-Century Dutch Philosophers.1 We also have to remember that Reformed thought is a much wider topic than Dutch Reformed philosophy during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and also includes Reformed scholastic theology. It is a privilege to study the development of both theology and philosophy during these centuries in cities where the past is everywhere present around us. In 1982 the Research Group Classic Reformed Theology was founded and for many years Willem van Asselt has acted as the best possible chairman. The making of friends, the making of new discoveries and working together in contributing to research are constant sources of joy. Reformation and Scholasticism offers fine examples of the dilemmas to be found in the field and the direction to which

1 See Jonathan Israel, The Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness and Fall 1477–1806 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 565–591, 677–699 and 889–931, and Wiep van Bunge et al., eds., The Dictionary of Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Dutch Philosophers, 2 vols. (Bristol: Thoemmes Press, 2003).

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the research group may look for new solutions.2 It is to be hoped that the future will bear many new fruits. Reformed ontology is not a much debated issue in the literature on the history of Western thought—to put it mildly. It is, however, presentL in Reformed scholasticism’s doctrine of God. This ontology is worth studying, for it offers a better understanding not only of the doctrine of God, but also of the entire theological universe of Reformed scholasticism.3 In this contribution some aspects of this type of ontology are surveyed on the basis of Francis Turrettin’s representative Institutio Theologiae Elencticae I.4 We will address modalities: impossibility and its relationship to inconsistency and contradiction (section 2), possibility and actuality and their relationship to being (section 3), contingency (section 4) and necessity (section 5). In the last section (6), we apply the ontological concepts and see how they form a key to interpreting the doctrines of God’s power, will and knowledge. Our interpretation will also show to which broader historical tradition Turrettin belongs. 2. Omnipotence, Impossibility, Inconsistency and Contradiction Against the background of questions of divine omnipotence and how God can do everything he wills or can will, Turrettin follows the common tradition by distinguishing between God’s ordained or actual power (potentia ordinata/actualis) and his so-called absolute power 2 Willem J. van Asselt and Eef Dekker, eds., Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001). See especially the “Introduction” (11–43) by van Asselt and Dekker. See also van Asselt and Dekker, eds., De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995). 3 On Reformed scholasticism, see Willem J. van Asselt, Inleiding in de gereformeerde Scholastiek (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998). A second, revised edition in English is in preparation. 4 Franciscus Turrettini, Institutio Theologiae Elencticae (Institutio) I, 2nd ed. (Geneva, 1688). See E. P. Meijering, Reformierte Scholastik und patristische Theologie: Die Bedeutung des Väterbeweises in der Institutio Theologiae Elencticae F. Turrettins unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Gotteslehre und Christologie (Nieuwkoop: De Graaf, 1991), 6–20. On Turrettin’s life and works, see G. Keizer, François Turrettini: Sa vie et ses oeuvres et le consensus, diss. Lausanne 1899 (Lausanne, 1900). For how representative Turrettin may be, see also A. Vos, “Ab uno disce omnes,” Bijdragen 60 (1999): 173–204.

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(potentia absoluta). This distinction focuses primarily on what God can do as it is to be seen on itself (potentia absoluta). Within the context of the quaestio whether God can perform what implies a contradiction (Institutio I, part 3, quaestio 21), the can of what God can do has to be considered as it is in itself (absolute)—not in a certain respect, but independently, just as it is as such. Turrettin says: What matters is God’s absolute potentiality (power) by which He can do those things that are not incompatible (non repugnant) with his most perfect nature and do not imply any contradiction.5

Here we see that the basic possibilities of God—potentia absoluta—are related to what can happen. The object of this basic power of God is nothing other than the possible. This is defined as that which is not incompatible with divine nature, i.e. does not embody any inconsistency (non repugnantia), and does not imply any contradiction. So, the possible is defined with the help of inconsistency (repugnantia) and contradiction. Let us see how Turrettin relates possibility, inconsistency and contradiction. We will see that they all relate to impossibility. Turrettin makes a distinction between what is impossible in nature and what is structurally impossible: Something is impossible in nature, with respect to secondary causes. Another concept is that of what is structurally impossible, that is, what is incompatible (repugnat) with the nature of reality with respect to all kinds of causes.6

The second kind of impossibility (the structurally impossible) is important with respect to the foundation of ontology. The structural element is a logical structure: it is, again, about incompatibility. So, let us look a bit further into the nature of the logically impossible. What is logically impossible (logice impossibile) suffers from inconsistency or incompat-

5 Institutio I–3, 21, 3: “De absoluta (sc. potentia), per quam concipitur . . . posse facere . . . ea quae perfectissimae naturae suae non repugnant, vel contradictionem non implicant.” 6 Institutio I–3, 21, 8: “Aliud est impossibile naturae respectu causarum secundarum. . . . Aliud est impossibile naturâ, id quod naturae rei repugnat respectu omnium causarum.” It would be misleading to translate “natural” in the second line, for it is meant in a structural or logical way. On this usage of “structural,” see A. Vos, H. Veldhuis, A. H. Looman-Graaskamp, E. Dekker and N. W. den Bok, John Duns Scotus. Contingency and Freedom. Lectura I 39 (CF) (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1994), 34, 118– 119, 138–139.

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ibility (repugnantia).7 A proposition suffers from inconsistency (repugnantia) if it includes contradictory predicates. In Turrettin’s words: The contradictory is called what is logically impossible, what is inconsistent and what includes contradictory predicates (praedicata contradictoria).8

Explicit Inconsistency Turrettin also introduces two kinds of inconsistency (repugnantia): (a) explicit and direct inconsistency; and (b) implicit and indirect inconsistency. The first kind is introduced as follows: On the one hand, inconsistency is direct and explicit, when the inconsistent terms are explicitly contradictory, for example done and not-done, man and not-man.9

Inconsistency is explicit if the inconsistent terms (termini repugnantes) explicitly and demonstrably show a contradiction (explicite contradictorii) which can immediately be seen and detected, since we do not need to proceed any further in the derivation to make the contradiction clear and demonstrable. An example given by Turrettin is the combination of a concept (man) and its denial (not-man): (homo non homo). There are two terms at stake and the one term (P) and the denial of that term (notP) are directly connected. Just as Turrettin’s examples make clear, we now face an inconsistency which boils down to a directly visible contradiction that is to be made explicit as follows: a is (P & not-P). Turrettin then goes on to illustrate yet another term from his tool kit. He says: “What is contradictory is impossible, since what is impossible is incompossible.”10 The basic point is that it is impossible that contradictory propositions are true. This is because there is no possible realm

7 Institutio I–3, 21, 11: “Illud quod est impossibile logice, id quod habet repugnantiam. See also with regard to the notion of the possible Institutio I–3, 21, 3: ea quae perfectissimae naturae suae non repugnant.” 8 Institutio I–3, 21, 11: “Contradictorium enim illud dicitur quod est impossibile logice, id quod habet repugnantiam, et quod includit praedicata contradictoria.” 9 Institutio I–3, 21, 11: “Repugnantia autem alia est immediata et explicita, quando termini repugnantes explicite sunt contradictorii, v.g. factum infactum, homo non homo.” 10 Institutio I–3, 21, 12: “Contradictoria autem sunt impossibilia, quia sunt incompossibilia.” On the notion of “incompossibilitas,” see CF, 158–161.

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in which they are true together, hence they are not together possible or incompossible. We have seen that Turrettin works with contradictory predicates. There are also clear examples of contradictory propositions set out in pairs. A specific illustration follows in the next Thesis 22: There is a contradiction between these two propositions: a human being will walk and a human being will not walk.11

The conjunctive propositions (1) a human being will walk and (2) a human being will not walk are inconsistent, since they immediately contradict each other. So, the combination of (1) and (2) yields the explicit contradiction (3) a human being will walk and a human being will not walk which boils down to the well-known pattern of a contradictory conjunction: p & not-p. Along these lines Turrettin solves the theological dilemma whether God can do what is impossible: If God could do what is contradictory, He could make it that the same were to be so and not so at the same moment so that two contradictory propositions could be true at the same moment.12

Implicit Inconsistency Let us turn back to Turrettin’s distinction between explicit and implicit inconsistency, and investigate indirect inconsistency. Here are Turrettin’s words: On the other hand, inconsistency is indirect and implicit, when the inconsistent terms include only deductively and implicitly a contradiction, for example when inseparable properties are denied of a subject or contrary predicates are affirmed, for example God is corporeal and mortal, a human person cannot laugh, a body has no extension, an accident does not 11 Institutio I–3, 12, 22: “Datur contradictio inter istas duas propositiones: homo est ambulaturus et homo non est ambulaturus.” 12 Institutio I–3, 21, 12: “Si posset facere contradictoria, posset facere ut idem simul esset et non esset, ut duae propositiones contradictoriae possent esse simul verae.”

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inhere. Such expressions entail contradictory predicates that collide with the principle of indubitable truth: it is impossible that the same is true and not true at the same moment.13

Inconsistency is implicit if the inconsistent terms (termini repugnantes) only deductively include a contradiction (implicite contradictorii). An example given by Turrettin is the combination of the concept of God and the predicate mortal. We do not face inconsistencies which boil down to directly visible contradictions: God is mortal (Deus mortalis) and A human person cannot laugh (homo non risibilis). We have here two terms; however, the one term (P) is not accompanied by the denial of itself (not-P) but rather by another term Q which in fact entails notP, but this incompatibility is not directly visible. There can be argued for adequately, but there is no explicit contradiction: the incompatibility lies hidden in the terms. So, our final comment underlines the fact that implicit inconsistency is eventually to be reduced to explicit inconsistency. The principle Impossibile est idem esse et non esse simul plainly has the last word: a is (P & not-P) which cannot be true.14 Conjunctive Inconsistency (Potentia Simultatis) The term potentia simultatis is a further member of our family of logical terms. Turrettin uses potentia simultatis in the following quotation:

13 Institutio I–3, 21, 11: “Alia mediata et implicita, quando termini repugnantes virtualiter tantum et implicite contradictionem includunt, v.g., quando de subjecto negantur proprietates inseparabiles, vel affirmantur praedicata contraria, v.g., Deus corporeus et mortalis, homo non risibilis, corpus non extensum, accidens non inhaerens. Talia enim involvunt praedicata contradictoria, quae incurrunt in principium indubitatae veritatis: impossibile est idem esse et non esse simul.” 14 In Reportatio Parisiensis I A 8 pars 2, 44, Duns Scotus clearly indicated the most striking feature of the distinction between explicit and implicit inconsistency in assessing different views on Aristotle’s and Averroes’ thinking: “They show that Aristotle and the Commentator deny the first mode of being, because it implicitly included a contradiction and they do not concede that Aristotle and the Commentator . . . explicitly contradicted themselves, based on true arguments. For it is more untenable that someone contradicts himself explicitly (where it is apparent to everyone) than implicitly (where it is unknown to many).” Allan B. Wolter and Oleg V. Bychkov, eds., Reportatio I–A: The Examined Report of the Paris Lecture (St. Bonaventure: Franciscan Institute Publications, 2004), 344 (§ 44): “Ostendunt Aristotelem et Commentatorem negare primum modum essendi, quia includebat contradictionem implicite et non concedunt ipsum Aristotelem et Commentatorem . . . sibi explicite ex rationibus veris contradicere. Maius enim inconveniens est alicui contradicere sibi ipsi explicite, ubi omnibus apparet, quam implicite quae multos latet.”

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It is one thing that a state of affairs can happen or not-happen, that is, a state of affairs is possible or it is not future hypothetically, but it is quite another thing that a state of affairs can be future and not future at the same moment. . . . The second one entails conjunctive inconsistency (potentia simultatis), since it is assumed that something can be and not be the case.15

It is clear that in the sentence “a state of affairs can be future and not future at the same moment” a conjunction is involved: the logical connective and (et) is used and at the same moment (simul) indicates synchrony. In other words, this is an explicit contradiction of the form: the state of affairs p is future and not future. If you assume that this can be the case, you run into a conjunctive inconsistency (potentia simultatis). Below, we will contrast Turrettin’s term potentia simultatis with simultas potentiae (synchronic contingency).16 We may conclude as follows. The fact that Turrettin’s detailed explanation of inconsistency falls back on the notion of a contradiction sharpens the logic-based flavor of this approach. What is impossible in a logical sense is not only inconsistent, but it shows off its inconsistency through a contradiction containing an expression (predicate or proposition) and its denial. A contradictory proposition cannot be a true proposition and a contradictory predicate cannot be a true predicate. The untenability of p & not-p is evident as is the untenability of Pa & not-Pa. Here, ontology starts from fundamental impossibility—what is necessarily false must be impossible.17 15 Institutio I–3, 12, 21: “Aliud est rem posse fieri vel non fieri, id est, rem esse possibilem, vel non esse futuram ex hypothesi. Aliud rem posse esse simul futuram et non futuram. . . . Posterius infert potentiam simultatis, quia supponitur, aliquid simul posse esse et non esse.” 16 Institutio I–3, 12, 21: “Contingens dicitur primo modo, non secundo (sc., potentia simultatis), qui est asystatos.” See section 4. 17 See A. Vos, Kennis en Noodzakelijkheid (KN): Een kritische analyse van het absolute evidentialisme in wijsbegeerte en theologie (Kampen: Kok, 1981), 282–293. Here, the S5-system is derived as being the modal system which fits ontology. It is derived from the basic notion of impossibility. The historical development of classic ontology from Duns Scotus to Reformed scholasticism mirrors and accounts for this move. The untenability of p & not-p can be evident, but is also demonstrable, as the truth table method shows: p & not-p T F F T F F T F The conjunction p & not-p is false in every possible case. So, it is necessarily false.

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Turrettin’s approach affirms the fundamentum contradictionis.18 An affirmation and its denial cannot be true at the same moment.19 The insight that an affirmation and its denial cannot be true at the same moment (synchronically) is the true foundation of the necessary falsehood of a contradiction. If you dismiss this logical and ontological option, then you have to accept that the principle of non-contradiction is false.20 The principle of non-contradiction is the ‘foundation of a contradiction’ (fundamentum contradictionis) and leads us to what is impossible. So, we have to avoid contradictions.21 3. Being, Possibility and Actuality Having seen how the notion of impossibility may be developed, we turn to its counterpart, the notion of possibility, and its relation to actuality on the one hand and to being (ens) on the other. The basic conviction of Reformed scholasticism, worded by Turrettin, is as follows: The object of God’s power is nothing other than the possible, that is whatever faces no inconsistency if it were to happen.22

The possible is the object of what God can do and it is simply impossible that the impossible is the object of divine activity. The strongest notion of impossibility is the conceptual basis for elucidating what pos18 See the next note. Traditional usage differs from modern usage. In modern philosophical language, we understand by a contradiction a kind of proposition: a contradictory proposition, and a contradictory proposition is a conjunction which consists of at least one pair of propositions comprising a proposition and its denial. According to traditional usage, contradictio may have the same meaning or it may mean contradictory force or the contradictory nature of a proposition. 19 See Institutio I–3, 21, 11: “Impossibile est idem esse et non esse simul. See also Thesis 16: Nec falsum foret illud principium: Impossibile est idem simul esse et non esse, quod est verum contradictionis fundamentum.” 20 Institutio I–3, 21, 16: “Nec falsum foret illud principium: Impossibile est idem simul esse et non esse, quod est verum contradictionis fundamentum.” 21 If the fundamentum contradictionis does not hold, then the principium identitatis (It is necessary that the same is the same) is worthless. For if it is not necessary that the same is the same, then it is possible that the same is not the same. However, if the same is not the same, then nothing is itself and life would be impossible. 22 Institutio I–3, quaestio 21. The quaestio runs as follows: “Qualis sit Dei omnipotentia et an se extendat ad ea quae implicant contradictionem? Negatio. See Institutio I–3, 21, 6: Objectum potentiae Dei nihil aliud est quam possibile, id est, quicquid fieri non repugnat.”

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sibility consists in. It is crucial to see that, in contrast to the ancient philosophical tradition, Turrettin and the tradition he represents do not start from the opposition between the actual and the impossible, but from the opposition between the possible and the impossible. It is to be concluded from this logical characteristic that, according to this type of ontology, the notions of non-actual and impossible do not coincide. Now, we have to face the question of what is contained and defined by the notion of actuality. Turrettin presents the basics of his ontology within the context of the doctrine of divine omnipotence, based on the distinction between potentia ordinata and potentia actualis. The idea of potentia actualis already refers to actuality—in regard to reality God does what he wills. The concepts of possibility and actuality do not coincide, for God can do more than what he does. This more consists of the possible that is not actual. It concerns absolute power by which we understand that God can do more than he in fact does, namely (he can do) those things that are not incompatible with his most perfect nature, or do not imply any contradiction.23 We ask whether the analysis of actual reality is likewise dealt with in terms of synchrony. We may expect this, for the diachronic approach results precisely in the coincidence of possibility and actuality and this coincidence means the collapse of the modal differences most philosophies suffer from.24 In (4) It is possible that a human being does not walk it is possible truth (veritas possibilitatis) that matters. Studying Turrettin’s key terms, we realize that the logic of possibility and the logic of the future tense are poles apart. This ontological model also mirrors itself in Turrettin’s concept of being (ens). He deals with the concept of being when it is asked what is not embraced by God’s omnipotence. Turrettin states that the impossible is not embraced by God’s omnipotence. Contradictories are impossible, since they are incompossible (incompossibilia), as we have

23 Institutio I–3, 21, 3, now quoted in full (compare note 45 above): “De absoluta (sc. potentia), per quam concipitur plura posse facere quam reipsa facit, nimirum ea quae perfectissimae naturae suae non repugnant, vel contradictionem non implicant.” 24 This move prophesies the end of modality, since there is a collapse of the different kinds of modality—every introduction to modal logic respects these crucial differences between the logical and ontological modalities: necessity entails actuality and actuality entails possibility, but not vice versa. See G. E. Hughes and M. J. Cresswell, A New Introduction to Modal Logic (London: Routledge, 1996), 23–71.

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seen.25 So, the object of God’s omnipotence is what is possible and the possible is called being (ens) by Turrettin: God’s power (omnipotence) concerns being, that is what can be, but what is contradictory is non being (non ens).26

What is contradictory (contradictorium) is said to be non being (non ens). This move can only make sense if by ens is meant possible being. If non being is that which is contradictorily impossible, then the possible is constituted by what is consistent. So, this notion of being no longer restricts itself to what, in fact, is actually the case. Not only what obtains in actual reality is contingent, but also what does not obtain in actual reality, if it is possible. We may conclude: that which is not repugnant to be is applied to being (ens).27 4. Contingency The key terms of the doctrine of divine knowledge in Reformed scholasticism, following in the wake of mainstream Western philosophy between about 1300 and 1800, are God’s necessary knowledge (scientia necessaria Dei) and God’s free and contingent knowledge (scientia libera Dei). God’s necessary knowledge—as well as his so-called absolute power)—is the keystone of what is possible in reality. The foundation of God’s knowledge of contingent reality is God’s contingent will.28 The basic point of God’s contingent knowledge is that contingent knowledge entails a contingent epistemic object and, in the case of God’s contingent knowledge, it is the whole of reality which has to be considered to be contingent. The decisiveness of this epistemological fact is seen when we remember that, according to ancient Greek philosophy, knowledge and certainly divine knowledge are as such neces25 Institutio I–3 21, 12: “Contradictoria autem sunt impossibilia, quia sunt incompossibilia. Contradictio enim est aeternae disjunctionis, et in aeternum opponuntur affirmare et negare, esse et non esse.” 26 Institutio I–3 21, 12: “Potentia Dei versatur circa ens, id. quod potest esse, at contradictorium est non ens.” 27 Let us recall Weinberg’s remark, in A Short History of Medieval Philosophy, 217 (213–234: “Duns Scotus”): “I take this to mean that the concept being refers to whatever can exist, i.e., it applies to anything, the assumption of whose existence contains no contradiction.” 28 See Institutio I–3, 12, 18: “fundamentum possibilitatis rerum.”

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sary. There must have been enormous philosophical pressure to create such an epistemological revolution, a revolution mirrored by an ontological revolution which resulted in the view that reality is not necessary but contingent. How does Turrettin unpack this notion of contingency? In terms of the pair potentia simultatis and simultas potentiae. We have explained the former and will now turn to the latter. We first quote the relevant passage again: It is one thing that a state of affairs can happen or not-happen, that is a state of affairs is possible or it is not future hypothetically, but it is quite another thing that a state of affairs can be future and not future at the same moment. The first one only indicates synchronic contingency (simultas potentiae), as far as it is possible that a state of affairs obtains or does not obtain. The second one entails conjunctive inconsistency (potentia simultatis), since it is assumed that something can be and not be the case.29

Turrettin takes quite a different stance with regard to two pairs of propositions: (3) a human person will walk and a human person will not walk and (5) a human person will walk and it is possible that he does not walk. The first conjunction presents a contradictory pair of propositions, as we have seen above, but the second one does not. Turrettin sees the difference between (3) and (5) and points out the validity of the combination of a state of affairs and the possibility of its alternative which is the key to the notion of true contingency. Turrettin contrasts the propositions involved in (5). The two propositions: (1) a human being will walk and (6) It is possible that a human being does not walk

29 Institutio I–3, 12, 21: “Aliud est rem posse fieri vel non fieri, id est, rem esse possibilem, vel non esse futuram ex hypothesi. Aliud rem posse esse simul futuram et non futuram. . . . Posterius infert potentiam simultatis, quia supponitur, aliquid simul posse esse et non esse.”

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do not present a contradiction.30 They show the logical structure of simultas potentiae (synchronic contingency): an event in the actual world does not exclude the alternative possibility. The way the actual world turns out is not necessary. In the case of contingency, no contradiction is involved. For Turrettin: (7) a is walking and it is possible that a does not walk (a can notwalk) is logically and ontologically flawless. In conjunctive (6), it is possible truth (veritas possibilitatis) that matters and, according to Turrettin, no logical difficulty pops up, since logical or synchronic possibility does not place the opposite not-p in the same conjunctive situation.31 Such conjunctions are acceptable by virtue of what Turrettin distinctly calls simultas potentiae (synchronic contingency). This insight is also applied by Turrettin to a distinctive theological issue: These two propositions are not incompatible and can be true at the same moment (simul): Adam will certainly fall and Adam could not-fall, since the first proposition speaks of the future of a state of affairs on account of God’s decree, the second of the possibility of a state of affairs.32

Contingency does not imply inconsistency (potentia simultatis) at all, but presupposes the option of logical possibility, the cornerstone of synchronic contingency, since logical possibility and the combination with an opposite alternative yield synchronic contingency (simultas potentiae).33

30 Institutio I–3, 12, 22: “Datur contradictio inter istas duas propositiones, homo est ambulaturus, et homo non est ambulaturus; sed non inter istas, homo est ambulaturus, et potest non ambulare: quia prima loquitur de veritate futuritionis, posterior de veritate possibilitatis.” 31 The meaning of the term simultas can be explained as follows: the relationship of (synchronic) conjunction. See the logical language of the opposition square—simul: together, logically/conjunctively connected. See L. M. de Rijk, ed., Garlandus Compotista, Dialectica (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1959), 52–53, and de Rijk, ed., Logica “Cum sit nostra,” in: Logica Modernorum IIA 430–431. Compare Duns Scotus, Lectura I 39, 46 and Ordinatio I 39, 16 and CF 110–119. Opponere and oppositum refer to the opposite in the sense of the denial. 32 Institutio I–3, 12, 22: “Ita non pugnant inter se istae duae propositiones, et possunt esse simul verae: Adam certo est lapsurus, et Adam potuit non labi, quia prior loquitur de rei futuritione ex decreto, posterior de rei possibilitate ex causae secundae dispositione.” See KN passim, especially KN 68–106 and 269–275.

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5. Necessity The distinction between the necessity of the consequent (necessitas consequentis) and the necessity of the consequence (necessitas consequentiae) functioned as the constitutive tool of Western thought from the time that Anselm introduced this distinction, albeit using different words, between necessitas praecedens (// necessitas consequentis) and necessitas sequens (// necessitas consequentiae) in his De Concordia and his Cur Deus homo? It has become the decisive instrument of Western logic and theology in removing ontic necessity from the theory of reality and it retains its dominating role in Reformed scholasticism. Some crucial meanings of necessitas (necessity) must be listed. The original, etymological meaning of necessitas in Latin is coactio (= compulsion, coercion) and violentia (= force, violence). Turrettin says: The freedom of the will is surely destroyed by physical (natural) necessity and by necessity in the sense of compulsion which is incompatible with the formal notion of freedom, . . . , but God’s foreknowledge does not entail compulsion or force.34

If God’s foreknowledge does not entail necessity in the sense of compulsion, does it entail some other kind of necessity instead? The necessity involved in God’s knowledge and eternal will “is not necessity in the sense of compulsion, but necessity of the consequence (necessitas consequentiae) and of infallibility.”35 Here, the necessity of the consequence (necessitas consequentiae) is contrasted with necessity as compulsion and the necessity of the consequence (necessitas consequentiae)

33 Institutio I–3, 12, 19 and also I–3, 12, 20: “Ergo in sensu composito et supposito Dei decreto de futuritione rei est impossibile non fieri, tamen in sensu diviso et seposito eo decreto, possibile esset non fieri.” On the use of in sensu diviso, see below. 34 See Institutio I–3, 12, 24: “Libertas voluntatis evertitur quidem per necessitatem physicam et coactionis, quae pugnat cum formali ratione libertatis. . . . Praescientia autem Dei . . . non infert coactionem aut violentiam.” Ne-cessitas derived from ne (non) and cedere: there is no escape, no possibility of giving way. 35 Institutio I–3, 13, 21: “Necessitas ista non est coactionis, sed consequentiae seu infallibilitatis, quae optime consistit cum libertate.” Compare Anselm, De Concordia, quaestio 1. Physical or natural necessity is added to necessity in the sense of compulsion. Gisbertus Voetius offers a helpful definition of natural necessity (De termino vitae, 105, in Disputationes Selectae V (Utrecht, 1669), 105): “The necessity of a nature (necessitas naturae) based on the nature of something, or natural necessity, is the necessity by which any essential cause is determined to one effect, due to the concursus of the natural order of things, God’s ordinary power and the law of creation.”

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parallels hypothetical, infallible and implicative necessity (necessitas hypothetica).36 In many cases, we have to make distinctions in order to adequately elucidate the uses of sentences. The distinction between necessitas consequentiae and necessitas consequentis is often linked to that of the composite and divided sense of a sentence. Turrettin also links these pairs of distinctions: In the composite sense, God’s will being supposed, it is impossible for a thing not to happen, but in the divided sense, God’s will not taken into account, it was possible for that thing not to happen.37

Let us explain this a bit more with the help of Duns Scotus, who offers a precise explanation of these tools when he elaborates on the meaning and interpretation of the distinction between necessitas consequentiae and necessitas consequentis. The example he uses is: That a sense-gifted being is running, if a man is running, is necessary.38

This example is first explained in the composite sense. In the composite sense this proposition is categorical and true, and then it denotes the necessity of consequence, and the meaning is: That a sensegifted being is running if a human being is running, is necessary that is, this proposition: A sense-gifted being is running if a human being is running is necessary.39

In the composite sense, a proposition is taken as a whole. Duns continues with the divided sense: The divided sense reads: It is necessary that a sense-gifted being is running, if a human being is running. In this case, the proposition is hypothetical and false, and its meaning is: That a sense-gifted being is running

36 Institutio I–3, 12, 24: “Libertas voluntatis evertitur quidem per necessitatem coactionis, sed non per necessitatem hypotheticam et infallibilitatis eventus. . . . Praescientia autem Dei infert quidem futuritionis et eventus infallibilitatem.” 37 Institutio I–3, 12, 20: “Ergo in sensu composito et supposito Dei decreto de futuritione rei est impossibile non fieri, tamen in sensu diviso et seposito eo decreto, possibile esset non fieri.” 38 Lectura I 39, 58: “Sicut haec: Animal currere, si homo currit, est necessarium.” 39 Lectura I 39, 58: “In sensu compositionis est categorica et vera, et tunc denotat necessitatem consequentiae, et est sensus: “Animal currere si homo currit, est necessarium”; hoc est: haec est necessaria: Animal currit si homo currit.”

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is necessary, if a human being is running. Then, it denotes the necessity of the consequent.40

Now, the proposition to be considered has to be seen as compound (“hypothetical”).41 In the divided sense, we arrive at an antecedent/consequent composition and, then, something specific is said of the consequent: A sense-gifted being is running. It is said to be necessarily true. However, this is false, since if the consequent is true, then it is contingently true, and not in a necessary way. In this light, the distinction between absolute, non-relational necessity (necessitas absoluta) and implicative necessity (necessitas hypothetica) or the necessity of the consequence (necessitas consequentiae) is to be understood: There are two kinds of necessity: the one kind is absolute necessity by which it is simply impossible for something in itself and by its own nature to behave in a different way, for instance God is good and God is just. The other is implicative necessity by which it is as such possible that it behaves differently.42

The distinction between non-implicative and implicative necessity is pervasive in the whole of the tradition of Reformed thought.43 6. Ontology and the Modal Nature of Divine Knowledge, Will and Power We have found a specific type of ontology present in, but not restricted to, Reformed theology in its scholastic period.44 The conceptual kernel of this ontology is the notion of synchronic contingency or, as Turrettin calls it, simultas potentiae. This tradition continues mainstream Western medieval thought according to the fashion of Augustine and 40 Lectura I 39, 58: “Sensus divisionis est “animal currere, si homo currit, est necessarium”: est tunc hypothetica et falsa, et est sensus: Animal currere est necessarium, si homo currit; et tunc denotat necessitatem consequentis.” See CF 134 and 136 (132– 137). 41 In medieval logic, compound propositions are called propositiones hypotheticae, and implicative or conditional propositions are called propositiones conditionales. 42 Institutio I–3, 14, 2: “Necessarium duplex esse: aliud absolutum quod simpliciter et se suaque natura non potest aliter se habere, ut Deum esse bonum, iustum, etc. Aliud hypotheticum, quod non ita est ex se et simpliciter tale, quin potest aliter se habere.”

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Anselm, developed and transformed by the contributions of Henry of Ghent and the Franciscan thinkers of the last third of the thirteenth century. Its culmination was the philosophical and theological thought of Duns Scotus. This tradition can also be characterized as will and contingency philosophy, revolutionizing the life of the mind. Early modern Reformed ontology stresses the overall coherent nature of this approach to reality and this drive for coherence gives a radical twist to the whole program of Christian thought. Let us express elements of this ontology against the background of our findings so far and see the impact on divine knowledge, will and power. The basic power (can) of God—potentia absoluta—delineates the range of possibilities that obtain in reality. It is related to what can happen. The object of this basic “potence” of God is nothing other than the possible. The range of the potentia absoluta, therefore, is much wider than the range of the potentia ordinata. The work of God cannot be deduced validly from his potentia absoluta.45 43 It is also worthwhile referring to a clear explanation by Voetius. After having noticed that necessitas is used in many ways he points out among other things: “Third, the necessity of a definition, or the necessity of the consequent, occurs when a predicate is included in the definition of the subject, or vice versa, so that a contradiction is entailed in the case of a denial. In per se propositions of the first and second kinds, all predicates are necessarily in harmony with their subject. Fourth, relative or implicative necessity, or hypothetical necessity, is twofold: either based on the presupposition of the antecedent, or based on presupposed reality or existence.” De vitae termino, 105– 106. Voetius’ third kind of necessity, the so-called definitional necessity, rests on the specific theory of two kinds of per se propositions: the first kind of per se proposition concerns definitions as homo est animal rationale: the predicate rationality follows from the subject, since it is included in the definition of the subject homo. However, the predicate risible (= being able to laugh, risibilis) is not included in the definition of the subject homo, although this property—a so-called proprium—is also essential for a human being—in the modern sense of essential. Such truths represent the second kind of per se proposition. Voetius’ fourth and last kind of necessity is found in a very straightforward kind of entailment where a proposition necessarily entails itself. 44 In fact, we here again meet a medieval phenomenon: creative philosophy is found within theology. See A. Vos, The Philosophy of John Duns Scotus (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), passim. 45 Institutio I–3, 21, 3 (270–1): “Non quaeritur de potentia actuali et ordinata, . . . de qua bene dicitur a potentia actuali ad opus seu effectum valere consequentiam. Sed de absoluta, per quam concipitur plura posse facere quam reipsa facit, nimirum ea quae perfectissimae naturae suae non repugnant, vel contradictionem non implicant, per quam Deus potuisset ex lapidibus suscitare filios Abrahamo Mat. 3.9. et mittere duodecim legiones Angelorum Christo, Matth. 26.53. de qua notandum, A potentia absoluta ad opus non valere consequentiam, quia multo plura Deus praestare potest quam revera praestat.”

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If there is a basic ontological distinction between necessity and contingency, then God is in possession of necessary knowledge and contingent knowledge. These are precisely the elements we meet in the distinction between God’s natural knowledge (scientia naturalis) and his free knowledge (scientia libera).46 The knowledge which God possesses according to his own nature is the knowledge of the whole of what is possible, since what is possible is necessarily possible. This kind of knowledge is often quite pertinently called necessary knowledge.47 The turning point is found in the contrasting notion of God’s scientia libera. God’s free knowledge is the knowledge of the future states of affairs which is called determinate knowledge, since the future states of affairs are defined by the certain counsel of God.48

According to Turrettin, those future states of affairs are the object of God’s free knowledge which “pass from the status of possibility to the status of being future.”49 The future, however, keeps the status of possibility. In this model the possible and the future do not exclude each other. Possibility is not only implied in being future, but the scope of what is possible is also much wider than the scope of what is actual and future. God’s free knowledge rests on the act of God’s will concerning the real world. This is known by free knowledge. The duality of God’s necessary and free knowledge points out the pivotal role of the divine will (voluntas Dei, decretum = actus voluntatis). God’s free knowledge, therefore, is intrinsically linked with his free will, just as the necessary knowledge of God is connected with his absolute power (potentia absoluta). The duality of divine knowledge runs parallel to the duality of divine will where we find the distinction between voluntas necessaria 46 Institutio I–3, quaestio 13: De scientia media, 234 (234–240). The quaestio runs as follows: “An praeter scientiam naturalem, et liberam, detur in Deo scientia quaedam media? Negatio contra Jesuitas, Socin. et Remonst.” 47 Institutio I–3, 13, 1: “Illa [namely the scientia naturalis] est rerum mere possibilium.” A modern translation would run as follows: God’s necessary knowledge is the knowledge of all necessarily true propositions. 48 Institutio I–3, 13, 1: “Ista [namely the scientia libera or scientia visionis] est rerum futurarum, quae definita dicitur, quia res futurae definitae sunt certo Dei consilio.” 49 Institutio I–3, 13, 1: “Res a statu possibilitatis transeunt ad statum futuritionis.” For the term “futuritio,” see Duns Scotus’ Lectura I 39, 2 and CF, 54–55.

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and voluntas contingens. This model also obtains in the theory of divine action and power.50 The contingency ontology51 we have found in Turrettin is the mature fruit of a process of reconstructing the doctrine of God which took place over many, many centuries. Interestingly enough, this approach is backed up by the structures of modern symbolic and modal logic. However, contingency ontology also follows from the basic ontological pattern of necessity and contingency. This becomes evident if we summarize the elements of the doctrines of divine knowledge, will and omnipotence discussed above. We then see a recurrent pattern, elicited by the distinction between necessity and contingency, as follows: necessary and contingent knowledge—scientia necessaria et libera necessary and contingent will—voluntas necessaria et contingens52 necessary and contingent power—potentia absoluta et ordinata.53

50 Institutio I–3, 13, 1: “Fundamento, quia scientia naturalis fundatur in omnipotentia Dei; libera vero pendet ab eius voluntate et decreto, per quod res a statu possibilitatis transeunt ad statum futuritionis.” 51 More precisely, synchronic contingency ontology. We put it this way because (a) this way of thinking was conceived to overcome the limited conceptual structures of ancient Greek philosophy which worked with diachronic contingency: contingency is changeability, with the exception of the Eleatic philosophical school, and (b) Duns Scotus invented his new notion of synchronic contingency in contrast to the diachronic content of the device of secundum divisionem (in sensu divisionis, divisim). This is explained at length in CF, 126–129. 52 See Institutio I–3, 14, 1: Hinc duplex voluntati objectum assignatur, primarium nimirum Deus, ut bonum infinitum; secundarium vero res omnes creatae extra Deum, quae rationem habent boni finiti, quas etiam extra se vult Deus, sed non eodem modo; se quidem necessario per complacentiam, alia vero omnia libere ex decreto.” 53 An exciting surprise is offered by the discovery that it is precisely this Reformed tradition which is the staunch defender of anthropological freedom, including its theory of free will. Compare Institutio I–3, 14, 5, 6 and 9 with Institutio I–3, 12, 20 and 21. The stress is on the compatibility of God’s certain and infallible knowledge of an event and the contingency of that event. The role of the distinctio between the necessitas consequentiae and the necessitas consequentis is again crucial (Institutio I– 3, 12, 23). The fact that this tradition adheres to the freedom of the will is evident—see also Institutio I–3, 12, 25 and Institutio I–3, 14, 6: “Nam hoc sensu Deus res creatas vult necessario ex hypothesi, quia posito quod semel eas voluerit, non potest amplius nolle propter voluntatis immutabilitatem; sed absolute loquendo vult eas libere, quia ad eas primo volendas nulla necessitate, sed mera libertate inductus est, et potuit ab earum productione abstinere.” See W. J. van Asselt, J. M. Bac and R. T. te Velde, eds., Reformed Thought on Freedom (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2006), where Zanchius, Junius, Gomarus, Voetius, Turrettin and De Moor are dealt with.

IN THE STEPS OF VOETIUS SYNCHRONIC CONTINGENCY AND THE SIGNIFICANCE OF CORNELIS ELLEBOOGIUS’ DISPUTATIONES DE TETRAGRAMMATO TO THE ANALYSIS OF HIS LIFE AND WORK R. A. Mylius

1. Introduction—a Brief Overview of Scholarship on Elleboogius The life and thought of Cornelis Hendrikus Elleboogius (ca. 1615– 1701) has, unfortunately, been little examined. To my knowledge, there is only one biographical study of Elleboogius: Egbert Neusbeen, Het Leven en Sterven van Cornelis Elleboogius, Predikant en Hoogleeraar in de Godgeleerdheid, published in 1842.1 Of course, there is also the classic essay of Enno van Kniegewricht in which the covenantal and practical elements of Elleboogius’ work are explained as indications of a movement away from the “central dogma” approach of rigidly logical, scholastic, Aristotelian, and predestinarian orthodoxy toward the more moderate and humanistically-inspired approaches of the federal theology.2 As van Asselt has argued, this thesis cannot be sustained.3 Still, we cannot accept van Asselt’s contention that the “sleutel, zowel formeel als materieel” to Elleboogius’ thought is the “verbondsmotief” as identified in and through the spiritual interpretation of temple archi-

1 Egbert Neusbeen, Het Leven en Sterven van Cornelis Hendrikus Elleboogius, Predikant en Hoogleeraar in de Godgeleerdheid (Apeldoorn: Jacob Lichaamsbouw, 1842). 2 Enno van Kniegewricht, Verbondsleer en Voorbestemming bij Cornelis Hendrikus Elleboogius: Bijdrage tot de Kennis der oude Gereformeerde Theologie (Utrecht: H. A. Stuitbeen, 1922). 3 Willem J. van Asselt, Johannes Coccejus: Portret van een zeventiende-eeuws theoloog op oude en niewe wegen (Heerenveen: Groen en Zoon, 1997), 160–164; cf. Willem J. van Asselt et al., Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998), 13–17, 71–75, et passim.

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tecture in its historical development.4 This claim, quite frankly, draws too much on the ethos of the old “central dogma” theory that it attempts to replace. Indeed, our thesis in the present essay is that Elleboogius’ “verbondsmotief” itself rests on Elleboogius’ understanding of synchronic contingency.5 Since the work of Neusbeen and Kniegewricht, there have been only two other studies of Elleboogius’ work, including the already mentioned essay by van Asselt. Both were inspired by the discovery by myself and my colleague van Asselt, that Elleboogius had studied briefly in the University of Aberdeen and there had connected with trajectories of Scottish Reformed theology, notably, the work of Samuel Rutherford and Patrick Gillespie. The first of these recent essays is the theological study by Roelof van der Scheen, Cornelis Hendrikus Elleboogius, een theoloog tussen Orthodoxie en Nadere Reformatie, a doctoraalscriptie written at Utrecht under the direction of Willem van Asselt.6 Van der Scheen adds nothing to Elleboogius’ biography but does significantly illuminate the Scotist roots of his theology. The other is the one written by van Asselt himself, paired with a study of Cocceius, on Elleboogius’ rather imaginative analysis of temple architecture in the eras of the Old and New Testaments.7 As already indicated, there are aspects of this essay with which I must graciously disagree.

4 Willem van Asselt, “Bouwkunde en Verbondstheologie: Het fantastisch Tempelbeeldwerk van C. H. Elleboog en de inwerking van de eschatologie van Coccejus op Voetius en zijn opvolger,” unpublished paper cited with permission (Utrecht University, 1998), later adapted and elaborated as “Federal Architecture: The Visionary Temple Reconstructions of Cornelis Hendrikus Elleboogius and the Impact of Cocceian Eschatology on the Voetian School,” Calvin Theological Journal, 36/3 (2001): 623– 666; also note, idem, “Chiliasm and Reformed Eschatology in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in Christian Hope in Context, ed. A. van Egmond and D. van Keulen, 2 vols. ( Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2001), 1.11–29. 5 On synchronic contingency, see Antonie Vos, “De kern van de klassieke gereformeerde Theologie,” Kerk en Theologie, 47 (1996): 106–125; and idem, “Scholasticism and Reformation,” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Oecumenical Enterprise, ed. W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001), 99–119. 6 Roelof van der Scheen, Cornelis Hendrikus Elleboogius: Een theoloog tussen Orthodoxie en Nadere Reformatie (Utrecht University: doctoraalscriptie, 1999). 7 I.e., van Asselt, “Federal Architecture: The Visionary Temple Reconstructions,” 623–666; and the parallel essay, “Structural Elements in the Eschatology of Johannes Cocceius,” Calvin Theological Journal, 35/1 (2000): 76–104.

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2. Elleboogius’ Life, Works, and Understanding of Synchronic Contingency As his biographer, Neusbeen, indicates, Elleboogius’ early life is a bit of a mystery. His birth date is uncertain, as is his birthplace, although he is thought to have been born on the island of Schiermonikoog sometime after 1615.8 He is reported to have studied classical languages as a child under the tutelage of the noted philologist and exegete, Jelle Keelknobbel, known in humanist circles as Gellius Adamimalum.9 Elleboogius’ first university studies took place between 1642 and 1644 in Franecker, where he spent most of his time under the brilliant but occasionally tipsy tutelage of Johannes Maccovius. On the death of Maccovius, Elleboogius departed for Utrecht. We also know that he was a classmate of Simon Oomius (1630–1706) and Petrus van Mastricht (1630–1706). He joined with them and others in the Nadere Reformatie project of producing a Godgeleerdheid voor het leven on the basis of the scholastic theology and technical exegesis learned at Utrecht under the careful eye of Gisbertus Voetius. So much the follower and so devoted to his teacher, it was said of his student days that wherever one found the great Professor Voet, there also would his Elleboogius be.10 The two were said to be onafscheidelijk,11 or as we say in English, “joined at the hip.” It is clear, moreover, that Elleboogius, as far as possible, was strictly, even rigidly orthodox in his theology and that his adherence to orthodoxy and to the Voetian approach to piety and spiritual renewal was a primary motive for him, even in the most personal of moments. This fundamental motivation is most evident, perhaps, in Elleboogius’ tragic attachment to Anna Maria van Schurman, who was several years his senior. He first noticed her during Voetius’ lectures on theology, when he glanced up at the balcony in the aula and caught a glimpse of her comely features through the curtain that separated her from the male students. In subsequent days, he would accompany her as she returned from the lectures to her quarters behind the Domkerk—and finally, he concluded that nothing short of marriage would be his destiny. Of 8 Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 21–23. 9 Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 103–104. 10 Cf. Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 121–134. 11 Kniegewricht, Verbondsleer en Voorbestemming, 25.

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course, the nuptials did not occur—for Anna Maria, despite all of her theological and philological accomplishments turned to the heretical pietism of Jean de Labadie. This turn of events broke Elleboogius’ heart and was almost his undoing. He devoted two years, first to an attempt to convert Anna Maria back to orthodoxy and then, failing in that, to an attempt at offering a philosophical or logical justification of her new theology as in fact compatible with orthodoxy. We shall return to this point later on, given that van der Scheen is guilty of a serious misreading of the sources concerning it. Having been unsuccessful in both of these attempts at reconciliation, to put Anna Maria and her heresy out of his mind, Elleboogius went into a self-imposed exile in Scotland. In his own words, Elleboogius had been utterly gebroken, “fractured.”12 Despairing of all things, he even rejected the counsel of his great mentor: his parting words spoken “tot de Voetius” were “Ik heb U niet van noode.” For some ten years he lost contact with his colleagues at the university. Nonetheless, the years of exile, as Neusbeen had pointed out, were of utmost importance to Elleboogius’ spirituality and scholarship—for he emerged a decade later, having set aside earthly in favor of heavenly marriage, with the manuscript of his commentary on the Song of Songs.13 Indeed, as we now know from the researches that I conducted with van Asselt, Elleboogius’ years in Scotland were spent largely in Aberdeen, where he served as Professor extraordinarius in theology and, as we have discovered, followed the example of his first mentor, Johannes Maccovius, into several of the best taverns in that city. Indeed, much of the information that we now have concerning Elleboogius’ time in Aberdeen is derived from graffiti carved on the underside of old tables in the taverns, as carefully researched by myself and van Asselt in situ. Among Elleboogius’ published works are an extended treatise in the form of a disputation on the Tetragrammaton.14 Contra van Asselt, this

12 Elleboogius to Voetius, 2 Ides Feb. 1672, cited in Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 142. 13 Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 288–292. 14 C. H. Elleboogius, Disputationes de Tetragrammato, sive de tribus Elohim, libri tres (Franecker: H. Schouderblad, 1691).

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is certainly Elleboogius opus magnum.15 In this work, he displayed his expertise in rabbinic Hebrew, argued against the theories of Thomas Gataker, Philippus de Beenhacker and Louis Cappel, and elaborated his views on synchronic contingency.16 There is also the massive study, in two finely illustrated folio volumes, on the spiritual significance of the architecture of the Jerusalem temple.17 Here, as van Asselt has rightly argued,18 Elleboogius compares his reconstructions or conceptualizations of the original Ark of the Covenant and tent of meeting, the temple of Solomon, the temple of Herod, and the eschatological temple of Ezekiel in order to argue the progress of true religion through the several dispensations of the covenant of grace—the differences among the administrations being mirrored in the architectural alterations of the place of true worship and the unity of the covenant being manifest in a spiritual or typological reading of underlying common features of the various edifices. It is even the case that Elleboogius understood each successive temple design as a partial abrogation of the previous.19 Still, despite its size and detail, this work does not supply the central motif of Elleboogius’ theology. Of the other notable spiritual works of Elleboogius, perhaps the most influential during his lifetime, was his extended examination of select verses from 1 Corinthians, Van Hoofd tot Voet, want ook het Ligehaam 15 Cf. van Asselt, “Federal Architecture: The Visionary Temple Reconstructions,” 624, with R. A. Mylius, “The Tetragrammaton in 17th Century Exegesis and Spirituality: An Examination of the Impact of Cornelis Elleboogius’ De Tetragrammato on the Development of Nadere Reformatie Piety,” Calvin Theological Journal, 37/3 (2002): 562–564. 16 Cf. Thomas Gataker, De nomine tetragrammato dissertatio (London: R. Cotes, 1645); idem, Dissertatio de tetragrammato suae vindicatio adversus Capellum (London: Roger Daniel, 1652); Philippus de Beenhacker, Disputationes xlvii de nomine tetragrammato (Leiden: P. J. Zonderduim, 1653), and Louis Cappel, Critica sacra, sive de variis quae in sacris veteri Testamenti libris occurunt lectionibus, libri sex (Paris, 1650). 17 C. H. Elleboogius, De oeconomiae architecturalis spiritualisque ss. Templo; a tabernaculo Mosis ad visiones Ezechelitae de novissimis, libri quinque, 2 vols. (Leiden: Pieter Trommelvlies, 1683–1689). 18 Van Asselt, “Federal Architecture: the Visionary Temple Reconstructions,” 631–632. 19 Elleboogius, De oeconomiae architecturalis, II.xiii.3 (Tom. 2, 139–241); cf. van Asselt, “Federal Architecture: The Visionary Temple Reconstructions,” 645; and note, as background, Willem J. van Asselt, “The Doctrine of the Abrogations in the Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius,” Calvin Theological Journal, 29/1 (1994): 101–116.

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is Niet een Lid: I Corinthie XII.xvi-xxiii verklaart en vergeestelykt door C. H. Elleboogius (Franecker: H. Schouderblad, 1667). Elleboogius’ biographer, Neusbeen, speculated that much of the inspiration for Van Hoofd tot Voet came from Elleboogius’ teacher, the great Voetius, indeed, that the work was intended to reconcile their differences. Given that Voetius was a significant inspiration to other of his associates and students, notably Hoornbeeck and Oomius, there is no reason either to dispute this claim or, indeed, after the manner of Enno van Kniegewricht, to relegate it to a footnote.20 It is also reported by Neusbeen that Voetius, unimpressed by the work commented, “‘Tot Voet’ . . . jawel . . . maar gelijk ik de elleboog niet ben, zoo is deze elleboog niet een hoofd.”21 Still, this work stands as a significant example of the influence of the Nadere Reformatie on English Puritanism, having been rendered into English by Jaap Huidekoper under the title The Heavenlie Promise of Abundant Comeliness for Uncomelie Partes in XLIIII most Spirituall Sermons upon the Text of I Cor. XII (London: B. Wrister, 1682). Of lesser impact on the exegesis of the day or, indeed, on the Nadere Reformatie, was Elleboogius’ spiritual exegesis of Ezekiel 37:1–10, entitled Beenderen naderen—thematically related to his Van Hoofd tot Voet, but perhaps even more deeply indicative of Elleboogius’ understanding of spiritual reconciliation.22 Various writers have pointed to the title of this latter treatise on the spiritual ramifications of the valley of dry bones and, indeed, of the coming together of the bones as a source of the term Nadere Reformatie—which hypothesis, if correct, would place Elleboogius at the center of the movement and would also raise the issue of the meaning of the term, not a “Further” or “Second” Reformation, but a “Nearer” Reformation, implying that the Reformation had, like the bones, finally “come together.”23

20 Cf. Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 282 with Kniegewricht, Verbondsleer en Voorbestemming, 93. 21 Voetius to Hoornbeeck, 8 Kal. Oct. 1669, cited in Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 284. 22 Cornelis Elleboogius, Beenderen naderen: Een geestelijke Verklaring van Ezechiel XXXVII (Franecker: H. Schouderblad, 1671). I owe the citation to Prof. Keith Stanglin of Harding University, Searcy, Arkansas. 23 Thus, Kniegewricht, Verbondsleer en Voorbestemming, 109–117; cf. van der Scheen, Cornelis Henrdrikus Elleboogius, 65–66.

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Elleboogius also published, late in life, a series of Disputationes theologicae, some written during his days as a student at Utrecht, others developed later, probably during his exile in Scotland.24 Less-studied, but of nearly equal significance in his literary output, is Elleboogius’ commentary on the Song of Songs.25 In this massive work, second only in detail to the later work of Abraham Hellenbroeck,26 Elleboogius takes up the exegetical gambit of various Cocceian authors in order to demonstrate that, although the Song of Songs does indeed offer in the form of an allegory an entire federal history of the church, from betrothal to consummation, there nonetheless can be found no distinction between paresis and aphesis in the history of the relationship of the bride to her heavenly bridegroom. Thus, the Song of Songs reveals all of the dispensations of corporate spiritual espousal, but also manifests the pre-marital relationship of bride and bridegroom to consist as much in aphesis as does the subsequent history of their marriage. The ground upon which Elleboogius substantiates this reading of the federal relationship of Christ and the church is the pactum salutis and its eternal sponsio. Now, of course, this reading of the dogmatic issue is little different from what is found discussed in the more systematic discourses of Voetius and Witsius. What is original to Elleboogius is his insistence that the doctrine be rooted in a mystical reading of the Song of Songs. Before I address the specific issue of the Voetian and Cocceian elements of Elleboogius’ commentary on the Song of Songs, some brief account of his theology is necessary, particularly given the several ever so slightly problematic understandings that can be found both in van der Scheen’s work and in van Asselt’s. (I should first note that, while I have my disagreements with van der Scheen and van Asselt, I find their researches for the most part sound and profitable and certainly in no way condone the rumor that van der Scheen is actually a Korean emigrée to the Netherlands named Bae Sung Shin.

24 C. H. Elleboogius, Disputationes theologicae in quinque libris digesta (Leeuwarden: Theo Beenderhuis, 1710). 25 C. H. Elleboogius, Huwelijks-Verbond en Borgtocht: Een Verklaring van het Hooglied van Salomo (Franecker: P. Wenkbrauw, 1678). 26 A. Hellenbroeck, Het Hooglied van Salomo: Verklaart en vergeestelykt door Abraham Hellenbroek, 2 vols. (Rotterdam: Reinier van Doesburg, 1728–1731).

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As van der Scheen has rightly noted, the text of Elleboogius’ Disputationes theologicae is of utmost importance to the understanding of his thought and to the ways in which he develops various issues latent in Voetius’ theology. Of particular importance here is Elleboogius’ understanding of contingency. Still it was not in the Disputationes theologicae, but in the De Tetragrammato that Elleboogius developed the more significant and extended analysis of synchronic contingency—and in the De Tetragrammato that he clearly indicated the priority of his understanding of synchronic contingency over the federal motif in his theology. It was clear to him, of course, that contingency and necessity are opposed to one another and that a contingent event is, ipso facto, not necessary. This basic truth, learned from Voetius brought Elleboogius to the significant personal conclusion that the Labadism of Anna Maria van Schurman was not necessary. It was a contingency, indeed, a result of that particular branch of the contingent restricted to rational beings (and some irrational, albeit no non-rational beings)—namely, a matter of free choice of liberum arbitrium. Given his adherence to the more decretal modalities of Reformed predestinarianism, Elleboogius was certain, on the one hand, that God had ultimately willed the Labadism of Anna Maria, but, he was equally certain that her Labadism was the product of a mistaken exercise of liberum arbitrium in which the last determinate act of Anna Maria’s practical intellect (which had, for the moment, obviously become quite impractical) had yielded Labadism as an object to be considered as good.27 But how could this be? How could Anna Maria be condemned to Labadism by eternal decree and yet the victim of a moment of rather contingent lapse of judgment? Moreover, if Anna Maria had chosen Labadism, and if there were a genuine liberum arbitrium in such matters, she could also un-choose it and return to the fold of orthodoxy. Was perhaps the fact that she lived Achter de Dom significant biographically and spiritually? At least, Elleboogius mused, it was a better address than Servetstraat. Moreover, her Labadism, if contingent, could equally be and not be: indeed, understood in sensu diviso, Anna Maria might be a Labadist and possibly not be a Labadist at the same time. As he confessed in a letter to Voetius, Elleboogius sincerely hoped that this was

27 See van der Scheen, Elleboogius, een theoloog, 76–83.

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so.28 All of this turmoil, by the way, has been carefully analyzed by van der Scheen on the basis of Elleboogius’ several surviving love-letters to Anna Maria.29 The answer, which was obvious to Elleboogius, was however somehow missed by van der Scheen, as was Elleboogius’ comment that his own differences with Anna Maria were merely types or figures of the great conflict between Voetians and Cocceians. None of the facts concerning Anna Maria, or indeed, concerning the Cocceian-Voetian controversy, made any sense in sensu composito, but, Elleboogius realized, all was eminently clear in sensu diviso. Indeed, as he initially realized, even though by eternal decree Anna Maria was a Labadist, it remained entirely possible that she was not. This possibility intrigued Elleboogius. As a letter not fully examined by van der Scheen also indicates, there was a point at which Elleboogius realized that, in sensu diviso, it was even possible that he convert to Labadism and possibly still preserve his own orthodoxy.30 It was at this juncture in his meditations, I submit, that Elleboogius had his exegetical breakthrough. This exegetical side of his work is overlooked by both van der Scheen and van Asselt, much to the detriment of their theories. Elleboogius, in the midst of his worries about being stuck in a world dominated by the sensus compositus, longing for the rich possibilities for existence in sensu diviso, came upon the text, “With God all things are possible.” What struck him so profoundly about the sensus literalis of the text was that it did not indicate that “some things are possible and some are actual,” but that “all things are possible.”31 Indeed, taken absolutely literally, the text might be taken to indicate that nothing is actual, or at least nothing is actually actual, but rather possibly actual, and therefore entirely possible—and, that being the case, all being possible, one might subsist permanently in sensu diviso.32 The question for Elleboogius became precisely how to do so, namely, to subsist personally in sensu diviso. At least that was the issue 28 Elleboogius to Voetius, 4 Kal. Sept. 1669, cited in Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 228–231. 29 Van der Scheen, Elleboogius, een theoloog, 87. 30 Elleboogius to Keelknobbel, 2 Nones Nov., 1679, cited in Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 236–237. 31 Elleboogius, Disputationes de Tetragrammato, I.xv.4–12; III.xxx.1–23. 32 Elleboogius, Disputationes de Tetragrammato, III.xxx.24–25; cf. idem, Huwelijks-Verbond en Borgtocht, II.ix (95–103).

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raised by Elleboogius himself in his final letter to Anna Maria—signed and dated from Scotland—and confirmed by the extended meditation on possibilia in his Disputatio theologica vigesima secunda.33 Blending these insights with speculations that he had found in the writings of Jacob Boehme, Elleboogius realized that if he could find a way to immerse himself in the Ungrund, where he assured himself there was an accessible scientia necessaria, he might, at will, emerge into and exit from any one of an infinite series of possible worlds, and subsist happily forever in sensu diviso—knowing that he was possibly orthodox and possibly Labadist, that Anna Maria was possibly Labadist and possibly orthodox, and that there were any number of possible worlds in which both he and Anna Maria were possibly orthodox. Indeed, he recognized, much to his relief, given their shared and surely synchronic contingency, that he might be married to Anna Maria and possibly not married to her at the same time (and vice versa).34 In one of the Aberdeen graffiti identified by myself and van Asselt under a particularly old table, Elleboogius reveals his immersion, indeed, intoxication in the Ungrund, and his hope that, like the sometimes intoxicated Maccovius, he might be mystically transported to peace and rest. Thus brought to a profound theological understanding, not to mention, a certain degree of peace of mind, Elleboogius was able to emerge from the Ungrund with a fully developed theory of spiritual espousal that—in sensu diviso at least—not only resolved his difficulties concerning Anna Maria but also merged a Cocceian salvation-historical with a Voetian ordo salutis understanding of the covenant, all in the context of the rich series of figures, types, and metaphors available in the Song of Songs.35 By way of illustration, Elleboogius argues with some passion that, given the universal series of possibilities, it could not only be true in any possible world that salvation in the Old and New Testaments could occur both by paresis and by aphesis, but that in either Testament wherever there was paresis, it was possible that there could be aphesis as well, and that the covenant of works be possibly partially abrogated and possibly fully abrogated, and indeed, possibly not 33 Cf. Neusbeen, Cornelis Elleboogius, 185–196, on the chronology of Elleboogius’ years in Scotland. 34 Cf. Elleboogius, Disputatio theologica vigesima secunda: De possibilia infinita, cap. iii.2. 35 Elleboogius, Huwelijks-Verbond en Borgtocht, preface, fol. B3 verso; cf. 75, 83, 98–102.

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abrogated at all, at the same time—thus reconciling the Cocceian and Voetian schools with one another and, possibly, with various forms of nomism as well.36 In the third book of his De Tetragrammato, he confirms this argument in a further logical examination of the modalities of all things being possible—thus, revealing, contra van der Scheen, and presumably, contra van Asselt, the radical priority of his commitment to Scotistic synchronic contingency over his apparent appreciation of the “verbondsmotief.” It is, moreover, in this section of the De Tetragrammato that he identifies the Ungrund of Böhme with the entire realm of possibility resident in the divine scientia necessaria sive scientia simplicis intelligentiae.37 It can also be noted that Elleboogius’ identification of these two terms, scientia necessaria and scientia simplicis intelligentiae indicates his willingness to use the more or less Thomistic language of the intellect but to fill it with a Scotistic, voluntaristic meaning, explicitly on the ground that the Ungrund, at least in Elleboogius’ conception, must be identified fundamentally as a willing rather than as a knowing.38 The proof of these arguments found in Disputatio theologica vigesima quarta, and particularly their elaboration in De Tetragrammato, would require an exercise in modal logic to clarify and, in any case, lies beyond the bounds of the present investigation. We can only note that Elleboogius’ theories did not become normative for the course of later Reformed orthodoxy and that, largely because of this failure, the history of later orthodoxy was beset by vast controversies, particularly among the Cocceians, who were incapable of understanding how their own teachings might be true and the contrary views of their opponents could also be possible. As for Elleboogius himself, as the old poem by Constantijn Huygens indicates,39 even he, perhaps especially he, could never fill the shoes of the great Dr. Voet.

36 Elleboogius, Huwelijks-Verbond en Borgtocht, 99–101, 125, 184, 195, et passim. 37 Elleboogius, Disputationes de Tetragrammato, III.xxxii.44. 38 Elleboogius, Disputationes de Tetragrammato, III.xxxii.45–46. 39 De Gedichten van Constantijn Huygens, ed. J. A. Worp, 9 vols. (Groningen, 1872–1899), 8.156–157; English version in Willem J. van Asselt, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603–1669), trans. Raymond A. Blacketer (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 33.

PART II

REFORMED SCHOLASTICISM AT HOME AND OVERSEAS

MELANCHTHONIAN THOUGHT IN GISBERTUS VOETIUS’ SCHOLASTIC DOCTRINE OF GOD Andreas J. Beck

1. Introduction Based on decades of solid scholarship, Willem van Asselt recently published his opus magnum on Johannes Cocceius.1 In this fresh reappraisal of Cocceius’ federal theology, he convincingly disproves some biases found in older research. He not only shows that Cocceius and his contemporary Voetius had much more in common than previously assumed, such as the usage of the scholastic method, and, unaffected by this, the doctrine of eternal divine decrees.2 He also follows Richard Muller in deconstructing the hypothesis that a federalistic Melanchthonian school leading to the federalism of Cocceius were opposed to the deterministic Genevan and Dutch school as embodied in Beza, Gomarus and Voetius.3 Furthermore, Cocceius was not primarily indebted to Melanchthon, nor was Voetius in conflict with the Praecep-

1 W. J. van Asselt, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603–1669), Studies in the History of Christian Thought 100 (Leiden: Brill, 2001). By this contribution I want to thank Dr. Van Asselt for his friendship and his stimulating leadership of the Utrecht research group on post-Reformation Reformed theology. 2 Ibid., 101–105, 201–218. 3 Ibid., 325–335, and cf. Muller’s recent summary of his point of view in Richard A. Muller, After Calvin: Studies in the Development of a Theological Tradition, Oxford Studies in Historical Theology (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 63–102. On the alleged determinism in Voetius’ theology cf. Andreas J. Beck, “Gisbertus Voetius (1589–1676): Basic Features of His Doctrine of God,” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical enterprise, ed. W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, Texts and Studies in Reformation and Post-Reformation Thought (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001), 205–226, and Andreas J. Beck and Antonie Vos, “Conceptual Patterns Related to Reformed Scholasticism,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 75 (2003): 223–233. Cf. now also Andreas J. Beck, Gisbertus Voetius (1589–1676): Sein Theologieverständnis und seine Gotteslehre, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte 92 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), esp. 264–443.

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tor Germaniae. It is rather the case that the influence of Melanchthon on Calvinism in general has been underrated until recently.4 As Herman J. Selderhuis has shown recently, some clear points of contact between Melanchthon and Voetius can be identified.5 In this contribution I want to work out a few of these points of contact, particularly on the concept of science and the doctrine of natural theology. Thereby Voetius’ work and private library form the heuristic starting point. Furthermore, there will be special attention for continuities and discontinuities from the point of view of doctrinal content. 2. Biographical Data Although Voetius is much less well known than Melanchthon, his importance and influence cannot be easily overestimated.6 Albrecht Ritschl described his work as the “in every respect highest achievement of Calvinism in the Church in the Low Countries,”7 Wilhelm Gaß saw 4 See Günter Frank and Herman J. Selderhuis, eds., Melanchthon und der Calvinismus, Melanchthon-Schriften der Stadt Bretten 9 (Stuttgart: Frommann-Holzboog, 2005). This contribution is a revised and abbreviated version of Andreas J. Beck, “Zur Rezeption Melanchthons bei Gisbertus Voetius (1589–1676),” in Melanchthon und der Calvinismus, ed. G. Frank and H. S. Selderhuis, Melanchthon-Schriften der Stadt Bretten 9 (Stuttgart: Frommann-Holzboog, 2005), 319–344. Note that the longer version includes a section on the divine decrees in relationship to human free will. 5 Herman J. Selderhuis, Melanchthon: Zijn betekenis voor het protestantisme. Melanchthon en de Nederlanden in de 16e en 17e eeuw, Apeldoornse studies 41 (Apeldoorn: Theologische Universiteit, 2001), 9–46, esp. 41–42. 6 The standard biography is still C. A. Duker, Gisbertus Voetius, 4 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1910; repr., Leiden: Groen, 1989). See for additional biographical information J. A. Cramer, De Theologische Faculteit te Utrecht ten tijde van Voetius (Utrecht: Kemink en Zoon N. V., 1932); Doede Nauta, “Voetius, Gisbertus,” in Biografisch lexicon voor de geschiedenis van het Nederlandse Protestantisme, vol. 2 (Kampen: Kok, 1983), 443–449; J. van Oort et al., eds., De onbekende Voetius: Voordrachten wetenschappelijk symposium Utrecht 3 maart 1989 (Kampen: Kok, 1989). Cf. also the theological portrait by Aart de Groot, “Gisbertus Voetius,” in Gestalten der Kirchengeschichte, vol. 7, ed. Martin Greschat (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1982), 149–162; Willem van ’t Spijker, “Gisbertus Voetius (1589–1676),” in De Nadere Reformatie en het Gereformeerd Piëtisme, ed. T. Brienen et al. (’s-Gravenhage: Boekencentrum, 1989), 49–84; Joel R. Beeke, “Gisbertus Voetius: Toward a Reformed Marriage of Knowledge and Piety,” in Protestant Scholasticism: Essays in Reassessment, ed. C. R. Trueman and R. Scott Clark (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1999), 227–243; Beck, “Voetius,” 205– 226. 7 Albrecht Ritschl, Geschichte des Pietismus. Bd. 1: Der Pietismus in der reformierten Kirche (1880; repr., Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1966), 102.

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in him the very peak of Reformed scholasticism in the Netherlands,8 and Johannes Heinrich August Ebrard even called him the leading figure of Reformed scholasticism altogether.9 To be sure this kind of superlatives should be read within the context of nineteenth-century scholarship and the equal importance of Voetius’ contemporary Johannes Cocceius should not be underestimated either, as Willem van Asselt has aptly shown in his scholarly opus magnum. Nevertheless, it is true that the Dutch Republic in the seventeenth century quickly evolved into the cultural and intellectual hub of Europe, while Utrecht became an outstanding religious center with Voetius as the leading figure. The Papa Ultrajectinus, as Voetius was called by his opponents,10 managed to advance the program of the Nadere Reformatie or Further Reformation in both church and academic life, although he had to face many difficulties. This way he shaped a whole generation of pastors in the spirit of early Pietism.11 Voetius was born in 1589 in Heusden at the border of the Republic. In 1604–1611 he studied in Leyden, among others with Ursinus’ disciple Gomarus, whom Voetius admired throughout his live, as well as with Arminius. Voetius supplemented the official curriculum by studying a great deal of philosophical and theological works including Melanchthon’s De anima, the commentary of Configerus to this work

8 Wilhelm Gaß, Geschichte der protestantischen Dogmatik in ihrem Zusammenhange mit der Theologie überhaupt, 4 vols. (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1854–1867), I, 454. Similarly Ernst Bizer, “Historische Einleitung des Herausgebers,” in Die Dogmatik der evangelisch-reformierten Kirche: Dargestellt und aus den Quellen belegt von Dr. Heinrich Heppe, ed. E. Bizer (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1958), XVII–XCVI, LXI–LXIII. 9 Johannes Heinrich August Ebrard, Christliche Dogmatik, 2 vols. (Königsberg: Unzer, 1851–1852), I, 73. 10 Thus Lewis Du Moulin, Papa Ultrajectinus, seu, Mysterium iniquitatis reductum a clarissimo viro Gisberto Voetio in opere Politiæ ecclesiasticæ (London: Thomas Roycrof, 1668); cf. Geoffrey F. Nuttall, “Dr. Du Moulin and Papa Ultrajectinus,” Dutch Review of Church History 61 (1981): 205–213. 11 See Johannes van den Berg, “Die Frömmigkeitsbestrebungen in den Niederlanden,” in Der Pietismus vom siebzehnten bis zum frühen achtzehnten Jahrhundert, ed. Martin Brecht, Geschichte des Pietismus 1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 57–112, esp. 78–88.

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and the writings of Bartholomaeus Keckermann. Later he would earn the suitable epithet helluo librorum, a glutton for books.12 In 1611 Voetius became minister in Vlijmen and Engelen and in 1617 in his hometown Heusden. From there he was significantly involved in the reformation of Brabant’s capital Den Bosch, resulting in a long lasting war of pamphlets with Cornelius Jansenius.13 Due to these efforts and his activity on particular synods he won great esteem so that he was presented in 1618 and 1619 as the youngest delegate of the national Synod of Dordrecht.14 During his Heusden years Voetius studied Melanchthon’s Chronicon Carionis in the Genevan edition of 1617.15 The largest part of Voetius’ impressive theological work was written after he became professor of theology, Hebrew and oriental languages at the new Illustrious School of Utrecht in 1634 where he taught until his death in 1676. The most important volumes originate more or less from academic disputations and include his Disputationes theologicae selectae,16 Politica ecclesiastica17 and TA ASKHTIKA sive exercitia pietatis.18 One of the outstanding features of these works is the permanent dialogue with numerous theologians. Thus the disputations concerning the doctrine of God cite more than 700 names, most frequently

12 Duker, Gisbertus Voetius, I, 45-55; Cornelis Gentman, Allon bachvth, of Lyckpredikatie, over de dood van . . . Gisbertus Voetius (Utrecht: M. van Dreunen en W. Clerck, 1677), 14. For Melanchthon’s De anima cf. also Gisbertus Voetius, Exercitia et bibliotheca, studiosi thelogiæ, editio secunda, priore auctior & emendatior (Utrecht: Johannes à Waesberge, 1651), 472; Sel. Disp. II, 204 (see note 16). 13 Duker, Gisbertus Voetius, I, 125–260, 306–348; M. Lamberigts, “Voetius versus Jansenius,” in De onbekende Voetius, 148–167. 14 Duker, Gisbertus Voetius, I, 261–305. 15 Ibid., I, 376–77, and cf. Voetius, Exercitia et bibliotheca, studiosi thelogiæ, 627; and Sel. Disp. I, 493 (see note 16). 16 5 vols. (Utrecht c.q. Amsterdam, 1648–1669), abbreviated as Sel. Disp. 17 3 parts in 4 vols. (Amsterdam: Joannis à Waesberge, 1663–1676). 18 Gisbertus Voetius, De praktijk der godzaligheid (TA ASKHTIKA sive Exercitia pietatis—1664), ed. and trans. C. A. de Niet, 2 vols. (Monografieën Gereformeerd Piëtisme 2; Utrecht: De Banier, 1995).

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Aquinas, Francisco Suárez, Augustine, Aristotle, Vorstius, Descartes, Martin Becanus, Gomarus und Calvin.19 Voetius repeatedly refers to Melanchthon too.20 He calls him “a light among the theologians”21 and praises him as “a man being very mild and strongly devoted to peace” (vir mitissimus et pacis studiosissimus).22 He held him in high regard for his balanced judgment and calls him not only Praeceptor Germaniae, but also instructor of the whole Reformed community. From the auction catalog of Voetius’ private library it is evident that he owned an impressive collection of Melanchthonia.23 This collection not only included several editions of the Loci communes24 and commentaries on Daniel, Matthew, John and the epistles to the Romans and Corinthians,25 but also Melanchthon’s ethics,26 his Chronicon Carionis,27 two editions of epistles,28 Melanchthon’s De anima29 and the Opuscula.30 In addition, Voetius owned the two volumes of the Examen 19 Besides in some individually published disputations and parts of other writings, the doctrine of God is mainly covered in Sel. Disp. I, 114–520; V, 48–147, and also V, 455–525. For a list of all disputations in the 5 vols of Sel. Disp. consult Willem J. van Asselt and Eef Dekker, eds., De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995), 167–193. An outline of Voetius’ doctrine of God is included in Gisbertus Voetius, Syllabus problematum theologicorum: Pars prior (Utrecht: Aegidius Roman, 1643), D1r–K1v (without pagination). 20 There are more than 20 references in Voetius’ disputations on the doctrine of God. 21 Voetius, Syllabus problematum, a4r. 22 Sel. Disp. IV, 10. Cf. Sel. Disp. I, 194–95; I, 214; I, 500–51; Gisbertus Voetius, Thersites heautontimorumenos hoc est, Remonstrantium hyperaspistes, catechesi, et liturgiae Germanicae, Gallicae, et Belgicae denuo insultans, retusus (Utrecht: Abraham ab Herwiick & Hermann Ribbius, 1635), 176: “mitissimi ingenii vir.” 23 Bibliotheca Variorium et Insignum Librorum, Theologicorum et Miscellaneorum, Reverendi et Celeberrimi Viri D. Gisberti Voetii, 2 vols. (Utrecht: Guilielmus Clerck, 1677–1679). I use the following abbreviations: I = Pars prior; II = Pars posterior; T = Libri theologici; M = Libri miscellanei; fol. = in folio; 4° = in quarto; 8° = in octavo; 12° = in duodecimo et minori forma. 24 Ibid., I T 8° 191, 327; II T 8° 474; cf. also I T 8° 152. 25 Ibid., I T 8° 191, 199; II T 8°547. The Annotationes in Ioannem and in evangelium Matthei were already printed around 1524 in the Dutch city of Deventer, see Selderhuis, Melanchthon, 24. 26 Auct. Cat., I M 8° 84. 27 Ibid., II M 8° 224. 28 Ibid., I M 8° 62 and II T 8° 152. 29 Ibid., II M 8° 464.

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theologicum Phil. Melanchthonis cum explicationibus Chr. Pezelii,31 the Consilia sive judicia theologica edited by Christoph Pezel32 and Pezel’s Argumenta et objectiones de praecipuis articulis doctrinae Christianae, cum Responsionibus, quae passim extant in scriptis . . . Philippi Melanchthonis.33 3. The Concept of Science Voetius considerably shaped the University of Utrecht in its initial years and did this with a special high estimate for Melanchthon’s concept of science and his pedagogical work. As already August Tholuck has pointed out, the Dutch universities founded at the end of the sixteenth and at the beginning of the seventeenth century were via the Geneva Leges Academicae indirectly influenced by the educational reform of Wittenberg as it was initiated by Melanchthon.34 Moreover, when working on the byelaws of the Academia of Utrecht, Voetius repeatedly referred to various statutes of the Academia Wittenbergensis written by Melanchthon. The Utrecht rector owned suitable material in his private library.35 Voetius was for decades the primarius theologiae professor of Utrecht Unive rsity, both chronologically and for his contribution. Utrecht University developed under his rectorate into an internationally

30 Ibid., II T 4° 91. Cf. also I T 8° 171, 188, 236; I M 8° 145; II T 4° 541; II M 8° 77, 241, 319, 347. 31 Ibid., I T 8° 110 (first ed. Neustadt 1587). 32 Ibid., I T 8° 7 (first ed. 1600; Voetius erroneously dated this work to 1591 in his Politica ecclesiastica). 33 Ibid., I T 8° 397 (most likely Neustadt 1580–1588; Voetius owned 7 vols. of the eight-volume edition). 34 See Paul Althaus, Die Prinzipien der deutschen reformierten Dogmatik im Zeitalter der aristotelischen Scholastik: Eine Untersuchung zur altprotestantischen Theologie (Leipzig: A. Deichert, 1914), 10. Recent research has drawn a more precise picture of the relationship between the Genevan Academy and the University of Wittenberg; cf. Karin Maag, Seminary or University? The Genevan Academy and Reformed Higher Education, 1560–1620, St. Andrews Studies in Reformation History (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1995), and idem, “Higher Education for Melanchthon and Calvinism: A Comparative Approach,” in Melanchthon und der Calvinismus, 61–74. 35 Cf. Sel. Disp. I, 209 and 220 as well as Sel. Disp. I, 123; Sel. Disp. I, 194; Sel. Disp. I, 217; and cf. notes 31–33 and 44.

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famous academic center which was in the verge of outranking the University of Leyden.36 In his programmatic inaugural lecture, Voetius already demonstrated openly his ideals. The title is proverbial: De pietate cum scientia coniungenda. From a humanistic-learned style the praise resounds about the sciences. Voetius tries to motivate his audience to be fully engaged in the academic enterprise. However, equal attention has to be given to pietas (godliness). Ultimately, science is not an end in itself, but refers to God, the origin of all creation.37 All human knowledge participates more or less directly in God’s knowledge of himself, his possibilities and the possibilities carried out in his creation. This relationship of participation is most direct in the case of theology, which is connected with divine knowledge by way of special revelation, although only in the derived sense.38 Consequently, theology is the primary discipline in the canon of sciences. This means that the other sciences are all primarily related to theology, but without losing their own values.39 Like Melanchthon Voetius also held to the medieval model of a preparatory faculty of liberal arts.40 The discipline of philosophy, especially the conceptual apparatus and the discipline of logic, is indispensable for the theological enterprise. Voetius had a linguistic and semantic understanding of logic that was quite similar to that of

36 G. W. Kernkamp, De Utrechtsche Universiteit 1636–1936. Bd. 1: De Utrechtse Academie (Utrecht: Oosthoek, 1936), 229–282; Cramer, De Theologische Faculteit te Utrecht. 37 Gisbertus Voetius, Inaugurele rede over Godzaligheid te verbinden met de wetenschap, gehouden aan de Illustre School te Utrecht op de 21ste augustus 1634, Latin and Dutch text, edited and translated by dr. Aart de Groot (Kampen: Kok, 1978). 38 Cf. Gisbertus Voetius, Diatribae de Theologia, Philologia, Historia et Philosophia Sacra. Cum Indice Locorum quorundam Script. et Syllabo mater. ac quaestion. Philosophico-theologicarum (Utrecht: S. de Vries, 1668), 2–3. 39 Cf. Thomas A. McGahagan, Cartesianism in the Netherlands, 1639–1667: The New Science and the Calvinist Counter-Reformation (PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1976), 55–87. 40 See for Melanchthon Sachiko Kusukawa, The Transformation of Natural Philosophy: The Case of Philip Melanchthon, Ideas in Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Dino Bellucci, Science de la nature et Réformation: La physique au service de la Réforme dans l’enseignement de Philippe Mélanchton, Dialogo 1 (Roma: Vivere In, 1998).

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Melanchthon. Using modern terms, it could be argued that logical reasoning was a kind of philosophy of language both for Melanchthon and for Voetius.41 Concerning the usage of philosophy within theology, Voetius repeatedly refers to Melanchthon’s commentary on Col 2 in order to disprove objections of some Remonstrants who wanted to see theology exempt from every kind of philosophical concept.42 Voetius feared particularly that Remonstrants, Socinians and Cartesians would dissociate theology and philosophy in various ways, leading to a totally independent philosophical realm. Like Melanchthon, Voetius strictly rejected such a dissociation of philosophy and theology.43 According to Voetius the new system of René Descartes presupposed such a dissociation. Moreover, Cartesian methodical or hyperbolic doubt would impede the studies of the traditional canon of sciences. This alone would be sufficient reason to curb the emerging Cartesianism. What mattered to Voetius was the ideal of a uniform academic enterprise within the context of an international community of Reformed scholars. This motive emerges particularly clearly in the war of the pamphlets between Voetius and Abraham Heidanus. Here Voetius appeals again to Melanchthon’s Wittenberg university laws. Wittenberg and Geneva have not rejected Aristotle but they have purified and reformed him, as Voetius emphatically stresses.44

41 Ibid. 2r–3v, 2–3, 15––16, 20–31, 110–135; Thersites, 127–136, 175–178; Sel. Disp. I, 1–12; III, 750–756; and cf. II, 362–402; IV, 1–17, and Günter Frank, Die theologische Philosophie Philipp Melanchthons (1497–1560), Erfurter Theologische Studien 67 (Leipzig: Benno, 1995), 73–81. 42 Thersites, 176 und 192–93; Diatribae, *2r; Sel. Disp. III, 751. 43 Cf. SD III, 840: “Rejicimus et hallucinationem quorundam, qui statuunt aliquod verum in Theologia falsum esse in Philosophia.” 44 Suetonius Tranquillus, [= Voetius, Gisbertus], Den Overtuyghden Cartesiaen, Ofte Claere aenwysinge uyt de Bedenckingen van Irenaeus Philalethius, Dat de stellingen en allegatien in de Nader Openinge Tot laste der CARTESIANEN, in saecken de Theologie raeckende, nae waerheyt en ter goeder trouwe zijn by een gebracht (Leiden: Cornelis Banheinning, 1656), 9–10: “gereformeert / ghesuyvert.” cf. regarding the war of pamphlets Antonie Vos, “Voetius als reformatorisch wijsgeer,” in De onbekende Voetius, ed. van Oort et al., 220–241; Aza Goudriaan, “Die Rezeption des cartesianischen Gottesgedanken bei Abraham Heidanus,” Neue Zeitschrift für systematische Theologie und Religionsphilosophie 38 (1996): 166–197, and also Aza Goudriaan, Philosophische Gotteserkenntnis bei Suárez und Descartes im Zusammenhang mit der niederländischen reformierten Theologie und Philosophie, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 98 (Leiden: Brill, 1999).

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Both Melanchthon and Voetius were aware of some basic problems in Aristotelian thinking. They both presented a list of fundamental errors of Aristotle like monopsychism, the eternity of the world and the necessary determinism of the sublunar world. This list followed the important Parisian and Oxford condemnations of Averroistic Aristolianism in 1270 c.q. 1277. Thus the Aristotelian apparatus of concepts had to be relieved from the Aristotelian worldview and its errors and had to be carried over into the Christian framework of thinking.45 The resulting scholastic apparatus of concepts is an indispensable aid for every science and, according to Voetius, simply devoid of any viable alternative in his days. As Theo Verbeek recently has shown, this “Aristotelianism” of the Reformed scholastics meant “no more than the articulation of common sense.”46 For Voetius no less than for Melanchthon, faith and science, theology and philosophy had their own peculiarities, but were at the same time closely related to each other. This also became evident on the occasion of the promotion of the Gymnasium illustre of Utrecht to full university. In 1636, exactly a hundred years after Melanchthon’s academic lecture De laude vitae scholasticae oratio,47 Voetius delivered his Sermoen over de nuttigheid der academiën for the Reformed congregation assembled in the former cathedral of Utrecht. Quite significantly, Voetius now underscored the essential benefit of the academic enterprise and the individual sciences. Two years earlier, when he addressed a mainly academic audience, Voetius inversely emphasized the pietas or godliness which should accompany all academic work.48 45 Thersites, 192, 279, 292; cf. Sel. Disp. I, 210 and 217 and 250; III, 703–4 and 755: “error[es] Aristotelis communiter a Christianismo condemnat[i]”; Sel. Disp. III, 757 and 850; Sel. Disp. V, 119 and 125. Cf. Frank, Melanchthon, 16–23, 53, 236–37, and David Piché, ed., La condamnation parisienne de 1277: Nouvelle édition du texte latin, Sic et non (Paris: Vrin, 1999). 46 Theo Verbeek, Descartes and the Dutch (Carbondale, Ill.: Southern Illinois University Press, 1992), 7. 47 CR 11, 636–641; cf. also “De philosophia oratio (1536),” Melanchthons Werke in Auswahl, ed. Robert Stupperich, 7 vols. (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1951–75), III, 88– 95; and, generally, Sachiko Kusukawa, ed., Philip Melanchthon: Orations on Philosophy and Education, Cambridge Texts in the History of Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 48 Gisbertus Voetius, Sermoen van de nutticheydt der academien ende scholen, mitsgaders der wetenschappen ende consten (Utrecht: Aegidius ende Petrus Roman, 1636). Note the list of famous universities printed in the appendix: Een lijste van alle academien, ende de meest-vermaerde illustre scholen in het Christenrijck.

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4. The Knowledge of God—Theologia Naturalis Voetius’ doctrine of God is consistent with his concept of science as carried out in the previous section. In view of the reception of the theology of Melanchthon in Voetius’ doctrine of God, we focus on two topics: the question of natural theology or the natural knowledge of God and, briefly, the doctrine of Trinity. Regarding the question of the theologia naturalis it should be noted first that for Voetius, like for Melanchthon, theology generally is not speculative but practical, that is, it is not an end in itself but related to a specific aim.49 According to Melanchthon, the finis ultimus of theology consists in the comfort of the contested consciences, who achieve salvation through the promise of justification for the sake of Christ. Similarly, for Voetius the community of man with God in the eschatological visio beatifica is the aim of all theology.50 In principle this also applies to natural theology but only in a quite specific sense. Provided that the subject of knowledge is a Christian rather than non-Christian, every theological truth has a soteriological application for him or her, whether directly or indirectly.51 Voetius determines the relationship of natural and supranatural truths in a quite similar way as Melanchthon did. As considered on the level of content, natural theology forms a sub-range of supranatural theology. The truths of natural theology are content-wise also truths of supranatural theology, with the difference that they can be known in principle without the special revelation of Scripture. If these natural truths are more or less correctly recognized by a non-Christian, they fall outside the soteriological context that would be appropriate to these truths.52 This decontextualisation, however, is not to be ascribed to theological 49 Diatribae, 8–9; Sel. Disp. III, 1–3. 50 See Oswald Bayer, Theologie, Handbuch Systematischer Theologie 1 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1994), 152–155. Bayer quotes CR 6,140–142 and refers to CR 6,695; 11,780; 6,695. Cf. Voetius, Syllabus, A2r–A4r. 51 Diatribae, 31–32. cf. Sel. Disp. IV, 36, where Voetius explains that he would not ascribe with Zwingli and Melanchthon any true and saving knowledge of God to pagans, but that this viewpoint would be a historical error only. Cf., however, Melanchthons Werke in Auswahl, V, 70. 52 Voetius, Sel. Disp. III, 840: “Veritates Theologiae naturalis ut sic . . . materialiter eaedem sunt in Theologia supernaturali: formaliter tamen differunt, quatenus illae per solum naturae ductum haberi possunt, aut habentur, istae per revelationem supernaturalem seu scripturariam.”

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truths as such or to the object of knowledge, but solely to the subject of knowledge.53 These epistemological contours bear resemblance to the epistemology of Melanchthon, albeit the Praeceptor assigned the truths of theologia naturalis more consistently to the law in line with his fundamental distinction between law and gospel.54 An even more striking convergence between Voetius and Melanchthon becomes evident if we look at the concrete knowledge mood of the theologia naturalis. As Günter Frank has worked out convincingly, Melanchthon’s concept of natural theology must be understood within the framework of his philosophy of the mind. In this philosophy of the mind, an exemplarianism reminding of the Platonic doctrine of metexis is of fundamental importance. In the question of the natural knowledge of God this approach takes shape in the identifiability of the following three elements: first, the illuminating role of the lumen naturale, second, the relatedness to natural law, and third, natural knowledge (notiones naturales), running in parallel with notices or “ideas” which are a result of the activity of the mind (notitiae innatae).55 These three Melanchthonian elements are all present in Voetius’ doctrine of God, though in modified form. Exemplarianism, Lumen Naturale In the theologies of both Melanchthon and Voetius a version of exemplarianism represents the general paradigm. In the case of Voetius this overarching paradigm appears in the form of the distinction between theologia archetypa and ectypa.56 Archetypal theology is the theology of God by which he recognizes himself and all other things in a divine way. As opposed to this, ectypal theology is “the cognition and knowledge concerning God, which God has communicated to reason-gifted creatures.” Ectypal theology is the 53 Sel. Disp. III, 839–840. 54 See Frank, Melanchthon, 95–98, 140–158; Bernd R. Kern, “Philipp Melanchthon als Interpret des Naturrechts,” in Werk und Rezeption Philipp Melanchthons in Universität und Schule bis ins 18. Jahrhundert: Tagung anläßlich seines 500. Geburtstages an der Universität Leipzig, Herbergen der Christenheit, 2 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1999), 147–160; Christoph Strohm, “Naturrecht und Naturgesetz bei Luther und Melanchthon,” Lutherjahrbuch 66 (1999): 265–266; and cf. Sel. Disp. IV, 41–42. 55 Frank, Melanchthon, 95–98, 119–158. Frank treats these elements in a different order and distinguishes within the third element between notiones and notitiae.

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copy of archetypal theology whereas archetypal theology forms the prototype of ectypal theology. This relationship between copy and prototype is a relation of communication which is understood by Voetius in a logological sense. Being mediated by the illuminating Logos, our theology (theologia nostra) participates, so to speak, in the theology of God, that is, in God’s knowledge of himself and all things.57 Like Melanchthon, Voetius conceives the Logos in terms of the philosophy of the mind. With this illuminating Logos corresponds the first Melanchthonian element, viz. lumen naturale. Although this lumen naturale is quite a non-Aristotelian notion, it plays an important role in Voetius’ epistemology. Thus supernatural theology relies on the principles “that are reflected in the light of nature of the liberal arts and sciences, especially in logics and metaphysics.” Voetius refers for this viewpoint to theologians including Melanchthon, Bartholomaeus Keckermann and Johann Heinrich Alsted.58 Lex Naturae Regarding the second element, the doctrine of natural law, it should at first be noted that for Voetius as for Melanchthon the lex naturae is part of the basic condition for every natural knowledge of God.59 Moreover, both theologians would place natural law within the context of a mindtheological theory of light and situate it, anthropologically, in the 56 Regarding terminology this distinction most likely originates from Franciscus Junius, De theologia vera, ortu, natura, formis, partibus, et modo illius (Leiden: Ex officina Plantiniana [etc.], 1594), cap. 5; cf., however, Melanchthon in CR 10, 976–7. cf. also Richard A. Muller, Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics: The Rise and Development of Reformed Orthodoxy, ca. 1520 to ca. 1725, 2nd ed., 4 vols. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2003), I, 229–238. 57 Diatribae, 2–3, 7–8; Gisbertus Voetius, Voetius’ catechisatie over den Heidelbergschen Catechismus, ed. A. Kuyper according to the edition by Poudroyen in 1662, 2 vols. (Rotterdam: Huge, 1891), 43–45. 58 Sel. Disp. I, 1–2 and 5–7; Sel. Disp. I, 28 and 73; I, 119 and 141; I, 146 and 187: “Neque enim dextre explicari et defendi potest theologia supernaturalis sine principiis, axiomatis, consequentiis et regulis consequentiarum, quae ex lumine naturae in artibus ac scientibus, praesertim logica et metaphysica resplendent.” Also in his Thersites, 190–191 (cf. also 176), Voetius refers among others to Johann Heinrich Alsted, Theologia naturalis exhibens augustissimam naturae scholam ([Frankfurt]: Antonius Hummius, 1615). Cf. also Althaus, Prinzipien der deutschen reformierten Dogmatik, 73– 95. 59 Sel. Disp. I, 144; I, 147; IV, 355; V, 94 and 250. Cf. regarding Melanchthon Frank, Melanchthon, 140–158.

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human conscience. According to Voetius it would be absurd to claim that natural law is completely destroyed by sin since man would thereby become excusable before God.60 Another convergence of both theologians could be seen in the fact that Voetius connects the natural law to the divine attributes of right and justice in a similar way as Melanchthon and in a similarly complex relation to the Roman Catholic doctrine of lex aeterna.61 Notiones (Innatae) Naturales The third element, notiones communes or naturales, is particularly important and fundamental for Voetius. He takes these notions as notiones innatae, innated or endowed notions of knowledge. They form the epistemological presupposition for every kind of knowledge. In order to safeguard this element against Remonstrants, Socinians and the North-Italian Renaissance Aristotelians, Voetius vehemently defends the distinction between a theologia naturalis innata and a theologia naturalis acquisita. He has learned this distinction as a student from his teacher Gomarus, who in turn was a disciple of Ursinus, and from the writings of Junius major who was once in Neustadt a colleague of Ursinus. In his vicarage in Heusden Voetius recognized the prevailing relevance of this distinction. As a consequence, he further developed this distinction right from the start of his professorship in Utrecht in lectures on Rom 1:19–20 and 2:14–15 and on the Confessio Belgica. Afterwards, he defended the cognitio Dei innata in his pamphlet Thersites Heautontimorumenos already four years earlier than in the famous dis-

60 Sel. Disp. I, 144: “Si omnis cognitio numinis et omnis lex naturae, ac naturalis conscientia, plane abjici posset, tum nullum lumen remaneret in homine, quod excitatâ conscientiâ illum redderet anapológêton; sed posterius est absurdum ex Roman. 1. 19. 20.” Cf. Sel. Disp. I, 163–4. 61 Sel. Disp. I, 346–353, 368, 394–397, 398–99. Voetius here like Alsted links the natural law to the foedus operum. According to Althaus, Prinzipien der deutschen reformierten Dogmatik, 126–128, this linking would be clearly Melanchthonian. Cf., however, the objections of Lyle D. Bierma, German Calvinism in the Confessional Age: The Covenant Theology of Caspar Olevianus (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1996), 153– 155, and cf. also Beck, “Voetius,” 224–25.

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putations De atheismo, thereby ruling out the possibility of a direct speculative atheism.62 In Voetius’ convictions, all orthodox theologians of the Middle Ages and the Reformation took this distinction for granted, explicitly or at least implicitly. As witnesses he quotes primarily his colleague Heinrich Alting in Groningen who had taught in 1613–1622 at the theological faculty of the University of Heidelberg. Like Gomarus and Junius also Alting was indebted to the heritage of Melanchthon.63 Thus there exists a connecting line from Melanchthon to Voetius via Ursinus64 and Alting on the one hand and via Gomarus and Junius on the other end. In close affiliation with the expositions of these theologians Voetius reflected upon and thereby enhanced the distinction between the innate and acquired natural theology. According to Voetius the theologia naturalis innata or insita refers to a “natural seed of reason and religion”65 or “innate notions.” These innate notions consist in the disposition of the principles (habitus principiorum), namely of the special principles as opposed to the general principles.66 General principles are the logical laws, such as the principium contradictionis, which are not provable because they are self-evident. They form, so to speak, the basic matrix and condition of the possibility of every knowledge and are as such characteristic of the 62 Sel. Disp. V, 457–459. cf. Franciscus Gomarus, Opera theologica omnia, 3 vols. (Amsterdam: Joannes Janssonius, 1644), II, 10 and III, 2; Junius, De theologia vera, ortu, natura, formis, partibus, et modo illius, cap. 10; Thersites, 179–185; Sel. Disp. I, 114–226 (esp. 140–166). cf. Ernst Bizer, “Die reformierte Orthodoxie und der Cartesianismus,” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 55 (1958): 306–372; Hans-Martin Barth, Atheismus und Orthodoxie: Analysen und Modelle christlicher Apologetik im 17. Jahrhundert, Forschungen zur systematischen und ökumenischen Theologie 26 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971), and John Platt, Reformed Thought and Scholasticism: The Arguments for the Existence of God in Dutch Theology, 1575– 1650, Studies in the History of Christian Thought, 29 (Leiden: Brill, 1982). 63 Sel. Disp. V, 456–458, where Voetius quotes at length Henricus Alting, Theologia elenctica nova: sive Systema elencticum in inclyta Academia Groningæ & Omlandiæ publicis (Amsterdam: Joannes Janssonius, 1654), 2–8; cf. Auct. Cat., II T 4° 31. 64 Voetius used Ursinus’ commentary to the Heidelberg Catechism in his lectures: Zacharias Ursinus, Explicationes catecheticae, ed. David Pareus (Neustadt: Harnisch, 1591), and see Sel. Disp. I, *3r; Auct. Cat., II T 8° 374. 65 Cf. John Calvin, Institutio 1.3.1 (OS 3, 37–8.), and see for the continuity with Melanchthon, David C. Steinmetz, Calvin in Context (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 23–39. 66 These general and special principles in turn can be speculative or practical respectively.

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human mind, i.e., they form a disposition in anthropological respect. In precise correspondence to the disposition of these general principles the disposition of the special principles signifies the faculty (facultas, potentia) of the intellect to apprehend in principle effortlessly and without proof the self-evident truth of the special principles, namely God exists and God is to be adored in the right way.67 This faculty or capability in principle constitutes the natural innate God knowlegde. It follows from the nature of man as such and thus is an essential human attribute that inheres in man’s nature per definitionem, even given the fall of mankind, as Voetius underscores against Flacius Illyrius.68 The actual and factual execution of the knowledge of God, however, is an accidental attribute to be sure.69 According to Voetius, a one-sided orientation towards the knowledge of the existence of God inheres in this faculty or capability. This orientation prevents the possibility of the opposite execution of this faculty, namely the actual knowledge of the non-existence of God. As a consequence, such an execution could not happen with the same evidence and peace of conscience as the execution of the knowledge of God. This is what Voetius meant when he claimed that direct and permanent speculative atheism is impossible.70 The execution of the faculty that is embedded in the notiones naturales is part of the so-called second operation of the mind. Thus the intellect combines, for instance, the subject term God with the predicate 67 Sel. Disp. I, 141–2. This reference to principles does not imply, however, that “die Prinzipienlehre den Satz von der Existenz Gottes bestimmt” and thus the divine existence would be separated from the divine essence; contra Barth, Atheismus und Orthodoxie, 203. More useful is the analysis of McGahagan, “Cartesianism in the Netherlands,” 60–61. Note Voetius’ affinity with Duns Scotus; cf. Ludger Honnefelder, Ens inquantum ens: Der Begriff des Seienden als solchen als Gegenstand der Metaphysik nach der Lehre des Johannes Duns Scotus, 2nd ed., Beiträge zur Geschichte und Theologie des Mittelalters, Neue Folge 16 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1989), 3–5 and 18–20. 68 See for Flacius Sel. Disp. I, 140, and note the qualification in Sel. Disp. I, 1140– 1141: Were Flacius merely to deny the natural innate knowledge of God that is actual and objective, his point of view could be accepted with the exception of his doctrine of sin. Cf. furthermore Sel. Disp. I, 146 and 776; Sel. Disp. V, 467. 69 Sel. Disp. V, 141, where Voetius differentiates himself from the Platonic doctrine of anamnesis or reminiscence; cf. Sel. Disp. V, 490 and 503–504. 70 Sel. Disp. I, 142–149; Thersites, 179–185. cf. for Melanchthon Frank, Melanchthon, 97: “Die Verweigerung einer Gotteserkentnnis ist also kein Defizit der Erkenntnisfähigkeit des menschlichen Geistes, sondern ein Problem der Zustimmung und des Glaubens.”

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term exists and spontaneously affirms the resulting proposition. This second operation of the mind presupposes the apprehension of the terms, the first operation of the mind, which in turn is dependent on the stimulus of the senses.71 Thus Voetius conceives general knowledge as (koinas ennoias) or innate notions, namely a hidden natural seed of reason and religion which behaves like the disposition of the principles, which is carried over to act in adults. Based on this disposition the act of theology is produced without proof and merely by the perceived apprehension of the terms. In a similar way the truth of the first principles shines with its light and pours into our mind as soon as the terms of the proposition have been perceived.72

Thus the theologia naturalis innata as to its medium is based on a quality belonging to man as such, namely the natural light of reason or, more precisely, the disposition of the special principles. The medium of the theologia naturalis acquisita, on the other hand, is an entity that is external to man. This form of natural theology is acquired “from the outside” and signifies “that cognition and knowledge, which the natural man receives from God by observing and perceiving the creatures of God.”73 71 Sel. Disp. V, 481–483; cf. III, 649. The first operation of the mind is situated on the level of the termini simplices and precedes each judgement. In its second operation the mind combines and divides the perceived terms to complexiones terminorum. Therefore this activity is on the level of propositions. In case of self-evident propositions such as Deus est, this formation of judgment is free of any discursivity and thus also independent of demonstrability. Discursivity and efforts of demonstration are solely attributed to the third operation of the mind to which the theologia naturalis acquisita is linked. Voetius’ epistemological theory resembles clearly that of Duns Scotus; cf. Honnefelder, Ens inquantum ens, 185–190. 72 Sel. Disp. I, 140: “Nostri communiter ex Roman. 1. 18. cum 2. 15. et Johann. 1. 9. esse theologiam [naturalem] innatam, hoc est statuunt koinas ennoias seu notiones innatas, latens scil. rationis et religionis semen naturale, quod se habeat ad modum habitus principiorum: qui in adultis in actum educitur, et unde actus theologiae elicitur absque demonstratione, perceptâ modo terminorum apprehensione: [h]aut aliter ac primorum principiorum veritas suo lumine radiat et in mentem nostram se infundit, simulac enuntiationis termini percipiuntur: adeo ut nullius hominis adulti mens ab actuali istius veritatis coruscatione et sensu ad explicationem et perceptionem terminorum omnium [Orig. Disp.: omnino] possit esse libera.” I follow the version of the original dispution (to be found in Andover Havard). Cf. Melanchthon in the Loci tertiae aetatis (CR 21, 711f.). 73 Catechisatie, 46: “Die kennisse ende wetenschap, die den natuurlicken mensch van Godt bekomt, door het aanschouwen, ende bemercken van de geschapene dingen Godes.”

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As opposed to the theologia naturalis innata, in the theologia naturalis acquisita the reflective and discursive activity of the human intellect plays a decisive role. But this form of natural theology still is no less a gift of divine mercy.74 The sensory perception of divine creation forms the starting point of the discursive activity of the intellect. This object-relatedness stands in contrast to the inwardness of the theologia naturalis innata. In the last case, the dispositional capability of man, who is the subject of theology, prevails. Hence, Voetius calls the acquired natural theology “objective” and the innate natural theology “subjective.”75 By comparing the concrete contents of this distinction in Voetius’ understanding with Melanchthon’s notiones naturales, the impression could arise that Voetius’ positioning of the theologia naturalis innata on the level of dispositions was Aristotelian if anything, whereas with Melanchthon a more Platonic metaphysics of the mind would prevail. Although this impression is not devoid of any truth, caution is nevertheless advisable here. It is precisely the claim of Melanchthon that the natural notions are both the condition and execution of the knowledge of God,76 which forms content-wise the basis of Voetius’ distinction between the acquired and innate knowledge of God. Voetius too cannot accept the Aristotelian dictum Nihil est in intellectu, quod non prius fuerit in sensu in this form, provided that the notitiae innatae contain ontologically determinable knowledge grids also according to him.77 Does such a theologia naturalis, as both Melanchthon and Voetius, albeit in slightly modified form, develop within the framework of the philosophy of mind, import “a subjective turn of philosophy” into “a basically world-conceiving and world-designing function of human mind,” as the Melanchthon scholar Günter Frank would argue?78 Seen from the perspective of Melanchthon this might appear to be a correct characterization. Given the perspective of Voetius and seen, so to speak, 74 This kind of theology is also part of the theologia nostra, which is communicated by the divine grace of revelation, cf. Catechisatie, 46. The theologia naturalis acquisita is situated on the level of the dianoetic operation of the mind, by which the mind connects propositions to syllogisms; cf. note 71. 75 Sel. Disp. V, 462–464. 76 Cf. Frank, Melanchthon, 112–126, bes. 120–122. 77 Sel. Disp. V, 523–525. Voetius knew that this formula cannot be found verbatim in Aristotle’s writings. 78 Frank, Melanchthon, 122; cited without emphases.

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retrospectively, I would be more reserved than Frank and avoid drawing a line from Melanchthon (and Voetius) to Descartes or even Kant. Surprisingly, perhaps, Voetius fears that the concept of notiones naturales would get into difficulties through Descartes, of all people. In an extensive series of disputations Voetius tries to show that there indeed was nothing wrong with Descartes’ notiones innatae as such, but that Descartes would mean by them something completely different from the notiones innatae of the traditional theologia naturalis insita and thus would leave behind an unbridgeable epistemological gap.79 It seems to me that Voetius, from his point of view, indeed meets a core of truth since Descartes understood the ideas “as it were free from theology in a methodical sense,” as Frank himself admits.80 Descartes removes his ideas from the theocentric framework of natural theology and places them into the autonomous, self-constitutive subject. This Cartesian perspective shift seems so basic that we probably should clearly distinguish together with Voetius the Reformed concept of notitiae naturales from the Cartesian concept of ideae innatae.81 The Doctrine of Trinity Concerning the doctrine of Trinity, Melanchthon had written in the first edition of his Loci in 1521 the often-cited words: “We do better to adore the mysteries of deity than to investigate them.”82 At that time he had done without any exposition of the doctrine of Trinity.83 Voetius appreciates this doxological motive, but he sees just in this emphasis on the adorability of God an important motive for a thorough explanation of the doctrine of Trinity. Thus he repeatedly refers to Melanchthon as wit79 Sel. Disp. V, 455–525. 80 Frank, Melanchthon, 131, note 337. 81 Cf. Goudriaan, Philosophische Gotteserkenntnis, 208–236; Roger Ariew and Majorie Grene, “Ideas, In and Before Descartes,” in Descartes and the Last Scholastics, ed. Roger Ariew (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1999), 58–76. Note the similarity with the Lutheran theologian Johann Musaeus, cf. Carl Heinz Ratschow, Lutherische Dogmatik zwischen Reformation und Aufklärung, 2 vols. (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus G. Mohn, 1964–1966), 1, 33 und 36–40. 82 Melanchthon and Bucer, ed. Wilhelm Pauck (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1969), 21, and cf. Melanchthons Werke in Auswahl, II/1, 6: “Mysteria divinitatis rectius adoraverimus quam vestigaverimus”; cf. Sel. Disp. I, 480–81. 83 See the dipartite disputation De necessitate et utilitate dogmatis de SS. Trinitate, Sel. Disp. I, 466–511; cf. Sel. Disp. I, 511–520.

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ness for the practical use of this doctrine without which we could not know who God is and therefore could not have actual and soteriologically relevant knowledge of God.84 In doing so Voetius also realized that Melanchthon explained the doctrine of Trinity in length in later editions of his Loci, thereby following the ecumenical councils of the early church.85 Voetius generally could subscribe to Melanchthon’s reception of the doctrine of Trinity in the early church. He treated with some reserve, however, Melanchthon’s “psychological” positioning of the innertrinitarian processions and the related concept of vestigia trinitatis. Although Voetius also would distinguish the generation of the Son from the spiration of the Spirit, he rather would not commit himself to the view that the generation was related to the divine act of intellect and the spiration to the divine act of will or to divine love. Voetius worried too much about the danger of speculation at that point, although he definitively felt this distribution of the processions to be quite obvious. In contrast to Flacius he did not disqualify this point of view as being the somnium Philippi.86 Perhaps one could say that Voetius connected the concern of Melanchthon’s Loci primae aetatis with the major elements of the doctrine of Trinity in the Loci secundae et tertiae aetatis. Admittedly it should be noted that for Voetius Melanchthon was only one of many authoritative writers regarding this doctrine. 5. Conclusion To what extent did Voetius receive or adapt Melanchthonian thinking in his doctrine of God? The answer depends on what one understands by 84 Sel. Disp. I, 485, und cf. Melanchthons Werke in Auswahl, II/1, 209–214; cf. auch Sel. Disp. I, 481 und 493; 1, 500f. und 506. For Flacius, Quenstedt and Hutter cf. Ratschow, Lutherische Dogmatik, 2, 90–91. 85 Sel. Disp. I, 501, and cf. Melanchthons Werke in Auswahl, II/1, 190–194 and 209–212 (esp. 210). Cf. also Melanchthons’ Enarratio Symboli Niceni, 1550 (CR 23, 193–346, bes. 209–238) and Explicatio Symboli Niceni, 1557 (CR 23, 347–583; bes. 255–284). 86 Sel. Disp. V, 140–147, esp. 142; Melanchthons Werke in Auswahl, II/1, 183– 184 (esp. 184) and E. P. Meijering, Melanchthon and Patristic Thought: The Doctrines of Christ and Grace, the Trinity, and the Creation, Studies in the History of Christian Thought, 32 (Leiden: Brill, 1983).

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reception or adoption. There are relatively few direct references to Melanchthon, but this is also true with regard to Calvin. If frequent direct positive references were the decisive criterion, then one could at most speak about a reception of Aquinas, Augustine, Aristotle and Suárez. By this criterion, Voetius’ contemporaries like Samuel Maresius and Johannes Cocceius would have received almost nothing at all. Thus the mere degree of direct positive references could be hardly the determining criterion. Moreover, historical authorities were read in the seventeenth century still rather straightforward from one’s own perspective and not yet from a historical-critical approach. If we pay attention, however, to convergences from the point of view of content in combination with historical indications like the composition of Voetius’ library and lines of traditions via his teachers and their teachers in turn, then the reception of Melanchthon in Voetius’ theology is quite impressive. This is already obvious if we focus only on Voetius’ concept of science, his determination of the relation between theology and philosophy and in his doctrine of theologia naturalis, especially with regard to the notiones naturales.

GISBERTUS VOETIUS, GOD’S GARDENER THE PATTERN OF GODLINESS IN THE SELECTAE DISPUTATIONES F. G. M. Broeyer

In one of the disputations in his Selectae Disputationes the Utrecht professor of theology Gisbertus Voetius (1589–1676) went into the problem of whether it was becoming him to possess a beautifully laid out garden.1 Were gardens with summer houses and pergolas, with fountains and other embellishments, all aimed at pleasure, acceptable? Voetius was the leader of the Dutch piety movement of the Further Reformation. One would expect him to voice a word of protest. A theologian like him, noted for his abhorrence of luxuriance, must have realized the materialistic character of the demand for a beautiful garden. But in this case Voetius took up a standoffish position. He thought that his opinion ought to depend on the prevailing judgment at a particular time, the means at the owner’s disposal and the social rank of the person in question. Anyway, Voetius thought it was objectionable for churchmen. He followed up the restriction with regard to this category of gardenowners with a sneer at cardinals, bishops and abbots, who so often tried to outstrip other people by the magnificence of their gardens. Voetius’ flexible viewpoint on this subject makes it tempting and even justifiable in a way to consider his working method similar to that of seventeenth-century gardeners. In 1647 one of Rembrandt’s apprentices, Samuel van Hoogstraeten, painted a picture of a married couple in a garden.2 The Dordrecht born painter depicted a symmetrically laid out garden with a path in the middle which is divided into two equal halves by three flowerbeds, the outermost two being rectangular and the cen1 Gisbertus Voetius, De luxu et vanitate in vestibus, domibus et suppellectile, Pars 2, (Abrahamus Rodenborch resp.), in Selectae Disputationes Theologicae IV (Amstelodami, 1667), 417–429 (garden: l.c., 427). Disputation as regards the second part held on 25 November 1643. 2 The picture is in the Dordrecht museum, Dordrecht. Samuel van Hoogstraeten wrote a famous book about the art of painting: Samuel van Hoogstraeten, Inleyding tot de hooge schoole der schilderkonst, anders de zichtbaere werelt (Rotterdam, 1678).

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tral one circular. In those flowerbeds tulips are in bloom. The central path and the side paths split the garden up into a number of sections whose dimensions betray a continual use of auxiliary tools in order to make them as identical in shape as possible. The hedges are neatly trimmed and the trees expertly pruned. In short, the whole structure of the garden gives the impression of order up to the tiniest details. 1. The Selectae Disputationes The reader engaged in the study of Voetius’ five volumes of the Selectae Disputationes gets the perception of seeing a garden like that.3 The Utrecht professor utilized his scholastic working method like a gardener his spade, rake and pruning scissors. The detailed elaboration on a subject with the help of “quaestiones,” “responsiones,” “objectiones,” “exceptiones,” “problemata” and “conclusiones,” the argumentation with syllogisms every now and then, the frequently occurring arrangement into points indeed give the feeling of walking in a garden geometrically laid out by a highly expert gardener. Following the sixteenth-century Church Reformers, Voetius selfevidently made final salvation dependent on the possession of faith. He used Paul’s comparison of faith with a seed growing into a tree. But beside that, he introduced the metaphor of a bulb becoming a flower.4 Dealing with the question about the permissibility of lush gardens in the just quoted disputation from 1643, he also came to discuss the negative side of the best-known bulbous plant, the tulip. Many Dutch florists, he wrote, tried to breed varieties with other colours and they experimented especially on tulips. Voetius denoted these men in Latin as “anthomores,” a word clarified by him in Dutch with the term “blom-gecken” (flower-fools). They devoted all their costly time to it. Their thoughts and dreams were continuously directed to achieving new results. With

3 Gisbertus Voetius, Selectae Disputationes Theologicae I–V (Ultrajecti, Amstelodami, 1648–1669). 4 Gisbertus Voetius, De praxi fidei (Petrus Johannes Saenvliet resp.), in Sel. Disputationes II (Ultrajecti, 1655), 496–511 (metaphor of the bulb: l.c., 499). Disputation held on 24 November 1638.

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reference to 1 Cor 7:31 and 9:25 he condemned this striving of the florists for an increasingly impressive gamut of breeds.5 In the Selectae Disputationes Voetius dealt with a broad range of subjects.6 He particularly paid attention to the theme of faith in connection with that of the conduct suitable for believers. He thought instruction about this immensely important for the students he was schooling in theology.7 The disputations were meant to exercise the students in carefully reflecting upon and discussing religious issues.8 Year by year he devoted lecture hours to this part of the study programme on Saturdays. A large number of these discourses, which had to be attacked and defended under his guidance, were published by Voetius in the five volumes of the Selectae Disputationes. Notwithstanding the students’ names linked with the titles, Voetius wrote nearly all of them himself and perhaps even all without exception, as appears from the frequent use of the first person and the referring to other works he had written.9 The students, who acted as defenders, were expected to put themselves in his position and to advocate his opinions. In this way, during all the years of his Utrecht professorate he moulded a long series of ministers rightly bearing the name of Voetians. Afterwards they passed on his body of thought to the congregations where they were employed after their studies. Voetius fostered the ideal that believers needed to give shape to their faith in their daily lifestyle. To promote this he launched a piety movement in the Dutch Reformed Church with the help of the ministers he had trained. Repeatedly he spoke in his Selectae Disputationes of how opponents looked at those people who were counted as his adherents. 5 Voetius, De luxu et vanitate, 2, in Sel. Disputationes IV, 427, 428. Recent study on the tulip(o)mania: Anne Goldgar, Tulipmania. Money, Honor and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). 6 Cf. Willem J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, eds., De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995). 7 Cf. W. van ‘t Spijker, “Voetius practicus,” in De onbekende Voetius, ed. J. van Oort et al. (Kampen: Kok, 1989), 246, 247; idem, “Enkele aspecten van de theologie van de nadere Reformatie,” in Het eigene van de Nederlandse Nadere Reformatie, ed. O. J. de Jong et al. (Houten: Den Hertog, 1992), 41–43. 8 W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, “Rond Voetius’ ‘Disputationes Selectae’,” in De scholastieke Voetius, ed. van Asselt and Dekker, 1–33. 9 See also van Asselt and Dekker, “Rond Voetius’ ‘Disputationes Selectae’,” 21, 22.

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They were branded precisians, puritans, sabbatarians and so on. Published from 1648 to 1669, the Disputationes contain discourses which reach back to his earliest years in Utrecht, and are the choicest source for the piety movement promoted by Voetius. They demonstrate how Voetius hammered his views as fence posts into the heads of the prospective ministers. Of course other religious subjects came up for discussion too, which were meant to increase the knowledge of the students in the overall area of theology. Thus Voetius raised the matter of the doctrine of God in the Selectae Disputationes. But he owes his historical importance above all to the scholarly development of the pattern of piety which he derived from predecessors. He became familiar with their ideals thanks to the writings of well-known English Puritans such as William Perkins and Dutch ministers like Jean Taffin and William Teellinck. Even people who do not like Voetius because of his scholastic argumentations must be able to admit that he breathed new life into the Reformed Church of the Dutch Republic by the propagation of the platform of the Further Reformation.10 The greater part of the discourses in the Selectae Disputationes are connected with questions about acquiring salvation and the craving of believers for certainty with regard to that, or to put it briefly: questions falling under practical theology, as Voetius categorized the framework. This article therefore focuses on his practical theology. It intends to show how Voetius trained his students to be ministers capable of directing a congregation of church members who hungered and thirsted after a faith that would bring them closer to God.11

10 Cf. F. G. M. Broeyer, “Voetius en Utrecht,” in De onbekende Voetius, ed. van Oort et al., 57, 69, 70. 11 In an article about Voetius, van Asselt stated that Voetius’ work does not give reason to argue for the existence of a contrast between scholasticism and piety. Voetius took it for granted that rationality and spirituality not only could go together but that they were mutually stimulating. See Willem J. van Asselt, “Gisbertus Voetius, gereformeerd scholasticus,” in Vier eeuwen theologie in Utrecht: Bijdragen tot de geschiedenis van de theologische faculteit aan de Universiteit Utrecht, ed. A. de Groot and O. J. de Jong (Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2001). The enormous influence of Voetius in the Reformed Church of the Dutch Republic justifies van Asselt’s vision on this issue.

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2. The Condition of the Elect Before Conversion The first discourse, aimed at describing the condition of the elect before conversion, De statu electorum ante conversionem, is included in the second volume of the Selectae Disputationes (1655).12 Voetius revised its text when he reedited it later on. The original, credited with a student’s name, dates from September 1639. Given the presupposition that people needed to be converted, it was of course a burning issue how to assess the preceding phase. The official doctrine of the General Synod of Dordt (1618–1619) rested on the view that God had decided in advance whether somebody would attain salvation or not. That had already been laid down for every child in its mother’s womb, even much earlier in fact, for it had been settled from eternity: before the creation of the world.13 The purpose behind this doctrine of predestination was that the faithful would feel safe with regard to their final destination in the consciousness that God’s plans were fixed and that salvation did not depend on a requirement of sinlessness, which they knew to be unattainable in this life.14 But doubts still arose, especially if people were troubled about their sins and feared these were a clear sign of not being elected. Such doubters could not even be comforted by the thought voiced in Paul’s Epistles that true believers also commit sins and need forgiveness. Voetius tried to help people with the assurance provided by the election.15 There existed, he claimed, a state of grace preceding conver-

12 Gisbertus Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem (Henricus ab Harlingen resp.), in Sel. Disputationes II, 402–432. Disputation held on 7 September 1639. 13 Canones Synodi Nationalis, Caput I; Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 402–403. 14 For the meaning of theological terms with a Latin and Greek background used in this article, see Richard A. Muller, Dictionary of Latin and Greek theological terms, drawn principally from Protestant scholastic theology, 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 1989). 15 See about the doctrine of assurance: C. Graafland, De zekerheid van het geloof (Wageningen: Veenman, 1961) (esp. l.c., 150–156); Joel R. Beeke, The quest for full assurance: The legacy of Calvin and his successors (Edinburgh: Banner of Truth Trust, 1999).

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sion. The conversion could even take place on one’s deathbed. The seeds of faith, hope and charity might already be present, he went on, even though faith formally (formaliter) was still wanting.16 It goes without saying that Voetius entered at length into the signification of baptism in this disputation De statu electorum ante conversionem. To underline his rejection of the standpoint that baptism itself might be looked upon as regeneration, he recalled a memory from the days that he had attended the Synod of Dordt when he was a young minister. He referred to the English representatives John Davenant and Samuel Ward there, who expressed the opinion that the sacrament of baptism did not have a regenerating effect.17 God’s gift in baptism was the certainty that original sin would not result in eternal doom. But this meaning of baptism must on no account lead to the conclusion that children who were not baptized and were born outside the covenant would always be lost. In the Holy Scriptures nothing about that was mentioned. Baptism did not give a guarantee against the possibility of getting lost. It was not in vain, however, even though it was only a sign of the covenant and the value of its character as a seal counted exclusively for the elect. For it involved a promise destined to benefit the baptized children. The promise implied that with respect to these children it ought to be presumed that they possessed the seed of faith. Administering baptism, the minister was not wrong to judge them all with the judgement of love (caritatis judicio). According to question 84 of the Heidelberg Catechism sermons he presented the promises of the gospel in a similar way before adults. For only God knew how the individual response to the preaching of his Word would be.18 The disputation on the condition of the elect before conversion was of course especially intended for and related to adults. Voetius gave an unmistakable answer to the question whether conversion was always accompanied by a shock or other fierce emotions. His reply was: no. He referred to the scriptural passages 1 Sam 1 and 2, Job 31:18, Ps 71:5–6, and 2 Tim 3:15, but also to everyday experience. There were children who evidently grew up as true believers and whose behaviour already showed fruits of their faith.19 To this question about the necessity of a 16 17 18 19

Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 403. Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 409. Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 413. Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 415.

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sudden conversion Voetius tagged yet another one, namely whether there ought to be a memory of the moment of conversion and the way in which it occurred. He knew theologians for whom a sudden conversion was the norm, such as the Englishman Robert Bolton in his A Discourse About the State of True Happiness.20 He himself did not hold that opinion: “But the truth and dire necessity force us to disagree about this.”21 Examples of such an unforgettable experience existed. They ought not be generalized and made conditional, however, “in order that we do not also throw the best believers,” who are connected with Christ from childhood on, “into doubts and tribulations.”22 3. Regeneration and Conversion A problem linked with the former one was the relationship between regeneration, God’s calling and conversion. As a Reformed theologian of principle, Voetius naturally advocated the stance that eternal salvation depends on the presence of faith. It was nevertheless possible to use the word regeneration for children who were still beings without reason. In the second place, there might be a regeneration of children who were growing up piously. Finally there was the regeneration of those people who came to faith at a later time in life. With respect to the last group the question arose as to how the calling and conversion took place. This question came up for discussion in a two-part disputation specifically devoted to the theme of regeneration, De regeneratione, which was held two months after the De statu electorum ante conversionem-one. A student who later became a Utrecht minister, Cornelis Gentman, defended

20 Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 415. Voetius cites the title in Latin: Discursus de vera beatitudine, but refers to the English edition: Robert Bolton, A Discourse about the state of True Happinesse (1611; repr., Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum, 1979) and the Dutch edition: Robbert Boulton, Toet-steen der Conscientie, ofte Proeve over den standt der ware gelucksalicheydt (1638; repr., Zwijndrecht: De Roo, 2004). 21 Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 415. “Sed ipsa rei veritas ac necessitas cogit nos ab iis dissentire.” 22 Voetius, De statu electorum ante conversionem, 415, 416. “… ne in dubitationes et tentationes detundamus optimos quoque fideles, qui ab infantia mundo renunciarunt, et Christo adhaeserunt.”

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Voetius’ view on this issue.23 Gentman was one of his favourite pupils. When Voetius died in 1676, it was Gentman who delivered the sermon at the funeral.24 In spite of this, here too, as in so many other cases, Voetius conceived the text of these disputations De regeneratione himself, as can be seen from the references to earlier discourses and other publications of his. Here Voetius quoted from his disputation on the condition of the elect before conversion. Voetius was accustomed to explaining his concepts extensively. In order to clarify the term regeneration he gave the explanation that human beings could pass through, as it were, a recurrence of their birth. Thanks to this event the possibilities of piety and holiness, given at the creation but lost in consequence of the Fall of Adam, were restored.25 Voetius admitted, accurate as he was, that some theologians interpreted the word regeneration differently and said that it had to be seen as the new obedience after conversion.26 Because conversion was an experience that ought to be considered in connection with one’s rebirth, he provided a definition of conversion too. He did not make this elucidation easy to comprehend for his students, however, on account of the three distinctions he assumed. First, conversion could be seen as an action of God. But it could also be looked at as an action in which both God and man were involved. And, finally, there was the possibility of restricting it to man alone, if one only considered the accompanying phenomena. With regard to the first distinction Voetius gave the supplementary consideration that here conversion was in fact synonymous with regeneration, as God’s grace preceded it all. He continued his explanation of the relationship between the concepts used by accentuating God’s calling. For the terms regeneration, conversion and calling with their respective connotations in a wider context, he also referred to

23 Gisbertus Voetius, De regeneratione (Cornelius Gentman resp.), Partes 1, 2, in Sel. Disputationes II, 432–447, 447–468. Disputation held on 9 and 16 November 1639. 24 Cornelis Gentman, Allon Bachuth of Lyck-predikatie, over de Dood van den Hoog-beroemden Heer Gisbertus Voetius, Professor der Heylige Theologie, en Herder der Gemeinte Christi tot Utrecht, in den Heere ontslapen den 1 November 1676. Over 2 Sam. 3: 38 (Utrecht, 1677). 25 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 434. 26 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 435.

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Amesius’ Medulla Theologiae.27 Further he occupied himself in this disputation with the working of God's grace which, when approached as cause (causa), might be envisaged in very different ways. The disputations lose their sometimes—to be honest—highly dry character as soon as Voetius brings up the problemata, the questions arising in connection with a subject. The sections devoted to the problemata are often the most captivating parts of the discourses in Voetius’ Selectae Disputationes, because there he did take notice of the objections the students in his audience might have. In this first disputation about regeneration, the fourth problem is especially interesting. The question was whether there were elements of a preparing nature present in the person of those who experienced a conversion, which contributed to it as a separate cause.28 Voetius reacted with the remark that saying “yes” would be “Pelagian.” “Our” answer is a decisive denial.29 There were onsets indeed which could be considered as preparations and were even mentioned as preparations by some theologians. But in these cases it concerned actions of the Holy Spirit bringing about regeneration.30 Human nature itself did not harbour anything preparing for grace. Neither could anything be attributed to elements coming from the outside like miracles, divine judgments and the representation of salvation in the preaching of the Word (verbi propositio), in such a way that these in themselves would make man susceptible to God’s grace.31 The convert turned to Christ thanks to the faith that gripped him. Thinking back to what happened to him “he concludes and feels that he is in the state of grace” (concludit ac sentit, se esse in statu gratiae). Judging by that reflection, there seemed to be preparations starting from the person himself. These, however, ought to be considered actions of God.32 Some resemblant problemata followed, among which the question whether the preaching of God's Word was heard fruitfully by a churchgoer during the time that he was still not converted. This was not the 27 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 435; Guilielmus Amesius, Medulla Theologica (Amstelodami, 1641). 28 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 443–445. 29 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 443. 30 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 444. 31 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 445. “Natura enim in homine non est gratia, nec praeparatio ad gratiam. Externae occasiones objectae ut miracula, judicia Dei, verbi propositio, nullam ex se ponunt dispositionem aut aptitudinem in homine.” 32 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 444.

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case. On that account one might come to the conclusion that people who were not going to become reborn could stay away from the church as well. But that conclusion did not hold true, according to Voetius, for God’s Word was good in itself and He had ordered that it be heard.33 In Gentman’s second part of the disputation De regeneratione, Voetius further elaborated his position. The most important new viewpoint was that about sanctification. For a regenerated person sanctification followed at the moment that he received faith in Jesus Christ. Voetius started his exposition by examining what preceded the rebirth, therefore beginning with the issue of predestination. One of God’s actions deriving from this was his watching over those who were to be converted later on up to the time of their regeneration. Another act of divine providence was the redeeming call (vocatio salutaris).34 The main thing was always that all changes originate with God. The effect of God’s call was a will to be reborn. The Holy Spirit thus brought about that a man not willing became a willing man.35 Finally, as a matter of course Voetius brought up the matter of the certitude of faith. How could anybody be sure that he had been reborn? Clear signs were remorse about committed sins, consciousness of being a believing person, and holiness noticed in one’s own behaviour.36 4. The Marks of a True Believer An extremely important discourse, perhaps even the most important one in the five volumes of Gisbertus Voetius’ Selectae Disputationes, is the De simplicitate et hypocrisi.37 This disputation about simplicity and hypocrisy took place on two days in December 1636. Abrahamus Heidanus was the student undertaking the defence. This Heidanus was not the future Coccejan professor of Leiden, by the way. He was a student 33 Voetius, De regeneratione, 1, 445. 34 Voetius, De regeneratione, 2, 448. 35 Voetius, De regeneratione, 2, 449. 36 Voetius, De regeneratione, 2, 459. In Voetius’ words: “Signa ejus desumi debent partim ex actibus seu motibus resipiscentiae, fidei, et novae sanctitatis, partim ex consequenti beatitudine.” 37 Gisbertus Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi (Abrahamus Heidanus resp.), in Sel. Disputationes II, 468–496. Disputation held on two days, 10 and 17 December 1636.

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of theology who came from the Zeeland town of Tholen. Adversaries scolded Voetians “Zeelanders” now and then, because a great number of Voetius’ adherents did indeed originate from Zeeland. Voetius republished the disputation De simplicitate et hypocrisi in the second volume of the Selectae Disputationes. He noted explicitly that he had extended the 1636 text.38 In a sense this discourse constitutes the counterpart to Voetius’ oration about the necessity of connecting science with piety, which he had delivered at the opening of the University of Utrecht in August 1634.39 In the disputation of December 1636 he dealt principally with the question how piety ought to be connected with dayto-day life.40 The in 1655 anew released discourse is of major concern, for it elucidates the pressure behind the efforts of Voetius and the ministers of Utrecht who supported him in his endeavour to set his stamp on church and city. The confirmed members of the Church of Utrecht have never been supervised so sternly on their conduct as precisely in those days. In the acts of the consistory the list of admonitions and preclusions from the Holy Communion is endless. Church membership could not be considered an easy walk to heaven. The most useful virtue for a sincere Christian, Voetius wrote, was simplicity (simplicitas). A believer distinguished himself from his fel-

38 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 487. 39 Gisbertus Voetius, De pietate cum scientia conjungenda, in: Illustris Gymnasii Ultrajectini Inauguratio, una cum orationibus inauguralibus (Ultrajecti, 1634), E2ro– L3vo; Idem, Inaugurele rede over Godzaligheid te verbinden met de wetenschap, gehouden aan de Illustre School te Utrecht op de 21ste augustus 1634, ed. A. de Groot (Kampen, 1978). De Groot republished the Latin text with an annotated translation into Dutch. “Piety” in Voetius’ sense of the word means “a stict Christan conduct in life nourished by an inward experience of faith” according to van Asselt: W. J. van Asselt, “Gisbertus Voetius, professor en predikant te Utrecht (1634–1676),” Tijdschrift voor Nederlandse Kerkgeschiedenis 8 (2005): 6. See also: A. de Groot, “Godzaligheid is gelukzaligheid (Jodocus van Lodenstein). Verkenning in de geschiedenis van een woord,” Kerk en Theologie 27 (1976): 177–187. 40 Voetius himself accentuated the affinity of the oration of 1634 to his ΤΑ ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΑ sive Excercitia Pietatis of 1664. Cf. the title page of the last mentioned work. Gisbertus Voetius, ΤΑ ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΑ sive Excercitia Pietatis in usum Juventutis Academicae nunc edita (Gorichemi, 1664). “Proprium hominis christiani est simplicitas sine qua nihil est istius quod esse putatur.” (l.c., 468) “Universalis simplicitas, de qua instituta haec disputatio, pertinet ad statum universalem gratiae ac pietatis et describi potest: Modus, affectio, seu virtus pietatis, qua illa talis intus exhibetur et a possessore suo deprehenditur, atque adeo interne et externe coram Deo et hominibus talis ostenditur, qualis revera est ac ex praescripto Dei esse debet, saltem ad essentiam suam.” (l.c., 471).

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low men by exactly this quality.41 Very often Voetius did his best to clarify concepts by pointing out the opposite. In order to show clearly how he saw simplicity, he explained what erroneously could be taken for it. For this reason Voetius did not want to have anything to do with Francis of Assisi, as he thought that the latter’s “silly” behaviour might be looked upon as a “devilish illusion.” One only had to read the tales about his liberating lambs or pay attention to the way in which he had contact with wolves, ravens and other animals: and it became immediately clear what kind of man he had been.42 Some pages hereafter Voetius came to speak again about a mistakenly conceived simplicity. He found that especially monks who did their best to lead a pious life offered a good example of misplaced simplicity.43 In a list consisting of nine recommendations, Voetius gave an enumeration of ways suited to building a godly existence in an appropriate way. He started with the worship of God in public and privately (exercitia pietatis). Contemplation of the Scriptures especially made good sense, because these were like “a mirror and ruler,” with the help of which the human heart could be brought to simplicity. Thereupon a frequent reflection on all of one’s own actions was necessary, which should take the form of a conscientious self-examination proceeding from the understanding of an absolute unworthiness towards God. And thus Voetius went on. He put forth some suggestions which were useful in his opinion for giving shape to the ideal of simplicity. Among them was the advice to follow the example of men and women in the Bible who were praised on account of their simplicity. That same method also held true for the example given by key figures in the history of the church. Negative models might have an effect too. One therefore had to take heed of the scandalous behaviour of all those who were totally lacking simplicity. Naturally Voetius disapproved of any pretending to possess the virtue of simplicity. The believer had to pray to God for simplicity, moreover, and ask for a heart directed only to that. Then a lifestyle would result that was characterized by aversion to all matters of the world, in other words to all transience to outward appearances which were good for nothing.44 41 42 43 44

Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 468–471. Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 471. Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 475. Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 474, 475.

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Further down in the disputation De simplicitate et hypocrisi Voetius returned extensively to what he considered the opposite of simplicity. He conceived hypocrisy as such. His point of departure, by the way, was the standpoint taken over from Augustine that pride (superbia) was the major vice. Pride formed the breeding ground for all other vices. It was the desire to rise above others in the wrong way (appetitus perversae celsitudinis).45 Just as Augustine set humility (humilitas) against pride, Voetius contrasted simplicity and hypocrisy. He accentuated the feigning of the virtue of simplicity in his condemnation of pride. The person doing so wanted to appear other than what he was, better than he was. This also meant that hypocrites threw dust in the eyes of others, thereby deceiving them.46 “Most” pharisees of the Bible set a deterring example, “most” popes actually did the same. But those who simulated virtuousness deceived themselves too. The last-mentioned point applied especially to “most” priests of the Catholic Church.47 The nuance “most” thought necessary by Voetius here is striking of course. He gave an enumeration of marks by which hypocrites were recognizable ending it with the words: “We conclude that this all occurs where the true faith, repentance and certitude of salvation are missing.” As English authors who might be read up on the subject Voetius mentioned Daniel Dyke, Robert Bolton and of course William Perkins, “the Homer of the practical authors.” The masks of the hypocrites ought to be torn off, while simultaneously the condition of the true children of God must come to light.48 Voetius thought the point about the signs or marks (signa) which distinguished believers from nonbelievers a highly important one.49 He expounded his ideas on that subject in an ample exposé. The universal and most certain mark of a true believer was that he thought and acted in accordance with the Scriptures, to which other marks were then

45 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 477. Augustinus, De Civitate Dei, XIV, cap. 13. 46 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 478. 47 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 480. 48 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 483. 49 Voetius used the expression “signa diagnostica”: Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 483.

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tagged. In order to clarify what he exactly meant, Voetius referred to “the golden book” of Thomas à Kempis.50 Voetius continued his general exposition on the marks with several sets of signs useful for identifying believers, but especially valuable for testing one’s own faith. He started with a series of seven marks. For the formation of a general picture of those sets it is worth reproducing the first set in a translation, although there will still be some misrepresentation, because Voetius was accustomed to quoting Bible texts. The scriptural passages mentioned by him are left out here, however, for convenience of comparison. The seven marks that made believers recognisable run as follows: 1) “Progress and growth. For it is something like sunlight which increases until day has broken completely. And the highest perfection during the life on earth implies: nowhere standing still, nor being self-satisfied, and continually being put in motion from the state of imperfection.” 2) “The conflict with the devil, the flesh and the world.” 3) “Investigation of one’s own state, spiritual knowledge and experience.” 4) “A pious, virtuous and modest lifestyle.” 5) “The beneficent feeling of the emotions love, distress, zeal, longing, joy, when we reflect on and absorb the Word of God, his judgments and blessings, sins of ourselves and our neighbours, and finally the propagation of the gospel, the church and piety. Everybody whose innermost self does not get stirred by the contact with all of that is heartless and misses every bit of grace.” 6) “An absolute and entire submitting to the Word of God inspired by the obedience of faith, as well with regard to the official doctrine, the ecclesiastical uses and the government of the church, as with regard to the daily running of things without any restriction or condition whatever, without any mingling with selfinterest or unseemly awe.” 7) “Belonging to God in both misfortune and prosperity.”51 50 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 484: “Thomas a Kempis in aureo libello De Imitatione Christi.” Voetius had a great admiration for Thomas à Kempis, see C. Graafland, “De invloed van de Moderne Devotie in de Reformatie ca. 1650–ca. 1750,” in De doorwerking van de Moderne Devotie, ed. P. Bange et al. (Hilversum: Verloren, 1988), 52, 53, 56, 57, 62–64; W. J. op ’t Hof, “Eenen tweeden Thomas à Kempis (doch ghereformeerden),” in l.c., 152–158, 164–165. Volume V of the Selectae Disputationes contains a highly interesting survey of the editions of De Imitatione Christi, written by Voetius: Gisbertus Voetius, De selectis quibusdam problematis, Pars 12 (Matthias Neef, resp.), in Sel. Disputationes, V, 698–716 (l.c., 709–712). Disputation held on 22 December 1648. 51 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 485.

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Immediately after this series of seven general marks he offered the readers another one, this time a set of eight for recognising hypocrisy. Voetius’ motive for the composition of such lists speaks for itself. An important part of the inheritance of the sixteenth-century Reformation was the certitude of faith. An uprightly believing Christian had to take it for granted that he would not lose his faith whatever happened. For God had promised its perseverance. This promise gave certitude, because the doctrine of faith meant above all that anybody who believed would be certain, as it were, that his faith would continue from day to day. But in actual practice feeling certain did not appear to be such an easy matter. That is why Voetius, following other theologians, thought it valuable to enumerate the points by which the presence of faith was recognisable. Being an intellectual perfectionist, he did not limit himself to only one enumeration, but furnished a lot of sets with all kinds of variations which seemed useful to him. But he was also afraid that people should feel certain mistakenly. For that reason a set of signs, by which he held hypocrisy discernible, followed immediately after the set of general marks for distinguishing true faith. In this set of eight devoted to hypocrisy a striking, but at first sight also confusing mark, is encountered. Voetius stated that it could be considered a sign of the lack of true faith if someone never had any doubts, never agonized because of “unrest, spiritual pain, anxious worries, uncertainties, fears” and the like.52 After this list, meant to unmask hypocrisy and to serve as a warning at the same time, he committed two other sets of fourteen and twelve marks, respectively, to paper, serving as a basis for the demonstration of true faith in one's inner self. Voetius attached great importance to them: “When someone goes through them, he will see a truthful image like that on a picture or in a mirror, and be certain about the distinction from the false image of hypocrisy. And thus he will know himself exactly when linking it with what he perceived with his conscience.”53

52 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 486. “Quod fidem suam teneat in composita et perpetua tranquillitate, et securitate (quam ille quietem et fiduciam vocat) absque ulla perturbatione, spiritus sui vexatione, scrupulis, dubitationibus, terroribus . . . .” 53 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 483. “Quae si quis percurrat, tanquam in tabella et speculo imaginem veritatis propositam videbit, et a falsa hypocriseos imagine certo distinguet; atque ita per eandem cum conscientia sua collatam, se ipsum accurate agnoscet.”

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It might seem a matter of course that suffering for one’s personal conviction is a mark. Voetius, however, provided examples belying this assumption in his opinion. To substantiate his standpoint he referred to Galileo, about whom he knew and thus could tell that he had recently been in prison in Rome because of his theory that the earth revolved around the sun. In the eyes of Voetius, this was a misconception, as he repudiated the Copernican world view, which he deemed contrary to the Scriptures. He quoted some other names as well, among them Michael Servetus who was burned at the stake in Calvin’s time in Geneva, in order to show that “Mohammedans, heathens, Jews, heretics, atheists and libertines” had suffered for “frantic causes.” It must automatically lead to wariness about the worth of martyrdom, Voetius argued, that so many people had fallen victim to their delusions.54 In a series of arguments he indicated even more precisely why he held this criterion to be unsound. Voetius realised that his flood of distinguishing marks could overshoot the target. This did not stop him from providing yet another list with marks, one of twelve, wherein he examined how the work of the Holy Spirit could be recognised in a believer. Usually there was, he wrote in what he drew up as the tenth mark, among other things a sweet and comforting enjoyment of the “community between God and the sanctified soul” (communio inter Deum et animam sanctificatam), “if the person concerned was despised and attacked by the world in the fiercest way” (quando maxime a mundo contemnitur et oppugnatur).55 But this time he concluded the list with the remark that such sets might be reduced or extended at one’s own discretion. When applying them, he went on, it was advisable to restrict them to one, two, or three marks at the most.56 It was nevertheless a good thing not to underrate the worth of the marks, because true believers so often had to contend with doubt

54 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 491. 55 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 493. 56 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 493, 494. “Sed in ipsa praxi et applicatione sive pro concione, sive in exercitiis catechizationum, sive in consolationibus afflictorum ac tentatorum plerumque delectus adhibendus, et prudenter unum atque alterum aut ad summum tria solummodo ac perspicue ex scripturae fundamentis explicanda et urgenda. Quod idem de signis specialibus cognitionis, fidei, resipiscentiae etc. intelligi volo.”

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and assaults of despair. Doubt was, however, a sign of faith too, notwithstanding the fact that it appeared to be in flat contradiction with the certitude which characterized true faith, Voetius reiterated.57 5. The Praxis of Piety Voetius employed De praxi fidei, a reissue of a disputation defended by Petrus Johannes Saenvliet in 1638, as a kind of sequel after his De simplicitate et hypocrisi.58 In De praxi fidei Voetius referred to the opinion of “practical” theologians that the longing for grace and faith proved the presence of both.59 He quoted this statement in an argument about the experiences and feelings of men during the maturation of their faith. Their conscious perception of what had happened led to the acknowledgement that Jesus Christ had died for them and that their sins had been forgiven, and led to the certitude of faith too. Voetius used the term “syllogismus spiritualis” for this recognition.60 Just to be perfectly clear he worked the syllogism out. The propositio maior, the first subsection ran: “All people who believe in Christ, and specifically, that Christ is the Saviour and indeed theirs: for them Christ had died, and their sins had been forgiven them etc.” The propositio minor, the following subsection had the ensuing contents: “I believe in Christ.” From these two propositions the conclusion automatically followed for the subject of the second proposition that Christ had also died for him and his sins had been forgiven.61 But Voetius would not have been Voetius if he had not again placed some question marks here. As a pastor he was of course aware that members of a congregation might despair of their own salvation. He knew all about that “anxious, ardent, restless search for the sight of God” (anxia, fervida, irrequieta quaesitio faciei divinae).62 57 Voetius, De simplicitate et hypocrisi, 494. 58 Voetius, De praxi fidei, 496–511. Annotated translation into Dutch: C. A. de Niet (trans.), “De praktijk van het geloof,” in De scholastieke Voetius, ed. van Asselt and Dekker, 117–142. See also van ’t Spijker, “Voetius practicus,” in De onbekende Voetius, ed. van Oort et al., 244, 245, where van ’t Spijker gave an evaluation of the disputation De theologia practica. 59 Voetius, De praxi fidei, 500. “Desiderium gratiae et fidei, est gratia et fides.” 60 Voetius, De praxi fidei, 501. “Syllogismus mysticus” is the common term. 61 Voetius, De praxi fidei, 501. 62 Voetius, De praxi fidei, 505.

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How could he render assistance to people with an inner struggle like that? Voetius emphasized, as might be expected on the basis of his earlier writings, that a desire of this kind ought to be discerned in a positive sense from the vain, useless desire of the ungodly. The practical theologians indicated the way in which there was a possibility to fix the difference. He referred emphatically to a chapter in Amesius’ Medulla Theologiae with the additional remark—typical evidence of his professorial way of teaching—that he did not like to copy the Medulla: “Those who are studying diligently ought to read this very useful book themselves.”63 At some stage the attention of a reader slackens by the steady encounter of sets of marks, for also this disputation contains a considerable number of them. But then the “problemata” come up for discussion. There Voetius dots the i’s and crosses the t’s and that makes him very enthralling again. Problem number 2 puts forward the question whether one may discern in other people the signs of true faith. He advocated the opinion that such a capacity did not exist.64 In the third volume of his Selectae Disputationes (1659) Voetius went more deeply into the term “practical” which he had used so often before in connection with the words “theology” and “theologians.” In fact all theology was in a sense practical theology, he said at the start of a six-part disputation on the subject, his De theologia practica. Whatever the field of theology dealt with, when it was studied with an eye to its purpose, the elaboration in the direction of solace and admonition was an obvious choice.65 But over and above this, practical theology formed an autonomous branch within the theological discipline as a 63 Voetius, De praxi fidei, 505. “Quae huc nolimus transcribere. Legant ipsi studiosi utilissimum hoc scriptum.” See the statement about Amesius’ influence on Voetius and the movement of the Dutch Further Reformation in: Keith. L. Sprunger, The Learned Doctor William Ames: Dutch Backgrounds of English and American Puritanism (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1972), 260, 261. Another statement about Ames’ influence: W. J. op ’t Hof, Het gereformeerd Piëtisme (Houten: Den Hertog, 2005), 54. For objections Voetius had against Amesius’ theology, see: W. J. van ’t Spijker, “Guilielmus Amesius (1576–1636),” in De Nadere Reformatie en het Gereformeerd Piëtisme, ed. T. Brienen et al. (’s-Gravenhage: Boekencentrum, 1989), 54, 69,70, 69, 70, 77. 64 Voetius, De praxi fidei, 508. 65 Gisbertus Voetius, De theologia practica, Pars 1 (Joannes Cuypius resp.), in Sel. Disputationes III (Ultrajecti, 1659), 1–11. Disputation as regards the first part held on 21 February 1646. L.c., 1. “Hoc est, applicate ad praxin resipiscentiae, fidei, spei, caritatis, seu ad usum consolationis aut adhortationis.”

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whole. It was related to many important tasks of the minister, for instance preaching and catechesis. But also the way in which the church ought to be governed and how the discipline ought to function were within its scope. In Voetius’ opinion, however, practical theology aimed above all at the style of living of pious Christians. Therefore it does not amaze the reader that he could specify the “theologia practica” as “theologia moralis” and “theologia casuistica.”66 That is why he spoke of William Perkins so frequently and mentioned with great respect the names of the Dutch godly authors Jean Taffin and William Teellinck. He cited his own publications such as De excelsis mundi and De ebrietate expressly in conjunction with practical theology, referring to disputations that he would edit in an easily accessible form, by the way, only in the fourth volume of his Selectae Disputationes which was as yet unpublished.67 As far as the Dutch contribution to practical theology is concerned, it is remarkable that he paid much attention to the resolutions of the provincial synods, and especially to those of the particular synods of North and South Holland.68 Nonetheless he clearly found the writings by English authors by far the most important source material. Their significance, he wrote, appeared more than ever from the translations of their works into many other languages.69 Voetius thought “a purer purity” necessary “above the shared and accepted Reformation” (purior quaedam puritas supra communem et receptam reformationem).70 English Puritanism served as his example for this ideal, an ideal which came to be known in the historiography as “Further Reformation” (Dutch: Nadere Reformatie).71 The puritans, so 66 Voetius, De theologia practica, Pars 3 (Abrahamus Rodenburch resp.), in Sel. Disputationes III, 21–31. Disputation as regards the third part held on 7 March 1646. Terminology: l.c., 25. 67 Voetius, De theologia practica, Pars 2 (Jacobus Pricquius resp.), in Sel. Disputationes III, 11–21. Disputation as to the second part held on 28 February 1646. L.c., 15. Disputations De excelsis mundi, in Sel. Disputationes IV, 325–461. Disputation De ebrietate, in Sel. Disputationes IV, 493–503. 68 Voetius, De theologia practica, 1, 10. Holland had separate synods notwithstanding the fact that it was one province in those days. 69 Cf. Voetius, De theologia practica, 1, 10, 11. 70 Voetius, De theologia practica, 2, 17. The first three words running as follows in the text: “Puriorem quandam puritatem . . .” Transposed into the nominativus because of the importance of the quotation. 71 Cf. Patrick Collinson, The Elizabethan Puritan Movement (London: Jonathan Cape, 1967), 12, 13.

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he argued, initially strove after abolition of ceremonial uses with a catholic background still existing in the English Church as well as of the episcopal hierarchy. Thereafter, the pious conduct of life of the members of the congregation became the principal aim to which they devoted themselves.72 Voetius opposed opinions as if the accentuation of godliness would be harmful and end in phariseeism and hypocrisy.73 Advice to guide people properly in their everyday conduct was highly important. All sorts of examples came up in his six discourses about the “theologia practica,” which he subjected to a much more profound consideration in later ones after having put them in a rough framework here. Thus, he already raised matters such as usury and the loan pawnshops besides, for instance, the then fashionable wearing of long hair by men. It is a really striking fact that Voetius was so prepared to nuance. He deemed many courses of action not absolutely wrong, although it had to be acknowledged that there were some faults attached to them. Only serious abuses were at issue. While usury had to be condemned, there was no need to object to charging a reasonable rate of interest, for instance.74 A serious abuse in Voetius’ eyes indeed was the violation of the fourth of the Ten Commandments, that about the Sabbath. In the third volume of his Selectae Disputationes he also republished a two-set disputation about the Sabbath and religious feasts De sabbatho et festis.75 To start with Voetius entered at length into the institution of the Sabbath. The commandment of Sabbath observance existed before Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the tables of the law, for God ordered a rest day when He created the world. Rightly Christians did not observe as holy the seventh day of the week or the Jewish Sabbath but the day in which Christ arose from death, he argued.76 The moral obligations of the Sabbath were, however, perpetual and did not end as a 72 Voetius, De theologia practica, 2, 17. 73 Voetius, De theologia practica, 2, 19. 74 Voetius, De theologia practica, Pars 6 (Jacobus Pricquius resp.), in Sel. Disputationes III, 51–59. Disputation as regards the sixth and last part held on 21 March 1646. L.c., 57. 75 Gisbertus Voetius, De sabbatho et festis (Jacobus Hovius resp.), Partes 1, 2, in Sel. Disputationes III, 1227–1251, 1252–1281. Disputation held on 10 and 17 March 1638. Voetius added two appendices: “Appendix de gentilium Kalendis Januarii, natalitatiis, feriis civilibus” (l.c., 1281–1314), “Appendix de festis et quasi festis extra Papatum observatis” (l.c., 1314–1346). 76 Voetius, De sabbatho et festis, 1, 1231–1233, 1243.

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consequence of the fact that a new age had dawned with the coming of Jesus Christ. Voetius clashed heavily with his Leyden colleagues Johannes Coccejus and Abraham Heidanus and Utrecht colleague Franciscus Burman precisely about this question of the moral contents of the “hallowed” Sabbath day.77 In De sabbatho et festis Voetius put forward many ideas about the “Lord’s day,” especially with respect to the behaviour of people then.78 He considered breaking the Sabbath an offence that ought to be punished by the church with stern disciplinary measures. 6. The Heights of the World Especially the fourth volume of the Selectae Disputationes contains much about the choices a pious Christian should make in everyday life. The fourth volume was published in 1667, three years later than his ΤΑ ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΑ sive Excercitia Pietatis.79 Voetius dedicated it to four ministers, two of whom had been Utrecht colleagues in the past while the other two were still attached to the congregation there.80 Johannes Teellinck and Abraham van de Velde were banished from the city of Utrecht in 1660, because the municipal authorities no longer accepted their criticism of the continued existence of the medieval chapters of the cathedral and four other churches, a critical position which Voetius also held by the way.81 The two ministers still employed in Utrecht, Jodocus van Lodensteyn and Cornelis Gentman, were declared Voetius suppor77 F. G. M. Broeyer, “Franciscus Burman, een coccejaan in voetiaans vaarwater,” in Een richtingenstrijd in de Gereformeerde Kerk: Voetianen en Coccejanen 1650– 1750 , ed. F. G. M. Broeyer and E. G. E. van der Wall (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1994), 111–113. 78 Voetius, De sabbatho et festis, 2, 1259–1262, 1265. 79 C. A. de Niet republished the Latin text of Voetius’ ΤΑ ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΑ sive Excercitia Pietatis with an annotated translation into Dutch: C. A. de Niet, De praktijk der Godzaligheid (ΤΑ ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΑ sive Excercitia Pietatis-1664), 2 vols. (Utrecht, 1996). 80 Voetius, Sel. Disputationes IV, Dedicatio. The dedication must have led to the different place of publication: Amsterdam. The other four volumes of the Selectae Disputationes were published in Utrecht. 81 See for this affair and Voetius’ unsuccessful striving for theocracy: F. G. M. Broeyer, “Een mislukt streven naar theocratie: De Utrechtse gereformeerd gemeente van 1660 tot 1680,” Tijdschrift voor Nederlandse Kerkgeschiedenis 10 (2007): 2–7. In the sixteenth century the five Utrecht chapters had been protestantised.

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ters as well. Except for Gentman, they had all distinguished themselves with publications about issues in the field of the godly behaviour. The fourth volume of the Selectae Disputationes offers a number of discourses on the Ten Commandments. The most instructive ones amongst these are the before mentioned five disputations on the seventh commandment, entitled De excelsis mundi, The heights of the world. Voetius chose this strange title because he wanted to link his subject to the complaints made by the Old Testament prophets against the idolatry of their people, who were forgetting the true God and worshipped the Baals instead. The discourses De excelsis mundi took place on nine days during the years 1643 and 1644. Voetius republished them with an appendix.82 The first of them, De choreis, dealt with dancing.83 Voetius disapproved of this pastime and repudiated what happened on the dance floor. The question whether there might be need for some compliance with regard to the higher social circles was answered by Voetius in the negative. He considered all feasts where the persons present danced to be wrong.84 He thought country dances, however, less blameworthy, for the movements used for them were not as extreme. Nevertheless, it was better not to take part in those either.85 Voetius also suggested some useful ways to combat dancing. As in so many other cases he gave his advice in detailed points, six this time. He advised that warnings against dancing would be given during confirmation classes, in sermons and at house visits. Members of the congregation could be barred from the Lord’s Table if necessary, if it came out that they had been to a dancing party. If they refused to comply, disciplinary measures like excommunication ought to be used against them.86 Voetius stated at which Synods the matter of dancing had been brought up.87 It was a complicating factor, he admitted, that many people did not consider dancing a grave sin and certainly not a crime. Some even raised the objection that the 82 Voetius, De excelsis mundi, in Sel. Disputationes IV, 325–461. Appendix: l.c., 462–492. The five disputations were held on nine days: 30 September 1643, 14, 21 and 28 October 1643, 11 and 25 November 1643, 16 and 23 December 1643, 21 February 1644. Voetius’ biographer A. C. Duker devoted much attention to these disputations De excelsis mundi: A. C. Duker, Gisbertus Voetius II (1910; repr., Leiden, 1989), 234– 270. 83 Gisbertus Voetius, De choreis (Johannes le Feber resp.), in Sel. Disputationes IV, 325–356. Disputation held on 30 September 1643. 84 Voetius, De choreis, 346. 85 Voetius, De choreis, 345

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ecclesiastical measures did more harm than good to the church. There might be persons, they said, interested in the message of the gospel, for whom the church missed attraction because of the prohibition. Voetius’ response was brief: “If this is the case indeed, so what?” (Dato hoc ita se habere, tum quid?)88 In his De comoediis, the next disputation of the series De excelsis mundi, the acceptability of theatrical performances came up for discussion.89 Voetius showed himself a convinced opponent of the theatre, being particularly set against comedies and tragedies with subjects taken from the Scriptures and Church History.90 Towards school plays he adopted a more accommodating attitude.91 Yet he thought it necessary to repeat the general verdict which he had passed before, namely that it was not sensible to direct the attention of spectators, especially boys and girls, to utterances of love.92 In the following disputation De abusibus in victu et conviviis he reflected on the allowability of the consumption of food and drink.93 In his treatment Voetius emphasized the point that objections proceeding from the Christian standpoint ought only to be aimed at extravagance or excrescences of the opposite nature. As for the last mentioned aspect he did not agree with the Pythagoreans who declined to eat any meat. The stern rules of Carthusian monks with respect to their meals did not please him either.94 It is interesting that Voetius devoted some attention to the then rather new enjoyment of tobacco. He did not consider it illicit, all the more since there might be medical reasons for its defence, he wrote. Honest and earnest men, especially ministers of the gospel and students of theology, however, did 86 Voetius, De choreis, 346, 347. About the stern disciplinary system in the Reformed congregation in Utrecht during ’Voetius’ time, see F. A. van Lieburg, De Nadere Reformatie ten tijde van Voetius: Sporen in de gereformeerde kerkeraadsacta (Rotterdam: Lindenberg, 1989). 87 Voetius, De choreis, 347–349. 88 Voetius, De choreis, 350. 89 Gisbertus Voetius, De comoediis, Pars 1, 2 (Joannes Petrus Cupius resp.), in Sel. Disputationes IV, 356–367, 367–385. Disputation as regards the two parts held on 14 and 21 October 1643. 90 Voetius, De comoediis, 1, 362, 363. 91 Voetius, De comoediis, 2, 382. 92 Voetius, De comoediis, 1, 366. 93 Gisbertus Voetius, De abusibus in victu et conviviis (Stephanus Vaj resp.), in Sel. Disputationes IV, 385–402. Disputation held on 28 October 1643. 94 Voetius, De abusibus in victu et conviviis, 387.

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better to abstain from the use of tobacco in company with other people. For in the public opinion the use of tobacco counted as levity, idleness (vanitas).95 The Latin word vanitas, vanity, futility, ostentation was met with in the title of the fourth disputation of the series De excelsis mundi on the seventh commandment: De luxu et vanitate in vestibus, domibus et supellectile (On the luxury and vanity in clothes, homes and furnishing).96 In this two-part disputation his outlook on gardens, mentioned at the start of this article, came up. Voetius did not carry such matters to an extreme. The same is true for beautiful objects in the interior of houses. The preserved portraits of his wife, his children and himself actually prove that he considered painting a respectable profession. In so many words he stated that pictures only had to be censured if they depicted religious representations of a dubious character. Images of God and the Trinity were unseemly. Pictures connected with any superstition gave offence too. Self-evidently, Voetius lodged an objection against obscene depictions, and in general against those with naked men and women.97 He also condemned statues and pictures in churches. He remembered having read a travel book with a passage about statues of the Sibyls in a Venetian church. Erroneous, Voetius judged. Pictures of the Virgin Mary were the most reprehensible of all in his eyes. The painters obviously knew very well which charms had to be displayed in their portrayals of the Holy Virgin, he remarked sneeringly.98 In the first part of De luxu et vanitate in vestibus, domibus et suppellectile but also in the three-part disputation De ornatu faciei, et capillorum of the series De excelsis mundi Voetius expounded his thoughts on the chaste appearance of women as advocated by him.99 With their clothes and hair put up they ought to bear in mind the norms of decency. Especially nude necks were not to his liking, for where there is smoke there is fire, 95 Voetius, De abusibus in victu et conviviis, 389, 390. 96 Voetius, De luxu et vanitate in vestibus, domibus et suppellectile, Pars 1, 2 (Abrahamus Rodenborch resp.), in Sel. Disputationes IV, 403–416, 417–429. Disputation as regards the two parts held on 11 and 25 November 1643. 97 Voetius, De luxu et vanitate, 2, 428. 98 Voetius, De luxu et vanitate, 2, 429. 99 Voetius, De luxu et vanitate in vestibus, domibus et suppellectile, 1; Gisbertus Voetius, De ornatu faciei, et capillorum, Pars 1, 2, 3 (Adrianus Munninx resp.), in Sel. Disputationes IV, 429–444, 444–453, 453–461. Disputation De ornatu faciei, et capillorum as regards the three parts held on 16 and 23 December 1643 and 21 February 1644.

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so Voetius argued referring to the classic author Plautus (Flamma proxima est fumae).100 Yet he did not like to be accused of precise opinions which he did not advocate. One of the disputations published in volume V of the Selectae Disputationes (1669) contains a nice example of his irritation about unjust allegations.101 In the passage in question he defended himself against the contention that he thought it illicit to kiss a married woman when visiting friends. Where did I write that? Please let him indicate the book, the page, the proposition!, he riposted.102 Almost at the beginning of this fourth volume of the Selectae Disputationes Voetius dealt with the relation between law and gospel in the three-part disputation De Lege et Evangelio.103 One of the most interesting problems discussed in this framework proceeded from the question what was more difficult for a minister, preaching the law or preaching the gospel. In his opinion preaching the law was more difficult, even much more difficult.104 In order to support this stance he produced a number of arguments such as the fact that it required greater circumspection to handle the precepts of the law properly in a sermon. Moreover, the examination of the precepts in the Ten Commandments could evoke protest in the hearers.105 In the two-part disputation following next, De foro poli et soli, Voetius tackled the question of how a pious Christian had to approach issues permitted by the civil authorities which were nevertheless unacceptable for the church and one’s conscience.106 The Christian had to be aware of the fact that he might meet

100 Voetius, De ornatu faciei, et capillorum, 3, 461. Plautus, Curculio, 53. 101 Gisbertus Voetius, De selectis quibusdam problematis, Pars 8 (Simon Simoniodes resp.), in Sel. Disputationes V (Ultrajecti, 1669), 650–661 (l.c., 709–712). Disputation held on 2 December 1648. 102 Voetius, De selectis quibusdam problematis, 8, 654. Osculo matronam . . . excipere, aut simili ritu ei valedicere non esse licitum. Ubi hoc scripsi, librum, paginam, thesin indicet. 103 Gisbertus Voetius, De Lege et Evangelio, Pars 1 (Arnoldus Bertrant resp.), Pars 2 (Michael Eversdijck resp.), Pars 3 (Jacobus Beugholt resp.), in Sel. Disputationes IV, 17–30, 30–46, 47–62, Disputation as regards its three parts held on 23 February 1656, 15 March 1656 and 22 June 1658. 104 Voetius, De Lege et Evangelio, 2, 46; L.c., 3, 47–52. 105 Voetius, De Lege et Evangelio, 3, 46, 47, 49–52. 106 Gisbertus Voetius, De foro soli et poli, Pars 1 (Johannes Clapmuts resp.), Pars 2 (Michael Sarfey resp.), in Sel. Disputationes IV, 62–75, 75–91. Disputation as regards parts 1 and 2 held on 16 September 1665 and 24 February 1666.

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with things he ought to avoid because of the permissive attitude of the civil authorities. In this connection Voetius again mentioned usury and excessive interest rates.107 7. The Love of God All in all, Voetius has occupied himself intensively with the behaviour of the good Christian in the Selectae Disputationes. Just as a gardener spends a lot of time making flowerbeds, paths, trees and shrubs a feast for the eye, so Voetius tried to encourage believers in creating a community in agreement with God’s will. But did he never take a rest from doing so for a while? Was there no longing to come face to face with the owner of the garden and hear Him say that all that had been done was actually pleasing to Him? On 27 February 1636, three weeks before the Utrecht college of advanced education was promoted to an academy with university status, Voetius made a student defend a disputation on the love toward God, De amore Dei.108 Even then, although still a rather inexperienced professor, he elaborated the theme down to the smallest detail in a way which was to become typical for his method of working. Voetius started by giving a definition of what was meant by the expression amor Dei. Sticking closely to the scholastics when making his distinctions, he departed from them on one of his points, namely when they referred to the Scriptures with regard to the amor Dei. He wrote that the scholastics based themselves chiefly on 1 Cor 13 in their handling of the theme. He, on the other hand, preferred to take Matt 22:37 as his point of departure, that is to say, the Commandment to love God in the summary of the Old-Testament law.109 Voetius did not mention his motive for doing so. The clearness of God’s order in the gospel of Matthew may have appealed to him more than the lyricism of Paul’s chapter in the first Epistle to the Corinthians. Voetius described five stairs of the love toward God that could be experienced in human life. The first is loving God because of the blessings one received and hoped to receive in the future. The second is lov107 Voetius, De foro soli et poli, 1, 73. 108 Gisbertus Voetius, De amore Dei (Johannes Dorthius resp.), in Sel. Disputationes III, 79–91. Disputation held on 27 February 1636. 109 Voetius, De amore Dei, 80, 81.

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ing God because of Himself, being the supreme good. The third stair was loving nothing but God alone, a love thanks to Him, because of Him and directed to Him. The fourth stair was hating oneself and all else because of God. The fifth and ultimately highest was that which we may call the ecstatic, and the rapture of the divine love (quem exstaticum, et raptum divini amoris possumus appellare).110 For this last stair Voetius first referred to what was known about it from Moses and Paul. But he also mentioned John Ruusbroec who, he said, was styled by Catholics as a second Dionysius Areopagita and whose stairs in De Septem Gradibus Amoris he thereupon enumerated. With respect to the supreme, ecstatic degree, however, he urged caution.111 Believers ought to heed precautions so as not to get entangled and caught up in dizzy and godless spells.112 Thus the recently appointed Professor Voetius wrote in 1636. Forty years later, in 1676, at the end of his life, he directed a five-part disputation, each part entitled Disputatio Theologica continens Defensionem Lutheri (defense of Luther), et adjunctorum ipsi theologorum protestantium, imprimis et confessionis Belgicae, artic. 22, et Catechesios nostrae, quaest. LX et LXI asserentium Nos sola fide justificari. Voetius did not succeed in finishing the fifth part of this series of discourses about justification by faith. Death intervened. In November, in the sermon at his funeral, Gentman spoke of how Voetius had fallen ill and had to stop work on it while preparing the edition of this part of the disputation about the doctrine of sola fide.113 Fortunately this fifth unfinished discourse, defended by the Scot Alexander Dennis, has been preserved.114 It has a symbolic aspect that Voetius was occupied with the relation between faith and works in accordance with Luther’s interpretation just at this time: a man who during his whole life had incited his fellow 110 Voetius, De amore Dei, 85, 86. 111 Voetius, De amore Dei, 86, 87. 112 Voetius, De amore Dei, 87. ne ad vertigines enthusiasticas imo et atheas homines dilabantur. 113 Gentman, Allon Bachuth of Lyck-predikatie, 29. 114 Alexander Dennis, Disputatio Theologica continens Defensionem Lutheri, et adjunctorum ipsi theologorum protestantium, imprimis et confessionis Belgicae, artic. 22, et Catechesios nostrae, quaest. LX et LXI asserentium Nos sola fide justificari, Pars 5, quam sub praesidio . . . D. Gisberti Voetii . . . publice defendere conabitur (Ultrajecti, 1676). Disputation as regards this part held on 26 September 1676.

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Christians to demonstrate their faith by deeds. But in actuality Voetius had never tried to subordinate the necessity of the possession of true faith to the interests of a godly conduct. During all the years of his pastoral work he had done his best to help people in their longing to have certainty about their own faith. In the disputation De simplicitate et hypocrisi, which dates back to 1636 and was reissued in 1667, Voetius laid the foundation for his pastoral guidance by producing one set of marks after another with the intention of distinguishing between true and the false belief. In the last disputation under his direction the question discussed was about the value of the phase preceding the gift of justifying faith and that of falling and getting up later on. Voetius answered this question in Luther’s sense. Thus ultimately only one mark was enough for him: trust in the faith in Jesus Christ being unconditionally given by God.

JUSTIFICATION BY FAITH AND THE EARLY ARMINIAN CONTROVERSY Aza Goudriaan

The debates between early seventeenth-century Arminians and their Contra-Remonstrant opponents are widely known to have focused on predestination.1 Yet Franciscus Gomarus—Arminius’ best known opponent—is said to have considered “not the doctrine of predestination but that of justification” as the “cardinal point on which Arminius deviated from Reformed doctrine.”2 Justification by faith was also the subject of a correspondence that Petrus Bertius, an ally of Arminius, started in 1608 with the Franeker theologian Sibrandus Lubbertus.3 Even though justification is not mentioned in the Remonstrantie of 1610,4 yet in a survey of controversial points, published anonymously in 1616 by the Leiden theology professor Johannes Polyander, the topic was mentioned as one of the new issues that had emerged in the course 1 See for instance, in recent Dutch historiography, the work of A. Th. van Deursen, e.g. Maurits van Nassau, 1567–1625: De winnaar die faalde (Amsterdam: Bakker, 2000), 227; De last van veel geluk: De geschiedenis van Nederland, 1555–1702 (Amsterdam: Bakker, 2004), 193–194. Research for this article has been funded by the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (NWO), in the context of a research project supervised by J. A. van Ruler, “From Erasmus to Spinoza: Classical and Christian Notions of the Self in Dutch Philosophy, Theology and Letters”; sub-project: “Classical Philosophy and Arminian Theology.” I am very much indebted to J. Balserak for corrections of the English text of this article and for other suggestions, and I also wish to thank J. A. van Ruler for his comments, as well as all whose suggestions contributed to this article. On the field of research tools the printed Catalogus van de bibliotheek der Remonstrantsch-gereformeerde gemeente te Rotterdam (’s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff, 1893) deserves to be mentioned—in addition, of course, to digital library catalogues. 2 G. P. van Itterzon, Franciscus Gomarus (1930; repr., Groningen-Castricum: Bouma’s Boekhuis/B. Hagen, 1979), 375, cf. 2. 3 Epistolica disceptatio de fide iustificante deque nostra coram Deo justificatione, habita inter praestantissimum virum D. Sibrandum Lubberti . . . et Petrum Bertium . . . Disceptatur autem An fides a Deo habeatur pro omni legis iustitia, quam nos praestare tenebamur, adeoque an ipse actus fidei to credere, imputetur in iustitiam sensu proprio. Ait hic, negat ille (Delft: I. Andreae, 1612). This book is in the Knuttel pamphlet collection kept in the Royal Library (KB) in The Hague (no. 2006; the KB also owns a microfiche edition of this collection, from which I printed items mentioned in this article). On the Epistolica disceptatio, see C. van der Woude, Sibrandus Lubbertus: Leven en werken, in het bijzonder naar zijn correspondentie, PhD diss. Free University, Amsterdam (Kampen: Kok, 1963), 185–197; L. J. M. Bosch, Petrus Bertius 1565– 1629, PhD diss. Catholic University, Nijmegen (Meppel: Krips, 1979), 80, 116.

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of the debate on Arminian theology: The third question is whether we are justified before God by faith as by a hand or an instrument embracing the righteousness of Christ, or [justified] as by a work and a conditional act by which the human being is justified before God. Jacobus Arminius gave occasion for this question and after him someone who is currently a professor of ethics, called Petrus Bertius, who in a certain writing asserts against Sibrandus Lubbertus, doctor in theology at Franeker, that we are justified by the work of faith in so far as it is a work and in this he follows the error of Servet and Socinus.5

In a letter on doctrinal differences several ministers from the Church classis of Walcheren in Zeeland included a brief section on justification, in which Bertius and Arminius were cited as claiming that what God considered to be righteousness was the act of faith.6 The disagreement on justification was again mentioned in the report that Festus Hommius drew up and published in 1618. In this report he listed doctrinal points where Remonstrants deviated from the Dutch Confession.7 So then, justification clearly was an issue in the early controversy on Arminianism.8 The debate on justification during the early Arminian controversy seems an appropriate theme of a contribution to a volume for Willem 4 On Remonstrantie and Contra-Remonstrantie, see e.g. B. Glasius, Geschiedenis der Nationale Synode, in 1618 en 1619 gehouden te Dordrecht, in hare vóórgeschiedenis, handelingen en gevolgen I (Leiden: Engels, 1860), 2–4. As Glasius and W .P .C. Knuttel (Catalogus van de pamfletten-verzameling berustende in de Koninklijke Bibliotheek I/1 (’s-Gravenhage: Algemeene Landsdrukkerij, 1889), 375, no. 1942) mention, the text of the Remonstrantie is given in the report on the Conference held at The Hague: Schriftelicke conferentie, gehouden in s’Gravenhaghe inden iare 1611, tusschen sommighe Kercken-dienaren: aengaende de Godlicke praedestinatie metten aencleven van dien (’s-Gravenhage: Jacobsz, 1612) [KB: Knuttel 1942], 1–10; here 7– 9 the five Remonstrant tenets. 5 Den staet vande voor-naemste quaestien ende gheschillen die ten huydighen dage gedisputeert worden tusschen de oude rechtgesinde die men Contra-Remonstranten noemt, ende de nieu-gesinde diemen Remonstranten noemt (Amsterdam: M. J. Jansz, 1616) [KB: Knuttel 2289], 15: “De derde questie is/ of wy gherechtveerdicht worden voor God doort gheloove/ als door een hant/ ofte een instrument omhelsende de rechtveerdicheyt Christi/ ofte/ als door een werck ende conditionelen daet/ door de welcke de mensche voor God zy gerechtveerdicht. Tot dese questie heeft oorsaeck gegeven Iacobus Arminius ende naer hem een die jegenwoordich Ethices Professor is ghenaemt Petrus Bertius, die tegen Sibrandus Lubbertus Doctor inde Theologie tot Franicker/ beweert in een seker schrift; dat wy gherechtveerdicht worden doort werck des geloofs/ in so verre het een werck is; ende volcht daer in de dwalinghe van Servetus ende Socinus.” On the tract, see Knuttel, Catalogus I/1, 446–447, where Johannes Polyander is mentioned as its author; Jacobus Trigland is said to have procured the Dutch version of the French tract written by Polyander.

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J. van Asselt. Van Asselt’s interest in the doctrine of justification is evident from his study of another seventeenth-century debate concerning justification: the disagreement between Gisbertus Voetius and Johannes Cocceius. These two theologians differed mainly on the status of the Old Testament believers who lived before the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ: Did they receive full (Voetius) or partial (Cocceius) forgiveness?9 The present article focuses on another seventeenth-century debate on justification. Two sections are devoted to the early disagreements between Arminius and Gomarus, as well as between Bertius and Lubbertus. After some observations on the historical background of the Arminian view on justification, some concluding remarks will be made on the continuity and background of the disagreement, and on its significance for the contrast between Remonstrants and Contra-Remonstrants.

6 The Walcheren letter is given in Caspar Barlaeus’ anonymously published Epistola ecclesiastarum, quos in Belgio Remonstrantes vocant, ad exterarum ecclesiarum Reformatos doctores, pastores, theologos, qua sententiam suam de praedestinatione et annexis ei capitibus exponent, et enati aliquot ab hinc annis ob haec ipsa in Ecclesijs Belgicis, ac indies magis magisque gliscentis dissidij fontes causasque aperiunt, Oppositae Epistolae delegatorum classis Walachrianae ad eosdem doctores singulatim directae (Leiden: I. Patius, 1617) [KB: Knuttel 2435]; on justification, see 129. On Barlaeus as author of the Remonstrant reply, see Knuttel, Catalogus I/1, 473 (at no. 2434), where one of his references is to G. Brandt, Historie der Reformatie en andere kerkelyke geschiedenissen in en omtrent de Nederlanden II (Amsterdam: Rieuwertsz/ Boom, 1674), 524. 7 F. Hommius, Specimen controversiarum Belgicarum seu confessio ecclesiarum reformatarum in Belgio, cujus singulis articulis subjuncti sunt articuli discrepantes, in quibus nonnulli Ecclesiarum Belgicarum doctores hodie a recepta Doctrina dissentire videntur. In usum futurae Synodi Nationalis (Leiden: Ex officina Elzeviriana, 1618) [KB: Knuttel 2718], 81–88. On this work and the ensuing discussion, see P. J. Wijminga, Festus Hommius (Leiden: Donner, 1899), 264–271; H. H. Kuyper, De postacta of nahandelingen van de Nationale Synode van Dordrecht in 1618 en 1619 gehouden (Amsterdam/Pretoria: Höveker & Wormser, n.d.), 20. 8 Yet this argument did not make it into a recent historical survey of the doctrine such as Alister E. McGrath’s Iustitia Dei: A History of the Christian Doctrine of Justification, vol. 2, From 1500 to the Present Day (Cambridge: CUP, 1986). Silent on this particular dispute seems also A. Ritschl, Die christliche Lehre von der Rechtfertigung und Versöhnung I, 4th ed. (Bonn: Marcus/ Webers, 1903). 9 W. J. van Asselt, “Voetius en Coccejus over de rechtvaardiging,” in De onbekende Voetius: Voordrachten wetenschappelijk symposium Utrecht 3 maart 1989, ed. J. van Oort et al. (Kampen: Kok, 1989), 32–47. See also idem, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603–1669), trans. R. A. Blacketer (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 282–283; Johannes Coccejus: Portret van een zeventiende-eeuws theoloog op oude en nieuwe wegen (Heerenveen: Groen en Zoon, 1997), 68–70.

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1. Gomarus and Arminius The chronological development of controversies between Arminius and Gomarus concerning justification by faith can be well reconstructed on the basis of the excellent work by G. P. van Itterzon on Gomarus. One of the first, if not the first, expressions of disagreement surfaces in a letter from 23 October 1607, in which Gomarus, replying to a question of Sibrandus Lubbertus, lists several unusual teachings of Arminius.10 The last three points of this list relate to justification: Arminius is said to feel that what is imputed for righteousness is the act of believing. In addition, he claims that “Christ’s righteousness is not imputed to us for righteousness” (his argument being that Christ’s righteousness is a perfect righteousness, but imputation is by definition a gracious imputation that pardons deficiencies). Finally, Gomarus states as his colleague’s view that “[n]owhere in Holy Scripture is it said that Christ’s righteousness is imputed to us.”11 This letter from 1607 shows that Gomarus identified two main areas of disagreement with respect to justification: Arminius links justification to the human act of faith, and he perceives difficulties in the view that Christ’s righteousness is imputed to the believer. At a meeting in May 1608 with the Hooge Raad (High Council) in The Hague, Gomarus started his critique of Arminius by referring to the latter’s view of justification, as laid down in disputations and in a letter to Hyppolitus a Collibus.12 Gomarus’ objection was that, in Arminius’ view, righteousness referred to a person’s faith, not to Christ, whose righteousness can be imputed to humans.13 In October 1608 Arminius explained his views before the States of Holland and Westfriesland.14 10 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 115–116, the letter itself is given on 395–396. Cf. van der Woude, Lubbertus, 171. 11 Gomarus to Lubbertus, 23 October 1607, in van Itterzon, Gomarus, 396, theses 12–14 (paraphrased by van Itterzon, 116). 12 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 119–128, here 123. Cf. A. W. Harrison, The Beginnings of Arminianism to the Synod of Dort (London: University of London Press, 1926), 101–104; Glasius, Synode, I, 143–146. On the cited letter, see C. Bangs, Arminius: A Study in the Dutch Reformation (1985; repr., Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 1998), 295–296; E. Dekker, Rijker dan Midas: Vrijheid, genade en predestinatie in de theologie van Jacobus Arminius (1559–1609) (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1993), 46–47. 13 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 123; Bangs, Arminius, 298. Gomarus also submitted to the Hooge Raad a statement of faith including several articles on justification (van Itterzon, Gomarus, 124, referring to “Gomarus, Proeve, 12–15”) and a paper on justification (van Itterzon, Gomarus, 125).

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The written version of this statement was published posthumously, after Gomarus had published the reply that he gave to it before the same audience.15 This Declaration includes a brief discussion of justification.16 Arminius presents two alternative views on the interpretation of Rom 4. On the first view, faith is in the literal sense “imputed before God for or unto righteousness,—and that of grace; since it is not the righteousness of the law.” The alternative view is that the “words of the Apostle Paul, ‘Faith is imputed for righteousness’”17 amount to a “figure of speech,” the literal meaning of which is “that the righteousness of Christ, being apprehended by faith, is imputed to us,” or that faith is instrumental to having righteousness attributed.18 Arminius mentions that he himself previously opted, in a university disputation and a letter, for the first, literal, interpretation according to which faith itself counts for righteousness. He now maintains this view. He also touches upon the meaning of the work of Christ in justification by adding that the work of Christ is the reason (d’eenige verdienende oorsake) why sinners are declared righteous.19 The attentive reader of Arminius will note that this is different from saying that Christ’s righteousness is imputed to believers so that they become righteous. In December 1608 Gomarus spoke before the States of Holland and Westfriesland about his colleague Arminius.20 He criticised Arminius 14 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 129–130. 15 Verclaringhe Iacobi Arminii . . . Aengaende zijn gevoelen, so van de Predestinatie, als van eenige andere poincten der Christelicker Religie; daerinne men hem verdacht heeft ghemaeckt (Leiden: Basson, 1610) [KB: Knuttel 1765]; see now the edition by G. J. Hoenderdaal, Verklaring van Jacobus Arminius, afgelegd in de vergadering van de Staten van Holland op 30 oktober 1608 (Lochem: De Tijdstroom, 1960). On the sequence of the publications, see, e.g., 20, 22. English trans. in J. Nichols, The Works of James Arminius . . . translated from the Latin I (London: Longman, 1825), 516–668 (Works, II, quoted below, was published in 1828). 16 Hoenderdaal, ed., Verklaring, 123–125; Nichols , trans., Works, I, 631–636. 17 As trans. by Nichols, Works, I, 635–636, and 633, respectively; cf. Hoenderdaal, Verklaring, 124. 18 The latter trans. is from Nichols, Works, I, 636 (Nichols distinguishes three views; the last two can be taken together, however, as aspects of a second alternative); cf. Hoenderdaal, Verklaring, 124. 19 In Nichols’ trans., Works, I, 637: “I believe that sinners are accounted righteous solely by the obedience of Christ; and that the righteousness of Christ is the only meritorious cause on account of which God pardons the sins of believers and reckons them as righteous as if they had perfectly fulfilled the law”; cf. Hoenderdaal (ed.), Verklaring, 124–125. Arminius adds that he agrees with what Calvin writes in his Institutes, book 3.

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for taking over three wrong doctrines from Jesuits, who taught on justification “. . . that we are justified not by the imputed righteousness of Jesus Christ, but by faith itself, which is not an instrument of justification, but our righteousness before the judgement of God.”21 On several other points, Gomarus argued, Arminius deviates from truths acknowledged even by Jesuits.22 With respect to this “. . . most important chapter of the faith” that is justification, Arminius parted company with orthodoxy, although he fluctuated on the issue and put forward, as Gomarus observed, different versions of the doctrine.23 As to predestination, Gomarus complained that Arminius had exaggerated the significance of this point in the controversy.24 In August 1609 Arminius and Gomarus both appeared before the States of Holland and Westfriesland.25 Again, justification was mentioned as one of the disputed issues.26 Both Arminius and Gomarus promised to write texts on controversial issues—first of all on justification. Because of his illness Arminius was unable to complete his account; Gomarus published his Declaration later in the year.27 The 20 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 131–135 (cf. 179), discussing Gomarus, Vertooch over de leere ende beleydt D. I. Arminii: Aen de EE. Heeren, mijn Heeren de Staten van Hollandt ende Westfrieslandt, mondelick de voorgaende winter gedaen, ende daer op schriftelick overgelevert, appended to idem, Waerschouwinghe/ Over de Vermaninghe aen R. Donteclock: Waer in bewesen wordt/ 1. Hoe dat de vermaender veranderinghe in de Religie soeckt: 2. Wat het ampt zy, soo van d’Overheyt, als van de dienaren des Goddelicken vvoordts: 3. Een proef-stuck der leere D. Arminij. Hier is nog by ghevoecht F. Gomari 1. Verclaringhe der Hooft-puncten, ghehandelt in de laetste Conferentie, met D. Arminio: 2. Bedenken over de Lijck-Oratie M.P. Bertij: 3. Vertooch voor de E.E. Heeren Staten gedaen over de leere ende beleydt D. Arminij. Alles tot noodighe bescherminghe der Waerheyt/ ende ten ghemeynen beste uytghegheven (Leiden: Jan Jansz. Orlers, 1609) [KB: Knuttel 1652], pages 50–56 of the “Verclaringhe.” 21 Gomarus, Vertooch, 51. This is the second of three views attributed to Jesuits: the first concerns the relationship between grace and free will, and the third is on sanctification. Bangs, Arminius, 319. 22 Gomarus, Vertooch, 51–52. 23 Gomarus, Vertooch, 53. 24 Gomarus, Vertooch, 54: “. . . als of het alleen ofte meest te doen ware van de Predestinatie: daer nochtans inde tweendertich articulen onser Conferentie/ van my voorgestelt/ daer van minst/ ende opt laetste gheroert is.” See also a similar remark Gomarus made in August 1609 before the States of Holland and Westfriesland: van Itterzon, Gomarus, 139. 25 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 138–147. 26 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 139, 141, 144–145; Bangs, Arminius, 327. 27 Van Itterzon, Gomarus, 144–147; Gomarus, Verclaringhe (on this tract, see van Itterzon, 173–176), appended to idem, Waerschouwinghe. Bangs, Arminius, 328.

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first nine pages of this report are devoted to justification.28 Gomarus defends the orthodox position that Christ’s righteousness is imputed to sinners, so they are declared justified. Arminius’ view is analysed in two parts. His first argument, in Gomarus’ reconstruction, is “[t]hat, by the gracious estimation of God, faith is our righteousness by which we are justified;” and “[t]hat the righteousness of Christ cannot be imputed to us for righteousness,” but is the cause that made justification—by faith—possible (de verwervende ende verdienende oorsaecke). Gomarus counters that faith, in a text such as Rom 4:5, is considered merely “a means (een middel)” for receiving righteousness. Arminius’ second argument, as reconstructed by Gomarus in syllogistic form, takes the following form: “What is attributed (imputatur) for righteousness is not righteousness itself, taken in a narrow and strict way. But Christ’s righteousness . . . is righteousness itself, taken in the most narrow and strict way. Therefore, then, it is not imputed for righteousness.” Gomarus objects to Arminius’ definition of imputation: imputation is not by definition a gracious attribution on the basis of a less than strict norm.29 Gomarus’ refutation of six objections that Arminius had made against his view on justification can be passed over here, as the main point is clear: at a certain stage of his career Arminius claimed that faith itself— not the righteousness of Christ—is imputed for righteousness to believers. Gomarus, however, insisted on the mere instrumentality of faith in order to receive righteousness, which is the imputed righteousness of Christ alone.30 The 1609 volume that included Gomarus’ written account for the States also includes a reconstruction of Arminius’ theology. This account has a fourth section on justification—a topic on which Arminius was wrong “. . . in the substance of the matter itself (in de substantie der saecke zelve).”31 Over a couple of years Arminius presented, Gomarus says, different and even contradicting views on justification. Gomarus offered a compact reconstruction in a scheme that can be reproduced here, as it provides a well informed analysis made at the end of Arminius’ career, who died in 1609.32 Gomarus’ analysis is divided 28 29 30 31 32

Gomarus, “Verclaringhe,” in Waerschouwinghe, 1–9. Gomarus, “Verclaringhe,” in Waerschouwinghe, 3–5. Gomarus, “Verclaringhe,” in Waerschouwinghe, 6–9. Gomarus, Waerschouwinghe, 39–50, quote on 40. Bangs, Arminius, 330: on “Monday, October 19.”

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into two main aspects of justification, its material and formal sides. First of all, Gomarus notes that concerning the “matter, or righteousness by which believers are justified” Arminius on the one hand held “that it is the righteousness of Christ” and on the other “that it is faith.” Gomarus backs up both claims by references to Arminius’ writings.33 The other aspect of justification concerns “the form or manner in which our righteousness actually consists.” On this level, Arminius claimed on the one hand “that it is the forgiveness of sins and imputation of the righteousness of Christ,” but stated on the other hand, Gomarus writes, “that it [i.e. the form of justification] is the imputation of faith (that is the act of faith) for righteousness.” These two Arminian claims mirror the two remarks with respect to the material side of justification. Again, Gomarus refers for documentation to specific passages in Arminius’ writings.34 Another set of contrasting assertions with respect to the formal side of justification exists between the admission Arminius made in a conference, “[t]hat Christ’s righteousness is imputed to us for righteousness,” and another statement by him in a letter saying “that Christ’s righteousness cannot be imputed to us for righteousness.”35 Obviously, these two claims seem contradictory. In addition, still with respect to formal righteousness, another tension emerges when in one 33 Gomarus, Waerschouwinghe, 47. Gomarus’ references are, on the one hand, to “Disput. Carron. Ao . 1603 [quoted in trans. in Waerschouwinghe, 40: § 18], & Colleg. 3, Disp. 48 [quoted in trans. in Waerschouwinghe, cf. Works, II, 406, § 5], ende in de laetste conferentie” and, on the other hand, to “Disput. De Vries Ao . 1606 [quoted in Waerschouwinghe, 42: § 7; cf. Works, II, 256], ende in d’antwoorde op de 11 artykelen [quoted in Waerschouwinghe, 47: § 6; see Works, II, 50–51] ende in de laetste Conferentie.” The disputation defended by Carron (I. Arminius, Disputationum theologicarum vigesima-quarta, de iustificatione hominis coram Deo per solam fidem, resp.: Th. Carronus (Leiden: Patius, 1603) [UL Leiden, 236 A 9: 93]) has not been published in Arminius’ Opera theologica (Frankfurt: Fitzer, 1631) [UL Utrecht] or in the Nichols translation. The Latin text of the disputation defended by Alardus de Vries, however, has been published repeatedly and can be found in Arminius’ Disputationes XXIV de diversis christianae religionis capitibus . . . (Leiden: Basson, 1609) [UL Utrecht], 193–200; Disputationes magnam partem S. theologiae complectentes, publicae et privatae . . . (Leiden: Paedts & Basson, 1610) [UL Utrecht], 180–186; Opera theologica, 239–241. 34 Gomarus, Waerschouwinghe, 47–48. Gomarus’ references are, on the one hand to “Disput. Carron” [quoted in trans. in Waerschouwinghe, 40: §§ 21, 23, 32; these theses in Arminius, De iustificatione hominis coram Deo] and, on the other hand, to “Colleg. 1. ende 2. Disp. De justif. met de antwoorde op de 11 artickelen, ende in sijn eyghen brief aen N. [quoted in Latin and in Dutch trans. in Waerschouwinghe, 44–46; cf. Works, II, 702]” 35 Gomarus, Waerschouwinghe, 48. The letter is quoted in Latin and translated into Dutch on 44–46 (cf. Works, II, 702).

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text the distinction is made “[t]hat the formal righteousness and [that] by which we are formally justified, is either the imputed righteousness of faith, because of God’s gracious consideration, or the righteousness of Christ” (emphasis added, AG), but in another text these two are taken together, in that “the form of justification is the gracious estimation of God, by which he also imputes to us Christ’s righteousness and imputes faith to us for righteousness” (emphasis added, AG).36 From various publications Gomarus reconstructed a number of tensions between Arminius’ assertions concerning both the material and the formal side of justification. It seems that these tensions can be reduced to one basic tension, between holding that a believer is justified because of his faith on the one hand and holding that a believer is justified because of the imputed righteousness of Christ on the other hand. The orthodox defended justification through faith due to Christ’s imputed righteousness. While it is difficult to pin Arminius down on one particular view, it is obvious that he suggested in certain texts a justification because of the act of faith. This latter position is the controversial one that Lubbertus too brought up in 1608: Arminius claimed that a person is justified literally by faith and not by the imputed righteousness of Jesus Christ.37 Not even Petrus Bertius, Arminius’ ally, shrunk back from admitting that Arminius “excludes the merit of Christ” by his view that to those who believe in the work of Christ as accomplished for them, this “faith is graciously imputed for righteousness.”38 Thus, in the doctrine of justification the earliest articulation of Arminianism includes an insistence on human activity, that is, on the act 36 Gomarus, Waerschouwinghe, 48. Gomarus’ references are, on the one hand, to “Disp. De Vries [quoted in Waerschouwinghe, 43: § 10; Works, II, 257]” and, on the other hand, to “Colleg. 3, disput. 48 [quoted in Waerschouwinghe, 44: § 8; Works, II, 407].” 37 Lubbertus in Epistolica disceptatio, 116: “Sunt in manibus nostris ipsius [i.e. Arminii] Theses, Epistolae, et discipulorum ipsius testimonia, quibus sufficienter ostendere possumus, illum docere, nos per fidei actum, hoc est, per tò credere, non metonymice, sed proprio sensu intellectum justificari: Et, justitiam sive obedientiam Christi, nobis non imputari, neque imputari posse.” Cf. 120 and 122. 38 Bertius in Epistolica disceptatio, 119: “Secundam [sc. sententiam—different from that of Lubbertus] Harminij, quae meritum Christi excludit hoc modo. Qui credit in Christum pro se natum, passum, mortuum, sepultum, excitatum, evectum in gloriam, etc. ei fides gratis imputatur in iustitiam. Tertia mea est, quae id statuit quidem quod ponit Harminius, sed et illud, quod Catechesi nostra, et recepta doctorum nostrorum sententia affirmatur.” Gomarus seems more nuanced in summarising Arminius’ statements than Bertius.

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of faith, in contrast to the righteousness of Christ being imputed to believers for righteousness. 2. Bertius and Lubbertus What Gomarus interpreted as Arminius’ vacillation between two positions on imputed righteousness seems, in Petrus Bertius, to be a more deliberate attempt to combine two viewpoints. Bertius takes a view of justification as occurring because of the act of faith, while at the same time maintaining a reference to Christ’s imputed righteousness as well.39 This position is expressed in particular in an exchange of letters between Bertius and the Franeker theologian Sibrandus Lubbertus that started in 1608 and was published in 1612. This correspondence includes seven letters by Lubbertus and six by Bertius.40 Bertius’ view on justification seems to be summarised in his statement that faith is called justifying for two reasons, namely both “because it is considered by the gracious acceptation of God in Christ as the whole righteousness of the law that we were held to accomplish. And because only this [faith] apprehends the righteousness of Christ that is ours by imputation.”41 It was not the second part of this statement—the person who believes in Jesus Christ is righteous by imputation of Christ’s righteousness— that was controversial. What Lubbertus criticises is the first assertion: that faith is, by God’s gracious estimation, considered to be the righteousness that humans had to perform by obeying God’s law. Faith itself, in other words, is here considered to constitute righteousness. On this viewpoint, the main reason why a sinner is justified shifts from the righteousness of Christ to the act of believing. The question arises how both considerations can make up one consistent doctrine. Whereas Bertius seeks to harmonise both assumptions, Lubbertus considers this an impossible endeavour.42 Bertius admits that 39 Compare the second statement of Arminius mentioned above in footnote 36. 40 Epistolica disceptatio. Van der Woude, Lubbertus, 185–197; Bosch, Bertius, 80, 116. 41 Epistolica disceptatio, 6 (compare 5): “Justificans vocatur. Non quod . . . : Sed quod haec tum per gratuitam acceptilationem Dei in Christo habeatur pro omni Legis iustitia, quam nos praestare tenebamur. Tum quod haec sola iustitiam Christi quae per imputationem nostra est apprehendat.” Cf. van der Woude, Lubbertus, 186.

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he does not exactly understand how both views can be consistently coordinated, but he considers both tenets to have biblical support.43 One way to understand the issue, he suggests, would be to claim that God considers human faith both as the instrument “apprehending the righteousness of Christ” and as “obedience . . . to the Gospel.”44 Another way to harmonise both statements could be to say, Bertius proposes, that to those persons “whose faith God has accepted as the whole fulfilment of the law, He subsequently imputes the righteousness of His Son.”45 Bertius seems to have preferred the latter way to reconcile his two assumptions.46 In this favoured harmonization faith in the sense of a human act is given the first place—in other passages Bertius indeedconsiders faith as a condition to be fulfilled47—followed (postea) by an attribution of Christ’s righteousness. This view is opposed by Lubbertus, who denies that faith is a “condition that is met by us,” for that would lead to justification “because of a work.” Justification is not obtained by human effort, it is only attained by way of faith.48 The debate between Bertius and Lubbertus can perhaps be summarised by identifying the following four areas of disagreement.49 There is, to begin with, the status of faith in relation to the law. Lubbertus denies Bertius’ claim that God considers faith “as the whole righteousness of the law that we were held to perform.”50 Of the required obedi42 Bertius in Epistolica disceptatio, 103–104, cf. 147 “. . . ego . . . qui utramque sententiam conatus sum conciliare . . .” 43 Epistolica disceptatio, 104. 44 Epistolica disceptatio, 108: “Deus autem justificans nos, spectat fidem, non tantum ut organum apprehendens justitiam Christi: sed etiam ut obedientiam quae a nobis Evangelio praestatur. Hoc ergo modo puto conciliari ista posse, ut quae adversis frontibus pugnare videbantur, simul consistant et placide conspirent.” 45 Epistolica disceptatio, 109: “Exploremus et aliam vitam, ut quorum fidem pro tota legis impletione acceptam tulit Deus, illis postea imputet justitiam filij sui.” 46 Epistolica disceptatio, 113: “Habes duos conciliandi modos, quorum posterior magis mihi placet.” 47 Cf. Bertius in Epistolica disceptatio, 46: “Si iustitia fidei in locum iustitiae legis successit, consequens est in locum plenae, rigidaeque mandatorum omnium exactionis successisse etiam conditionem fidei eiusque acceptilationem: Atqui illud prius verum est. Ergo et hoc.” See also 139. 48 Epistolica disceptatio, 42–43; here 42: a biblical passage such as Rom 10:9 indicates “modum, quo Deus in iustificandis utitur: non conditionem propter quam a nobis praestitam iustificemur.” 49 Cf. the four points mentioned by Lubbertus in Responsio ad Pietatem Hugonis Grotii (Franeker: Doyema, 1614) [KB: Knuttel 2115], 4–8 (see below).

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ence, Lubbertus holds, faith is no more than a part.51 In addition, even this partial obedience of faith is not perfect at all, but always defective.52 Deficient legal obedience cannot be a reason for God to justify anyone, nor will it satisfy any human’s conscience.53 Moreover, in their own experience believers feel themselves to be sinners and obviously do not see their own faith as adequate law obedience: “. . . the whole Church in all its members complains every day and asks: Forgive us our debts, Matthew 6:12.”54 By understanding faith in terms of what meets legal requirements Bertius linked justification by faith closely to legally required works. Which leads to a second point. How does justification by faith relate to human works? Distinguishing “the work of the law” from that “of the gospel” Bertius claims that only the first is excluded in the New Testament. By “the obedience of faith,” however, people are justified.55 In a number of biblical passages Bertius finds human action referred to (1 Tim 4:16, 1 Pet 1:9, 2 Tim 4:7, John 1:12).56 Lubbertus, however, denies “that a human being is justified by the work of the gospel,” because “Scripture denies that Abraham is justified by works, Rom. 4:2,” which means that his “faith is not considered as a work.”57 He writes: “. . . the specific difference between justification of faith and of works is this, as I said before, that in the justification of works we do something for God, but in the justification of faith we receive something from God.”58 The New Testament justification by grace and not works prohibits any interpretation of faith as 50 In Bertius, see e.g. Epistolica disceptatio, 27, cf. 29, 33, 35, 46–47, 112, 113. 51 Epistolica disceptatio, 10, 30, 31. 52 Epistolica disceptatio, 10, 14, 30–31, 39–40, 101, 102. 53 Epistolica disceptatio, 33, cf. 113. 54 Epistolica disceptatio, 40: “Praeterea; si fides habeatur a Deo pro perfecta et absoluta legis impletione, et observatione; tum quicunque hanc fidem sibi inhaerentem habet, ille habet perfectam, et omnibus numeris absolutam legis observationem sibi inhaerentem. Nam fides in nobis inhaeret. Verum tota Ecclesia in omnibus suis membris quotidie gemit, et petit, Remitte nobis debita nostra, Matth. 6.12.” 55 Epistolica disceptatio, 49, 51 (references to Luke 7:50, 8:48, 17:19, 18:42, Acts 6:7, Rom 4:3, 10:16, 11:5, 16:26, Gal 3:6), 54 (reference to John 6:29), 56 (references to Rom 3:28, Phil 3:9). 56 Epistolica disceptatio, 92. 57 Epistolica disceptatio, 51. Among relevant Pauline texts are those mentioned on page 52: Rom 4:5–6, Titus 3:5. 58 Epistolica disceptatio, 136: “Specifica enim differentia justificationis fidei et operum haec est, ut ante dixi, quod in operum justificatione aliquid praestamus Deo: in fidei vero justificatione aliquid accipimus a Deo.”

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belonging to the category of works.59 The view of faith as a work functions on the basis of a doctrine of justification by works, except that just the one work of believing is considered justifying.60 If justification can be attained by human effort, “Christ’s righteousness is not needed” anymore, for “the healthy need no doctor.”61 The issue of how faith relates to works is closely linked with the question whether faith justifies as a quality. In fact, both questions converge in their focus on something in the human being, so that Lubbertus could join both together and discuss a justification “. . . by his work, or by a quality inherent in him (. . . per opus suum, seu, per qualitatem sibi inhaerentem).”62 Bertius considers faith an “inherent quality (qualitas inhaerens)” of the believer. As he reads the Bible, this is implied in commandments such as “Only believe, and you will be saved.”63 Lubbertus denies that biblical texts support the notion of justification by an “inherent quality.” The Bible rather points to the work of Christ (see texts such as Acts 4:12, Rom 3:24, 5:19–20, Phil 3:9, 1 John 1:7).64 In accordance with this emphasis on grace and on the work of Christ, Lubbertus defends a justification “by faith insofar as it relates to the promises (. . . fide, quatenus illa respicit promissiones . . .)” in contrast to justification “by faith as an absolute quality (. . . fide tanquam qualitate absoluta . . .).”65 Although Lubbertus denies to faith the status of “work” and “inherent quality,” he is ready to admit that faith has an instrumental causality.66 But this corresponds to a view of faith as an instrument, not as a work: “faith taken in the proper sense is not the true efficient cause, nor the matter, nor the form, nor the end of that righteousness by which we are justified before God”; the human being is “merely passive” in justification.67 A third aspect of the difference between Bertius and Lubbertus is 59 Epistolica disceptatio, 13–14, 35–36, 49, 84, 91, 95, 98, 141, 158. 60 Epistolica disceptatio, 136, cf. 139–140. 61 Epistolica disceptatio, 109, 112, 142, 158. 62 Epistolica disceptatio, 69. 63 Epistolica disceptatio, 70 (references to Matt 9:2, 9:29, Acts 3:16, Eph 3:12), 73 (Heb 11), 74; cf. 83 (Mark 7:29 and Rom 4). 64 Epistolica disceptatio, 69–70, 74, 76. 65 Epistolica disceptatio, 74–76, the quotes are from 74. 66 Epistolica disceptatio, 82, 85, 94, 106. 67 Epistolica disceptatio, 96–97.

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their disagreement as to how to read biblical texts in which God is said to have credited someone’s faith for righteousness. Bertius understands this to mean that a person’s faith is considered righteousness for God. In Rom 3–5, he argues, “faith” is used in a literal sense, proprie et citra omnem figuram.68 Lubbertus, however, argues that a non-literal understanding of a person’s justification by faith is necessary. According to him, the Bible does not say in an abstract way that “faith is imputed for righteousness,” but rather includes a reference to the particular person of a believer who is justified.69 The main point Lubbertus makes is that “not faith itself, but its correlate, namely the righteousness of Christ,” justifies.70 Hence, Lubbertus insists that biblical statements saying that “a person’s faith is accounted for righteousness” are to be understood in a non-literal sense—vel correlative, vel metonymice71—in such a way that what is ascribed to faith itself in reality belongs to its object.72 Reading in Holy Scripture about a person who is said to have been justified by faith, we need to realise that this person was justified by that on which his faith focussed: faith relates to the righteousness of someone else, Jesus Christ. Faith is just an instrumentum for receiving this righteousness (which Lubbertus terms the instrumentatum). In Lubbertus’ view it is very helpful to think of faith as an instrument: an instrument is not identical with what it is used for, and in a similar way a person’s faith is not identical with the righteousness that is received by it.73 A fourth point of disagreement concerns a contention that seems typical of Bertius. Bertius claims that justification is “the universal pathos of faith.” Bertius explained the character of this “universal affection” by saying that “. . . justification is assumed when faith is assumed, but when it [faith] is taken away, justification is altogether taken away.”74 68 Epistolica disceptatio, 132. 69 Epistolica disceptatio, 34, 36–37, 79, 82, 103, 111–112, 138–139. 70 Epistolica disceptatio, 112, see also 16–17, 53, 75, 79–80, 106, 128–129, 156, 159. 71 Epistolica disceptatio, 156. 72 Epistolica disceptatio, 56 (“Hinc est quod fide iustificari dicimur, non proprie, sed metonymice. Fidei enim ut instrumento tribuitur, quod est obedientiae Christi”), 72, 77 (“. . . cum homo dicitur fide justificari, tota Ecclesia nostra novit per Metonymiam id tribui fidei, ut instrumento, quod est justitiae Christi”), 80, 93, 105, 112, 135, 157, 159. 73 Epistolica disceptatio, 20, 32, 55, 72, 77, 80, 82, 90, 94, 101, 105–106, 114, 141, 159–160.

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Bertius referred to Aristotle, and Lubbertus’ criticism also mentions the Philosopher, whose Organon implied that “. . . one and the same universal pathos cannot belong to two [different] subjects . . .”75 A “universal pathos,” in other words, can be attributed to only one single subject. On this basis Lubbertus argues against Bertius that if justification is considered the “universal pathos” of faith, that is to say, if it is indeed attributed exclusively to faith, justification cannot be attributed to Jesus Christ—being a different subject—any more.76 To Lubbertus, this is a profoundly unacceptable implication. His central aim has been to focus in justification on Jesus Christ: “For if we are constituted righteous by the obedience of Christ, then to constitute righteous, that is: to justify, is the universal pathos of the obedience, that is, of the righteousness of Christ.”77 In an additional objection against Bertius’ theory Lubbertus denied that justification is essentially and exclusively linked to faith: on the one hand children who have no faith can yet be justified, on the other hand in heavenly glory there is justification but no faith.78 74 Bertius in Epistolica disceptatio, 85: “Praeterea; cum universalis affectio per illud necessario constituatur, quo primum adjuncto statim tollitur praedicatum (i post. cap. 5), efficitur necessario poni justificationem posita fide, quandoquidem ea sublata, tollitur omnino justificatio,” quoted by Lubbertus on p. 154. The reference to Aristotle’s Analytica posteriora, I, 5, seems not entirely clear, but see I, 4: “. . . I call universal whatever belongs to something both of every case and in itself and as such”, The Complete Works of Aristotle I, ed. and trans. J. Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, [1984] 1985), 119. 75 Epistolica disceptatio, 87, 110–111 (“. . . tum consule organum Aristotelis, et ex eo me doce, unum et idem universale pathos convenire duobus subjectis, ijsque tot genere diversis, et a se invicem sejunctis, atque natura sua separatis, et esse tamen hoc ipsum non unius solum, sed utriusque subjectum universale pathos. Nam quae est mea tarditas, ego hoc neque capio, neque capere possum”), 133, 134. See also the formulation in Lubbertus, Responsio ad Pietatem Hugonis Grotii, 6: “Universalis enim affectio inest omni subiecto, per se, et quatenus ipsum: sed quod ita inest subiecto suo, hoc est totum in illo subiecto, et extra illud non reperitur, ut, Habere tres angulos aequales duobus rectis, est universalis affection trianguli; atque haec est tota in triangulo, et extra triangulum non reperitur.” 76 Epistolica disceptatio, 86–87 (94: “. . . universale pathos vel est de essentia subjecti, vel fluit de essentia subjecti, ut ante ostensum est”), 122, 143, 154–155, 161. 77 Epistolica disceptatio, 161. An additional inconvenience of Bertius’ assumption would be that, if “justifying is the universal pathos of faith,” “it is not by the gracious grace of God that faith justifies. But faith would have this power from nature . . .” (103). 78 Epistolica disceptatio, 134: “Sed justificare universale pathos fidei non est. Nam neque posita justitia, ponitur fides, ut in Gloria: neque ablata fide, aufertur justitia, ut in infantibus, quod est prorsus contra naturam universalis pathuus, ut ego in prima collatione ostendi.”

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The main points of Lubbertus’ stance can be summarised by mentioning how he dealt with the topic of justification a few years later in his response to Hugo Grotius’ Pietas ordinum. He summarises the previous debate in four points without mentioning Bertius by name. The first reported claim is that “. . . the act itself of faith . . . is imputed for righteousness, and this in the proper sense . . .” The second point is “. . . that faith, by the gracious acceptation of God in Christ, counts for the whole righteousness of the law that we were held to perform.”79 As far as Lubbertus is concerned faith can never be considered righteousness, because human faith is deficient whereas “[t]he judgement of God is in accordance with truth, Rom. 2 verse 2.” Another objection is that “. . . the righteousness, by which we are justified is of faith, Rom. 4:14, it is from faith, Rom. 10:6, it is by faith, Phil. 3:9,” in other words, it is distinct from faith itself. It is, as Paul states, “. . . the obedience of Christ . . . Rom. 5:19.” Faith is an instrument to have this obedience imputed. The third claim, “that we are justified by a habit or quality inherent in us,” is ruled out because human works are ruled out in justification (Lubbertus quotes Eph 2:8, Rom 4:2, 2 Tim 1:9, Titus 3:8, Rom 11:6). The fourth assumption, “that justification is the universal affection of faith,” is rejected because it links justification exclusively to faith and thus denies it of Christ, which is contrary to biblical testimony (such as Phil 3:9, Rom 5:9–10 and 19, Heb 10:14).80 In short, whereas the criticised theory—of Bertius—relates faith to the category of works and the law, Lubbertus insists on the link between faith and the righteousness of Christ. Like Gomarus, Lubbertus considers the disagreement as profound: the rejected views “take away . . . the fundamental article of our justification.”81 Caspar Barlaeus, in his Epistola ecclesiastarum of 1617, defended Bertius and Arminius against criticism by Walcheren ministers. In addition to reminding his readers that Bertius’ convictions are not necessar79 Lubbertus, Responsio ad Pietatem Hugonis Grotii, 4: “. . . inter vestrates enim Academicos reperiuntur, qui docent, ipsum fidei actum tò credere imputari ad justitiam, idque proprio sensu, non metonymice. Et, Fidem per gratuitam acceptilationem Dei in Christo haberi pro omni legis justitia, quam nos praestare tenebamur.” On this Responsio, see van der Woude, Lubbertus, 281–286; Grotius’ work is available in a modern edition by E. Rabbie: Hugo Grotius, Ordinum Hollandiae ac Westfrisiae pietas (1613): Critical Edition with English Translation and Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1995). 80 Responsio ad Pietatem Hugonis Grotii, 4–7. 81 Responsio ad Pietatem Hugonis Grotii, 30.

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ily shared by all Remonstrants, he defends the view that “God, who in the legal covenant required exact obedience to His commandments, now in the gospel covenant requires faith, and takes it by gracious estimation because of the merit . . . of Christ in place of legal obedience . . .”82 As a spokesman for the Remonstrants, Barlaeus here essentially takes over Bertius’ view of faith as a human work that is justifying by the grace of God. Arminius’ hesitation to speak of faith as an “instrument,” explains Barlaeus, came from his supposition that “. . . every instrument differs from its action,” which implied that the act of faith could not be called “instrument”—a term that now could be reserved for “the habit of faith.”83 While he thus seems to reduce a part of the disagreement to a technicality, Barlaeus does not explicitly address the central issue of whether it is Christ’s obedience or faith that is attributed for righteousness. This leaves the impression that Barlaeus probably wished to leave intact the positions taken by Arminius and Bertius. 3. A Note on Precedents In their polemics both Gomarus and Lubbertus sketched a few genealogical lines indicating what preceded the errors of Arminius and Bertius. Gomarus linked the controversial part of Arminius’ teaching on justification to Roman Catholic positions but also to Faustus Socinus.84 Lubbertus knew representatives of heterodoxy who theorised, before Arminians did, about faith being—in God’s gracious estimation—“the perfect righteousness of the law.”85 Throughout the correspondence, Lubbertus traces back Bertius’ view of justification to such heterodox authors as Michael Servet (via John Calvin’s reply),86 Socinus87 and Ostorodus.88 Of these references the quotations of Michael Servet seem at first sight the least interesting.89 82 [Barlaeus], Epistola ecclesiastarum, 84. 83 [Barlaeus], Epistola ecclesiastarum, 85. 84 Gomarus, Waerschouwinghe, 49, mentioning as sources “. . . Concil. Trid. sess. 6, cap. 7, ende Can. 10, ende Bellarmino de justif. lib. 2, cap. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, etc. ende uyt het onsalighe duytsche Interim. Ende voornemelick uyt den Samosateniaen Socino, de Iesu Christo servatore par. 4, cap. 2, etc.” 85 Epistolica disceptatio, 66–67. 86 Epistolica disceptatio, 5, 8–11, 26–27, 30, 32, 34–38, 41, 57, 65, 66–69, 71, 82, 85–7, 98, 103, 113, 116–117, 121–122, 125, 140–142, 145, 149, 155, 161.

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Lubbertus stated that Roman Catholic teaching and the views of Bertius on justification seem to reveal both a significant difference and a similarity. According to him the common point is justification by the act of faith, but the difference is that Roman Catholicism considers faith as “only the beginning” of justification, whereas Bertius considers it “the perfect righteousness of the law.”90 Lubbertus suggests that the Arminian view of justification is more clearly Socinian than Roman Catholic. He comes to this conclusion by pondering similarities and differences, as follows: For although the Papists teach that we are justified by faith taken in the literal sense, yet they do not teach that faith is our whole righteousness: they just teach that faith is the beginning of our justification . . . . Servet, however, and Socinus teach that faith is our whole righteousness, as has been shown before, and they reject merit. So because you say that we are justified by faith, taken in the literal sense, and in contrast deny, against the Papists, that faith is only the beginning of our justification, and [because you] add from Servet and Socinus that it is the perfect fulfilment of the law, that is, it is the whole and perfect righteousness by which we are justified before God; because you finally deny against the Papists the merit of faith, and assert, with Servet and Socinus, that it justifies because of God’s valuation, [therefore] everybody sees that you come closer to Servet and Socinus than to the Papists and for that reason it can be more correctly said that you are the disciples of Servet and Socinus than [those] of the Papists.91

One of the references by which Gomarus indicated the Roman Catholic roots of Arminius’ view of justification by faith concerned the Council 87 Epistolica disceptatio, 7–11, 26–30, 32, 34–38, 41, 43–44, 46–47, 57, 66–69, 71, 78, 82, 85–88, 96–98, 100, 103, 105, 109, 113, 116, 117, 120–122, 124–126, 137, 140, 142, 144, 145, 148–149, 153, 155–158, 160–162. In Bertius’ letters, see 118–120, 145, 147, 152. 88 Epistolica disceptatio, 8–11, 27–28, 30, 32, 34–35, 37–38, 71, 85–87, 97, 122, 125, 142, 149, 155–156, 161. 89 Lubbertus cites the views that Servet developed in De lege et evangelio via John Calvin’s refutation in Fidelis expositio errorum Michaelis Serveti, et brevis eorundem refutatio: ubi docetur iuregladii coercendos esse haereticos, in Calvin, Tractatus theologici omnes, nunc primum in unum volumen (Geneva: P. Santandreanus, 1576) [Gemeentelijke Bibliotheek Rotterdam: 29 B 2], where the tract is printed on 816–907. Lubbertus refers especially to pages 902, 903, 904. 90 Epistolica disceptatio, 11: “Etsi enim facit cum papistis, quod vis nos per fidem proprie sic dictam, quatenus scilicet est opus nostrum, iustificari: tamen in eo dissentis ab illis, quod dicis Fidem nostrum haberi a Deo pro perfecta legis iustitia, hoc non admittunt Papistae. Nam hi docent fide inchoari iustitiam nostrum, charitate consummari . . . ;” cf. 32, 68, 98, 157.

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of Trent. The canon quoted by Gomarus talks about “the righteousness of Christ by which He merited for us” and condemns those—among others—who believe that “humans . . . are formally righteous by it.”92 Moreover, chapter 16 speaks about a justifying righteousness that inheres in humans.93 Yet the chapters and canons of the sixth Council session include no expression indicating that the act of faith is imputed for righteousness.94 It is rather emphasised that justification takes place not only by faith (but also by works of love) and not only by imputation. Yet, the Council’s insistence on the activity of the human being itself can be considered to some degree as a parallel to the Arminian view of justification by the act of faith. It is in Socinianism that perhaps the closest parallel for the Arminian justification by faith is found.95 Lubbertus made a strong case by quoting Socinian passages that reveal similarities with at least two Arminian tenets: in Faustus Socinus we find the view that faith itself is graciously considered righteousness by God and that the work of Christ 91 Epistolica disceptatio, 11, 68–69: “Etsi enim Papistae doceant, nos per fidem proprie sic dictam iustificari: tamen non docent fidem esse totam nostram iustitiam: tantum docent fidem esse initium nostrae iustificationis. Diserte enim docent, fide inchoari nostrum iustitiam, et eandem charitate consummari. Servetus vero et Socinus docent fidem esse totam nostrum iustitiam, ut ante ostensum est, et meritum reijciunt [sic]. Cum igitur vos dicatis nos fide proprie sic dicta iustificari: et contra Papistas negetis fidem esse tantum initium nostrae iustificationis, addatisque ex Serveto et Socino illam esse perfectam legis impletionem, h.e. esse totam et perfectam iustitiam, qua coram Deo iustificamur: Cum denique contra Papistis negetis meritum fidei, et cum Serveto, Socinoque statuatis, illam ex Dei dignatione iustificari: Quilibet videt, vos proprius ad Servetum et Socinum accedere, quam ad Papistas, et ob eam causam rectius dici posse, vos esse Serveti et Socini discipulos, quam Papistarum.” 92 Heinrich Denzinger, Kompendium der Glaubensbekenntnisse und kirchlichen Lehrentscheidungen, ed. P. Hünermann and H. Hoping, 37th ed. (Freiburg: Herder, 1991), 518 (No. 1560, Council of Trent, session 6, canon 10). 93 Kompendium, 514 (No. 1547). 94 Kompendium, 502–521. 95 On the relationship between Arminianism and Socinianism see e.g. recent contributions by E. H. Cossee (“Meer verschil dan overeenkomst. Remonstrantisme en socinianisme vergeleken door Adriaan van Cattenburgh in zijn Specimen controversiarum inter remonstrantes et Socinum (1728)”), M. van Leeuwen (“Simon Episcopius en het socinianisme”) and F. Mühlegger (“De reactie van Hugo de Groot op het socinianisme”) in Doopsgezinde Bijdragen 30 (2004). Cf. W. J. Kühler, Het socinianisme in Nederland , ed. A. de Groot and D. Visser (Leeuwarden: De Tille, 1980), 76–81; for Socinians on justification, see 28–29; see also Kühler, “Remonstranten en Socinianen,” in De Remonstranten: Gedenkboek bij het 300-jarig bestaan der Remonstrantsche Broederschap, ed. G. J. Heering (Leiden: Sijthoff, n.d. [1919]), 137–158; here 138–140, 153–154 on doctrinal issues, and 154 on justification.

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is not imputed for righteousness.96 These two points are essentially present in some texts of Arminius, and the first point is also taught by Bertius. Lubbertus also quotes from Christopher Ostorodus, who argued that humans are not righteous because of the “merit of Christ,” but claimed that His “blood and death work in us these things because of which God is willing to justify us, namely faith . . .”97 What is needed “in us” is faith, which is the reason why God saves humans.98 In Socinianism, therefore, both Gomarus and Lubbertus could find advocated a theory that attributed justification to the human act of faith instead of to the merit of Christ. This similarity of the views on justification by faith could indicate that Socinianism had an impact already on the first stages of Arminian theology. The impact may not have taken place by direct reading of Socinian writings. At the start of the correspondence Bertius claims that he had not yet read Socinus’ book “on the Saviour” and in his fifth letter he repeats that he does not know Socinus from firsthand reading but “more . . . from your letters than from personal inspection.”99 Even if Arminius and Bertius did not read Socinian authors, they still may have been aware of Socinian theology through early opponents (such as David Paraeus).100 4. Aftermath and Conclusions Justification by faith was an important issue in early discussions of Arminian theology. Yet Arminius himself had been reluctant, in his conversations with Gomarus, to give much attention to justification. 96 F. Socinus, De Jesu Christo Servatore, hoc est, cur et qua ratione Iesus Christus noster servator sit (n.p: A. Rodecius, 1594) [Gemeentelijke Bibliotheek Rotterdam: 28 D 23], e.g. 128 (cf. Lubbertus in Epistolica disceptatio, 142), 317, 320, 322, 327, 330, 333 (cf. Lubbertus in Epistolica disceptatio, 9, 28, 41, 46, 66–67), 400–401 (here faith is called a work, opus; cf. Lubbertus in Epistolica disceptatio, 41, 88). 97 Chr. Ostorodus, Disputatio Wider Georg Tradeln . . . Von der Gottheit des Sohnes Gottes/ unsers Herren Jesu Christi/ und des Heilige Geistes . . . (Rackaw: S. Sternatzki, 1625) [UL Utrecht: E qu. 199], 250 (cf. Lubbertus in Epistolica disceptatio, 9–10, 28, 97, 122–123). 98 Ostorodus, Disputatio, 251 (cf. Lubbertus in Epistolica disceptatio, 9, 27). 99 Disceptatio epistolica, 7, 153 (cf. Lubbertus’ reply, 153 and 162: “. . . Ut satis mirari non possim, quare hac epistola tam sollicite studeas mihi persuadere, tibi Socinum lectum non esse. Hoc enim, mi frater, alijs persuaderis, non mihi”). 100 Bertius in Epistolica disceptatio, 120; cf. Lubbertus, 126–127, and Bertius, 145.

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The Remonstrantie from 1610 included five points of doctrine other than justification, and these five points were addressed in the Canons of the Synod of Dordrecht.101 Thus the issue of justification by faith remained in the background, but it did not disappear altogether. Hugo Grotius may have taken a course different from Arminius and Bertius in that he came to consider the doctrine of justification by faith alone as opposed to biblical testimony.102 Yet in the course of the seventeenth century the Arminian view of justifying faith was still mentioned by Reformed orthodox among the controversial issues. A few examples can demonstrate the lasting relevance of the disagreement. In his Catechisatie over den Catechismus der Remonstranten from 1641 Gisbertus Voetius mentioned as Remonstrant views the notion “[t]hat Christ’s righteousness is not and cannot be accounted to us,”103 as well as the idea “[t]hat faith justifies us insofar as it is an act, virtue or good work accomplished by us, and not insofar as it apprehends as an instrument the righteousness of Christ, Apolog., fol. 111, 112, that is, because of the work or the act done by us and not because of the power of the righteousness of Christ.”104 In 1651 Jacobus Trigland stated, in a historical survey meant as a reply to Johannes Wtenbogaert: The doctrine was, and still is in his [i.e. Arminius’] followers, that not the righteousness of Jesus Christ is imputed to believers for righteousness in order to stand before God in and by the same [righteousness], but faith itself [is imputed], the act of faith, tò credere, believing, or this act of believing, according to the commandment of God proposed in the Gospel, 101 The text of the Canons in De Nederlandse belijdenisgeschriften, ed. J. N. Bakhuizen van den Brink, 2nd ed. (Amsterdam: Ton Bolland, 1976). 102 G. H. M. Posthumus Meyjes, “Hugo Grotius as an Irenicist,” in The World of Hugo Grotius (1583–1645): Proceedings of the International Colloquium Organized by the Grotius Committee of the Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, Rotterdam 6–9 April 1983 (Amsterdam: APA-Holland University Press, 1984), 43–63, here 61. For further details, see J. Schlüter, Die Theologie des Hugo Grotius (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1919), 56–61. According to Schlüter, “. . . ist es doch keine Frage, daß seine Position in Wirklichkeit den Katholiken weit näher steht als den Protestanten” (60). 103 G. Voetius, Catechisatie over den Catechismus der Remonstranten (Utrecht: E.Wzn. Snellaert, 1641), 526. The point is documented as follows: “Armin. Epist. ad Hippolitum a collibus, Bertius in Epistol. Discept. cum Lubberto de fide Iustific., Apol. Fol. 113a, Poppius Enge Poorte, pag. 128, 134, 151.” 104 Voetius, Catechisatie, 528–529. Cf. Apologia pro confessione sive declaratione sententiae eorum, qui in foederato Belgio vocantur Remonstrantes, super praecipuis articulis religionis Christianae. Contra censuram quatuor professorum Leidensium (n.p., 1630), 111–113r.

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[the doctrine is] that this is imputed to the believing human being for righteousness, although by Christ and for Christ’s sake.105

In 1653 Johannes Hoornbeek published his Summa controversiarum religionis. This compendium includes a chapter on Arminianism, where one of the critical questions is: “Whether we are justified before God not by apprehending in faith the justice of Christ, which alone is imputed to us for the forgiveness of sins, but by faith as it is an act and our work, including in itself the obedience of evangelical works because of which we are justified, though not because of its dignity and merit?” The orthodox answer is: no.106 In the eighteenth century a Remonstrant concept of justification was still known to Martinus Vitringa in 1764.107 In 1766, Bernardus de Moor did not cite Arminius or Bertius directly on this point, but he presented a comparable Remonstrant view of justification and he obviously had at hand works by contemporaries of the early debates as well as later authors.108 These examples may suffice to show that the Arminian view of justification clearly remained a point in controversy long after Arminius had started to sketch its main outlines. Hence, a first historical conclusion from the previous discussion can be drawn, namely that justification by faith was a significant issue in the debate between early 105 J. Trigland, Kerkelycke geschiedenissen (Leiden: Wyngaerden, 1651), 309: “De Leere was/ ende is noch by syne naevolghers/ dat/ niet de gerechticheyt Jesu Christi den geloovighen tot gerechticheydt wordt toeghereeckent/ om in/ ende door de selve/ voor Godt te bestaen, maer het geloove selve, de daet des geloofs/ Tò credere, het ghelooven/ ofte die daet datmen/ op het bevel Godts/ inden Euangelio voorghestelt/ ghelooft/ dat dat den gheloovighen mensche tot rechtveerdicheydt wort toe-ghereeckent/ doch door Christum/ ende om Christi wille.” Trigland’s relationship to Arminianism is discussed in H. W. ter Haar, Jacobus Trigland (‘s-Gravenhage: M. Nijhoff, 1891), 127–146, and in K. ten Klooster, “De taal van de kerk: Jacobus Trigland (1583– 1654) en de belijdenis van de kerk” (master’s thesis, Faculty of Theology, University of Leiden, n.d.). 106 J. Hoornbeek, Summa controversiarum religionis (Utrecht: J. a Waesberge, 1653) [Dr C. Steenblokbibliotheek, Gouda—I am indebted to the assistance of B. J. Spruyt], 474: “Num coram Deo, justificemur non fide apprehendendo Christi justitiam, quae sola nobis imputetur in remissionem peccatorum, sed fide ut est actus et opus nostrum, includens in se obedientiam operum Evangelicorum, propter quam, quamvis non ex ejus dignitate et merito, justificemur? Neg.” On Hoornbeek’s critique of Arminianism, see J. W. Hofmeyr, Johannes Hoornbeeck as polemikus, PhD diss. (Kampen: Kok, 1975), 140–151. 107 M. Vitringa, Doctrina christianae religionis, per aphorismos summatim descripta III (Leiden: J. le Mair, 1764), 309–310, note. 108 Cf. B. de Moor, Commentarius perpetuus in Johannes Marckii compendium theologiae christianae didactico-elencticum (Leiden: Hasebroek, 1766), 751–757.

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Arminians and Reformed orthodoxy and it remained a relevant point of disagreement for more than one and a half century. A second conclusion seems possible with respect to the relationship between Arminianism and Socinianism. As Gomarus and Lubbertus indicated, new elements that entered the Arminian theology of justification after Arminius’ genuinely orthodox disputation from 1603 reveal a significant similarity to Socinian doctrine. The Arminian view of justification by the act of faith was not entirely new nor exclusively Arminian, although Arminius and Bertius were less radical or more cautious in proposing the viewpoint. Especially the references to Socinian texts that Lubbertus gave, make it hard to deny that justification was an area in which incipient Arminianism came near to Socinian views. Thirdly, this particular controversy also illustrates the character of the theological contrast between Remonstrants and Contra-Remonstrants. Arminianism tended to focus on human ability and human free will.109 But what the debate on justification suggests is that the Arminian concentration on human activity not only meant that the focus was not on the sovereign God who predestines, but also that it was not on the righteousness of Christ. It could be argued, in other words, that the Arminian views on predestination and on justification by the act of faith have a common drive or share the same motivation: an insistence on human activity. The insistence on human acts leads to teaching a predestination of persons who will believe110 and a justification of those who have the act of faith.111 Hence, the sovereign predestination of God and the work of Christ are both re-defined or put into the background. In this way, Arminian theology gravitates toward anthropocentrism (in the human act of faith) rather than to Theo-centrism (as articulated, for instance, in a sovereign divine predestination of individuals) or Christo109 Cf. A. Th. van Deursen’s brief description of Arminianism in Bavianen en slijkgeuzen: Kerk en kerkvolk ten tijde van Maurits en Oldenbarnevelt (1974; Franeker: Van Wijnen, 1998), 229. A Contra-Remonstrant theological criticism could be, in the words of L. Vroegindewey: “Daar wordt altijd weer God vernederd en de mens verhoogd”; “De anthropologie der Nederlandse belijdenisgeschriften,” in Waarheid, wijsheid en leven: Een bundel studiën opgedragen aan Prof. Dr J. Severijn, ter gelegenheid van zijn zilveren ambtsjubileum op 19 october 1956, ed. H. A. van Bemmel et al. (Kampen: Kok [1956]), 186–202, here 195. 110 See the first of the Remonstrant articles, in Schriftelicke conferentie, 7–8. 111 It is relevant to note, however (cf. ter Haar, Trigland, 140), that in the third Remonstrant article true faith is said not to result from human effort and will, but to presuppose God’s regenerating activity; Schriftelicke conferentie, 8.

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centrism (as expressed, for example, in a justification of believers by imputation of the work of Christ). Theologian H. F. Kohlbrügge reportedly deplored that the Synod of Dordt focussed on predestination rather than “the justitia Dei et Christi.”112 There may be fewer reasons for regret than the statement at a first glance seems to suppose. In the first place, historical evidence shows that justification was in fact an issue during the controversies that arose when Arminianism started to emerge as a distinct theological orientation. Moreover, it could be argued that Arminian positions on both predestination and justification reveal a common focus: human activity is formative in both Arminian doctrines. The orthodox reply to Arminanism accordingly dealt with both articulations of this focus on human activity. It defended both God’s sovereignty in predestination and the work of Jesus Christ in justification by faith.

112 The quote is from a letter of Kohlbrügge, as cited by G. C. Berkouwer, Een halve eeuw theologie: Motieven en stromingen van 1920 tot heden (Kampen: Kok, 1974), 125: the Synod of Dordrecht was led “. . . van de justitia Christi tot de praedestinatie, waardoor de synode zulk een ongelukkige houding heeft verkregen moetende de Remonstranten uitwerpen, waar zij met de prediking van de justitia Dei et Christi de Remonstranten op de loop gejaagd zou hebben en vele monden voor het toekomende gestopt waren geweest.” I am indebted to Rev. M. Goudriaan for this reference.

THOMAS BARLOW ON THE LIABILITIES OF “NEW PHILOSOPHY” PERCEPTIONS OF A REBELLIOUS ANCILLA IN THE ERA OF PROTESTANT ORTHODOXY Richard A. Muller

1. Introduction The intellectual revolutions of the seventeenth century have been chronicled in numerous monographs and histories, and, most recently, with significant attention paid to less-famous figures.1 Still, inasmuch as this scholarship has belonged typically to the history of philosophy and the history of the philosophy of science, there remain major gaps in the study of the era,2 resulting at least in part from the lack of dialogue between these disciplines and the history of theology. Seventeenth-century proponents of the older Christian Aristotelianism, whether philosophers or theologians, who looked on the various forms of late Renaissance and early modern rationalism as distinctly problematic have been neglected—either barely mentioned or dismissed as less than cognizant of the demands of modernity, whether scientific or cultural. Yet, as examination of the writings of these proponents of the older pat1 See J. A. van Ruler, The Dictionary of Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Dutch Philosophers, 2 vols. (Bristol: Thoemmes, 2003); note the exemplary studies of Joseph S. Freedman, European Academic Philosophy in the Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries: The Life, Significance, and Philosophy of Clemens Timpler (1563/4–1624), 2 vols. (Hildesheim: Olms, 1988); idem, “Aristotle and the Content of Philosophy Instruction at Central European Schools and Universities during the Reformation Era (1500–1650),” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 137/2 (1993): 213–253. 2 From the perspective of the philosophy of science, see: Amos Funkenstein, Theology and the Scientific Imagination from the Middle Ages to the Seventeenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986); idem, “The Body of God in 17th Century Theology and Science,” in Millenarianism and Messianism in English Literature and Thought, 1650–1800, ed. R. Popkin (Leiden: Brill, 1988), 149–175; Margaret J. Osler, ed., Atoms, Pneuma, and Tranquillity: Epicurean and Stoic Themes in European Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); and Margaret J. Osler, Divine Will and the Mechanical Philosophy: Gassendi and Descartes on Contingency and Necessity in the Created World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).

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terns of thought often reveals, many of their objections had merit and many of their fears concerning the eventual effects of the new philosophies were quite justified.3 Indeed, it is arguable that the predicted dangers of the new philosophies have been fulfilled a hundred-fold in the loss of comprehension of traditional terms, arguments, and categories that characterizes much of what has passed for theology in the twentieth and now passes for it in the twenty-first century. The present essay looks at the problem of the new philosophies and related issues in the new science from the perspective of one well-placed theologian and churchman of the era, with specific attention to the perceived dangers posed by a particular form of seventeenth-century rationalism for the cogency of traditional theological discourse. 2. Thomas Barlow and the Problem of the New Philosophy Thomas Barlow (1607–1691), noted as a theologian and philosopher in his own day, offers not only a positive statement of the traditionary philosophical foundation of the older Protestant orthodoxy, but also a significant window on the debates of the era and, specifically, on the perceived dangers of the new philosophies. Born at Barlow Moor, near Manchester, Barlow matriculated at Queen’s College, Oxford, receiving his B.A. in 1630 and his M.A. in 1633. At Oxford, Barlow became lecturer in metaphysics and had among his pupils John Owen. He was appointed librarian of the Bodleian in 1642. He consistently opposed Arminianism at Oxford, was recognized as a significant Reformed (albeit certainly not Puritan) philosopher and theologian, and was able to retain his position in the purge of 1648. In 1660, he was made Lady Margaret Professor of divinity. He also conformed on the restoration of the monarchy and was made Bishop of Lincoln in 1675. His works include Exercitationes aliquot metaphysicale;4 Popery: or, The princi-

3 Cf. J. A. van Ruler, The Crisis of Causality: Voetius and Descartes on God, Nature, and Change (Leiden: Brill, 1995); idem, “New Philosophy to Old Standards: Voetius’ Vindication of Divine Concurrence and Secondary Causality,” Nederlands Archief voor Kerkgeschiedenis 71 (1991): 58–91. 4 Thomas Barlow, Exercitationes aliquot metaphysicale, de Deo: quod sit objectum metaphysicae (London, 1637).

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ples and positions approved by the Church of Rome;5 Several miscellaneous and weighty cases of conscience;6 and the posthumous Genuine Remains, containing divers Discourses.7 In the Remains appears a lengthy letter of Directions to a Young Divine for his Study of Divinity, later published separately,8 in which Barlow offers an extensive annotated bibliography, organized by subject, rather similar in content to the massive theological bibliography produced by his contemporary, Gisbertus Voetius of Utrecht.9 Two philosophical letters written by Barlow rather nicely identify the issues raised by traditional philosophers and theologians in their debate with the new rationalisms. His correspondent, identified only as “Sir J. B.,” had initially sent to Barlow for comment a published discourse that had been lately delivered at the Royal Society. Barlow responded with a series of specific criticisms of the discourse and then, in response to further queries from Sir J. B., with a general assessment of the problems inherent in the “New Philosophy,” particularly as they related to divine things. In the following discussion, I disoblige the chronology and move from the general to the specific. In the undated second letter written probably toward the beginning of 1675, Barlow commented that he was “not a little troubled to see Protestants, nay Clergy-men, and Bishops, approve and propagate, that which they miscall New Philosophy; so that our Universities begin to be infected with it, little considering the Causes or Consequences of it, or

5 Thomas Barlow, Popery: or, The principles and positions approved by the Church of Rome, (when really believ’d and practis’d) are very dangerous to all and to Protestant kings & supreme powers, more especially pernicious: and inconsistent with that loyalty, which (by the law of nature and Scripture) is indispensably due to supreme powers. In a letter to a person of honor (London: printed for J. C., 1683). 6 Thomas Barlow, Several miscellaneous and weighty cases of conscience learnedly and judiciously resolved by the Right Reverend Father in God, Dr. Thomas Barlow (London: Mrs. Davis, 1692). 7 Thomas Barlow, The Genuine Remains of that Learned Prelate Dr. Thomas Barlow, late Lord Bishop of Lincoln. Containing Diverse Discourses Theological, Philosophical, Historical, &c. In Letters to Several Persons of Honour and Quality (London: John Dunton, 1693). 8 Thomas Barlow, De studio theologiae: or, Directions for the Choice of Books in the Study of Divinity (Oxford: Leonard Lichfield, 1699). 9 On Voetius’ bibliographical efforts, see Richard A. Muller, After Calvin: Studies in the Development of a Theological Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 110–116.

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how it tends to the advantage of Rome, and the ruine of our Religion.”10 Barlow emphasizes his point—he is “quite certain” that the New Philosophy is designed by writers of the Roman Church to reinforce her superstitions, noting that Campanella, in his De monarchia Hispaniae, had advised the King of Spain to subsidize the work of such philosophers, particularly one in Flanders, in order that the Protestant heretics, who “are greedy of novelty” and “apt to receive” these curious philosophical views, creating further division among them—“by which divisions (so set on foot and well managed) the Hereticks may (with much more ease) be rooted out and ruin’d.”11 Since the time of Campanella’s advice, Barlow was convinced, the “papists,” in particular the Jesuits, had promoted the New Philosophy: the culprits, in Barlow’s view were “Des Cartes, Gassendus, Du Hamel, Maurus, Mersennus, [and] De Mellos.”12 The proof, moreover, of the intention behind these philosophers’ efforts was the ongoing controversy over their thought in England and, especially, in the Netherlands. Beyond that, Barlow, who had been the librarian at Oxford’s Bodleian collection, had made inquiries concerning the method and content of the philosophy taught by the Jesuits throughout Europe. He found that even as “the Jesuites and Popish party cry up their New Philosophy,” they consistently refrained from teaching it in Paris, Venice, Florence, Rome, the Alcala, and “kept . . . to strict form” and “to Aristotle’s way of ratiocination,” indeed, “to the old principles and forms of Disputation.”13 Their reason for retention of the old philosophy despite outward recommendation of the new was quite simple: they well know that all their Schoolmen, Casuists, and Controversy-Writers have so mix’d Aristotle’s Philosophy, with their Divinity; that he 10 Thomas Barlow, “Another Letter to Sir J. B.,” in The Genuine Remains of that Learned Prelate Dr. Thomas Barlow, late Lord Bishop of Lincoln. Containing Diverse Discourses Theological, Philosophical, Historical, &c. In Letters to Several Persons of Honour and Quality (London: John Dunton, 1693), 157. 11 Barlow, “Another Letter to Sir J. B.,” 157–158. 12 Barlow, “Another Letter to Sir J. B.,” 158; cf. Margaret J. Osler, “Descartes and Charleton on Nature and God,” Journal of the History of Ideas 40 (1979): 445–456. 13 Barlow, “Another Letter to Sir J. B.,” 158. On the Dutch controversies, see Theo Verbeek, “Descartes and the Problem of Atheism: The Utrecht Crisis,” Nederlands Archief voor Kerkgeschiedenis 71/2 (1991): 211–223; and La Querelle d’Utrecht, texte établi et traduites avec une introduction et notes par Theodorus Verbeek (Paris: Impressions Nouvelles, 1988).

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who has not a comprehension of Aristotles Principles, and the use of them, in all Scholastick Disputes, and Controversies of Religion, will never be able rationally to defend or confute any controverted position, in the Roman or Reformed Religion. . . . If they can persuade us to spend our time about novel Whimsies, and not well understood Experiments, and neglect the severer studies of the old Philosophy and Scholastical Divinity; they will (in all Divinity Disputations) be every way too hard for us. Just so, as in this case: If I should challenge a man to fight a Duel with me, in the Field; and when we met there, if I could persuade him to cast away his Sword, (or keep him from having any skill to use it) I should certainly be too hard for him.14

Barlow concludes his letter with the belief that a mastery of the principles of the “old Philosophy” and of its ramifications for “School-Divinity” is an absolutely necessary “Weapon” in the battle to defend and preserve the “Truth” against Rome.15 Barlow, in short, held to the traditionary assumption that philosophy ought to be the ancilla theologiae, the handmaid to the queen of the sciences, and he recognized that the older Aristotelianism had been honed for just such a task.16 It is worth noting that Barlow was not alone in his conclusion that Campanella’s advice concerning the spread of the new philosophy was indeed the key to a popish plot—indeed, a plot infecting the Royal Society. Such also was the view of Henry Stubbe, who viewed the advocacy of new philosophy over the old in the Royal Society as consciously or unconsciously expediting Campanella’s recommendations.17 Stubbe specifically argued against the substitution of alternative metaphysics 14 Barlow, “Another Letter to Sir J. B.,” 159. 15 Barlow, “Another Letter to Sir J. B.,” 159. 16 On the traditional relationship of philosophy to theology, see Richard A. Muller, Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics: The Rise and Development of Reformed Orthodoxy, ca. 1520 to ca. 1725, 4 vols. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2003), I, 68, 70, 105, 119, 198, 398–405, et passim. 17 See Henry Stubbe, Campanella revived, or, An enquiry into the history of the Royal Society, whether the virtuosi there do not pursue the projects of Campanella for the reducing England unto Popery being the extract of a letter to a person of honour from H.S. with another letter to Sir N.N. relating the cause of the quarrel betwixt H.S. and the R.S. and an apology against some of their cavils: with a postscript concerning the quarrel depending betwixt H.S. and Dr. Merrett (London: Printed for the author, 1670), 4–8, citing Tomaso Campanella, A Discourse touching the Spanish Monarchy. Wherein we have a Politicall Glasse (London: Philemon Stephens, 1654), 157, 177. Note that the second edition of Campanella’s work, with a warning preface by William Prynne, was published under the inflammatory title, Thomas Campanella an Italian Friar and Second Machiavel. His Advice to the Kind of Spain for attaining the Universal Monarchy of the World (London: Philemon Stephens, 1659).

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for Aristotelian philosophy and the attack, by Glanville and others, on the standard patterns of University training. The older models had served well against the ancient heresies and against the new adversaries, “Papists and Socinians”—and the loss of the models would only serve to undermine “established Religion.” Like Barlow, Stubbe argued that the loss of the old philosophy would entail an inability to defend theological orthodoxy.18 Stubbe also pointed out that the claim of various members of the Royal Society to be setting aside “old philosophy” and various pagan ideas was given the lie by what they advocated as a new philosophy—given its roots in Democritus and Epicurus, it was equally old, just as pagan, and in Stubbe’s view, far more dangerous!19 3. The New Philosophy and the Confusion of Categories In his more specific arguments to Sir J. B., Barlow singled out the atomism of the then-contemporary scientific philosophy for most pointed criticism, associated as it was with the revival of Epicurean philosophy in the seventeenth century.20 It is tangentially interesting—contrary to what one would infer from Barlow’s response—that the issue of atomism and its undermining of the traditional categories of substance and accident was not the central concern of the lecture. The lecture presented on 26 November 1674, a “discourse . . . concerning the use of duplicate proportion . . . together with a new hypothesis of springing or elastique motions,” was focused on the practical understanding of the movement of ships through water, the relationship of velocity to the “sharpness” of the ship’s prow, the related issues of strength of timbers, wheels, vehicles of various sorts, and oars, plus an examination of the relationship of distance to perceptions of sound, sight, and smell, with gunpowder used as an example—all intended to overcome the growing perception that the Royal Society was little interested in matters of 18 Stubbe, Campanella revived, 11–13. 19 Henry Stubbe, A specimen of some animadversions upon a book entituled, Plus ultra, or, Modern improvements of useful knowledge writtten by Mr. Joseph Glanvill, a member of the Royal Society (London: s.n., 1670), 10–11, 16–17. 20 Thomas Barlow, “Sir. J. B. having sent to Bishop Barlow a Lecture before the Royal Society on the 26th of November 1674. Printed in Twelves, his Lordship sent him the following answer,” in Genuine Remains, 151–156; hereinafter cited as “Answer to Sir J. B.”

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immediate social and economic advantage. The author, Sir William Petty compared his lecture to the more practical sermons of “Elderly Divines” who, after confusing their “Flocks” with “perplexed discourses about Predestination, Transubstantiation, &c.,” turned toward immediately edifying subjects such as “Faith and Good Works, Neighbourly Love and Charity, or Doing as we would be done unto.”21 The intention of the discourse and by far the larger portion of its text avoided underlying philosophical and speculative issues. Petty’s prefatory remarks, however, offered definitions of the terms “Matter, Body, Figure, Place, Motion, Quantity, Quality, Habit, Time, Proportion, Weight, Swiftness, Force, and Elasticity,” plus “Substance,” “Ratio,” “Proportion,” “Situation,” and “Likeness,” and a consideration of the nature of “First Matter,”22 in short, an examination of substance and the traditional categories of predication, with a few non-traditional categories added for good measure. Petty’s Discourse serves as a useful example of how the adaptation of traditional categories of explanation to use in even the most practical applications of the new science could impinge on the older worldview and, by implication, threaten the foundations of established philosophical and theological teachings. From Barlow’s perspective, Petty’s definitions were “highly irrational, and indeed most metaphysical Nonsense” and, in some places “impious, if not plainly Atheistical.”23 Significantly, as his first example of the problematic character of Petty’s arguments, Barlow cites the definitions of “place” and “motion”— “Place” being, in Petty’s view, “the Image, or Fancy of Matter, or Matter considered,” “Quantity, the Fancy of Place,” and “Motion . . . change of Place.”24 For Petty, moreover, “place” and “space” were identical, distinguishable as terms only with reference to the presence or absence of an object.25 In Barlow’s view, the problem of these definitions is evident when 21 Petty, Sir William, The discourse made before the Royal Society the 26. of November, 1674, concerning the use of duplicate proportion in sundry important particulars together with a new hypothesis of springing or elastique motions (London: Printed for John Martyn, 1674), 4–9. 22 Petty, Discourse, 12–18. 23 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 151. 24 Petty, Discourse, 15–16; cf. Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 151, citing Petty, Discourse, where the quotations are accurately given, but “fancy” is spelled “phancy.” 25 Petty, Discourse, 16–17.

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one applies them to the problem of the motions of the earth and the sun: if place is an “image” or (in Barlow’s spelling) “phancy” and motion a change of place, then motion is a matter of “phancy”—and some people may “phancy” that the sun moves and the earth stands still, while others with equal justice may “phancy” that the earth moves and the sun stands still. Barlow does not answer the question. Indeed, the problem to which Barlow draws attention was not whether the earth circled the sun or the sun circled the earth. Rather he indicates that he would like to know “which of their phancies is the place of Sun or Earth,” or perhaps would argue that “place is not a phancy.” Similarly, if place refers only to “matter considered” and not to matter (or, more precisely, substance), then, is it the case that a dog or a horse, the sun or the moon, or, indeed, the world, when not considered is in no place and therefore “no where”—and therefore nonexistent, “for, quod nusquam est, non est”?26 To make the point briefly, Barlow, an adherent of the traditional Aristotelian perspective, understood place as an accident belonging to substances; Petty, apparently, did not. In addition, Barlow pressed the location of the category of place in relation to the phancy or phantasy: presumably, in Barlow’s understanding, as in the traditional Aristotelianism, phancy or phantasy was the function of the mind in which sense perceptions were gathered or collated and upon which the rational process operated,27 or in the definitions of the era, phantasia is the imago rerum animo insidentium, “the image of things conceived in the mind,” a “vision,” “representation,” or “imagination.”28 To understand place as belonging to the phancy rather than to the object of sense perception was to relativize place as a category and make the primary reference matter itself, indeed, the presence or absence of matter, considered dimensively. The shift in meaning was disconcerting. Petty’s definitions clearly belonged to the new philosophy, indeed, to one of the new philosophies identified in Barlow’s more general letter 26 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 152; cf. the more extended argumentation in Thomas Barlow, Exercitationes aliquot metaphysicale, de Deo: quod sit objectum metaphysicae (London, 1637), Exercitatio vi (269). 27 Cf. Kenelm Digby, Of bodies and of mans soul to discover the immortality of reasonable souls: with two discourses, Of the powder of sympathy, and, Of the vegetation of plants (London: S. G. and B. G. for John Williams, 1669), 2–3. 28 See Francis Holyoke, Dictionarium Etymologicum Latinum . . . or, a Dictionarie declaring the Etymologies, the Originall and derivation, of all Words used in any Latine Authors (London: Felix Kingston, 1640), s.v. phantasia.

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to Sir J. B.—the Epicureanism associated with Pierre Gassendi and, by way of its British adaptation at the hands of Walter Charleton, with the scientific inquiries of the Royal Society. Charleton dissented pointedly from both the Aristotelian understanding of place and from the Cartesian understanding of space as extension: having argued the existence of a vacuum or utter emptiness, he went on to refute the notion, accompanying the Cartesian notion of extension, that empty space is nondimensive. The problem with Cartesian thinking on this issue, Charleton observed, is a problem held in common by much classical philosophy: it is immersed in false or mistaken categories and assumes that dimension is inseparable from quantity, that quantity is inseparable form “corporiety,” and that, therefore, when corporiety is absent, there can be neither quantity nor dimension—yielding the false conclusion that all bodies must be contiguous, i.e., never having absolutely nothing between them.29 The error of Descartes, in Charleton’s view, was the common error of the older philosophy that had all too neatly distinguished all things into the categories of substance and accident, had denied reality to all that lacked both substance and accident, and had then proceeded to “mince and cantle out poor Accident into Nine” subcategories, the first of which is quantity. This fundamental error— namely, the Aristotelian categories strictly understood—led to the confusion of quantity with corporiety, the denial of reality to non-corporiety, and (in Descartes’ modification of the problem) the identification of empty space as “an absolute Nothing,” namely, as nonexistent.30 As implied by Charleton’s dispute with Aristotelianism and with Descartes, the point at issue and the debate concerning it reflect not simply the conflict of the new philosophy with the traditional Christian Aristotelianism and the related theological orthodoxy—the problem of place (and the attendant issue of motion) was debated by seventeenthcentury Cartesians, Epicureans, and Aristotelians, the latter group including both later Renaissance philosophers and a broad spectrum of theologians or theological philosophers.31 In Charleton’s view, despite 29 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vi.1 (65), citing Descartes, Principia Philosophia, xviii; and White, Dialogue, i, De Mundo. Also note, Pierre Gassendi, Disquisitio metaphysica; seu, Dubitationes et instantiae adversus Renati Cartesii Metaphysicam et responsa. Recherches metaphysiques; ou, Doutes et instances contre la Metaphysique de R. Descartes et ses reponses, texte établi, traduit et annoté par Bernard Rochot (Paris: Librairie philosophique J. Vrin, 1962). 30 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vi.1 (65–66).

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the significant differences between Cartesian thought and a strict Aristotelian definition, the two perspectives shared the same category mistake, the assumption that place was a predicate of the material order or, in Descartes’ terms, of extension. Charleton’s alternative view, reminiscent of the definitions confuted by Barlow, held that “Place is neither Accident, nor Substance,”32 and could be defined simply as space occupied.33 Among the corollaries of the Aristotelian (and Cartesian) notion of place as an attribute or predicate of substance that Charleton and the new Epicureans sought to refute was the denial of a vacuum, namely, of utterly empty space. The Epicurean understanding ran counter to the Aristotelianism espoused by Barlow: for Barlow, space was not a real thing (Ens realis) and therefore not to be identified in any way with place—what is more, the entire universe was in a “manifest place” and there could be no such thing as “imaginary space,” namely, utterly empty space or a vacuum.34 Specifically, in the Aristotelian view, when one object was removed from its place (or, more precisely, when the place of an object was altered) something else, whether solid, liquid, or gaseous, would necessarily be drawn into the gap. If, moreover, “place” were removed along with the object, then distance, the characteristic of place, would also be removed and there would be no distance at all between the sides of the evacuated “place,” indeed, no place at all: evacuate all of the air from a sphere and you do not have a vacuum or empty space, you have a collapsed sphere.35

31 My own understanding of Christian Aristotelianism in the seventeenth-century context is outlined in Richard A. Muller, “Reformation, Orthodoxy, ‘Christian Aristotelianism,’ and the Eclecticism of Early Modern Philosophy,” Nederlands Archief voor Kerkgeschiedenis 81/3 (2001): 306–325. 32 Cf. Gassendi, Philosophiae Epicuri syntagma, II/I.i–ii (28–33); with Charleton, Physiologia, I.vi.1 (66); cf. Edward Grant, “Medieval and Seventeenth-Century Conceptions of an Infinite Void Space beyond the Cosmos,” Isis 60/1 (1969): 39–60; idem, Much Ado About Nothing: Theories of Space and Vacuum from the Middle Ages to the Scientific Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 33 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vi.1 (62–63). 34 Thomas Barlow, Exercitationes aliquot metaphysicale, de Deo, Exercitatio vi (269–271). 35 Thomas White, Peripateticall institutions. In the way of that eminent person and excellent philosopher Sr. Kenelm Digby. The theoricall part. Also a theologicall appendix of the beginning of the world (London: Printed by R. D., 1656), II.ii.6–12 (34–37).

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4. Materia Prima Reduced to Atoms Petty also indicates, as Barlow summarizes the argument of several pages, “that ALL the FIRST matter of the World are Atom’s, immutable in magnitude and figure,” “that many of them join’d make a Visible object,” and “that this juncture is made by their own INNATE Motion.”36 The theory could have been taken directly from either Gassendi or Charleton.37 To these definitions and assumptions, Barlow offers two objections, one theological the other philosophical. First, from the theological perspective, if such Atomes be the first matter of all things, and by meeting of them all visible bodies be made, and they meet and are join’d by their own innate motion; then ‘tis evident Adam was made of such Atomes, and they met in him, (not by Gods appointment and Divine-creating-power) but by their own innate power, and so Epicurus (a Pagan Philosopher) and his Hypothesis shall have more truth and credit, than the Divine History of the Creation by Moses.38

The problem that Barlow encountered was the significant association of Pierre Gassendi’s Epicurean atomism with trends in the new science of the era, represented by Walter Charleton, Robert Boyle, and various other members of the Royal Society39—at the same time that the larger Epicurean philosophical model was viewed as dispensing with Deity as an explanation of the world order and recognized as overturning the traditional hylomorphic understanding of substance.40 Indeed, Barlow recognized that the essay presented at the Royal Society and forwarded 36 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 153; citing Petty, Discourse, 17–18. 37 Cf. Gassendi, Philosophiae Epicuri syntagma, II/I.iv–v (39–42); with Charleton, Physiologia, II.i.1 (87–88). 38 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 153. 39 Walter Charleton, Physiologia Epicuro-Gassendo-Charltoniana, or, a Fabrick of Science Natural, upon the Hypothesis of Atoms founded by Epicurus (London, 1654); Robert Boyle, The Origine of Formes and Qualities (According to the Corpuscular Philosophy,) Illustrated by Considerations and Experiments (Oxford, 1666). Cf. Robert Kargon, “Walter Charleton, Robert Boyle, and the Acceptance of Epicurean Atomism in England,” Isis 55 (1984): 184–192. 40 Thus, against hylomorphism, see Pierre Gassendi, Philosophiae Epicuri syntagma, continens canonicam, physicam, et ethicam authore V. Cl. Petro Gassendo (London: Johns Redmayne, 1668), II/II.i (79–80); Robert Boyle, “Considerations and Experiments concerning the Origins of Forms and Qualities,” in The Works of the Honourable Robert Boyle, Esq. Epitomized, by Richard Boulton, 3 vols. (London: J. Phillips, 1699–1700), I, 12–13, 29–36.

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to him by Sir J. B., was salted heavily with concepts drawn from Gassendi.41 Atheism was not, of course, the conclusion indicated by Gassendi in his system of Epicurean philosophy—although his thought embodied the other problems noted by Barlow, namely, an epistemologically somewhat nominalist and a profoundly anti-Aristotelian approach to reality.42 As, moreover, is clear from Boyle’s own writings as well as from the majority of the essays and papers presented at the annual lectures established in Boyle’s name, virtually none of the thinkers associated with the Royal Society and the new scientific atomism followed Epicureanism to its anti-theistic conclusions.43 Still, even though the proponents of atomism were typically confessed theists, Barlow identified a major problem: “Heaven and Earth were created (says Moses;) and all Jews and Christians say, that was ex nihilo, non ex Atomis, aut materià ullâ praeexistenti.”44 How much such a view would result in the denial of the authority of Scripture and of the providence of God, and “make for Atheism,” Barlow left to his reader to conclude.45 Beyond these purely theological concerns, Barlow also voiced a philosophical problem. If, he argued, atoms were indeed the first or prime matter of the universe, “immutable in matter and figure,” as Petty had claimed, they must either be eternal or temporal. If said to be eternal, then a fundamental principle of philosophy and theism is violated— namely, that there can be only one eternal being. After all, an eternal being is a being that has no other being before it to establish its bounds and render it contingent: eternal being is therefore both infinite and necessary: so that if those Atomes be Eternal and Infinite (as they must be, if they be Eternal) then they must be so many Deities, or Gods; (for nothing but 41 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 154–155, citing Gassendi, Syntagma philosophiam Epicuri (London, 1660), i.e., Pierre Gassendi, Institutio logica, et philosophiae Epicuri syntagma Authore V. Cl. Petro Gassendo (London: Roger Daniel, 1660). The latter part was later published separately as the Philosophiae Epicuri syntagma (1668). 42 On Gassendi’s thought, see Barry Brundell, Pierre Gassendi: From Aristotelianism to a New Natural Philosophy (Dordrecht: Riedel, 1987). 43 Cf. Robert Boyle, Of the high veneration man’s intellect owes to God, peculiarly for his wisedom and power by a Fellow of the Royal Society (London: Printed by M. F. for Richard Davis, 1685); with J. J. Macintosh, “Robert Boyle on Epicurean Atheism and Atomism,” in Atoms, Pneuma, and Tranquillity, ed. Osler, 197–219. 44 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 155. 45 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 153.

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God can be Eternal or Infinite) and then consider how many Gods we shall have; even as many as there are of those Atomes.46

Since millions of these atoms are said to make up a single “corpusculum or visible body,” how many of these Gods must there be to make all of the visible bodies in the world! There is also, in Barlow’s view, a philosophical contradiction in claiming that atoms are eternal: they are said by Petty to have both “magnitude and motion”—but these are characteristics of finite and temporal being as, Barlow announces triumphantly, “Aristotle (from natural principles) has evidently proved.”47 If the atoms are temporal and had a beginning, then from where or, better, from whom, do they come? Moreover, if they have an existence independent of God, the theory amounts to the metaphysical claim that something temporal can limit eternal being—in Barlow’s view a repugnant if not entirely impossible idea. If, moreover, atoms are indeed the “first matter” of the world, they existed necessarily before the world, just as the materials from which a house is made must exist before the house; and then we have, in Barlow’s view, returned to the biblical problem: “if Moses say true (Gen. 1.1.) In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth, & no mention of Atomes,” the atomist theology amounts to a denial of creation ex nihilo.48 Indeed, this was the stance of the ancient Epicureans, acknowledged by proponents of philosophy and new science: Boyle, in arguing the theistic implications of his version of the new science and giving a positive nod to atomism, specifically distanced himself from conclusions of those “Epicureans, who admitted no Omnipotent Maker of the Worlds, but substituted Chance and Atomes in his Stead, taught that by reason the causes sufficient to make a World, that is Atomes and Space, were not wanting.”49 What Barlow could have added is that the new Epicureanism had its own way out of the conundrum that he posed concerning time and eter46 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 154. 47 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 155. 48 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 154–155. 49 Boyle, Of the high veneration man’s intellect owes to God, 34–35; cf. ibid., 44– 45, countering the Epicurean denial of providence; cf., similarly, Robert Boyle, The Excellency of Theology, compar’d with Natural Philosophy, (as both are the Objects of Mens Study.) Discours’d of in a Letter to a Friend (London: T. N. For Henry Heeringman, 1674), 23, 27.

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nity, as well as its version of theistic creation, albeit no full solution to the problems noted. Charleton’s discourse on time and eternity, while drawing heavily on classical definitions of time as well as on biblical and theological sources, tended to reject them all in favor of an identification of eternity with time, identifying the former as an infinite perpetual duration having no end, the latter as finite duration. Given his rejection of the Aristotelian hylomorphic theory of substance and his denial of the Aristotelian categories, Charleton could argue quite persuasively that time was neither “some Corporeal Ens” nor “some certain Accident inexistent in and dependent upon Corporeal Subjects.”50 Indeed, time is utterly independent of all corporeal things and their motions—it is, therefore, not to be confused with the mutability or corruptibility of things, nor is the divine immutability to be confused with an absence of succession. Atoms, in Charleton’s view, were the materia prima and were brought into being by God. They are not, however, corruptible: corruption is characteristic of the corporeal universe that is constructed by the combination of atoms into distinct individual beings.51 Thus, answering one aspect of Barlow’s objection, the atoms are not eternal and are a part, indeed, the primary act of God’s creation. But the theory that something with a finite duration might be incorruptible or immutable flies in the face of another element of Barlow’s counter, specifically the interconnection in traditional theism of temporality, succession, and mutability. Time, according to Charleton, is nothing other than “a certain part of that infinite Duration, commensing at the Creation, and determining at the Dissolution of the World,” or, alternatively, a “Duration Principiate and Terminate”—and eternity, proper only to God, a “Duration Nonprincipiate and Interminable.52 Such an eternity, moreover, cannot be defined (as the older tradition would have it) as an “eternal Now” but, given that God acts and interacts with temporal things, it must be understood as the infinite series of “instants.” There are not, then, two durations, one of temporal things and another belonging to God, but one 50 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vii.1 (73). 51 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vii.3; II.i.11 (82, 84–85). 52 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vii.3 (78–79, 82); cf. Milic Capek, “The Conflict between the Absolutist and the Relational Theory of Time before Newton,” Journal of the History of Ideas 48/4 (1987): 595–599. On the understanding of eternity as nonsuccessive duration in the theological orthodoxy of the seventeenth century, see Muller, Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics, III, 354–362.

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infinite duration, within which temporal things have principiate and terminate existence.53 It is therefore also improper to think of time as having a beginning. Eternity and time are in fact identical—and the notion of the scholastics “that Eternity is one permanent Now, without Succession, or Priority or Posteriority of Movements” must be discarded.54 Barlow’s complaint against Epicurean atomism and its corollaries was echoed by various theologians of the era. After commenting that the order of nature proves with certainty the existence of “an Infinite eternal Being” and pronouncing the recalcitrant atheist utterly “mad,” Richard Baxter wondered that “Democritists will ascribe all this to Atomes, and think that the Motes made the Sun.”55 As Barlow and the others recognized, the fully Epicurean atomist model indicated a theory of preexistent matter and a non-theistic theory of the origins of the world, while the theistic or Christian adaptations of the model not only implied a significant alteration of the traditional doctrine of creation but also demanded a radical alteration of the concepts of substance, space, and time, and by way of these alterations, a challenge to the whole of theology as traditionally understood.56 Arguably, the fully developed theism found in the philosophical scientific writings of Charleton and Boyle rendered the threat far greater even than the philosophy taken by itself: for in its theistic elaboration, the new philosophy embodied precisely such “novelties,” speculations, and dissensions as Barlow saw projected in Campanella’s scheme for Spanish and popish domination. In Barlow’s words, these were “irrational and wild Notions in Philosophy and Divinity . . . to the great prejudice of our Church and Truth, and gratification of our Adversaries.”57

53 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vii.3 (80–81). 54 Charleton, Physiologia, I.vii.3 (82). 55 Richard Baxter, The Divine Life in Three Treatises: first, The Knowledge of God, and the Impression it Must make upon the Heart . . . second, The Description, Reasons, and Reward of the Believer’s Walking with God . . . third, The Christian’s Converse with God (London, 1664), I.ii (15); so also Ludovicus Le Blanc, Theses theologicae, variis temporibus in Academia Sedanensi editae et ad disputandum propositae (London: Moses Pitt, 1675), Quibus demonstratur Deum esse, xxxii. 56 Cf. J. A. Van Ruler, “‘Something, I Know Not What’: The Concept of Substance in Early Modern Thought,” in Between Imagination and Demonstration: Essays in the History of Science and Philosophy Presented to John D. North, ed. L. Nauta and A. Vanderjagt (Leiden, 1999), 365–393. 57 Barlow, “Answer to Sir J. B.,” 155.

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5. Concluding Reflections Given the dissemination of the new philosophies among theologians and philosophers of the Roman Church, a longer historical view may not give much credit to Barlow’s worries over a popish intellectual plot founded on Campanella’s recommendations. In Barlow’s own time, however, given the number of anti-Protestant polemics leveled by recusant writers against the English church and given the several major political plots engineered in Britain by advocates of the Roman religion, the notion of a philosophical plot took on very realistic dimensions. What is more—and perhaps more important—is that Barlow quite definitively pointed out a significant problem caused by the new philosophies for basic theological discourse as well as indicating the resistance to the new philosophies in many university faculties on the continent. He recognized that the traditional philosophical vocabulary and the techniques of scholastic disputation were a necessary component to the maintenance and defense of theological orthodoxy, and that the new philosophies, notably Cartesianism and Epicureanism functioned like an intellectual acid, eating away the tradition. He also recognized that, in the latter half of the seventeenth century not only was the traditional philosophical basis of theology being challenged, but also the educational or curricular foundation was being eroded. There are several broader implications of Barlow’s arguments for the study of Protestant scholasticism. Much of the older scholarship has claimed an association between Protestant orthodoxy and its nominally Aristotelian philosophical foundations and the rise of rationalism—and a large part of the more recent reassessment of Protestant orthodoxy has related to a denial of this association. Barlow’s letters rather pointedly document the reassessment. He understood that a traditional Christian theology, aided by its customary philosophical handmaid, stood opposed to a variety of trends and tendencies in what he and his contemporaries consistently labeled “new philosophy.” That new philosophy, as identified in his letters, was a form of rationalism, whether Cartesian or Epicurean, whether deductive or inductive, in which a principial and terminological shift had taken place. At a principial level, its assumptions took it away from the philosophical models that had enabled the formulation of a traditional Christian orthodoxy—and at a terminological level, its alteration of the meaning and implications of such basic usages as space, time, and substance separated it from usages funda-

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mental to the formulation of orthodox theological statements. There was no alliance between orthodoxy and rationalism. Barlow recognized this. He assumed he could document the recognition among theologians and philosophers of the Roman persuasion—and he desperately hoped that his Protestant colleagues would acknowledge the problem. The extent to which they did not (and, more recently, have not) accounts in large part for the misinterpretations of Protestant orthodoxy found in the literature of the twentieth century and, indeed, in large part for the toils and tribulations of modern theology as it shifts through one failed movement after another and fails, over and over again, to produce theologies that comprehend or even do minimal justice to the older tradition of Christian thought. It is with considerable pleasure that I offer this essay in honor of Willem van Asselt, my good friend and colleague in the re-examination and reappraisal of Reformed orthodoxy, whom I value both for his impeccable scholarship and for his inimitable humor as we have worked together in Utrecht, Grand Rapids, and Aberdeen to reclaim, indeed, to recreate the past.

THE HARVEST OF REFORMATION MYTHOLOGY? PATRICK GILLESPIE AND THE COVENANT OF REDEMPTION Carl R. Trueman

1. Introduction It seems appropriate in a volume of essays honouring the contributions of Willem van Asselt to the study of Reformed orthodoxy, to offer a short paper looking at the covenant of redemption as it came to be articulated in the thought of Patrick Gillespie. As van Asselt’s work has drawn attention to the positive connections that exist between scholastic method and covenant theology, and has done much to refute many of the myths which surround both topics, so an examination of Patrick Gillespie’s work allows us to underscore a number of the conclusions of the contemporary scholarship in which van Asselt has played such an important role. Patrick Gillespie (1617–75) was himself a Scottish theologian, inextricably involved in the violent politics of the church of his time.1 The younger brother of the more famous George, who had himself been one of the most influential and dynamic delegates at the Westminster Assembly, Patrick became an outstanding theologian and church leader, serving as Principal of Glasgow University and also being a leading Protester. His career as a political force within and without the church was effectively destroyed by his casting himself upon the King’s mercy at the Restoration. This act of public humiliation, which contrasted so dramatically with the fatally uncompromising stance adopted by James Guthrie towards Charles II and the Solemn League and Covenant, haunted Gillespie for the rest of his days and effectively destroyed his reputation among fellow Covenanters. Nevertheless, if Gillespie’s ecclesiastical career ended in compromise and disgrace, his writings represented a significant contribution to federal theology. Indeed, he authored a five-volume work, two volumes of which survive: The Ark 1 There is, as yet, no body of secondary literature on the life and theology of Patrick Gillespie; the article in the Dictionary of National Biography, though brief, is the most up-to-date source on his life and writings.

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of the Testament Opened (London, 1661), a treatise on the covenant of grace; and The Ark of the Covenant Opened (London, 1677) on the covenant of redemption. The latter work contained a preface by Gillespie’s friend and fellow theologian, the English Independent, John Owen. The covenant of redemption is one of the obvious doctrinal loci where the nature of Reformed orthodoxy, and that of its development over the course of a century, can be most clearly illustrated. This is because it involves a series of points which are of singular importance to understanding the broader field: linguistic discussion of the term “covenant;” the development of a doctrinal locus for which a superficial glance at Scripture would suggest scant exegetical support; the honing of a conceptual vocabulary out of prior doctrinal discussion; and the precise expression of a concept which undergirds the trinitarian dimension of Reformed soteriology. Further, its arrival as a specific part of the Reformed conceptual vocabulary in the mid-seventeenth century renders it a relatively late, essentially post-confessional development and thus of particular importance in seeing how doctrinal development and confessional orthodoxy were connected.2 2. The Traditionary Doctrinal Matrix It is a truism that concepts almost invariably predate the specific terms with which they are later described; and so the question needs to be asked: whence did the covenant of redemption originate? A hint as to this is provided in Gillespie’s own text, where in his initial discussions of Christ as Mediator he clearly articulates the notion that Christ is mediator according to both natures.3 This is the typical Reformed position, continuous with that argued, for example, by Calvin in the Institutes II.xiv.iii, but marking a basic point of discontinuity with the medieval theological tradition which regarded Christ as mediator according to the human nature only.4 Medieval theologians had a serious problem with the notion of a divine person, enjoying equality 2 The concept has proved somewhat controversial over the years, with perhaps its most famous critic being Karl Barth, who dismissed it as “mythology” and as basically inimical to the doctrine of the Trinity in the way it appears to set up the First and Second Persons as two separate legally contracting parties: see CD IV/1, 65. 3 The Ark of the Covenant, 188–89.

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with the Father, mediating between God and humanity. As they conceived of mediation as involving a mid-point between two poles, it made no sense to speak of God as the midpoint between God and humanity. Thus, they located his mediation exclusively in the human nature which, while not divine was yet exalted by grace above other human natures. The Reformed, however, focused on the integrity of the person of the Mediator, and refused to talk abstractly about mediation according to metaphysical nature rather than historical person. This is an apparently abstruse point, perhaps, but one of great Christological significance and one which did not pass unnoticed by the Catholic polemicists and apologists who emerged in the latter part of the sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries. For example, the issue forms a significant point of discussion in the response of William Ames to Jesuit polemicist Joseph Bellarmine, where Ames has to respond to Bellarmine’s arguing of precisely the medieval point about the nonsensical nature of God being mediator with God.5 Ames himself is careful to start his discussion by drawing a distinction between medius, a term denoting a substantial quality, and mediator, a term referring to an office, thus making an important distinction for the ensuing Christological construction.6 Nevertheless, such a distinction points to the deeper issue of the foundations of such in the trinitarian relations which underpin discussions of both divine substance and office. The origins of the concept thus lie in the initial Reformation theology of Calvin and his contemporaries, and clear hints of it can be found in the trinitarian articulation of the foundations of Christ’s threefold office.7 Nevertheless, the earliest apparent use of the term occurs in David Dickson’s address on the dangers of Arminianism delivered to the 1638 General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, an event marked, no doubt, by preoccupation with all things covenantal, given the burning issue in the political sphere of the National Covenant. 4 For example, Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, 3a.25 and 26. For the Reformed position, see, for example, William Perkins, A Golden Chaine in Works (London, 1603), 20; Synopsis purioris theologiae, Disputatio XXVI. For discussion of this point, see Richard A. Muller, Christ and the Decree: Christology and Predestination in Reformed Theology from Calvin to Perkins (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 1988), 29– 31. 5 William Ames, Bellarminus Enervatus (Oxford, 1629), 129–30. 6 Bellarminus Enervatus, 126–27. 7 For an early trinitarian adumbration of the notion, see Synopsis purioris theologiae, Disputatio XXVI, thesis XVI; see also Muller, Christ and the Decree, 166–71.

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Dickson’s treatment at this point indicates the basic doctrinal concerns which shaped the later development of the doctrine: the covenant of redemption between the Father and Christ as mediator is logically prior to, and the foundation of, the covenant of grace; the number of the elect is fixed in this covenant; the precise nature and value of the Mediator’s work and suffering is defined by the covenant; and the success of the Mediator’s mission is guaranteed.8 Thus, in 1638 we find a clear declaration of the concept in explicitly covenantal language; yet, for some reason, it is not until the mid-1640s that the terminology of covenant of redemption/pactum salutis starts to gain common currency both in Britain and on the continent. It is only then that we start to find it figuring prominently in the dogmatic structure of Reformed federal theology, as evidenced, for example, by the work of Edward Fisher and Peter Bulkeley in English, and that of Johannes Cocceius on the continent.9 This partly accounts for the lack of explicit reference to the idea in the Westminster Confession of Faith (1647), and for the lack of consensus on the issue within the bounds of confessional orthodoxy in the years after the Westminster Assembly.10 In this context, it is worth noting, however, that the Savoy Declaration, generally regarded as significantly modifying the WCF only at points of polity and state rela8 Records of the Kirk of Scotland, containing the Acts and Proceedings of the General Assemblies from the year 1638 downwards, ed. A. Peterkin (Edinburgh: Peter Brown, 1843), 159. On Dickson’s significance in the development of the concept, see Carol A. Williams, “The Decree of Redemption is in Effect a Covenant: David Dickson and the Covenant of Redemption,” (PhD diss., Calvin Theological Seminary, 2005). 9 Edward Fisher, The Marrow of Modern Divinity (London, 1645); Peter Bulkeley, The Gospel-Covenant; or The Covenant of Grace Opened (London, 1646); for Cocceius’ development of the concept of pactum salutis, see Willem J. van Asselt, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 227–47. 10 The closest the Westminster Confession came to stating the doctrine was in Chapter Eight, but the language of covenant is absent from the detailing of the FatherSon relationship. Early on, however, others had no difficulty in finding the doctrine there: for example, David Dickson gives his most famous articulation of the idea in The Summe of Saving Knowledge, With the Practical Use Thereof (Edinburgh, 1671), Head II. This work enjoyed the status of a standard summary of the Confession’s teaching and has often been printed with the Westminster Standards, thus enjoying quasi-confessional status. That the Reformed tradition continued to embrace those who used the concept and those who did not within the boundaries of acceptable confessional orthodoxy is evident: for example, the doctrine is clearly stated by Edward Leigh, A System or Body of Divinity (London, 1662), vol. V, chap. 2; while Thomas Watson, in his sermonic commentary on the Shorter Catechism, is happy to ground Christ’s mediation simply in the covenant of grace: A Body of Practical Divinity (London, 1692), 93–96.

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tions, does alter Chapter Eight of the Confession to make explicit reference to a covenant between Father and Son.11 These early references are fairly basic: in The Marrow of Modern Divinity, Fisher makes a brief but significant reference to Christ’s mediation being rooted in a covenant between Father and Son.12 Bulkeley’s statement of the concept is very similar, though he carefully delineates the respective commitments between Father and Son in the arrangement in a manner more elaborate than Fisher: the Father appoints the Son as mediator to bring fallen humans back into covenant with him; he commands him to bring knowledge of the truth to men and women, and to offer himself as a sacrifice; and he makes the Son a fivefold promise—of an abundance of the Holy Spirit, of full assistance in his work, and of ultimate success in bringing the elect to faith, of rule and dominion, and of final glory. The Son, for his part, promises to accept the office, to depend upon the Father, to submit to the Father’s will, and to expect the final glory for himself and the elect to come from the Father.13 The watershed nature of the 1640s as regards the development of the covenant of redemption is exemplified by the work of John Owen, whose 1642 treatise, A Display of Arminianism, takes to task both Arminian and Socinian theologians with respect to their doctrines of God, creation, fall and redemption. Owen was writing as a young theologian at the start of his career, and the work is therefore (as one might expect) somewhat overwrought and full of passages which conflate Arminian and Socinian positions for the sake of a good polemic. Indeed, the book is dedicated to the Parliamentary Committee of Religion, and this astute attempt at flattery and ingratiations clearly worked as the Committee subsequently conferred upon him the living of Fordham in Essex. Interestingly enough, while Owen shows a clear understanding of Reformed Christology in his articulation of the saving work of Christ, 11 WCF 8.1 reads “It pleased God, in His eternal purpose, to choose and ordain the Lord Jesus, His only begotten Son, to be Mediator between God and man;” the Savoy Declaration reads “It pleased God, in his eternal purpose, to chuse and ordain the Lord Jesus his onely begotten Son, according to a Covenant made between them both, to be the Mediator between God and Man.” See A Declaration of the Faith and Order Owned and practised in the Congregational Churches in England (London, 1658), 8.1. The addition is almost certainly the result of both the role of John Owen in writing the document, and of the later date. 12 Marrow, 36–37. 13 The Gospel-Covenant, 29–31.

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he does not explicitly ground this in an eternal covenant between Father and Son. Thus, in discussing the mediation of Christ, Owen frames his argument in response to two issues: the objects of the merit of Christ, i.e., those for whom he died; and the efficacy and end of his death, i.e., what exactly his death did in fact achieve. In 1638, Dickson had anchored both points in the covenant of redemption; in 1643, however, Owen does not explicitly articulate such a covenant but seems rather to subsume them under the covenant of grace.14 Subsequently in The Death of Death (1647), Owen narrows his focus to the particularity and efficacy of Christ’s death, set within the wider context of his mediation, and here he writes at some length about the arrangement between Father, Son and, significantly, Holy Spirit, using the language of covenant. In the space of four years, therefore, the concept and the terminology has become a crucial part of Owen’s discussion of Christ as mediator; and so it was for the wider Reformed world. Furthermore, Owen’s specific articulation of the role of the Holy Spirit in the covenant represents a distinctly trinitarian advance on the works of Fisher and Bulkeley who, with their exclusive attention to the Father-Son relationship were arguably vulnerable to the accusation of developing a sub-trinitarian foundation for the economy of salvation. Owen avoids this by describing the various roles played in the covenant of redemption by Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; and in so doing, he is being consistent with his basic premise that every external act of God is in its deepest sense an act of the whole Trinity. Thus, the Father sends his Son out of love to the world to die for sinners, and, in the actual accomplishment of that end, lays the punishment due to our sins upon him;15 the Son voluntarily assumes the role of Mediator assigned to him by the Father, becomes incarnate, and then offers himself as a sacrifice on behalf of the elect;16 finally, the Holy Spirit is engaged in the work of incarnation and of Christ’s earthly ministry, his oblation, and in his resurrection.17 Owen’s elaboration of the trinitarian structure of the covenant of redemption continued throughout his career, and receives perhaps its most sophisticated expression in his Pneumatologia, where he employs 14 15 16 17

Works, 24 vols. (London: Johnstone and Hunter, 1850–53), 10, 87–99. Works, 10, 163–74. Works, 10, 174–77. Works, 10, 178–79.

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some of the most sophisticated concepts in patristic Christology particularly to expand upon the role of the Holy Spirit relative to the Incarnation. Stressing the anhypostatic nature of Christ’s human nature outside of its union with the Logos, a point adopted from the Christological work of Leontius of Byzantium, Owen opens a space in his theology of the Incarnation for offering a highly elaborate understanding of the role of the Spirit. The only direct act of the Logos upon the human nature, Owen argues, was the assumption of the latter into the hypostatic union; all other acts were mediated by the Holy Spirit, a position consistent with his axiom that the Spirit is the divine agent in the created realm; thus, the communication of attributes is not a necessary result of incarnation but actually the work of the Holy Spirit as determined by the covenant of redemption; and this is something which Owen implicitly sets over against Lutheran notions of a direct communication of properties between the natures.18 This seemingly abstruse point enables Owen to solve two problems: first, he is able to do justice to the fact that the gospel narratives indicate that Jesus of Nazareth grew in knowledge; the fact that he is the Godman does not, in itself, give the person of the mediator access to all knowledge, even when the knowledge of which the Incarnate One is capable is ectypal, not archetypal; and the God-man does, indeed, learn many things by empirical observation and education.19 Second, by rooting his whole Christological structure in the covenant of redemption, his Christology, indeed, his soteriology, is entirely and profoundly trinitarian, both in eternal design and historical execution. For the covenant of redemption to be fully understood, it also needs to be set in relation to two other covenants, that of works and that of grace. In relation to the former, the work of Christ as mediator involves a payment in full of the debt incurred under the terms of the covenant of 18 “[T]he only necessary consequent of this assumption of the human nature, or the incarnation of the Son of God, is the personal union of Christ, or the inseparable subsistence of the assumed nature in the person of the Son. . . . [A]ll other actings of God in the person of the Son towards the human nature were voluntary and did not necessarily ensue on the union mentioned.” Works, 3, 160–61. 19 Works, 3, 170. On the epistemological consequences of the Incarnation, and the differences between Lutheran and Reformed traditions on this point, see Richard A. Muller, Post Reformation Reformed Dogmatics, 4 vols. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2003) I, 248–55; Willem J. van Asselt, “The Fundamental Meaning of Theology: Archetypal and Ectypal Theology in Seventeenth-Century Reformed Thought,” Westminster Theological Journal 64 (2002): 319–35, esp. 331–32.

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works; thus, the nature of the work performed by Christ under the covenant of redemption is determined by the prior covenant, now broken and cancelled. Significantly, Owen’s accent on the covenant of redemption at this point enables him to safeguard the graciousness of God’s saving action in Christ while yet maintaining at the same time that the Christian way of salvation preserves God’s justice and equity.20 This, of course, points to the second important relation, that with the covenant of grace. The covenant of grace, as that made between God and the elect in Christ, determines the scope of Christ’s work of mediation: he is mediator solely for the elect; and his oblation must be understood in those terms. Put bluntly, to attempt to discuss Christ’s sacrifice outside of the particularity of the covenant of grace is meaningless because of the positive connection between said covenant and the covenant of redemption; Christ’s death is simply not a sacrifice and is thus meaningless if we indulge in the speculative and futile move of trying to assign a meaning to it outside of the determination of the covenant structure. This is the basic burden of The Death of Death: any attempt to divide Christ’s mediatorial office, either in terms which break the unity of oblation and intercession, or in terms of adding human conditions as determinative of the office’s scope, destroys the unity of Christ’s saving action and thus renders his office incoherent; and it is the covenant of redemption which is thus the foundation of that coherence. 3. Gillespie on the Covenant of Redemption It is clear from what has been said above that, by the time Gillespie came to write on the covenant of redemption, the Reformed theological development of this concept which had originated in a trinitarian/Christological problem generated by the break with the medieval tradition and the assertion of Christ’s mediation according to both natures, had now reached the point where the concept was both richly trinitarian and a crucial foundation for the understanding of the nature and particularity of Christ’s atonement. Given the complexity of the concept by this point, therefore, space does not permit an exhaustive examination of Gillespie’s treatment; rather, I will focus on three aspects of his work in 20 Works, 10, 269, 281, 287–88.

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this area: the arguments for considering the intratrinitarian appointment of Christ as Mediator to be a covenant; the nature of the necessity of the covenant; and the connection between the covenant and imputation in the doctrine of justification. The Concept of a Covenant Gillespie’s treatise on the covenant of redemption needs to be understood against the background of his earlier work, The Ark of the Testament Opened (1661). In this book, much of the basic groundwork for discussion is laid, particularly in Chapter Two, “Of Covenants in General,” where the author engages in significant discussion of the linguistic issues surrounding the Hebrew word tyriB] and its cognates. Here, Gillespie shows a clear understanding of the debates concerning the origins of the Hebrew term,21 and of the different rites and ritual practices associated with the idea of covenant.22 He also offers five elements which must be present in order for an arrangement to be of a covenantal nature: there must be two or more parties; they must involve agreement; there must be conditions; these conditions must be mutually binding; they must be mutually beneficial; and they must be strictly binding, to the extent that any breach of covenant is tantamount to a breach of the law of God.23 In this context, Gillespie argues that covenants are sacred, irrevocable, grounds of absolute assurance of the fidelity of the parties involved vis-à-vis the covenant stipulations, utterly binding to the extent that those who break covenant know no moral bounds, and inviolable according to the law of nature.24 What is significant about this preliminary discussion of covenants in general is the appreciation which Gillespie exhibits for nuance and sophistication within the concept. Pace the criticism of a writer such as James B. Torrance, who regards federal theologians as making the simplistic mistake of confusing the biblical notion of covenant with the commercial notion of a contract, Gillespie (and he is not untypical of the Reformed Orthodox tradition at this point) shows clearly that he understands the term covenant to be both linguistically and conceptually 21 22 23 24

The Ark of the Testament, 43–45. The Ark of the Testament, 43–49. The Ark of the Testament, 49–51. The Ark of the Testament, 52–59.

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complex. Thus, while arguing that all covenants involve some sort of condition and mutual obligation, he yet recognizes that some covenants are between equals, others are between a superior and an inferior; some involve explicit conditions, other implicit; some antecedent conditions, others consequent; some are meritorious, some gratuitous; some of justice, some of grace.25 Then there are different types of covenant in terms of substance: civil, concerning social, political or commercial arrangements between parties; sacred, pertaining to religious matters; and mixed, which are partly religious and partly civil in the way they relate to both heavenly and earthly matters.26 And the list goes on: Gillespie argues that covenants can be further distinguished according to extent, annexes and adjuncts, nature, terms and conditions, natural influences, predominant influences (e.g., justice or grace), scope and ends, and divine approbation.27 Such discussion is significant for demonstrating the linguistic and conceptual nuance of the Reformed Orthodox in discussing covenant and its various uses in the Bible and elsewhere, and was typical in the seventeenth century, as shown, for example, by similar sections in works by John Ball and Thomas Blake.28 The simplistic binary categories of a “covenant or contract?” type of analysis are simply not capable of doing justice to the sophistication of argument put forward by Gillespie and, for that matter, his Reformed Orthodox contemporaries.29 Given this background discussion of the nature of covenants, we can now turn to the later work, The Ark of the Covenant Opened, and see how Gillespie articulates the intratrinitarian relationship regarding salvation in terms of such language. In this context, Gillespie is, of course, perfectly aware that the term “covenant of redemption” has no precise equivalent in Scripture, but that what he is doing is using a term to refer to what is arguably a scriptural concept. Indeed, his central biblical justification for arguing that the covenant of redemption exists as a separate covenant, to be distinguished from the covenant of grace, 25 The Ark of the Testament, 50. 26 The Ark of the Covenant, 63. 27 The Ark of the Testament, 63–74. 28 John Ball, A Treatise of the Covenant of Grace (London, 1645), 1–6; Thomas Blake, Vindiciae Foederis (London, 1658), 1–8. 29 See, for example, James B. Torrance, “Covenant or Contract? A Study of the Theological Background of Worship in Seventeenth-Century Scotland,” Scottish Journal of Theology 23 (1970): 51–76.

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is rooted in biblical texts which speak of a covenant between God and his Elect One which make no reference to the latter’s Seed. Using Gillespie’s established taxonomy of covenants, the need for understanding two separate covenants, of redemption and of grace, can be seen to relate to his distinction between personal and real covenants: the former refers to an arrangement between two parties which is focused on their mutual obligations and benefits; of which type is the covenant of redemption; the latter to an arrangement which has an impact upon the progeny of the parties; of which type is the covenant of grace.30 Further, he argues that Scripture clearly teaches that there is a reciprocal relationship between Father and Son relative to the economy of salvation which comports with the broad legal definition of covenant as requiring two or more parties, voluntarily bound together by mutual obligations and promises. There is no need for Scripture to use the word “covenant” in the relevant passages, because the concept is clearly there. Sources for this argument, in addition to Scripture, include the patristic author, John Chrysostom, and the Lutheran, John Gerhard.31 Gillespie, however, also employs linguistic arguments to make his point. There is not space to examine them all here, so one will have to suffice, but it is a typical example of Gillespie’s exegetical procedure. A good example is provided by his treatment of Ps 2:7, a verse which David Dickson, Gillespie’s covenanter colleague, takes as selfevidently teaching a covenant of redemption.32 While Dickson, writing a homiletic commentary, spends no time in offering a defence of such a reading, Gillespie demonstrates that such a reading can be grounded in careful linguistic analysis and exegesis. While the Authorised Version translates the verse as “I will declare the decree,” Gillespie argues that the Hebrew word qjo can be translated as “covenant.” This suggestion is not found in either Westminster Annotations of 1645, nor in the English edition of the Dutch Annotations of 1657, but does receive some support from the third edition of the Westminster Annotations of 1657.33 Gillespie himself cites as one of his principle authorities for this reading Bishop Hammond, who treats the verse in some detail, arguing 30 The Ark of the Testament, 69–70. 31 The Ark of the Covenant, 6–10; cf. The Ark of the Testament, 50. 32 A Brief Explication of the First Fifty Psalms (London, 1655), 10–12. 33 See Annotations upon all the books of the Old and New Testament (London, 1657).

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that the Hebrew here points to a covenant between God and Christ. Indeed, Hammond also engages in interaction with the Arabic, Ethiopic, Syriac, Septuagint and Vulgate in his analysis of the verse, and this reference on its own would have indicated that Gillespie would have been well aware of the various linguistic complexities in the task of translation.34 In addition to Hammond, Gillespie himself cites an etymological thesaurus dealing with the root of the word, Conrad Kircher’s Concordantiae Veteris Testamenti graecae, ebraeis vocibus respondentes polychresoi (Frankfurt, 1607), Buxtorf’s Lexicon Chaldaicum, talmudicum et rabbinicum (Basel, 1639), and the Septuagint. Three arguments are of particular interest: first, he notes that the Chaldee Paraphrase renders the term as “pactum” while the Septuagint translates the word as prostagma, which he understands as “order” or “agreement,” a translation which he states is consistent with the Targum. Second, he notes that Buxtorf remarks that in the Talmud the word in question is frequently used for the quality, condition, or nature of a thing; thus, given that the decree is spoken of in the Psalm as an address to a son, a point which Gillespie reads Christologically, it is quite legitimate to read the term as referring to the covenant of redemption. Third, he notes the interchangeability of the closely related Hebrew term h';Qju used in Jer 31:35–36, with tyriB] in 33:20, where the latter is routinely translated as covenant.35 Given the careful marshalling of such a range of linguistic arguments to establish his reading of Ps 2:7 as a reference to the covenant of redemption, it is quite clear that to characterize Gillespie’s exegesis as dogmatically driven or as prooftexting would be to do him a profound injustice. What we have here is the careful interaction of the best linguistic and textual analysis available with the kind of theological issues we noted earlier which arise out of the doctrinal tradition. The result is neither crass proof-texting nor a situation where dogmatics overrides exegesis; it is, rather, a classic example of the Reformed Orthodox move from exegesis to doctrinal synthesis within the context of the analogy of faith and the need to coordinate a trinitarian understanding of God with the historical action of Jesus Christ in salvation.

34 Henry Hammond, A Paraphrase and Annotations upon the Books of the Psalms (London, 1683), Book I, 8. 35 The Ark of the Covenant, 11.

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The Necessity of the Covenant Alongside the exegetical impulse for the covenant of redemption, Gillespie also deals with the dogmatic necessity of the structure. In typical Reformed Orthodox fashion, he opens this discussion by distinguishing between three kinds of necessity, explicitly following the medieval school, particularly Aquinas, on this point: absolute necessity, which belongs only to God as God, natural necessity which flows from the principles of nature, and hypothetical necessity, which depends upon a prior condition.36 In doing this, he acknowledges his debt to the later, expanded edition of Anthony Burgess’ The True Doctrine of Justification Asserted and Vindicated (London, 1654), particularly the eleventh sermon which deals specifically with the necessity of atonement.37 It is not surprising that, given this taxonomy of necessity, Gillespie argues that the covenant is hypothetically necessary, predicated on God’s prior decision to save humanity.38 This leads him to address an issue which John Owen had faced some decades previously, that of whether this decision then imposed a strict necessity on God of offering atonement, or whether he could have remitted sin by an act of his will. Owen had actually changed his mind on this issue: in 1647, in The Death of Death, he had argued that God could indeed have hypothetically forgiven sin by a mere act of his will; but by 1653, in A Dissertation on Divine Justice, he explicitly opposed this position (and Reformed brethren such as William Twisse and Samuel Rutherford) by arguing that any decision on God’s part to save required as a consequent necessity incarnation and atonement. 39 The change in position was probably influenced by the perceived threat of Socinianism in England at this point, since the Socinians reduced talk of God’s justice to the mere effects of the divine free will and denied that this had any necessary connection to God as he is in himself.40 This point bears a certain similarity to the kinds of Scotist and Suarezian paradigms which 36 The Ark of the Covenant, 30–31, citing Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, 1a.19.3, although Thomas only distinguishes two kinds of necessity at this point. 37 The Ark of the Covenant, 32; Burgess, True Doctrine, 101–11. 38 The Ark of the Covenant, 34. 39 For Owen’s views, see his A Dissertation on Divine Justice, in Works, 10, 481– 624; Carl R. Trueman, “John Owen’s Dissertation on Divine Justice: An Exercise in Christocentric Scholasticism,” Calvin Theological Journal 33 (1998): 87–103. 40 See John Biddle’s translation of the Racovian Catechism, ostensibly published in Amsterdam but almost certainly in London (1652), 128.

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underlay the views of Twisse and Rutherford and triggered Owen’s critique of those with whom he would otherwise identify; as such, we can thus locate this apparent in-house Protestant debate within an ongoing discussion in Western theology which stretches back into the Middle Ages, and also connect it to doctrinal concerns within Renaissance Catholic philosophy. Far from indulging in biblicism, obscurantism, or sophistical irrelevance, Gillespie demonstrates that he—and his theology—are informed, sophisticated, and engaged in the relevant debates of the age.41 Given that Owen writes the preface to Gillespie’s work, it is perhaps surprising to find the latter adopt a position not entirely in keeping with his learned English friend. Noting that the Reformed are divided over the issue, he declares that he is not interested in agitating the issue, given the fact that significant divines come down on both sides of the question and also (perhaps a more pertinent point) because he regards it as fruitless to speculate about other ways of salvation, given the clear revelation of the particular way which God chose.42 Instead, Gillespie makes it clear that he repudiates the Socinian rejection of the attributes of justice and mercy as being in God in any real sense, as well as the position (which looks very like that of the later Owen) which regards punishment as necessary on the basis of God’s being if sin is to be forgiven.43 Thus, instead of arguing for necessity on the same basis as Owen (the antecedent nature of God, particularly with respect to his justice), he argues for necessity on the basis of the benefits which accrue from Incarnation and atonement. In this context, it is interesting to note that he also departs from Burgess’ analysis, upon which he otherwise depends quite heavily, since the latter inclines (without making it a dogmatic point of orthodoxy) to the position articulated by John Owen.44 For Burgess, the necessity of the atonement lies both in the efficient cause (God’s natural justice) and the final cause (God’s glory); for Gillespie, it is simply in terms of final causality that one can under-

15.

41 On the influence of Suárez on Reformed theology, see Muller, PRRD III, 107–

42 The Ark of the Covenant, 36. 43 The Ark of the Covenant, 36–39. 44 Burgess, True Doctrine, 108; Gillespie criticizes him on this point, The Ark of the Covenant, 38.

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stand this necessity to operate.45 In other words, the covenant of redemption, and the atonement which is thereby determined and established, has a primarily revelatory function, showing forth the justice of God, the mercy of God, and, indeed, the glorious trinitarian relationship which undergirds the whole of salvation.46 This latter point, which highlights the separate roles of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, again reflects the trinitarian enrichment of the covenant concept, and also points clearly towards the kind of practical outworking of the doctrine in trinitarian piety, most signally expressed by John Owen in his work, On Communion with God in Three Persons (1657). Gillespie also explicates the practical significance of the covenant for believers: it ushers in the new dispensation, a point he supports by citing Cocceius’ exposition of Job 33:24;47 it undergirds the graciousness of salvation; it provides an objective basis for salvation which gives the believer security in his or her knowledge of personal salvation; it points the believer away from self and to God as the source of salvation; it provides a covenant head whose obedience has guaranteed the believer’s rights in the new dispensation; it provides a better reward than the covenant of works; it guaranteed salvation even before the Fall; and, finally, it closed off any possibility of boasting before God. In other words, we might sum it up by saying that it provided the intratrinitarian foundation for the decree of predestination.48 Again, Gillespie’s approach to the necessity of the covenant of redemption allows us to reflect upon the very nature of Reformed orthodoxy. The use of traditional scholastic categories of necessity and causality allows Gillespie to talk in very precise terms about the covenant; yet his reticence on the matter of wherein such hypothetical necessity lies reflects the fact that the Reformed knew—and tolerated—a range of opinion on matters of confessional indifference; it also indicates that, despite the caricature of Reformed orthodoxy as overlyprecise, Gillespie felt no pressure to hold a tightly defined position on every jot and tittle of doctrine, even a significant doctrine such as this. That John Owen wrote the preface, given his own sharp contribution to the debate on divine justice, indicates also something of the ecumenical 45 46 47 48

Burgess, True Doctrine, 105; The Ark of the Covenant, 39. The Ark of the Covenant, 40–42. The Ark of the Covenant, 43. The Ark of the Covenant, 42–50.

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spirit which Reformed orthodoxy engendered within the carefully defined bounds of confessional orthodoxy. The Covenant and Imputation The third aspect of the covenant is that which connects with the debate on the imputation of both Christ’s active and passive obedience. This particular debate had its origins in the Arminian reconstruction of the Reformed terminology of Christ’s humiliation and exaltation which located the start of the former with his arrest in Gethsemane rather than in the very act of Incarnation itself. This view had received its most sophisticated expression in the writings of Johannes Piscator of Herborn, who regarded Christ’s active obedience as qualifying him as mediator but not part of the mediation, a position elaborated in a treatise written at the request of the controversial Leiden theologian, Conrad Vorstius, an Arminian who was also under constant suspicion of Socinianism. Such an association scarcely commended Piscator’s thought to the Reformed Orthodox but his thought had nonetheless impacted the more mainstream British Reformed scene through such men as Anthony Wotton, William Twisse and, more importantly, Thomas Gataker.49 Piscator’s thought was not adopted uncritically by these men: he had, for example, defined justification simply as remission of sin, thus giving his understanding of salvation a basis which could accent the role of good works; Gataker, however, rejected this narrow, negative definition of justification, with his own appropriation of Piscator being driven by an Anselmic logic of atonement combined with a strict reading of New Testament passages linking the saving work of Christ particularly to his death.50 Gataker also expresses explicit fear of antinomianism, as exemplified by the work of John Saltmarsh, a point which clearly

49 See Piscator, A learned and profitable treatise of mans justification (London, 1599); also D Ioannis Piscatoris Herbonensis et M Lodovici Lucii Basiliensis, Scripta quaedam adversaria; De Causa meritoria nostri coram Deo Justificationis: una cum Thomae Gatakeri Londinatis Animadversionibus in utraque (London, 1641); Mr Anthony Wotton’s Defence Against Mr George Walker’s Charge, Accusing him of Socinian Heresie and Blasphemie (Cambridge, 1641). 50 Contrast the claims of Piscator, Scripta quaedam adversaria, Part One, 33–34, with Gataker, pt. 1, 9–10, 21; cf. Gataker, An Antidote against Errour concerning Justification (London, 1679), 11–14, where Gataker offers linguistic and logical arguments for seeing remission and justification as separate.

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informs his analysis.51 The debate over imputation thus predated the development of the conceptual terminology of the covenant of redemption, and articulate responses to Piscator, Wotton, and Gataker being offered variously by, among others, Bishop Downame, George Walker, and Daniel Featley.52 While Featley had won the day in the earliest sessions of the Westminster Assembly, ensuring the word “whole” was inserted as a qualification of “obedience and satisfaction” in the revision of Article 11 of the 39 Articles, this was omitted in the later Westminster Confession 11.3. 53 Nevertheless, when Chapter 11.3 is set against the clear teaching on Christ’s humiliation and exaltation, and of justification, in the Larger Catechism 46 to 50 and 70 to 71 respectively, the omission would seem little more than a minor church-political concession to the Gataker party, and of little doctrinal significance even within the collected Westminster Standards.54 Prior to the advent of the conceptual terminology of the covenant of redemption, the defence of double imputation was rooted in the routine identification by Reformed theologians of both Christ’s life and death as constitutive of his work of mediation, as, for example, in William Perkins, Archbishop Ussher and, on the continent, the Synopsis purioris theologiae.55 As the distinction between the two kinds of righteousness developed, the Orthodox focused on three basic points: hypostatic union, divine condescension in Incarnation, and federal headship.56 These issues, of course, were the very same ones which constituted the traditonal doctrinal matrix out of which the covenant of redemption 51 Antinomianism Discovered and Confuted: and Free-Grace as it is held forth in Gods Word (London, 1652), 32–33. 52 George Downame, A Treatise of Justification (London, 1634); George Walker, A True Relation of the chiefe passages betweene Mr Anthony Wotton, and Mr George Walker (London, 1642); Daniel Featley, The Dippers Dipt, 5th ed. (London, 1647), 192–211. 53 The Westminster Standards: An Original Facsimile (Audubon: Old Paths Publications, 1997) contains a facsimile of both the revised Articles and the final Confession. 54 The Savoy Declaration, however, contains an explicit statement on the imputation of active and passive obedience: A Declaration, 11.1. 55 Perkins, A Golden Chaine in Works, 87, and A Reformed Catholike in Works, 681; James Ussher, Eighteen Sermons Preached in Oxford 1640 (London, 1660), 370– 92; Synopsis purioris theologiae XXXIII.VIII. 56 E.g., Featley, Dippers Dipt, 196–197; Downame, Treatise, 29.

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developed and, from the mid-1640s, all three will be discussed routinely in terms of the concept; it is no surprise, therefore, that, by the time we come to Gillespie, this issue is dealt with in short order in his own treatise on the covenant of redemption. Gillespie makes a series of points on this matter which highlight the structural importance of the covenant to justification: the covenant establishes Christ under the terms of the covenant of works; he thus fulfills all the positive righteousness demanded by the first covenant and also undergoes the penalty for Adam’s breach thereof; thus, his whole righteousness, active and passive, has significance for the believer. First, his active obedience qualifies him as the holy high priest (on this point, Gataker would have taken no issue with him); second, his voluntary susception of the obligation of obedience is clearly an integral part of his mediation, as, without it, there could have been no mediation; third, the excellency of his person in the context of voluntary obedience renders all his active work to be meritorious; and, fourth, the covenant of redemption, paralleling the covenant of works and the covenant of grace, establishes Christ as a representative, public person—a federal head, no less—and thus all he does is done on behalf of those he represents and nothing is done for himself or his own benefit. In other words, we might add, any distinction which seeks to discuss the person or work of Christ in terms other than the covenant of redemption in relation to these other two covenants, and thus other than in terms of federal headship, is speculative and, in a very real sense, nonsensical.57 By the time Gillespie writes, such use of the covenant of redemption is standard Reformed fare, summarizing and giving conceptual precision to longstanding traditional concerns and emphases.58 4. Conclusion The covenant of redemption is one doctrinal concept which is specifically developed by the Reformed Orthodox in the mid-seventeenth 57 The Ark of the Covenant, 89–90. 58 E.g., Owen, Works, 5, 257–58, 260–61; also Works, 10, 174–177; Works, 12, 502–03; David Dickson, The summe of saving knowledge, Head II. Cf. the earlier arguments of Downame, A Treatise of Justification, 29; Featley, Dippers Dipt, 196; also Ussher, Immanuel, or, The Mystery of the Incarnation of the Son of God (London, 1653), 11.

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century which sheds important light on the very nature of the development of Reformed theology from the Reformation. Positively connected to debates about Christology, about the nature of God and necessity, about linguistics and exegesis, and about the nature of salvation itself, it is far more than the “mythology” which Barth accused it of being. Rather, it represents a significant attempt to synthesize all of these issues in a specifically Protestant context, and to reinforce a theology which seeks to preserve both a distinctive Protestant soteriology which yet takes seriously both the theological questions raised by patristic trinitarian and Christological formulas while at the same time addressing contemporary polemical, theological and pastoral concerns. In this context, Gillespie’s work represents the culmination of a long tradition of sophisticated theological reflection which cannot be dismissed by the use of terms such as “mythology” or simplistic binary categories of covenant/contract which fail miserably to take account of what is really going on in the development of the concept. It is not so much a sign of mythological speculation, as Barth would have us believe, but rather a rich harvest of catholic theological reflection that indicates the sophistication and categorical complexity—theologically, linguistically, historically—of Reformed orthodoxy.

THE RHETORIC OF REFORM WILLIAM PERKINS ON PREACHING AND THE PURIFICATION OF THE CHURCH Raymond A. Blacketer

1. Introduction The English theologian and preacher William Perkins (1558–1602) is known both for his lively pastoral piety and his rigorous scholastic theological method, giving the lie to the modern stereotype of post-Reformation theology as dry and overly intellectual. Perkins left significant writings for posterity, but many of the details of his all-too-brief life are lost to history.1 He came to Christ’s College, Cambridge as a pensioner in 1577, where his tutor was Laurence Chaderton, “the pope of Cambridge puritanism.”2 Perkins was later elected fellow of Christ’s College, and he was ordained as a Church of England clergyman. Rather than taking a parish, however, Perkins had the privilege of holding a lec1 For the scant biographical details of his life, see the entry on Perkins in the Dictionary of National Biography (London, 1882). The only general introduction to Perkins’ thought published in the last century is J. J. van Baarsel, William Perkins: Eene bijdrage tot de kennis der religieuse ontwikkeling in Engeland, ten tijde van Koningin Elisabeth (The Hague: H. P. de Swart, [1912]). Ian Breward’s 129 page introduction to The Work of William Perkins (Appleford: Sutton Courtenay Press, 1970) is practically a monograph in itself, and is of considerable value, in spite of its theological prejudices that tend to distort Perkins’ doctrine of predestination. See also his unpublished dissertation: “The Life and Theology of William Perkins, 1558–1602” (University of Manchester, 1963), hereafter cited as LTWP; and idem, “The Significance of William Perkins,” Journal of Religious History 4/2 (1966): 113–128. More recently, Bryan D. Spinks has produced a very important study of Perkins alongside his contemporary Richard Hooker, demonstrating the heretofore unacknowledged similarities between the two Anglican divines. Spinks’ study reveals how Anglo-Catholic historians dismissed Perkins and reinvented Hooker in order to further the agenda of later Carolingian Anglicanism and the Oxford Movement. Two Faces of Elizabethan Anglican Theology: Sacraments and Salvation in the Thought of William Perkins and Richard Hooker (Lanham, Md.: Scarecrow Press, 1999). For a brief introduction to Perkins, see R. A. Blacketer, “William Perkins,” in The Pietist Theologians, ed. C. Lindberg (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 38–51. 2 Patrick Collinson, The Elizabethan Puritan Movement (Oxford: Clarendon, 1967), 125, hereafter cited as EPM.

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tureship at Great St. Andrews Church in Cambridge. This position allowed him to preach to members of the University community without such nuisances as episcopal oversight or strict adherence to the Prayer Book. It also provided him with a prime opportunity to influence a generation of young laymen and aspiring clergymen.3 Perkins’ influence, however, was not limited to the ivory towers of academia. His books were phenomenal best-sellers of the day, outselling even Calvin and Beza in England, and garnering considerable readership on the Continent, in numerous languages.4 William Perkins was as committed to the Church of England as he was convinced of Reformed theology. He was optimistic about the potential of sound and energetic preaching to gradually transform the Church of England into the Reformed church that it was in name. Like most devoted proponents of thoroughgoing reform, Perkins hoped that the Elizabethan Settlement would be the beginning of reform in the English Church, not the last word. Perkins identified the locus of true reform as the human heart and conscience; thus he took very seriously his calling to help prepare sound and effective preachers. Institutional and liturgical reform in the English Church would have to be regal, dependant upon the established authorities, but spiritual reform of the people would have to be rhetorical, dependent upon the preaching of the word. Perkins’ vision of reform is, in this regard, reminiscent of Calvin, whose primary tool for consolidating the reformation in Geneva was his pulpit. Like Calvin, Perkins intended to effect reform in the hearts and minds of the members of his congregation through instructive and persuasive preaching. 2. Continuing Reform in a Church “But Halfly Reformed” Perkins’ writings reflect the tense and precarious position of convinced Reformed Protestants in the Elizabethan Church of England. Queen Elizabeth I had restored Protestantism in 1559, and many reform3 See Collinson, EPM, 50, 54; Breward, LTWP, 24. 4 See Richard A. Muller, “William Perkins and the Protestant Exegetical Tradition: Interpretation, Style, and Method,” in William Perkins, A Commentary on Hebrews 11 (1609 Edition), ed. J. H. Augustine, The Pilgrim Classic Commentaries (New York: The Pilgrim Press, 1991), 71–94, here 72; Breward, The Significance of William Perkins, 113, and LTWP, appendices 1–2.

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minded clergy hoped that she would implement a thoroughgoing plan to revitalize the doctrine and practice of the Church in her realm.5 Instead, Elizabeth firmly resisted any such efforts at reform and asserted absolute royal authority in ecclesiastical matters. This left the Church of England looking much too Roman Catholic for many passionate believers and devoted ministers. The theological and liturgical sensibilities of many English clergy had been shaped by the Reformed branch of European Protestantism, including notable figures who had lived as exiles in Geneva during the reign of the sanguinary Queen Mary. Moreover, many laypersons who had witnessed the burnings of protestants under Mary identified the vestments that Elizabeth required of the English clergy as a royal proclamation that her Church would be semi-papal at best. This “blasphemous gear” included the surplice (the “popish rag”) and the square cap (“woolen horns”).6 Frustration with the lack of profound reform under Elizabeth, combined with new persecutions that reminded many of the days of her half-sister, would lead many to advocate the replacement of Episcopal church government with a Presbyterian system, or even separation from the Church of England. William Perkins was unquestionably Reformed in his theology, and deeply committed to reform in the English Church. But he did not endorse nonconformity, and he condemned separatism in no uncertain terms. He could not have been satisfied with the state of doctrine, worship, and piety in the national Church, but neither was he willing to identify that institution as a false church. In fact, Perkins vigorously defended the Church of England, particularly in his treatise on the Apostles’ Creed, which constitutes his theological system, and in which he claimed, “our own Churches in England and Ireland” are as much true churches as those Reformed communions in Switzerland, France, the Netherlands, and Scotland. The English Churches teach the true faith, “as the book of the articles of faith agreed upon in open Parliament doth fully show,” and for which its defenders would be willing to risk their lives against “foreign power, and especially the Spaniard,” leading 5 Collinson, EPM, is an outstanding study of “Protestants of the hotter sort” under the reign of Elizabeth. The character of the Church of England as an institution “but halfly reformed” comes from William Fuller, cited in EPM, 29. See also the entries by Norman Jones, “Elizabeth I of England” and “Elizabethan Settlement” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Reformation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), II, 33– 38. 6 See Collinson, EPM, 59–97.

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all the Reformed churches in Europe to “give unto us the hand of fellowship.” Those who separate from the Church of England “excommunicate themselves” from the true church; their accusation that there is no true Church in England is groundless and “as paper shot.” Against such sectarians Perkins asserted, “it cannot be shown that in our Churches is taught any one error that razeth the foundation, and consequently annihilates the truth of God’s Church.” He downplayed the controversy over “Ecclesiastical regiment;” those who hold different views of church polity “remain brethren” nonetheless. Any corruptions in the English Church Perkins judged to be peripheral, thus schism was unwarranted.7 He vehemently attacked the “sectaries” as a “schismatical and indiscreet company” who cry out for discipline, but who themselves exercise no self-discipline when it comes to patiently and peacefully working for reform from within the church. Those who separate from the church and refuse to attend authorized worship services Perkins condemned as prideful and contemptuous of God’s benefits.8 Perkins reserved the term “puritan” for the medieval heresy of the Cathars and anyone else who advocated moral perfectionism. He found it offensive when reform-minded believers were “branded with the vile terms of Puritans and Precisians.”9 He conceded the magistrate’s role in governing church affairs, including the right to reform or depose pastors who fail in their duties.10 Organization and ritual reform was the responsibility of bishops and civil authorities. He condemned iconoclasm, and recommended that pious persons appeal to the magistrate to remove “popish images.”11 This devoted commitment to the Church, however, was not enough to keep Perkins out of ecclesiastical hot water. He was summoned before the Vice-Chancellor of the University in 1587 to answer for a chapel sermon in which he criticized some of the practices legislated by 7 An Exposition of the Symbole, or Creed of the Apostles. The edition of Perkins’ collected works used here is The Whole Works of . . . M. William Perkins, 3 vols. (London: John Legatt, 1631), hereafter cited as Works, here I, 307. Having had the challenging experience of reading sixteenth-century Dutch, I have for the convenience of the reader taken the liberty of modernizing the English, except for the titles of works, where I have only regularized u/v and i/j. 8 A Treatise Tending unto a Declaration. . . in Works, I, 409. 9 An Exposition upon the Lord’s Prayer, in Works, I, 342; An Exposition upon Christ’s Sermon in the Mount, in Works, III, 15. 10 An Exposition upon the Whole Epistle of Jude, in Works, III, 538. 11 Cases of Conscience, III.ii.1, in Works, II, 116.

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the Church. Perkins was accused of claiming that it was a “corruption” that the presiding minister should take the elements of the sacrament himself, rather than receiving them from another minister; that the practice of kneeling to receive the sacramental elements was both “superstitious” and “antichristian;” and that facing east at various points in the liturgy was another corruption. Perkins’ answer to these charges was evasive.12 He denied condemning the practices in question, and claimed that he was merely expressing his own preferences, even while slipping in his own criticism of these rites reminiscent of Rome. He did concede while he did not seek to stir up conflict, he could have addressed his concerns at a more “convenient” time and place. Nothing came of the charges.13 Perkins was also called as a prosecution witness in the trial of Thomas Cartwright and others for participating in the classical movement, where again he was evasive and refused to divulge more than was legally required.14 Perkins wanted to keep the peace, not for the sake of peace itself, but in hope that the Church of England would eventually be reformed more than just by half. For Perkins, the best way to effect change in the church was to focus on reforming the spiritual lives of its members, and not by attacking the ecclesiastical establishment and its leaders. 3. A Homiletical Handbook Perkins’ vision for a learned, effective body of clergy who would reform the Church of England from the pews comes through most clearly in his treatises on preaching and the pastoral ministry. Perkins first published his preaching manual, Prophetica, in Latin, and it was

12 One wonders how much Perkins dissimulated in this situation, given that, unlike Calvin, he defends the practice of dissimulation under certain circumstances. See Breward, LTWP, 30–31, and on Calvin’s view of dissimulation, cf. R. A. Blacketer, “The Moribund Moralist: Ethical Lessons in Calvin’s Commentary on Joshua,” in The Formation of Clerical and Confessional Identities in Early Modern Europe, ed. W. Janse and B. Pitkin [=Nederlands Archief voor Kerkgeschiedenis, vol. 85] (Leiden: Brill, 2005): 149–168. 13 Van Baarsel reproduces the record of this inquiry: William Perkins, 313–316. 14 See Breward, LTWP, 28–30.

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translated into English in 1606 as The Arte of Prophecying.15 Like many of his works, Perkins structured his homiletical guide along Ramist lines. Ramism was not only his preferred method of rhetorical and logical analysis, it was also well suited to his vision of ecclesiastical reform.16 Peter Ramus’ dialectic was a simplification of the generally Aristotelian method conventional in the universities, and it was quintessentially practical in nature.17 The simplicity and practicality of Ramist analysis suited Perkins’ understanding of the pastoral ministry and the potential of such ministry to shape the English people and the English church in positive ways. Perkins displayed a preference for exposition that was “plain,” and from every doctrine he derived at least one practical “use.” Perkins’ use of Ramist analysis does not indicate a substantive difference in content from earlier Reformers, such as Calvin, or from non-Ramist thinkers, such as Theodore Beza, who was no friend of Ramus or his method.18 It does, however, indicate the increasing emphasis on method in the era of early orthodoxy and constitutes a new technique for the analysis of Scripture, theological formulation, and homiletics.19 In Ramist fashion, Perkins begins with the definition of his subject. First he defines the study itself: the “art or faculty of prophesying is a sacred doctrine of exercising prophecy rightly.” He then explains, “Prophecy (or prophesying) is a public and solemn speech of the prophet, pertaining to the worship of God and to the salvation of our neighbor.”20 He then proceeds to divide the prophecy into two principal 15 Prophetica, sive de sacra et unica ratione Concionandi Tractatus (Cambridge: John Legatt, 1592); The Arte of Prophecying, or, A Treatise Concerning the Sacred and Onely True Manner and Methode of Preaching, trans. Thomas Tuke (1606), in Works, II, 643–673. 16 On Perkins’ Ramism, see the studies by Donald K. McKim: “The Function of Ramism in William Perkins’ Theology,” Sixteenth Century Journal 16/4 (1985): 503– 517; Ramism in William Perkins’ Theology (New York: P. Lang, 1987); “William Perkins’ Use of Ramism as an Exegetical Tool,” in Augustine, ed., A Commentary on Hebrews 11, 32–45. 17 See Muller, PRRD, I, 62, II, 507–509; IV, 400–401. On Ramus himself, see James Veazie Skalnik, Ramus and Reform. University and Church at the End of the Renaissance (Kirksville: Truman State University Press, 2002). 18 See Skalnik, Ramus and Reform, chap. 4. One shortcoming in Skalnik’s work is his anti-Bezan bias. 19 On Ramism and the issue of continuity and discontinuity between the reformation and orthodox eras, see Muller, PRRD, IV, 400–401. 20 Prophetica, 1; Works, II, 646.

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parts: preaching the word of God and prayer in the name of the people. This is the first major division in his Ramist structure, but the vast majority of the treatise Perkins dedicates to preaching, with only a very brief treatment of pastoral prayer appended at the end. There is also relatively little in this work that pertains to the mechanics of constructing the sermon. Perkins devotes much of this work to the doctrine of Scripture and its attributes, questions of canon and authority, general principles for the study of divinity, and most of all, the principles of sound biblical exegesis. In this way his preaching manual delivers much more than the title promises, just as Perkins’ Armilla Aurea is really a broadranging “Description of Theology” rather than merely a treatise on predestination.21 That Perkins should devote so much of his preaching manual to the doctrine of Scripture and its correct interpretation points to the priority that he gives to content over style in his view of homiletics. The object of preaching, its exclusive subject-matter, is the word of God. By the word of God, Perkins clearly means the Holy Scriptures, and not some revelation or event behind or within the Scriptures. “The word of God is in the holy Scripture. The Scripture is the word of God written in a language fit for the Church by men immediately called to be clerks or secretaries of the Holy Ghost.”22 This point, which should be obvious, is not so to many scholars who insist on projecting a post-Kantian understanding of revelation and Scripture onto pre-modern theologians, particularly Calvin.23 Perkins identified the Scriptures with the word of God, but this does not imply that he was merely a naive biblicist, a frequent charge against theologians of his era. The Arte of Prophecying reveals a nuanced doctrine of Scripture and a sophisticated method for resolving apparent discrepancies among various passages of Scripture.24 It is a method that he has adapted from many Continental sources 21 Armilla Aurea, id est, Theologiae Descriptio mirandam seriem causarum & salutis & damnationis. . ., 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Legatt, [1591]); translated in Works, I, 1–130. 22 Prophetica, 6; Works, II, 647. 23 This (frequently Barthian) tendency is still alive and well, as exhibited in the recent Cambridge Companion to John Calvin (Cambridge, 2004), 258, where it is anachronistically claimed that Calvin “never confused the gospel content—the Christ—with the words of Scripture.” How Calvin managed to get his hands on a copy of Die Kirchliche Dogmatik remains a mystery. 24 See the lengthy fifth chapter of The Arte of Prophecying, “Of the Ways of Expounding,” in Works, II, 654–662.

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of various confessional inclinations. He specifically recommends the commonplaces of Augustin Marlorat.25 And at the end of his treatise, Perkins cites other major sources, including Augustine, Erasmus, Flacius Illyricus, Johannes Wigandus, a certain Jacobus Matthias, Theodore Beza, Franciscus Junius (who, like Marlorat, also published a comparison of scriptural passages),26 and two authors who had also written on the subject of preaching: Nicholas Hemmingius and Andreas Hyperius.27 4. Manuals for the Ministry Perkins’ collected works also include two treatises published under the title Of the Calling of the Ministerie. Two Treatises: Describing the Duties and Dignities of that Calling.28 Like many of Perkins’ works, these were originally sermons preached at the university, and they provide further insight into Perkins’ strategy of reform by pulpit and piety. The first treatise is an exposition of Job 33:22–23, which Perkins analyzes as a description of a true minister, with typical Ramist bifurcations:

25 Propheticae, et apostolicae, id est, totius diuinae ac canonicae Scripturae, thesaurus: in locos communes rerum, dogmatum suis diuinis exemplis illustratorum . . . (London: Thomas Vautrollerius, 1574). 26 On Flacius, see below, n. 55. Franciscus Junius, Sacrorum parallelorum libri tres: Id est, Comparatio locorum, Scripturae sacrae . . . (Heidelberg: [Commelinus] 1588). I have not identified Jacobus Matthias. 27 Hemmingius’ advice on preaching was translated by John Horsfall: The Preacher, or Methode of Preachinge (London: Thomas Marsh, 1574). Hyperius’ homiletical handbook also appeared in English: The Practise of Preaching, trans. John Ludham (London: Thomas East, 1577). 28 Works, III, 423–463, cited as First Treatise and Second Treatise, respectively.

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Perkins’ agenda in this first treatise on the ministry is fairly explicit. He sets out a model of pastoral ministry to which English clergy should aspire. He defines a true minister as one who is “lawfully called and sent by God, and appointed by his church.” Separatists and schismatics need not apply.29 He proceeds to describe (and prescribe) the duties of the ministry in terms of the titles (angel and interpreter), his rareness (one in a thousand), his office, God’s blessing on his work, and his commission and authority. In the second treatise, Perkins analyzes the prophet’s vision in Isa 6:5–9 and applies it to the ministerial vocation. While many of the themes overlap with the first treatise, here Perkins’ attribution of priestly functions to the pastoral ministry is particularly notable. Evident in both treatises is Perkins’ desire for thoroughgoing reform of the Church of England, balanced by his commitment to that same English Church. Throughout these treatises Perkins offsets firm exhortations and censures of inept and indolent ministers with genuine empathy for the trials and weaknesses of the men who were parish pastors in those often difficult times. 5. The Rhetoric of Reform In these manuals on preaching and the ministry we can observe Perkins pursuing his agenda to strengthen the ministry of preaching among English clergy, and thus to create an irresistible momentum for non-separatist reform in the English Church. For Perkins, classical rhetoric plays a crucial but ancillary role in the faithful minister’s exegesis of Scripture and effective preaching. Eloquence in the pulpit is not an end in itself; it should be made to serve the content and object of preaching, which is the word of God in Scripture. Only if preachers faithfully, passionately, and compassionately expound the Bible will the people, and ultimately the whole Church, undergo reformation. The model for such pulpit oratory is the Bible itself, which manifests a style of simple majesty.30 John

29 First Treatise, Works, III, 429. 30 “Majestas plena in simplicitate verborum,” Prophetica, 19; Works, II, 650.

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Calvin had emphasized exactly these same points.31 “The eloquence that is suited to the Spirit of God,” Calvin said, is the kind that “does not swell with empty show, or spend itself in empty sound, but is solid and efficacious, and has more substance in it than elegance.32 But whereas Calvin felt constrained to minimize the role of rhetoric in preaching, Perkins is more explicit about the use of the arts of oratory both in exegesis and proclamation. Pulpit Preparation Rhetorical and dialectical analysis of the biblical text plays a large part in the preparation of the sermon, which Perkins emphasizes much more prominently than the actual delivery of the message; he devotes six chapters of The Arte of Prophecying to exegesis and sermon preparation, and only one to delivery. In the fourth chapter, he offers general advice on the study of divinity, encouraging students to imprint in the memory (an important rhetorical category) the substance of theology, including its “definitions, divisions, and explications of [its] properties” In other words, one should use a good analytical method, preferably Ramism. Like Calvin, Perkins recommends that students read the books of the Bible in a certain prescribed order, giving priority to Romans and John’s Gospel, to facilitate the understanding of the whole scope of Scripture. Moreover, these books are to be read “using a grammatical, rhetorical, and logical analysis, and the help of the rest of the arts.”33 In his description and classification of various biblical books, Perkins’ own rhetorical analysis is evident. Deuteronomy, for example, is “a commentary repeating and explicating the laws” of the Pentateuch.34 The Song of Songs is an allegory of the communion between Christ and his church. In his discussion of the canon of Scripture, Perkins distinguishes between two types of proof, one which persuades with certainty 31 See R. A. Blacketer, The School of God. Pedagogy and Rhetoric in John Calvin’s Interpretation of Deuteronomy, Studies in Early Modern Religious Reforms (Dordrecht: Springer, 2005), 61–87. The definitive study of Calvin’s rhetoric is Olivier Millet’s Calvin et la dynamique de la parole: Etude de rhétorique réformée (Paris: Librairie Honoré Champion, 1992). 32 CO 49, 322 (on I Cor 1:17); English translation from the Calvin Translation Society edition, 45 vols. (Edinburgh: 1843–55), Corinthians, 1, 77–78, alt. 33 Prophetica, 21–22; Works, II, 650–651; cf. Calvin’s argumentum to his commentary on John, CO 47, viii–ix. 34 Prophetica, 7–8; Works, II, 647.

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(e0pisthmonikh/), and a lesser kind of proof that merely testifies (e0ndeiktikh/) to the truth. Of the former there is only one, namely, the inward testimony of the Holy Spirit, who, like an adept orator, “effectually persuades” a person that these books “are the word of God.” Perkins counters the objection that the Scriptures derive their authority from the Church. Citing numerous patristic testimonies, Perkins affirms that the Scriptures are authorized not by ecclesiastical decree, but by a certain “full persuasion” (plhrofori/a) that the Holy Spirit creates in our minds when we study and hear them.35 Perkins’ Ramism also informs his advice on sermon preparation, which for him is identical to exegeting the text. Preparation includes both interpretation and correct division of the text. Perkins defines interpretation as “the opening (e0pi/lusij) of the words and sentences of the Scripture, that one entire and natural sense may appear.”36 By this Perkins means careful grammatical and rhetorical analysis of the text. This is followed by the right dividing (o0rqotomi/a) of the text, which is the process of making it “edifying to the people (II Tim 5:15).” This o0rqotomi/a has two parts: resolution (dia/lusij) and application. This “resolution” of the text is equivalent to the Ramist “unfolding” of its meaning by identifying its constituent parts. Perkins describes it as unraveling the text, “like woven cloth,” into its component doctrines.37 The interpretation of Scripture is regulated by the analogia fidei and the analogia Scripturae, along with considerations such as the context and the correct understanding of rhetorical and grammatical forms. Perkins goes on to describe rhetorical figures such as tropes, sacramental metonymy, synecdoche, varieties of pleonasm, irony, and problems of polysemy. He also includes useful scholastic distinctions, for example, God’s voluntas signi and voluntas beneplaciti.38 Mastering Memory Perkins advises students to make commonplace books to record important quotations and illustrations found in their reading and file them under the appropriate theological loci or topics.39 This advice reflects 35 36 37 38

Prophetica, 16–17; Works, II, 649. Prophetica, 24–25; Works, II, 651. Prophetica, 78; Works, II, 662. Prophetica, 53; Works, II, 657.

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Perkins’ loci method of biblical interpretation, which is facilitated by his Ramist method.40 Ramist analysis seeks to identify and arrange the important topics in a text. This does not yield isolated propositions, but rather a coherent argument, particularly because Perkins always has in view the larger scope of the biblical book, or the whole Scriptures, or the analogy of faith. For Perkins, the optimum place to store loci for application and illustration is not the commonplace books, but in the memory—one of Cicero’s five parts of rhetoric.41 These notebooks were aids to memory, not a replacement for the hard work of memorizing. The use of loci was often associated with the use of artificial memory, where the orator would imagine some familiar scene or building in which to mentally situate his loci for easy retrieval. Perkins agrees that this technique yields immediate results, but, interestingly, he condemns its use. “The animation of the image, which is the key of memory, is impious,” he says, “because it requireth absurd, insolent and prodigious cogitations, and those especially which set an edge upon and kindle the most corrupt affections of the flesh.”42 Besides, Perkins finds this method inefficient, since one must first remember the commonplaces, the artificial structure, and then the speech itself. Rather, the conscientious preacher is to “diligently imprint” on one’s mind “the several proofs and applications of the doctrines, the illustrations of the applications, and the order of them all.” As an aid the preacher should use a dispositio (rhetorical arrangement) of either the axiomatic, syllogistic, or methodical (Ramist) variety. Such a dispositio is also a mnemonic and pedagogical aid, because it lays out all the important parts of the discourse in a pattern that makes sense and can be easily recalled (easy, that is, for an early modern pastor or scholar who did not have the luxury of relying on computers).43 Moreover, Perkins urges aspiring pastors not to worry too much about the exact words that will come out of their mouths, as long as they remember the general argument and outline of their sermon. Perkins strongly discourages preachers from the trouble39 Prophetica, 23–24; Works, II, 652. 40 See Muller, “William Perkins and the Protestant Exegetical Tradition,” 78, 82. 41 Ciccero, de Oratore, I.142. See George A. Kennedy’s helpful overview: Classical Rhetoric and its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times, 2nd ed. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press), 110–111. 42 Prophetica, 110–111; Works, II, 670. 43 See McKim, “William Perkins’ Use of Ramism as an Exegetical Tool,” 34.

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some (incommodus) practice of reading their sermons word-for-word from a manuscript. This technique takes too much work, and it leads to stumbling over words, which confuses the congregation and flusters the speaker’s memory. Because the preacher is concentrating too hard on reading his manuscript, it also inhibits the “holy motions” of the preacher’s affections, which are required for effective preaching. Perkins cites Horace to the effect that when the subject is adequately studied, the words will not unwillingly follow.44 Exploding the Quadriga Perkins’ relationship to the medieval fourfold method of interpretation (known as the Quadriga) is not as simple as one might conclude from his assertion that the Church of Rome’s “device of the fourfold meaning of the Scriptures must be exploded and rejected. There is only one sense, and the same is the literal.” In fact, Perkins immediately goes on to describe the legitimate role of allegory, anagogy, and tropology. Allegory is a rhetorical device, “a certain manner of uttering the same sense,” while anagogy and tropology are rhetorical tools to be used in the application of the literal sense.45 When allegories are encountered in Scripture, the scope of the passage controls their interpretation, according to Perkins, citing Chrysostom and Augustine.46 In fact, Perkins declares that it is “lawful to gather allegories for they are arguments taken from things that are like, and Paul in his teaching useth them often, I Cor 9:9 [muzzling the ox]. But they are to be used with their caveats.” These caveats are that they should be used “sparingly and soberly,” that they should not be “far-fetched, but fitting to the matter in hand,” that they must be “quickly dispatched,” and, very importantly, they must not be used to prove any point of doctrine.47 Breward incorrectly identifies this final caveat as the point at which Perkins departs from medieval precedent, but in fact this was an important exegetical principle from Augustine through the medieval era, even if some exegetes failed to observe it.48 Perkins, like Luther and Calvin, rejected the 44 “. . . verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur.” Prophetica, 111; Works, II, 670. The quotation is from Horace, De Arte Poetica liber, 309. 45 Prophetica, 25; Works, II, 651. See Breward, LTWP, 48–49. 46 Prophetica, 65–66; Works, II, 660. 47 Prophetica, 84; Works, II, 663–664.

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unrestrained and unprincipled abuse of allegory that was sometimes encountered in (particularly late) medieval exegesis. Like those reformers, he often did so with a rhetorical vehemence and hyperbole that might appear as if he rejected any and all sorts of allegorical interpretation and application. But as was the case with rhetoric in preaching, Perkins is more explicit and forthcoming than Calvin about the acceptable use of allegory as an interpretive tool and a rhetorical aid.49 Apt Applications Also reminiscent of Calvin is Perkins’ emphasis on sound pedagogy. His preaching manual includes a chapter on how to adapt the sermon to the various capacities and spiritual states of one’s parishioners.50 Like Calvin, Perkins considers the virtue of docility to be essential for making progress in the Christian life. Unlike Calvin, he prescribes an explicit and detailed method for overcoming both the lack of docility and ignorance, with seven different approaches. For example, the preacher might have to engage in apologetic disputation with an unbeliever who is both ignorant and unteachable. For those who lack knowledge but are teachable, catechesis is the answer. Here Perkins distinguishes between two pedagogical strategies: “milk” refers to the teaching of basic Christian principles in a plain and simple manner; “strong meat is a special, copious, luculent and clear handling of the doctrine of faith,” such as when the pastor tackles such complex issues as the Incarnation. The distinction is both pedagogical and rhetorical: plain brevity is required for teaching the simple rudiments of the faith; more copious (but still clear) discourse is required when handling more difficult matters of doctrine.51 When Perkins considers how to apply the sermon to those who have knowledge, but are not yet humbled, we discover the rationale behind Perkins’ reputation for being a hair-raising preacher. Thomas Fuller reports that Perkins would pronounce the word “damn” so ominously that his listeners would be left with a “doleful echo” ringing in their ears for a long while afterward. Fuller adds that while he was a catechist at 48 49 50 51

Cf. Breward, LTWP, 49 with Blacketer, The School of God, 205–207. On Calvin’s use of allegory, see Blacketer, The School of God, 204–210. Prophetica, chap. vii, 85–103; Works, II, 664–668. Prophetica, 92; Works, II, 665–666.

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Christ College, Perkins would bring the conviction of sin so close to his students’ hearts that their hair nearly stood on end, and they nearly fainted from their sense of unworthiness. Fuller claims that as Perkins grew older, he softened his tone from the pulpit because he came to believe that the proclamation of God’s mercy was the proper office of the minister of the Word.52 But here in his preaching manual Perkins claims that for certain members of the congregation, it is appropriate to humble by horrifying. Preaching the law in order to convict persons of their unworthiness and their inability to be saved by their good works, and their need for Christ’s forgiveness, is all part of the regular order of conversion. Just as a physician bleeds a patient in order to stop more serious bleeding (according to the medicine of the day), so a preacher might have to terrify some of his hearers with the law in order that they might ultimately find the comfort and assurance of the gospel. Perkins frequently casts the pastor in the role of physician of the soul, practicing an evangelical cura animarum.53 Perkins’ delineation of the various kinds of homiletic application is typically Ramist in structure: “Application is either mental (noutikh/) or practical (praktikh/). Mental application is either doctrine (didaskali/a) or reproof (e1legxoj).”54 Perkins quotes extensively from Flacius Illyricus to illustrate the various kinds of application.55 Speech of the Spirit It is not until the tenth chapter of his preaching manual that Perkins finally takes up pulpit oratory per se. The promulgation of the sermon requires two things: the hiding of human wisdom, and the demonstration of the Spirit.56 Similarly, Calvin had minimized the importance of the preacher’s eloquence, often using a hyperbole that has misled scholars to conclude, untenably, that Calvin the humanist rejected rhetoric altogether. Rather, Calvin emphasized that substance should take precedence over style: “the eloquence that is suited to the Spirit of 52 Thomas Fuller, The Holy State, 4th ed. (London, 1663), 82. 53 Prophetica, 93–95; Works, II, 666. 54 Prophetica, 104; Works, II, 668, emending the infelicitous translation of redargatio as “redargation.” 55 Perkins is likely making use of Flacius’ Clavis scripturae sacrae seu de sermone sacrarum litterarum of 1567. 56 Prophetica, 112; Works, II, 670.

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God is of such a nature that it does not swell with empty show, or spend itself in empty sound, but is solid and efficacious, and has more substance in it than elegance.”57 The preacher should not draw attention to himself, to his skill or learning, but to the message of the Holy Spirit. Eloquence is not an end in itself. Likewise, for Perkins the occultatio humanae sapientiae does not justify barbarism from the pulpit. The minister may and must use the humane arts, philosophy, and a “variety of reading” in the preparation of the sermon, but the arts are to be concealed in public and from the congregation; the pastor is “not to make the least ostentation.” The preacher should not use technical terms from the pulpit, nor mention Greek and Latin “phrases and quirks [subtleties, argutiae].” The truly skilled preacher will hide his skill: “artis etiam celare artem.” 58Nonetheless, rhetorical skill is required in order to be an effective preacher; Perkins recommends a moderate style for teaching doctrine, and more vehemence for exhortation. Bodily gestures and facial expressions are also important, but Perkins can provide little advice here except to be grave and serious, and to follow the example of the “gravest ministers.”59 The demonstration of the Spirit is also a rhetorical image. Demonstratio or e0na/rgeia refers to vivid description,60 and it is clear that Perkins is using demonstratio in this rhetorical sense. It is when the Minister of the Word preaches in such a way that the people think that it is not so much him speaking “as the Spirit of God in him and by him . . . This makes the ministry to be lively and powerful.”61 Like Calvin, Perkins warns against mixing any of the preacher’s private opinions in with the sermon: “you must preach God’s word as Godsword,” that is, “as one speaking the very words of God” (1 Pet 4:11).62 In order to function as the mouthpiece of the Holy Spirit, the preacher must first cultivate a godly life himself. As an orator uses eloquence to adorn his speech, so a minister must adorn his calling with a godly 57 CO 49, 322; Corinthians, 1: 77–78, alt. 58 Prophetica, 112–113; Works, II, 670–671. 59 Prophetica, 122–123; Works, II, 672. 60 See Rhetorica ad Herennium, IV.lv.68. 61 Prophetica, 113; Works, II, 670. Cf. Calvin’s description of the e0ne/rgeia (virtually synonymous with e0na/rgeia) of the Spirit in his discussion of homiletic rhetoric in CO 49, 322 (on I Cor 1:17), and also Blacketer, The School of God, 78. 62 First Treatise, Works, III, 430.

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life.63 “Golden words” without personal holiness will be ineffective.64 The preacher must have a “fiery tongue,” one that can not only persuade the mind but move the conscience.65 This kind of fiery vehemence, however, can be lit by the heavenly altar, or kindled from the flames of hell. Eloquence without the comfort of forgiveness for troubled consciences is like “gilded poison.”66 Moreover, the preacher must conjure up the same emotions in himself that he seeks to evoke from his congregation. Among the personal qualifications required of ministers, Perkins asserts that the ability to teach (didaktiko\j ei]nai) is not just desirable; it is indispensable. Perkins is subtly criticizing clergy (including bishops) who do not preach; but he blunts the force of his attack by stating this in terms of a general principle.67 Praying for the People The small amount of space that Perkins devotes to the second part of prophecy, pastoral prayer, should not be taken as an indication that he minimized the importance of prayer, either in general or specifically in public worship. It would be strange indeed for a theologian who has been called “the father of pietism” to neglect prayer.68 At the beginning of his preaching manual he explains, “every prophet is partly the voice of God, to wit, in preaching, and partly the voice of the people, in the act of praying.”69 This analysis not only reflects the dialogical nature of Reformed liturgy, it also ascribes to the minister a kind of mediatorial, intercessory, and in fact, priestly role, a subject to which we will return below. His reticence to speak too much about prayer in The Arte of Prophecying may reflect his concern to avoid controversy over the Book 63 First Treatise, Works, III, 430; Second Treatise, Works, III, 454. 64 Second Treatise, Works, III, 451. 65 Second Treatise, Works, III, 455–456. Here Perkins also discusses the effect of the sacraments on the human conscience, including the affections and will. Spinks, Two Faces, 161, presents a skewed picture of Perkins on this point, with an all-tooeasy claim that Perkins’ alleged determinism has “left God no room to maneuver.” 66 Second Treatise, Works, III, 456–457. 67 Prophetica, 116–121; Works, II, 671–672; cf. Perkins’ criticism of non-residency and absenteeism, Second Treatise, Works III, 446. 68 Heinrich Heppe, Geschichte des Pietismus und der Mystik in der reformirten Kirche, namentlich der Niederlande (Leiden: Brill, 1879), 24. 69 Prophetica, 3; Works, II, 646.

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of Common Prayer. While Perkins rejected the practice of reading sermons out of a book because it suppressed the gift of prophecy, he could nevertheless defend the use of set prayers, such as those in the Prayer Book. In another work he explicitly condemns the arguments of separatists Henry Barrow and John Greenwood against such fixed prayers. Perkins contends that set forms of prayer are “both profitable and necessary,” because they facilitate uniformity in worship and prevent ignorant pastors from neglecting the duty of pastoral prayer. (Of course, Cranmer’s 1547 Book of Homilies was intended to aid ignorant preachers in the proclamation of biblical and protestant teachings). Perkins argues that the early church had set forms of prayer.70 Perkins’ consistency in this matter is dubious at best. If pastors should be conscientious in their sermons, as Perkins demands, they should be just as industrious in the composition of their public prayers, particularly since Perkins identifies pastoral prayer as part of the intercessory, quasi-priestly function of the minister.71 But here the unity of the church is much more important than consistency for Perkins. The prescribed, obligatory prayers in the Church of England are not an adequate reason to declare that church apostate. They are tolerable, and in some ways good, even if Perkins might privately hold the opinion that extemporaneous prayers would be preferable. Although he provides minimal counsel on the composition of prayers in his treatise on preaching, there is enough there to guide the pastor in this intercessory ministry. Perkins declares that the pastor should be the only one voicing the prayer, the people adding their assent with an “amen.” The parts of prayer are rhetorical in nature. First there is consideration, the determination of appropriate subject-matter for the prayer (rhetorical inventio); secondly, there is the proper ordering of this subject matter (rhetorical dispositio); thirdly, there is the prolatio, speaking the prayer in an orderly and edifying way for the people.72

70 An Exposition upon Christ’s Sermon in the Mount, in Works, III, 119–120. Calvin also criticized these prefabricated homilies in a letter to Protector Somerset, CO 13, 72; cf. Blacketer, The School of God, 28. 71 Cf. Perkins’ explanation of the reasons for praying before and after the sermon. It is not “for decorum only,” but arises out of a theological rationale, viz., the holiness of God. Second Treatise, Works, III, 449. 72 Prophetica, 123–125; Works, II, 672–673.

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The Pastor as Priest One unexpected aspect of Perkins’ thought that arises from his manuals of preaching and ministry is his willingness to apply Old Testament sacerdotal patterns to the Reformed pastoral vocation. While some were protesting against “popish rags,” and demanding Presbyterian polity, Perkins often portrayed the true minister in priestly terms. In public worship, the minister speaks to the people on behalf of God (in preaching), and speaks to God on behalf of the people (in pastoral prayer). The minister is God’s interpreter in the sermon, and the people’s interpreter to God in the pastoral prayer, in which he confesses their sins, gives thanks to God, and offers up their “spiritual sacrifices” to God on their behalf.73 Perkins frequently looks to the Levitical priesthood as a model for protestant pastors. Like the Old Testament priests, ministers approach God on behalf of the people, and thus their lives must be holy and sanctified. An important text for Perkins in this regard is Lev 10:3: Among those who approach me I will show myself holy.74 Describing the difficulties of the pastoral office, Perkins declares: To stand in God’s presence, to enter into the holy of holies, to go betwixt God and his people, to be God’s mouth to the people, and the people’s to God, to be the Interpreter of the eternal law of the Old Testament, and the everlasting gospel of the new, to stand in the room, and bear the office of Christ himself, to take the care and charge of souls: these considerations are so many amazements to the consciences of such men, who do with reverence approach, and not with rashness rush into this sacred seat.75

In his preaching manual, Perkins teaches ministers how to put the fear of God into their parishioners. But he also follows this up with sensitive and compassionate homiletic application for persons who suffer from spiritual despair. Both here and in his Second Treatise on the Ministerie he suggests an evangelical version of private confession, one that differs from Roman Catholic auricular confession in that it should be voluntary, since it is not necessary for salvation, and it should be a confession only of those sins that have given rise to the spiritual despair, and not an inventory of all the penitent’s sins. Perkins suggests that it should chiefly be made to pastors. It is a godly practice, allowing a parishioner 73 First Treatise, Works, III, 431. 74 First Treatise, Works, III, 432; Second Treatise, Works, III, 450; Prophetica, 118; Works, II, 671. 75 First Treatise, Works, III, 432.

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to unburden his conscience, and facilitating pastoral care over the flock.76 .

Loyalty and Reform There is much that Perkins laments in the present state of the Church of England. He complains that pastors are poorly paid, that the ministry is “but a plain way to beggary.” The reformation of this dire situation “is a work worth the labor of prince and people. . .” Rulers and magistrates should also maintain the universities, colleges, and “schools of the prophets” (seminaries).77 Perkins, as a loyal son of the English Church, urges the bishops and the Crown to continue reform. The lack of good ministers out there is an evil “not to be healed but by the power of a King.” It is a job for “Parliament and princes.”78 In the mean time, conscientious clergy should remain loyal and commit themselves to effective ministry. In a tactful rhetorical move, Perkins expresses a kind of grudging admiration for the great centers of Roman Catholic learning. Perkins refers to how the reviled Jesuits are skillful teachers, and their students good learners (obviously aided by the Devil); they are reported to get through the liberal arts in three years and proceed to divinity in the fourth. Those who are in charge of protestant institutions of learning should take note, and not let themselves be outdone! Curiously, Perkins does not deny that there are any worthy ministers among the papists, but only that Rome has “almost none.”79 Perkins emphasizes that the call of the institutional Church is vital for the ministry. Anyone who would claim to be directly called by God, apart from the Church, is a fanatic who deserves the Church’s censure and the magistrate’s sword.80 Among the ancient heresies that have reawakened in his own day, Perkins includes “the schismatics, that separate themselves from Evangelical Churches,” who constitute a revival of the Donatist heresy.81 To the question of how a person may know that he is called to the ministry, Perkins answers: “God calleth ordinarily by 76 77 78 79 80 81

Prophetica, 100; Works, II, 667; Second Treatise, Works, III, 446. First Treatise, Works, III, 433. Second Treatise, Works, III, 458. First Treatise, Works, III, 433, cf. 438; Second Treatise, Works, III, 458. Second Treatise, Works, III, 441. Prophetica, 23; Works, II, 651.

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his Church; her voice is his.” Thus when “the Church of God saith unto thee, Thou shalt be sent, and thou shalt go for us, even then doth the Lord call us out to this holy function.”82 Contrary to Catholic traditions of piety, God speaks to us not in visions, but in his word, in our consciences, and “by the voice of his Church.” A person must search his own conscience to determine whether he is willing, and ask the church if he is qualified. A public calling from the Church—even one ruled by the magistrate and reformed only by half—is as good as the voice of God from heaven.83 6. Conclusion Perkins’ aspiration to see the Church of England reformed from within through the labors of holy and conscientious preachers reflects the optimism of many renaissance thinkers, Philip Melanchthon foremost among them, who believed in the power of sound rhetoric and dialectic, and particularly the divine rhetoric (demonstratio) of the Holy Spirit, to effect dramatic change.84 One of the appealing facets of Perkins’ thought is his steadfast commitment to the unity of the English Church, his defense of her integrity despite her faults, and his staunch refusal to tolerate any talk of separation or schism—all this despite his indisputable commitment to the Reformed conception of the Christian faith. In this regard Perkins remains an inspiration to persons who are working for reform in their own churches. At the same time, Perkins’ vision of reform from the bottom up was virtually doomed to fail in a Church that was ruled in an increasingly totalitarian manner by the British monarch. Elizabeth was a profound disappointment to English Reformed clergy and laity who longed for a church that was unambiguously protestant in doctrine and liturgy. In Perkins’ day, the union of state and church was only beginning to be questioned, and only by those whom the majority (including Perkins himself) would consider radicals. Elizabeth was willing to enforce con82 Second Treatise, Works, III, 459. 83 Second Treatise, Works, III, 462. 84 See Nicole Kuropka, Philipp Melanchthon: Wissenschaft und Gesellschaft. Ein Gelehrter im Dienst der Kirche (1526–1532), Spätmittelalter und Reformation 21 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002).

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formity by resorting to oppression and persecution when necessary. Such a church could never be truly Reformed in the eyes of many of her subjects, loyal as they may have been. No amount of eloquent or godly preaching could ever change that.

PART III

SCHOLASTICISM AND MODERN SYSTEMATIC THEOLOGY

UNDERSTANDING AND MISUNDERSTANDING IN THE CONVERSATION OF KARL BARTH WITH AMANDUS POLANUS THE MAIN CHARACTERISTIC OF THE HOMO VIATOR IN HIS ECTYPAL THEOLOGY Rinse H. Reeling Brouwer

1. Introduction When Karl Barth, after the discharge from his professorship in Bonn and the apparent lack of any prospects at all regarding other theological appointments in Germany, accepted the hastily created function of a professor at the university of his native town Basel in June of 1935, he decided in the first years of his teaching and research there to give special attention to several post-reformation theologians who had worked in this city before him. So his inaugural address on May 6, 1936, was on Samuel Werenfels, one of the local representatives of the socalled “rational orthodoxy” of the early eighteenth century. And in three semesters in 1937 and 19381 he and the students in his “society” focussed on the two-part Compendium theologiae Christianae of Johannes Wollebius (1626) that had then just been newly edited by Ernst Bizer.2 But the most important outcome of Barth’s turn to Basel seems to be his ongoing conversation with his distant but also, in his

1 Cf. E. Busch, Karl Barths Lebenslauf nach seinen Briefen und autobiographischen Texten (Munich: Kaiser, 1975), 277–279. 2 The first edition appeared in Basel in 1626, the new edition in Neukirchen in 1935. In 1958, in his “historical introduction” to his new edition of H. Heppe’s Die Dogmatik der evangelisch-reformierten Kirche: Neu durchsehen und herausgegeben von Ernst Bizer (Neukirchen: Kreis Moers, 1958), XLVII, Bizer remarks in a footnote: “I fear, I vastly overestimated the importance of Wollebius at the time.” With some remarkable exceptions Wolleb offers a very clear summary of the Syntagma of Polanus.

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own words, “illustrious” predecessor3 Amandus Polanus a Polansdorf (1561–1610), whose Syntagma Theologiae Christianae4 is present in nearly every volume of Barth’s Church Dogmatics that came into being in the latter’s years in Basel.5 Amandus Polanus6 was born in the Silesian town of Troppau. He visited the St. Elisabeth-Gymnasium in Breslau (where the didactic methods of Melanchthon were followed and where Ursinus had taught). He then studied in Tübingen, Basel, and finally in Geneva, where he followed the lectures of Beza, who considered him to be the most promising member of the next generation of Reformed theologians. For many years he served as an Ephorus (tutor) to the sons of several noble families from Moravia, mainly the house von Zierotin, while they were taking educational trips. At the end of his life he dedicated his Syntagma to the head of this family, Karl von Zierotin. In 1596 he was appointed professor of Old Testament at the University of Basel. Besides a series of commentaries, he wrote books on logic, including a Syntagma logicum Aristotelico-Ramaeum (1605) and he conducted and published many disputationes. His Partitiones Theologicae, a presentation of Christian doctrine and Christian ethics in the form of a series of theses, was published as early as 1589. In fact, the Syntagma Theologiae Christianae, which appeared just before his untimely death due to a plague epidemic in Basel in 1610, should be regarded as a voluminous exten-

3 Cf. Kirchliche Dogmatik (Zürich: EVZ, 1932–1967; henceforth: KD) III/2, 457; in the English translation, Church Dogmatics—henceforth: CD (Edinburgh: Clark, 1952–1969)—III/2, 382. Barth had become acquainted with Polanus during his Reformed Theology professorship in Göttingen (1921–1925), when he was getting himself oriented for his first lectures in dogmatics using H. Heppe’s textbook on Reformed orthodoxy. 4 Karl Barth owned a copy of the first edition of the Syntagma Theologiae Christianae (Hanoviae = Hanau, 1609/1610; more than 4500 columns). We are using a copy of the second edition (Hanoviae, 1615), a text containing 699 pages with two columns each. In the following text both editions will be referred to. 5 We counted 131 references to Polanus in the Church Dogmatics: I/2: 34x; II/1: 47x; II/2: 14x; III/1: 5x; III/2: 14x; III/3: 1x; III/4: 1x; IV/1: 6x; IV/2: 5x; IV/3: 3x. In IV/4 (fragment) Polanus is missing. The only reference in I/1 (Bonn, 1932) is a quotation from the textbook of Heinrich Heppe. In I/2 (1937) Barth is already quoting from the first edition of the Polanus’ Syntagma that he had apparently acquired for himself. 6 See Ernst Staehelin, Amandus Polanus von Polansdorf (Basel: van Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1955).

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sion of this earlier work.7 One of its characteristics is the fact that it gives much more room to polemics. Many disputationes, mainly against the newer Roman-Catholic theological schools (Robert Bellarmin), have been inserted into the framework of the dogmatic exposition. Note that apart from these disputations the doctrinal discourse here is not the fruit of his ordinary lectures. An older Reformed theologian is always primarily a Biblical scholar. As the title of his revised Logic indicates, Polanus, as was the case with most members of his generation, did not see “Ramism” and “Aristotelianism” as contradicting one-another. The new logic of Petrus Ramus was seen to be useful for stressing the practical tenor of holy doctrine and above all to provide the teacher with a didactic scheme by which to arrange his instructional material. In addition to this the Aristotelian tradition with its syllogistic strength—including its spread throughout Mediaeval scholastics, about which Polanus was very well informed—makes it possible to be victorious in all confessional disputes. It is, so to say, the ideal of scientific research of that age. The subtitle of the Syntagma, “iuxta leges ordinis Methodici conformatum,” suggests “follow this way of clarity, transparency, and logical consistency and you will win all debates with your Roman-Catholic or Lutheran opponents.” “Ramism” or “Aristotelianism” is not intended, it seems, to represent a position that touches the content of doctrine.8

7 For a comparison of the Partitiones with the Syntagma see Robert Letham, “Amandus Polanus: a Neglected Theologian?” Sixteenth Century Journal XXI (1990): 3, 463–476. 8 So far the only major study on the theology of Polanus has been that of Heiner Faulenbach, Die Struktur der Theologie des Amandus Polanus von Polansdorf (Zürich: EVZ, 1967). Although he is looking at the structure of Polanus’ theology and has a chapter on its logic, his presentation in fact completely disregards the Ramist shape Polanus gave his Syntagma. One wonders whether an author is really taken seriously, if treated in this way. Quite contrary to this Richard A. Muller, in his voluminous PostReformational Reformed Dogmatics, 2nd ed., 4 vols. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2003), takes the Ramist framework of Polanus very seriously. He frequently quotes the Synopsis totius Syntagmatis, which Polanus opens with an overview of the entire work (for quotations from the Synopsis see, for instance, vol. III, The Divine Essence and Attributes, 159, 227, 255, 271, 366, 381–382, 384, 444). This attention to the formal structure of the work undoubtedly shows progress in the research of Reformed orthodoxy. Unfortunately, however, Muller is in danger of walking away from the theological duty of “historical theology” to challenge “systematic theology” in its constructive task.

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2. The Multiplicity of the Predications and the Simplicity of God As an example of the conversation that has been taking place between Barth and Polanus, we will first analyze in detail a passage from the doctrine of God in the Church Dogmatics II/1. It is the place where Polanus speaks of the proprietates Dei essentiales in genere and Barth of “the possibility, legitimacy and necessity of speaking of . . . the glory of God as a multiplicity of perfections.”9 After giving his definition of the essential divine properties, Polanus presents eleven axiomata in his (short) chapter on this issue. They state (in an abbreviated rendering): (1) These properties are the essence of God himself and they do not differ from this essence or from one another. (2) In God there is no essential difference, for all things that are in him are the one and indivisible and most simple essence. (3) The divine properties are not distinguished in reality or in the nature of the object, but in our reasoning, or rather in a certain manner, according to our conception, our comprehension, our understanding. [In italics:] We don’t mean this in the way of Gabriel Biel or William of Occam, who assert that the propositions of our mind are only imaginative or fictional; but we do it in the way of Aristotle and Aquinas, who assert that definitions and divisions in our mind are provoked by the object of our thinking itself, so that the differences we make—as the difference between the mercy and the righteousness of God—are actually related to this object. (4) The divine properties are not parts of the divine essence, but every essential property as a whole is an integral divine essence, in such a manner that the divine essence and the divine essential property are not two different matters, but one and the same. (5) The essential divine properties can in reality not be separated. [In italics:] This is said against Gilbert of Poitiers, who was of the opinion that the attributes of the divinity could be separated from God Himself, as accidents from the subject and who was condemned for that by pope Eugenius at the synod of Reims. (6) What God is or does in himself in one 9 Syntagma II.7, 2nd ed., 1615, 141; KD II/1, 368–376; CD II/1, 327–335 (§ 29, “The perfections of God”). Cf. Faulenbach, op. cit., 138–140. Polanus is present in the treatment of almost all of the dozen divine “perfections” Barth has chosen to deal with in paragraphs 30–32 of the Church Dogmatics. Only once Polanus is missing. Namely in the treatment of the divine property of unity, which is about the simplicity and uniqueness of God, and which opens the sequence of the “Perfections of the Divine Freedom” (in § 31.1). Instead of this, Barth deals with the simplicity of God according to Polanus in the place about the “proprietates Dei essentiales” mentioned here.

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and the same act, which is his own essence, is what he is or does in himself; so at the same time and in one act he is simple, infinite, unchangeable and he lives, understands, wills, loves etc. (7) The divine properties are eternal, “from everlasting to everlasting,” although he does not always explain them as such in his external works [italics:] which in some respect happen in time. (8) The essential properties are not posterior to the divine essence, for they are in reality the essence itself. (9) The essential properties are not accidental forms in God nor are they accidental matters, but they are ideas or essential forms. For there is nothing in God that has no subsistence in itself. (10) The essential properties are actions, for God is the most pure action and the most simple being. (11) God cannot exist without his essential properties. Therefore he himself is the most proper wisdom, goodness, power and so on. [After a division into two groups of properties the warning again follows in italics:] Properly said there is no multitude of properties, but only one, which is no other than the divine essence; but with respect to ourselves we need to distinguish many properties, for they are many in our mind. For our intellect is not able to know all other things and thus also to know God in one simple act, but it needs many and distinct acts in order to do that. Barth’s argument is as follows. First he notes, speaking of divine perfections in the plural is not at all self-evident (CD II/1, 327). In an excursus he then distinguishes two lines of thought. The first one is that of extreme nominalism. For that position all our predications of God are purely subjective ideas or concepts, and the reality of God then disappears as a “nude essence” behind our predications. In this context he mentions the names of Occam and Biel—perhaps he found them in Polanus (after axiom 3). The second line of thought is what Barth calls a “semi-nominalism” in the mainstream of theological tradition. With the nominalists this position acknowledges the limitations of human understanding vis-a-vis its object, but on the positive side it stresses that this is a form of understanding. Here a substantial number of theologians are quoted, Aquinas and Polanus among them. Barth refers (328) to the italics of Polanus’ axiom three to show the concession to nominalism, but then to axioms seven, eight and eleven as propositions “in

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which the basic nominalism is apparently—but only apparently10— transcended (“gesprengt”).” The italics at the end of Syntagma II.7 are cited to stress, how limited this transcending is. Barth fears, that “starting from the generalised notion of God, the idea of the divine simplicity was necessarily exalted to the all-controlling principle, the idol, which, devouring (“verschlingend”) everything concrete, stands behind all these formulae” (329). German theologians from the nineteenth century have encouraged Barth to search for a different way of arguing (330). Therefore again Barth proposes three theses in the main text. (1) “The multiplicity, individuality and diversity of the divine perfections are those of the one divine being and therefore not those of another divine nature allied to it” (331). In the excursus Barth rejects the position of Gilbert of Poitiers.11 He could have referred to Polanus’ fifth axiom here, but he doesn’t. (2) “The multiplicity, individuality and diversity of the perfections of God are those of his simple being, which is not therefore divided and then put together again.” (332) In the excursus Barth here first quotes axioms four and six, but then he apparently fears that these propositions could lead to the conception of a fully undivided, and therefore unspecified and in the end nude and empty divine simplicity and so by way of counterbalance he quotes axioms seven, eight and eleven (quoted for the second time here, without noting that). For “we must reject out of hand the semi-nominalistic reservation that in the last resort we can speak of the proprietates Dei only improprie, that the most characteristic inner being of God is a simplicitas which is to be understood undialectically. If we refuse to do this and to recognize that God’s being transcends the contrast of simplicitas and multiplicitas, including and reconciling both, it is hard to see how we can escape the view of a God who is extremely lofty in his pure simplicity but also quite empty and unreal” (333). (3) “The multiplicity, individuality and diversity of God’s perfections are rooted in his own being and not in his participation in the character of other beings.” In the 10 Barth says (CD II/1, 329): “an explanation of what is to be understood by the ‘fundamentum’ (of the human predication of properties in God Himself) has never been vouchsafed.” It is the opinion of Richard Muller, op. cit. III, 287, that Reformed orthodoxy seriously sought to find such a “fundamentum.” 11 The former numbers 389–392 in Denzinger’s Enchiridion symbolorum etc. (Freiburg: Herder, 1854–2001) are deleted in the newer editions, because “Gilbertus vero subtiliter se defendendo ita successit (sc. at Reims in the year 1148), ut papa istis capitulis nullam haeresis notam inusserit.”

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excursus (334) this thesis is illustrated by the orthodox assertion, that the divine properties are no formae accidentales seu accidentia— Polanus’ ninth axiom could have been quoted here. Instead there is a reference to axiom ten, with the addition: “all this would be excellent, so far as it goes, if it were not for the cloven hoof (“Pferdefuß”) of seminominalism which at once appears and obviously compromises everything again with the explanation: . . .”—and then follows the final passage in italics (which strictly speaking doesn’t belong to the whole of the axioms) already quoted on page 329 (did Barth remember this himself?): “Properly said . . .”12 “On the one hand,” Barth comments, “they (the orthodox) falsely defined the being of God, which they were supposed to be defining proprie, in such a way that it did not transcend but was subject to this notion of unity. On the other hand, they made the multiplicity of the divine attributes, which they wanted to ascribe to God only improprie, dependent on the discursiveness of the human intellect and the manifoldness of the created world” (335). “But,” according to Barth’s conclusion, “the whole point was that they should not have subsumed the idea of God at all in either case, but that they should have done justice conceptually to his revealed being as such.” “One should not subsume the idea of God at all”—presumably in this charge here we find Barth’s own description of the simplicity of God (Deut 6:4).13 We can observe that Barth has some sympathy for the efforts of Polanus. He thinks that the orthodox theologian tries to speak of the divine perfections in God’s acts ad extra as well as in his essence in a biblical way and tries to find a dialectical balance between respecting the fundamental difference between God and man on the one hand and speaking realistically of the one and simple God in the multitude of his properties and his acts on the other hand. Nevertheless Barth sees that Polanus, in agreement with a long theological tradition (perhaps rooted in the Neoplatonism of late antiquity), identifies the simplicity of God with one of the poles in the dialectic of individuality and multiplicity, namely with the pole of the one being behind the multitude of 12 We may conclude: Barth quotes Polanus’ axiom three, four, six and ten once each, and axioms seven, eight, eleven and the italics at the end of chapter II.7 twice; the axioms five and nine are referred to indirectly; and, of course, axioms one and two could have been quoted too. Barth has carefully studied Polanus! 13 Cf. K. H. Miskotte, De praktische zin van de eenvoud Gods (Amsterdam: Holland, 1945).

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phenomena. And this identification, Barth fears, presents an obstacle to a realistic speaking of the plurality in God. And it prepares the way for a nominalistic or semi-nominalistic reduction of speaking of Gods properties to the human subject’s work of predication. Now we may suppose that this so-called obstacle is not a very acute problem, as long as the idea of doing theology is embedded—as it is in Polanus, according to the model of Franciscus Junius and others—in the difference between an “archetypal” and an “ectypal” theology, a difference that Willem van Asselt has persistently reminded us of.14 “Archetypal” is the theology of the essential and uncreated knowledge that God has of Himself. “Ectypal” theology is communicated first to the human nature of Christ, to the angels and to the saints in heaven. In its higher forms there can be a way of knowing by intuition; the multitude of forms can be conceived uno simplici actu, in one simple act. But as long as man is wandering on earth (“theologia ectypa” as “our theology”) and not yet in his heavenly country, he must—being subject to a lower form of “ectypal” theology—reconcile himself to the limits of his faculties as an intellectual creature, i.e., of his discursive mind. Now in the course of the seventeenth century the pressure of nominalism became ever stronger. Socinians and later on also Cartesians (not to mention the Spinozists) stressed the human character of discourse about the attributes of God. At the end of the century the scholastic distinction of archetypal and ectypal theology had become a mere old-fashioned rudiment. Therefore one should not be surprised that Barth thought he could not go back to the solutions of an orthodox theologian like Polanus and that he had to propose other solutions. But before we embrace these solutions (or not, as the case may be), it is our task to ask: did Karl Barth really understand the intentions of Polanus? 3. A Thesis and its Elaboration Ramist formal logic limited itself to defining and dividing.15 General definitions were followed by ever increasing dichotomies into their 14 Synopsis Libri I, Syntagma I.3 and I.4 respectively. Cf. W. J. van Asselt, ed., Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998), 108– 109. 15 See the lemma Ramus, Petrus in Theologische Realenzyklopädie 28 (1997), 129–133 (Christoph Strohm) and the literature mentioned there.

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refined particularities. The advantage of this logic was its attractiveness from a didactic perspective; it simplified things and was easy to visualize. Many lesson-books in philology, philosophy, physics but also theology were provided with fold-out schemes, full of bifurcations that could be identified by brackets (instead of this one finds the “Synopsis totius Syntagmatis” tables at the beginning of the gigantic Syntagma16). An intense Renaissance need for method—in a pre-Cartesian sense— was being expressed here, as well as an intense need of ordering life (which made this method especially attractive to the Reformed tradition, but not exclusively). This method was undoubtedly deductive in character, but this deductivism only had a methodological, not an ontological status. Scholars who have studied Polanus thus far characterize him as an eclectic thinker who was wonderfully able to take up and develop methods and insights of other theologians before him, but who did not try to systematically bring together the influences he underwent from different sources that sometimes diverged among themselves, and to justify their cohesion in his own work.17 Regarding the issue at hand, we may remark that Polanus structured his Syntagma as a continuous series of Ramist dichotomies, each of which was used to throw light on one aspect of the same reality which is found in Holy Scripture, without trying to describe the reality, which both sides refer to, in an unequivocal way that gives no occasion for misunderstanding.18 One may ask whether Karl Barth at all recognized the ramistic approach in Polanus 16 In the Dutch translation of the Compendium of Wollebius, Kort begryp van de christelicke Godts-Geleertheydt, 3rd ed. (Amsterdam, 1664), on the other hand, we find two fold-out tables for the two parts De Deo cognoscendo—de Deo colendo (“Van Got te kennen—Van Got te dienen”). 17 E.g. Bizer, op. cit. XLVII: “He was really a conserving epigone, to a large extent also a compiler.” 18 The main dichotomies, which give structure to the Syntagma, are the following: (Synopsis of Book II:) (1) “There are two parts in Christian Theology: the first one is on faith [Books II–VII], the second one is on good works [VIII–X];” (2) “There are two parts of the doctrine of faith: the first one is on God [II–VI], the second one is on the Church [VII];” (3) “There are two parts of the doctrine of Faith on God: the first one is on the Essence of God [II–III], the second one is on his works [IV–VI];” (4) “There are two parts of the doctrine of Faith on the Essence of God: the first one is on the Attributes of God [II], the second one is on the Persons of the Godhead [III];” (Synopsis of Book IV:) (5) “The Works of God are internal [IV], or external [V–VI];” (Synopsis of Book V:) (6) “There are two External Works of God: Creation [V] and actual Providence [VI];” (Synopsis of Book IX:) (7) “Good Works are twofold: some are of the immediate [IX], others are of the mediate Cult of God [X].”

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(the name of Petrus Ramus does not appear at all in the index of the Church Dogmatics!). And to the extent that Barth observed (not being aware of them) the traces of Ramism in the many dichotomies which give structure to the Syntagma, he distrusted these dichotomies, because he feared that they actually represented a dualistic view of reality (although, we may remark, he could have recognized in this “speaking with two words” some features of his own dialectical method). But as far as Polanus is concerned this suspicion does not seem to be justified. For he didn’t want his arrangement of doctrinal materials to suggest a chain of dichotomies in terms of theological content, but only in terms of their formal presentation. Apparently for him human creatures cannot think and speak in only one way about the one reality to which both sides refer. Above we examined the way Polanus speaks of the relationship between the one divine simplicity on the one hand, and the multiplicity of predications with regard to the essentiales proprietates of God on the other hand. Here again we found a dialectical way of speaking. Polanus shares the “semi-nominalistic” opinion of mainstream theological tradition that our discursive mind cannot really grasp the reality of divine simplicity and in its speaking has to keep separate what is actually one and undivided in the one and simple God. But at the same time he is not saying that the divine reality is a totally undifferentiated identity, which would be a very abstract and pale idea of oneness.19 The multiplicity of our predications is good enough when referring to a reality in God. Polanus himself does not combine these two lines of thought, one originating from his Ramism and the other from his seminominalism. And neither does Karl Barth. But in our opinion the real difference between Polanus and Barth is not so much situated in Barth’s objections against the supposed dualities of the Ramist dichotomies in Polanus (which are at least partially due to a misunderstanding on the part of Barth), but rather in their divergence in speaking of the reality of human speaking of the simplicity and the multiplicity in God. When there is more clarity on this issue, the difference regarding the function and nature of the dichotomies can be explained more clearly as well. To verify this thesis we will now look at three issues in the Church Dogmatics about which Barth is in conversation with Polanus. We can 19 In his study Divine simplicity (Kampen: Kok, 1987), F. G. Immink tries to show that it was never the intention of classical theology to hold this type of idea of an abstract identity with regard to God.

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then check, whether there too the divergence between the two theologians appears at the same point. Therefore we will discuss three dichotomies in the Syntagma: that of creation and redemption, that of body and mind and that of reason and revelation. After this we will hopefully be able to formulate our thesis in a more satisfactory fashion. The Dichotomy of Creatio and Providentia Actualis At the beginning of Volume III/2 of the Church Dogmatics, which is on the creature, Barth asks himself, whether this doctrine should really be limited to the doctrine of man, as Barth has done, or whether it should be expanded into a doctrine of the entire created cosmos (as, we can add, is an option again in contemporary ecumenical discussions on “the integrity of creation”). In an excursus he stresses that tradition has suggested to do the latter, i.e., to offer a worldview on the totality of being, but in actual fact would concentrate on the former, the creation of man on the “sixth day.” Barth, however, mentions Polanus here as an exception. For “in the fifth volume [Liber] of his Syntagma we do in fact find an attempted exposition of the cosmos.”20 “Nothing,” Barth concludes this account, “or very little, seems to have been forgotten, and the skill with which contemporary biblical knowledge, philosophy and science were bound into a whole is remarkable.” The presupposition of this “binding” for Polanus is, of course, that “biblical knowledge” on the one side and “philosophy and science” on the other side can never contradict each other. Both give evidence of the one truth, of the one creation. But the “world view” that results from that for its part can never contradict the insights of faith, as the knowledge of the world of God the Creator, which the Bible offers, can ultimately never contradict its character as a proper doctrine of the knowledge of God the Redeemer. Since (in the Synopsis) Book V (“De Creatione rerum omnium”) and Book VI (“De Providentia Dei actuali” = the doctrine of Redemption) of the Syntagma are connected by a bracket, they have to be seen as two sides of one reality, grounded in the one and simple God. Therefore Barth is both right and one-sided at the same time, when, at the beginning of his doctrine of creation, he enthusiastically refers to Polanus’ sentence, that “the true and sure knowledge of creation has to 20 KD III/2, 3–4; CD III/2, 5 (§ 43.1, “Man in the Cosmos”).

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be considered as received not from philosophy but from theology, not from nature but from faith, not because of the acuteness of the human mind but from the divine light, not from human reasoning but from divine revelation, not from arguments and proofs of physics but accepted from authorities and divine witnesses.”21 When we look at the context of this sentence in the Syntagma (Chapter V.3), we see that Polanus says this in connection with a polemic against the heathen philosophers of antiquity. That there is a God as causa efficiens of creation they could have known from their own reasoning (as is underlined by texts like Rom 1:20); but that this God did his work by way of a creatio ex nihilo according to his will and command at a particular point in time, they could only know by faith (as he would consider Heb 11:1 to say).22 What Barth is quoting here is actually only formulated as a conclusion of the second assertion. It is true that this is the most important assertion, insofar as Polanus is speaking about creation and creatures as a theologian, so that this speaking is accomplished behind the bracket that indicates the externa opera Dei. But as far as the range of this “faith in God the Creator” as an actual expression of faith is concerned, both theologians differ considerably.23 Polanus can give some autonomy to the realm of faith in creation, as not being quite the same as faith in redemption, because of his confidence in the ultimate unity of creation and redemption grounded in divine simplicity. Man as Corpus and Anima Regarding the second issue, man, Polanus does not divide the material into a dichotomy. Instead he works—as he frequently does—with the Aristotelian division, namely definitio (hominis) [V.27], causa efficiens

21 KD III/1, 2; CD III/1, 4 (§ 40, “Faith in God the Creator”). Reference to Polanus, Syntagma V.3 (1st ed. 1609, 1700; 2nd ed. 1615, 264 c. 2). 22 The first assertion can be found in Thesis X, the second in Thesis XI of Chap. V.3, “de creationis causa efficiente.” Cf. E. P. Meijering, Von den Kirchenvätern zu Karl Barth: Das altkirchliche Dogma in der “Kirchlichen Dogmatik” (Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1993), 387. 23 Cf. Paul Althaus, Die Prinzipien der deutschen reformierten Dogmatik im Zeitalter der aristotelischen Scholastik (Leipzig: Scholl, 1914), 232–233: “faith,” as an activity of ectypal theology, makes propositions here on earth that are derived from and can be proved only by the higher, original science in heaven. By doing so Polanus follows the Thomist tradition.

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[V.28], materia [V.29–31], forma [V.32], and finis [V.33]. The body is then, of course, the matter, the soul the form of human being. Barth speaks on Polanus’ definition of man in the paragraph “Phenomena of the Human.” That is already an indication of his objections against this definition. Although Polanus qualifies it (after the analysis of the nomen) as the beginning of a contemplatio theologica hominis, Barth cannot see the real theological point in it and considers it to be a description of the mere phenomenon of a human, which does not point to the real man.24 “Polanus opens with the [in Barth’s eyes] clear-cut Aristotelian definition: homo est animal ratione praeditum. He explains it as follows: “man belongs to the genus animal, i.e. he is a substanti corpore organico et anima vegetante atque sententie & loco movente constans.” The differentia specifica from other animals is that he is gifted with reason. By this we are to understand the vis intellectus, qua is logi/zetai, ratiocinatur et [ut Scholastici loquuntur] discurrit, hoc est ex uno aliud [deducit] vel aliud post aliud ordinat. Hence the opus seu officium of reason consists in discursus, i.e., in the swiftness [celeritas] with which his mind moves from one thing to another, from causes to effects, from effects to causes, and therefore to the knowledge of all things. This vis intellectus is not given to any other animal . . .”25 It is indisputable, Barth comments, that one here sees a phenomenon of the human. But the definition is already doubtful from a philosophical point

24 KD III/2, 88–90; CD III/2, 76–77 (§ 44.2). Reference to Polanus, Syntagma V.27 (1st ed. 1609, 1987; 2nd ed. 1615, 308 c. 1). Cf. Meijering, op. cit., 277. See also Barth's remark: “the animal ratione praeditum in itself is a ghost.” 25 Barth continues: “. . . and it is here that there is to be sought the distinction and particularity of man in relation to all other animals and therefore to all other beings in general.” The last words are not those of Polanus, however. How could Barth forget here the angels, who actually are “other beings,” but not “animals”!

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of view,26 and still more so with regard to the theological quality of it. What is the relationship between this result of (classical Greek-dualistic27) human self-understanding, namely an understanding of the own vis intellectus, and the knowledge of God as a knowledge of the covenant? We can understand why Barth is asking this. But as far as his conversation with Polanus is concerned, it is striking how rapidly he passes over this characterization of the human mind as a discursive mind (with its deductive and ordinal abilities). Above we have seen how crucial this characterization in particular was for Polanus’ theological epistemology. Discursivity for him is the main characteristic of the mind of the homo viator in the ectypal theology on earth. It causes the limits to our predications with regard to the divine names and attributes. It also explains the necessity of speaking in dichotomies, since it is impossible for the human mind to offer a direct representation of the simplicitas Dei. Therefore we conclude that Barth is right in wanting to overrule Polanus’ definition of man for his own twentieth-century reasons, but that he is also too quick to ignore the specific reasons28 why Polanus insisted on precisely this point.29

26 CD III/2, 77: “It is not at all self-evident that the concept animal really ought to be the subject of the definition and human ratio only a predicate, only a kind of ancillary to the mainly animal being of man. Both the naturalism of this view of the subject and the intellectualism of the understanding of reason could and necessarily did bear evil fruits later.” Apparently Barth sees in such a resumption of Aristotelianism the preparation of the Cartesian concept of the absolutist self with all its effects in shaping modernity. 27 So in KD III/2, 456; CD III/2, 380 (§ 46.3, “Soul and Body in their Interconnection”). Reference to Polanus, Syntagma V.32 (1st ed. 1609, 2060; 2nd ed. 1615, 319). 28 Barth finds another reason for this in Polanus: “The purpose of this definition has always been clear. It is to define the most general features of man in order to proceed securely to the particular. But what is overlooked is that it is precisely the most particular thing about man, namely, his existence in a history determined by God’s attitude to him, which is the most genuinely universal and decisive feature . . . (of man as a creature).” This sentence says more about Barth’s own theology than that of Polanus. 29 These objections against Polanus’ approach, however, are fully compensated in a certain sense by a beautiful passage further on in Barth’s doctrine of the creature, where he speaks about the way Polanus develops an Anatomia theologica partium humani corporis: KD III/2, 457–458; CD III/2, 381–382 (§ 46.3). Reference to Polanus, Syntagma V.30 (1st ed. 1609, 1900–1; 2nd ed. 1615, 310 c. 2). Barth wrote this passage out with perceptible pleasure and the reader will experience these pages of the Church Dogmatics in the same way.

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Patefactio Tum Naturalis, Tum Supernaturalis The third dichotomy, which we will use to verify our thesis, can be found in the chapter on revelation in the sixth book of the Syntagma. Barth discusses it in (the first part of) his doctrine of sin, which, as is well known, he has incorporated into his doctrine of reconciliation.30 In an excursus Barth illustrates the danger of searching for other sources of revelation than Holy Scripture with references to several Reformed orthodox theologies. About Polanus the following is said: “He too, as was now the general custom in Protestantism, allowed quite definitely and eloquently for a twofold patefactio: tum naturalis, tum supernaturalis. In the first of these all men have a share qua homines. Apart from the liber naturae, i.e., the visible external works of God in creation, it includes the liber conscientiae or the lex naturae, i.e. the naturalis notitia in prima creatione cordibis hominus impressa, tradens discrimen honestorum et turpium. Polan accepts this lex naturalis, which being identical with the vera philosophia, cannot contradict the Word of God.” Barth here has collected several utterances that are rather spread out in the present chapter. It makes sense here to pay attention to a link in Polanus’ argument that Barth has omitted. The liber naturae, Polanus says, can reveal some attributes of God to the non renati, but not the Trinity or its vestigia. For the accurate knowledge of God it is insufficient, although at the same time it does not contradict supernatural revelation. And then we hear a variant of a famous Thomist sentence: “nam gratia non tollit naturam, sed eam perficit, & naturam supra naturam evehit: tum gratiae subordinata est natura.” True philosophy is therefore that philosophy, which functions within the framework of this subordination. Barth then continues his account as follows: “But against it (against the former sentence), and he (Polanus) obviously means this seriously, he sets the statement that the unregenerate man (by reason of his native blindness and corruption) can deduce from this natural revelation only false ideas of God.31 What is left is a warm defence of the legitimacy of a formal use of the recta ratio [which offers us notiones communes in 30 KD IV/1, 408–409; CD IV/1, 369–370 (§ 60.1, “The Man of Sin in the Light of the Obedience of the Son of God”). Reference to Polanus, Syntagma VI.9 (2nd ed. 1615, 348 c. 1–349 c. 2). 31 E.g. Polanus, op. cit., 348 c. 2, G.

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the field of logic as well as in the field of ethics]. But materially theology must keep strictly to Scripture.” Two points are relevant here. (1) For an unregenerate person natural reason (after the fall) has no power at all. But when one is reborn, it has a useful function of its own at its own level. This means, that here too we have to take the bracket that connects book V and VI of the Syntagma very seriously. There is one faith, and only the one who is faithful can also read the book of nature in addition to the book of grace. This is a completely different type of “natural theology”—as Willem van Asselt would stress—than that of the period after the year 1700. And it is so much in line with the other brackets of the Syntagma that it is difficult to isolate it from the whole framework of this theology. (2) In this chapter Polanus gives the foundation for the methodology he employs in quite of lot of the chapters of his Syntagma. With many issues he starts out by giving arguments for his main thesis on the basis of Scripture. After that he underscores his point (mostly in a polemic context) using logic, often in the form of a series of syllogistic proofs. Both methods, the Scriptural and the logical argument, can remain next to each other, because both actually speak of the same truth, and this truth is always one. Of course, as Barth says, in the end a subordination of logic to Scripture is presupposed here, but it is not necessary to stress that. For it is unthinkable that the result of logical reasoning should differ from the result of Scriptural study—and in fact that means: differ from the content of the Reformed confession, right? Indeed: “the vera philosophia can not contradict the Word of God,” as this God is a one and simple God. 4. Conclusion We come to a conclusion now. We will try to explain our thesis in light of its validation in the three dichotomies we have dealt with in this paragraph. (1) Polanus lived in an atmosphere, where the experience of the unity was still very strong, or was supposed to be very strong. What Scripture says and what logic says (to the regenerate), what the confession believes and what reason proves, in the end it is all the same. Of course, Scripture and confession have priority, but this priority does not always have to be visible and in some contexts it even is obvious that logic

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dominates the stage. Against the background of these more formal dichotomies, the more content oriented dichotomies can also be understood. Dogmatics and ethics, theological and economical speaking of God, divine attributes and divine persons, creation and redemption, human body and human soul—in each of these dichotomies two ways of saying may appear, two methods of treatment, two areas of subject matter, and it is not always clear how the two can possibly be harmonized. But perhaps it isn’t necessary to do that anyway, because again, in the end it’s all the same. In fact, the homo viator with his discursive mind must even accept this situation, for he may know that the position where both sides of the one reality are seen together at a glance is a position in heaven, which is not his situation. So he may be comforted by this and leave the real knowledge of the unity to God, his angels, and to glorified man. In the time of Karl Barth the situation has completely changed. The fields of Scriptural exegesis and of natural (and also of historical) science have become completely separate and all Polanus’ formal dichotomies have increasingly been experienced as dual realities in the course of later modernity. Therefore Barth takes radical measures. He feels compelled to abandon the pious skepticism of what he calls “seminominalism” and deems it necessary to only make statements in theology that—in a certain exaggerated epistemological boldness—can be said to be truly derived from God in his “revelation.” For otherwise it is impossible to maintain that certain propositions are really theological propositions. This methodological shift also means that, where for Polanus some parts of theology can have a certain autonomy, Barth now also has to justify the insertion of these parts into the development of the main lines of thought in theology. Thus the doctrine of the divine essence had to be developed from the doctrine of the Trinity, the divine theology from the divine economy, creation from the covenant of grace, the doctrine of man from the doctrine of the Son of man, the ethics of the Law from the message of reconciliation in the gospel, and so on. Therefore for Barth theological method acquired an inner connectedness with theological content to an extent that a man like Polanus could never have dreamt of. (2) The specific point of this contribution now is to see what consequences this methodological shift has for speaking of divine simplicity. Polanus never intended to give a pale and abstract idea of the oneness behind the living fullness of God in his proprietates and his opera. But

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he had no need to think through these affirmations as being truly present in God himself. For Barth, on the contrary, human speaking of God must correspond with the inner being of this God. And therefore it is important that also the multiplicity in human speaking of God truly corresponds to a multiplicity within God himself—of course, not the multiplicity of an unqualified plurality as such (“anything goes . . .”), but the multiplicity of the divine virtues, and corresponding with this the multiplicity of his acts of salvation. This implies that the traditional attribute of divine simplicity also acquires a new sense. It is no longer an assumed abstract idea of oneness behind the multiplicity of the forms of appearance, which was at least a danger in Polanus, but it becomes a characterization of the freedom of God to realize his decree time and again in new ways and in new respects. It is clear that Barth is not saying things in the same way as his “illustrious predecessor” did, but, we can ask—and we have frequently done so in our lively and always very intense ongoing discussion with Willem van Asselt—doesn’t it belong to the progressive character of Reformed Theology that it is not necessary for us to say the same things in the same way when the times and the places are changing?32

32 With thanks to A. F. den Exter Blokland, PhD., Chicago, USA for the correction of the English.

THE INSEPARABLE BOND BETWEEN COVENANT AND PREDESTINATION COCCEIUS AND BARTH Maarten Wisse

1. Introduction Twentieth-century interest in federal theology in general and in Cocceius’ theology in particular was primarily motivated by the intention to compensate for the post-Reformation Reformed interest in the doctrine of predestination by the notion of the covenant. The alleged role of predestination as the “Zentraldogma” gave so-called “Reformed orthodoxy” the image of a harsh, rationalist, fatalistic system.1 In this context, a strand of Reformed theology in which the loving fellowship between God and believers played a crucial role was more than welcome, fitting as it was into the typically twentieth-century interest in thinking God as love.2 Thus, twentieth-century research on Cocceius interpreted his theology as biblical rather than scholastic, historical rather than rationalist, experiential rather than abstract.3

1 For the view of the doctrine of predestination as a “Zentraldogma,” see Willem J. van Asselt, ed., Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998), 18–30. Willem van Asselt has been one of the key critics of this so-called “old school”-interpretation of Reformed scholasticism. 2 See Kevin J. Vanhoozer, “Introduction: The Love of God — Its Place, Meaning and Function in Systematic Theology,” in Nothing Greater, Nothing Better: Theological Essays on the Love of God, ed. idem (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 1–29. For two full-scale works on God as love, see Vincent Brümmer, The Model of Love: A Study in Philosophical Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Markus Mühling, Gott ist Liebe: Studien zum Verständnis der Liebe als Modell des trinitarischen Redens von Gott, Marburger theologische Studien 58, 2nd ed. (Marburg: Elwert, 2005). 3 Willem J. van Asselt, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603–1669), trans. from the Dutch by R. A. Blacketer, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 100 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 2–16.

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Willem J. van Asselt is the present day expert on Cocceius.4 He always resisted the oversimplified appropriations of Cocceius’ thought, arguing that it is an anachronistic misreading of Cocceius’ work if one contrasts it too much with the mainstream Reformed scholasticism of his contemporaries.5 Still, van Asselt shares much of the twentieth-century worries about the particularist aspects of Reformed theology. Two anecdotes may be invoked to illustrate this. Once, I heard van Asselt reinterpret the traditional Dutch Reformed opening (votum) of a Church service. He paraphrased “Who will never abandon the works of his own hands,”6 as “Who will never abandon the work he has begun in each of us.” What if his great seventeenth-century hero Johannes Cocceius had heard him, who, as we will see, argues against this “heresy” to much length in the Summa doctrinae! Also, when I was a student and expressed my worries about the consequences of predestination thought to van Asselt, he always replied with a quote from one of his teachers, the Dutch systematic theologian Arnold van Ruler: “The gospel skims across the border of universalism.”7 Although van Asselt has been eager to criticize a number of Karl Barth’s readings of the Reformed scholastics, when confronted with the riddle of predestination, he often expressed his sympathy with Barth’s universalisation of Reformed soteriology. Given the combination of van Asselt’s expertise on Cocceius on the one hand, and his appreciation for a Barthian solution to the problem of predestination on the other, it seems appropriate to me to devote my contribution to this Festschrift to the question of the relationship 4 Among his main works on Cocceius are a complete Dutch translation of Cocceius’ Summa doctrinae: Johannes Coccejus, De Leer van het Verbond en het Testament van God, trans. from the Latin by W. J. van Asselt and H. G. Renger (Kampen: De Groot Goudriaan, 1990) and, in addition to numerous articles, two monographs: a more biographical one in Dutch (Willem J. van Asselt, Johannes Coccejus: Portret van een zeventiende-eeuws theoloog op oude en nieuwe wegen, Kerkhistorische monografieën 6 (Heerenveen: Groen, 1997)), and the thoroughly revised English translation of his dissertation: van Asselt, Federal Theology. 5 Van Asselt, Federal Theology, 94–105. 6 A traditional Dutch Reformed church service opens with the following phrase: “Our help is in the name of the Lord, who has made heaven and earth, who will never abandon the works of his hands,”—a combination of Pss 124:8 and 138:8. 7 In Dutch: “Het evangelie scheert langs de rand van de alverzoening.” More on van Ruler in English: Allan J. Janssen, Kingdom, Office, and Church: A Study of A. A. van Ruler’s Doctrine of Ecclesiastical Office, The Historical Series of the Reformed Church in America (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006).

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between predestination and covenant theology in Cocceius and Barth. On the one hand, my contribution presupposes and builds on van Asselt’s Cocceius scholarship, his translation of Cocceius’ Summa doctrinae and the two monographs. On the other hand, it poses a friendly critique of van Asselt’s sympathy with a Barthian universalisation of Reformed soteriology. Before I turn to Cocceius, I introduce the twentieth-century objections to Cocceius’ theology in a bit more detail by outlining Karl Barth’s critique of federal theology. After having introduced the reception of Cocceius in Barth, I will follow the main steps of the development of the doctrine of the covenant in Cocceius’ Summa doctrinae (SD below),8 and confront Cocceius’ view of the relation between covenant and predestination with Barth’s universalisation of election. To issue a warning beforehand, I do not intend to develop a full-scale theological defense of the traditional Reformed doctrine of predestination. Until recently, I myself accepted most of the common worries concerning a theology of predestination. The present essay is the result of a reassessment of these worries. These worries have not gone, but I have now got an eye for some distinctive aspects of a traditional Reformed soteriology that I had not noticed before. Thus, this contribution is intended to challenge the now commonplace Barthian view of election as obviously theologically superior to everything that the Reformed fathers had to offer.9 Instead, I aim to show that the theological presuppositions and implications of Barth’s view precluded him from taking some crucial soteriological notions properly into account in the way the Reformed fathers like Cocceius were able to do. At the same time, by way of a historical argument, my contribution confirms van Asselt’s portrait of Cocceius as an “ordinary orthodox Reformed theologian” rather than a “precursor of the Enlightenment” or “corrector of Reformed predestinarianism,” as traditional scholarship had it. In fact, I hope to put forward some of the good reasons Cocceius thought to have to be as harsh a predestinarian thinker as his Reformed contempo8 The English translations of the quotations from the Summa doctrinae have been prepared in close cooperation with drs. Jan Boom, who wrote his Master’s thesis under the supervision of van Asselt on a Dutch translation of Aquinas’ and Cocceius’ commentary on Lamentations 1. References to de SD are by chapter and paragraph number. 9 Bruce McCormack, “Grace and Being: The Role of God’s Gracious Election in Karl Barth’s Theological Ontology,” in The Cambridge companion to Karl Barth, ed. John Webster (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 97.

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raries, reasons that, to my conviction, have retained a good deal of their validity over against the allegedly superior innovations of post-Barthian twentieth-century theology. 2. Cocceius and the Barthian Tradition In one of the footnotes to his magnum opus, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius, van Asselt characterizes Barth’s occupation with Cocceius as follows: In any case, Barth was occupied with Cocceius over the whole span of his life—Cocceius caused this twentieth-century church father many a sleepless night! Often visitors would find Barth reading Cocceius. Through his study of Cocceius the concept of the covenant became perpetually and permanently conspicuous for Barth.10

Barth had three of Cocceius’ works in his personal library.11 In addition, his attention was drawn to Cocceius through his reading of Schrenk’s book on federal theology.12 Barth’s evaluation of Cocceius’ doctrine of the abrogations depends almost entirely on Schrenk, given that he probably did not have access to Cocceius’ main work on this topic, the SD.13 In the Church Dogmatics, there is an extensive discussion of federal theology in general, and Cocceius in particular, at pages 61–70 of volume IV/1.14 In this excursus, Barth is very critical of federal theology as a whole. It will be helpful to quote Barth’s general criticism of federal theology at length, because it gives a good impression of the main issue at stake in Barth’s relationship to federal theology: But the more embracing and central and exact this apprehension becomes in the main period of the Federal theology, the more insistently the ques10 Van Asselt, Federal Theology, 9. 11 Van Asselt, Johannes Coccejus, 107. 12 G. Schrenk, Gottesreich und Bund im älteren Protestantismus, vornehmlich bei Johannes Coccejus (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1923). 13 There is no single reference to Cocceius’ own works in the excursus on federal theology. In volume II/2, where Barth appeals to Cocceius for his identification of election and the covenant (See van Asselt, Federal Theology, 199–201 and van Asselt, Johannes Coccejus, 222–225), he refers to the Summa Theologiae only: CD II/2, 85, 102, 114–5, 308; KD II/2, 91, 109, 122–3, 338. 14 CD IV/1, 54–66.

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tion imposes itself from what standpoint this occurrence is really regarded and represented as such. What happens when the work, the Word of God, is first isolated and then reconnected, according to the teaching of pragmatic theology, with a whole series of events which are purposefully strung out but which belong together? Does this really correspond to the state of affairs as it is prescribed for theology in Scripture? Can we historicise the activity and revelation of God? . . . They saw excellently that the Bible tells us about an event. But they did not see that in all its forms this narrative has the character of testimony, proclamation, evangel, and that it has as its content and subject only a single event, which in every form of the attestation, although they all relate to a whole, is the single and complete decision on the part of God which as such calls for a single and complete decision on the part of man. . . . The Federal theologians did not notice that for all the exclusiveness with which they read the Scriptures, in this analysis and synthesis of the occurrence between God and man they were going beyond Scripture and missing its real content. . . . As becomes increasingly plain in the sketches of the Federal theologians, the atonement accomplished in Jesus Christ ceases to be the history of the covenant, to which (in all the different forms of expectation and recollection) the whole Bible bears witness and in face of which theology must take up and maintain its standpoint, and it becomes a biblical history, a state in the greater context of world-history, before which, and after which, there are other similar stages.15

Most striking in this quotation is the overcritical attack on what Barth calls the “historicizing” of theology that federal theology develops. 15 CD IV/1, 56–57. KD IV/1, 58–59: “Aber je umfassender, prinzipieller und genauer diese Zusammenschau [vom Alten und Neuen Testament] in der Blütezeit der Föderaltheologie wird, desto mehr drängt sich die Frage auf: von welchem Standort aus dieses Geschehen nun eigentlich in Blick genommen und als solches dargestelt sein möchte? Was geschieht da, wo das Werk, das Wort Gottes auseinandergelegt und dann wieder pragmatisch-theologisch verknüpft wird zu einer Serie von sinnvoll aneinandergereihten und ineinander greifenden Ereignissen? Entspricht das wirklich der der Theologie in der Schrift vorgegebenen Sache? Kann man Gottes handlung und Offenbarung historisieren? . . . Daß die Bibel von einem Geschehen berichtet, das haben sie vortrefflich verstanden, nicht aber, daß dieser Bericht in allen seinen Gestalten den Charakter von Zeugnis, Verkündigung und Botschaft und zu seinem Inhalt und Gegenstand ein einziges Geschehen hat, das je in dieser und dieser Gestalt seiner Bezeugung, indem doch jede von ihnen sich auf seine Ganzheit bezieht, die eine, ganze Entscheidung Gottes ist, die als solche nach der einen ganzen Entscheidung des Menschen ruft. . . . Die Föderaltheologen haben nicht bemerkt, daß sie zuerst mit ihrer Analyse und dann mit ihrer Synthese des Geschehens zwischen Gott und Mensch bei aller Aufgeschlossenheit, in der sie die Schrift gelesen haben, an der wirklichen Schrift vorbeilasen und an ihrem Inhalt vorbeisahen. . . . Ihm wird . . . die in Jesus Christus geschehene Versöhnung aus der Bundesgeschichte . . . zu einer biblischen Geschichte, zu einer Etappe in einem größeren Zusammenhang von Geschichte, vor der und nach der es auch noch andere solche Etappen Gibt.”

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Even if Barth’s own theology is commonly presented as a Copernican revolution in thinking about the relationship between God and history, this quotation makes clear that the historicizing in Barth’s theology is of a very special kind, namely a historicizing in the sense of the identification of God with the human person Jesus Christ. If we had to believe Barth, only a theology of the strictly Christological character that he favours can do justice to the richness and complexity of the biblical message! This is indeed the great divide between federal theology on the one hand, and Barth on the other. Barth holds that theologies must be based on and consist of only one thing: either Christ, as he claims his own theology does, or sinful human nature, as he claims all theologies accepting some form of natural theology do.16 As van Asselt has pointed out, it is one of the central tenets of federal theology to think in pairs, duplexities, as the English translator of his dissertation calls them.17 In spite of the vigorous critique that Barth exercises in his excursus on federal theology, there is much more positive influence of Cocceius on Barth than Barth himself wants us to believe. In fact, throughout the volumes of the CD, Barth is increasingly using covenantal conceptuality to develop his theology. This starts in volume II/1, where Barth introduces the notion of the covenant (as Gemeinschaft) in his doctrine of God.18 According to Barth, God, by definition, is a God who chooses himself to be a God in relation with human beings. This notion of the covenant is then running through his doctrine of election and the divine commandments in volume II/2,19 and it plays a central role in the doctrine of creation in volume III. In volume IV, then, reconciliation takes the form of the restoration of the covenant.20 In a way, Barth’s dogmatics can certainly be said to be a covenantal theology. It is even appropriate to speak of a radicalization of federal theology in Barth. Where Cocceius still sees the notion of the covenant between God and human beings as characteristic of God’s works, not of God’s being, at most metaphorically, this is different in Barth. Barth 16 On the Christological character of dogmatics, see CD I/2, 122–3; KD I/2, 134– 5. On the refutation of the knowledge of God from nature, see CD II/1, 63–127; KD II/ 1, 68–141. 17 Van Asselt, Federal Theology, 303ff. 18 CD II/1, 272–296; KD II/1, 306–334 19 CD II/2, 3–33; KD II/2, 1–35. 20 CD IV/1, 1–78; KD IV/1, 1–82.

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sees the covenant as the one single definitive act of God’s being in Jesus Christ. Exactly this is what accounts for the difference between Barth’s Christological monism—although the term is overly pejorative—and the duplex—not dualist as I hope to show—character of traditional federal thought. For Barth, God’s relationship with human beings is definitive of God’s being. In this sense, Barth holds that the covenant of God is always a two-sided covenant, as God decided to be never without a relationship to a human being—Jesus Christ. Still, Barth upholds the one-sided origin of the covenant through an emphasis on God’s free choice to be the way God is. Hence, the “twentieth-century church father” cannot but vigorously criticize a theology that speaks with two words rather than one. This is especially true of two duplexities that are characteristic of federal theology: first, the duplexity of the covenants of works and grace and, second, the duplexity of the pactum salutis and the foedus gratiae. As to the first duplexity, Barth’s conviction that God is God in Jesus Christ makes it impossible for him to account for some sort of relationship between God and human beings that is not a relationship mediated by grace in Jesus Christ. For Barth, the idea of there being such a relationship suggests that we as human beings have some sort of natural power to know God independently of God’s free decision to reveal himself to us. If such a relationship not mediated by Christ is then also the first, the original and the natural relationship between God and human beings, even more natural than that through which God decided to be the one decisive relationship with human beings, Barth can only see that as an attempt to create one’s own god out of one’s sinful mind.21 As to the second duplexity, the duplexity of the pactum salutis and the foedus gratiae, Barth’s conviction that God is by definition God in Jesus Christ makes it impossible for him to account for a level of decision in God that is different from God’s definitive decision to be God with us in Jesus Christ. For Barth, allowing for a pactum salutis will inevitably lead to a dualism in God.22

21 CD IV/1, 56, 61–63; KD IV/1, 59, 64–66. 22 CD II/2, 94–116; KD II/2, 101–124.

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3. Cocceius on Pactum Salutis and Foedus Gratiae The Covenant in General In this essay, I will assess Barth’s twentieth-century critique of the second abovementioned duplexity that is central to Cocceius’ theology, the duplexity of the pactum salutis and the foedus gratiae. We start our analysis with Cocceius’ definition of a covenant in general: The covenant of God with a human being is different from the covenant that human beings have among each other. A covenant between human beings, namely, is based on mutual welldoing, whereas God makes a covenant based on his welldoing only. The covenant of God is nothing but the divine declaration concerning the way of receiving the love of God, and of acquiring the union and communion with him. If a human being makes use of this way, he is in a relationship of friendship with God, or put differently: God is his creator and his God in a special way.23

One should notice that this is a definition of every covenant that God has with human beings, no more, no less. As Cocceius points out, it is not a definition of any covenant we can think of, because inter-human covenants are different, as in inter-human covenants, both partners formulate conditions and promises constitutive of the covenant. In a God-human covenant, God’s declaration alone is constitutive of the nature of the covenant. So far, Barth and Cocceius are still on par. For Barth, it is very important to stress that God is never dependent on the existence or actions of human beings. Human beings only exist in the covenant with God by virtue of God’s initiative in creation and revelation. For Cocceius, this is as much the case as for Barth, although it is significant that for Cocceius, this is still only the definition of the covenant in general. That is, although both concrete covenants (of works and of grace) between God and human beings are characterized by this definition, concrete covenants have some specific features that this definition does not contain. This is already hinting at the difference with Barth. In a sense, for Barth, the general definition is a sufficient description of what God is for us in Jesus Christ. In Jesus Christ, God offers us 23 SD, I, 5: “Foedus Dei cum homine aliter se habet ac hominum inter ipsos. Homines enim de mutuis beneficiis: Deus de suis foedus facit. Est enim Dei foedus nihil aliud, quam divina declaratio de ratione percipiendi amoris Dei, & unione ac communione ipsius potiendi. Qua ratione si homo utatur, in amicitia Dei est, sive, Creator ipsius est & Deus ipsius peculiari ratione.”

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a way in which we can enter into a relationship of love and friendship with God. Human beings are called to respond to this offer in faith and obedience. This offering of a way in which we can enter into a relationship of love and friendship with God is constituted by God’s act of reconciliation in Jesus Christ, in which God, acknowledging that we will and cannot live in this friendship with God, responded to this call in the ultimate way, suffering for us at the cross.24 As we will see, in Cocceius, the consequences of sin make it impossible to account for the specificity of the covenant of grace in terms of a mere offer of grace to which we are called to respond. Cocceius needs the distinction between a covenant in general and specific covenants for two reasons: First, concerning the covenant of works, Cocceius needs a specific covenant because the promise and the conditions of the covenant of works are essential to the nature of this covenant. Second, concerning the covenant of grace—more on that below—Cocceius needs a specific covenant because the abrogation of the covenant of works is of such a radical kind that a covenant in terms of an obligation to be fulfilled on the part of human beings does not suffice. After sin, human beings lack the ability to fulfil the obligations of a covenant that asks something of them, if it not also “gives what it asks”—Augustine. The Covenant of Grace The first concrete form that the covenant between God and human beings takes is the covenant of works, but we skip the covenant of works and its first abrogation in the fall for the moment. We will come back to it in due course, and proceed to Cocceius’ definition of the covenant of grace: The covenant of grace is an agreement between God and a sinful human being, in which, [first], God declares his free benevolence to give justice and an inheritance to a certain seed in the Mediator through faith, to the glory of his grace, [second], God invites through a commandment of repentence and faith—or put differently: the repentence the beginning of which is faith in the Mediator—, and through a promise, to give justice 24 As we will see below, here is the big tension in Barth’s conception. On the one hand, God calls us to respond. Faith is exactly this response. On the other hand, only God can respond to this call and does so in Jesus Christ, basically fulfilling the condition of the covenant for all human beings once and for all.

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to those who believe in him, [and third] the human being joins in the agreed matters through cordial faith, resulting in peace and friendship and the right to expect the inheritance with a good conscience.25

The most important difference between the general definition of a covenant and the specific definition of the covenant of grace is the first part of the latter—the declaration. In the first part of the definition, there is no mention of a covenant between God and human beings, but of God’s unconditional decree to save certain people through the mediatory work of Jesus Christ: “God declares his free benevolence to give justice and the inheritance of the covenant to a certain seed, to the glorification of his grace.” Thus, in the definition, the decree is combined with the invitation and the human response to the invitation, without the relationship between the decree, the invitation, and the response being clarified.26 What is the background of this? The background is the first abrogation of the covenant of works mentioned in the previous chapter of Cocceius’ Summa Doctrinae: sin. According to the Reformed tradition that Cocceius is following here, the power of sin is such that it makes a natural human response to God’s invitation to the covenant of grace impossible. If the covenant of grace is a mere proclamation of the work of Christ for all humanity, leaving it to the responsibility of human beings to accept this message in faith or not, no human being would be saved, the Reformed fathers hold. Therefore, not a mere general proclamation of a common message is needed, but also the actual liberation from the bondage of sin. This, then, is the reason why the covenant of grace as an invitation to the love of God in Jesus Christ can only take 25 SD IV, 76: “Foedus gratiae est conventio inter Deum & hominem peccatorem, Deo declarante liberum beneplacitum suum de justitia & haereditate certo semini danda in Mediatore per fidem, ad gloriam gratiae ipsius, & per mandatum resipiscentiae ac fidei sive resipiscentiae, cujus initium est fides in Mediatorem, ac per promissionem justitiae credentibus in illo dandae invitante, homine autem per fidem cordis astipulante contracta, ad pacem & amicitiam & jus expectandae haereditatis in bona conscientia.”—emphasis mine. There are a number of subtle differences between van Asselt’s translations of this definition and ours. Boom and I have read the definition as built around the three verbs “declarare,” “invitare,” and “astipulare.” 26 Van Asselt has always insisted on the differences between the decree, the pactum salutis, the testament and the covenant of grace: van Asselt, Federal Theology, 219–226, 239–247. Still, from a systematic point of view, it is important to see that within the definition of the covenant of grace, reference is made to that which makes this covenant possible, that is the eternal decree. This is not to suggest that the covenant of grace (or parts of it) coincide with the eternal decree. Rather, I would say that in the covenant of grace, the declaration of the eternal decree (in close relationship to the pactum salutis), takes the form of a testament.

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effect if it is rooted in a testament. This testament is the declaration of a pact between the divine Persons of the Trinity that guarantees the actual salvation of certain people, whether these people accept it or not.27 Returning to Barth, this view of the implications of sin means that his charge of natural theology in Reformed orthodoxy is unjustified. Given that sin makes it impossible to know God without God’s actual intervention in the life of human beings, there is no room for a human attempt to reach God through the powers of one’s own autonomous existence, as Barth fears. Hence, there are other ways to avoid the dangers of an autonomous capturing of God than Barth’s option of formulating the whole of Christian doctrine in Christological terms. It may even turn out that the traditional Reformed distinction between pre-fallen and fallen humanity provides a better way of avoiding this trap than Barth’s Christological dogmatics. This, however, depends on the specific strand in Barth’s thought that one pursues. Following one line, there is ultimately only one true ontological state of human beings, that is the state of being in relation to God through Jesus Christ. Ultimately, human beings are what they are in Jesus Christ even if they do not know or ignore it. Faith is not a change of an ontological state. It is not a becoming of a new being in Christ. It is just realizing what we have been all the time! This implies the risk of “naturalizing grace” by accepting one’s relation to God in Christ as a standing condition. It is something we can count on, whether we reckon with it or not. Of course we need the revelation of God in Christ to know in what state we are, but whatever we do in that state, the result is the same. Barth, however, following another—I would say: opposing— strand of his thought, would deny the possibility of “ontologizing” the Christological foundation of his dogmatics. Being human in and through Jesus Christ is never something one can count on, as it is always a concrete gift of grace with a strict “here and now” character. Taking our relationship with God in Christ for granted, Barth would say, is precisely the proof of sin, as it takes us away from the dependence on God’s free gift of grace.

27 Cf. van Asselt’s translation of the definition of the covenant of grace, who translates “conventio inter Deum & hominem peccatorem” as “an agreement between God and sinful humanity”: van Asselt, Federal Theology, p. 41. This is incorrect, as the rest of the definition shows. According to Cocceius, the covenant is only made between God and the believer.

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Traditional Reformed orthodoxy accounts for the dependency on grace in a different—I would say: more consistent—way. Here the ontological state of fallen humanity is really distinct from the state before the fall, and after the gift of grace. The gift of grace must be understood as the beginning of the gradual restoration of one’s true humanity to its pre-fallen state. In the state of the fall, the original image of God is not entirely lost, but access to salvation requires a true ontological change of what it means to be a human being. The Pactum Salutis Ontological change, however, is a delicate issue, as it is easily associated with coercion and determinism. It was not without reasons that twentieth-century theology dropped the notion. Reformed theology developed the duplexity of a “covenant from eternity,” the pactum salutis, in order to provide the covenant of grace with a completely secure foundation on the one hand, and maintain a sufficient degree of human freedom on the other. Let us see how Cocceius develops it and how he relates it to the covenant of grace. The first thing significant to note about chapter V, the chapter in which Cocceius extensively discusses the pactum salutis, is the title: “A Further Explanation of the Foregoing.”28 This title is significant, as it shows that Cocceius saw the pactum salutis not so much as a covenant distinct from the covenant of grace, but rather as the eternal foundation of the covenant of grace.29 The internal coherence of the pactum salutis and the foedus gratiae is confirmed by the opening of chapter V of the SD, which is simply the continuation of the previous line of argument: However, in this divine testament [as discussed in the previous chapter, MW], there is a pact that makes up its firmness. This pact, namely, is not a pact with a fallen human being, but with the Mediator. This pact is the will of the Father giving his Son to be a Head and Redemptor of the foreknown people, and it is the will of the Son, setting himself up to take care 28 SD V, 88: “Uberior praemissorum explicatio.” 29 As such, it also appears in the STh where, contrary to the SD, the pactum salutis precedes the foedus gratiae. In the STh, the pactum salutis denotes the eternal counsel of salvation at the basis of the trinitarian work of salvation in time. The foedus gratiae then, denotes the fulfillment of God’s counsel of salvation in a pact of friendship and peace between God and the believer. STh XLI, 1–4.

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of this salvation. This will has the nature of an agreement insofar as, in this ineffable economy of salvation, the Father is considered as the one who stipulates the obedience of the Son to death, and as a reward for his obedience, promises him a kingdom and a spiritual seed, and it is an agreement insofar as the Son is considered as the one who sets himself up to do the will of God, demanding the salvation of the people that were given to him out of the world or, more clearly stated, claim his rights from the other party.30

Several aspects of this quotation are worth noticing. First, the issue of the strength (firmitas) of the testament. Why is the pactum salutis needed to safeguard the firmness of the testament, and more generally, of the covenant of grace? Should not God’s promise of salvation to all who believe be firm enough? As we will see in more detail below, not so for Cocceius. If the testament were only God’s promise of salvation to those who believe, there would be no guarantee that the testament would arrive at its destination at all. If the covenant were only an invitation on God’s side, the sinner’s case would be hopeless, as the sinner would be unable to fulfil the condition of access to the goods of the covenant. Therefore, the covenant of grace, if it is to be a real answer to the demand of human sinfulness, must include not only the invitation to the friendship of God, but also the fulfillment of the condition of faith. This is only possible if all conditions of the covenant of grace are met in the trinitarian God, in the trinitarian pact. Therefore, secondly, it is unavoidable that the covenant of grace as a whole, as regards its nature as a testament, remains restricted to the elect, those “given to the Son by the Father.” Finally, it is significant that Cocceius speaks of the “ineffable economy of grace.” The characterization of the pactum salutis as “ineffable” qualifies all contractual speech between the divine Persons, as Cocceius explains in § 92: Indeed, the will of the Father and the Son are the same, and not diverse, because they are one. Still, insofar as the Father is not the Son, nor the 30 SD V, 88: “Inest tamen in hoc Testamento divino Pactum, quo nititur ejus firmitas. Pactum scil. non cum homine lapso, sed cum Mediatore. Scilicet voluntas Patris filium dantis caput & lutrwth&j redemptorem populi praecogniti, & voluntas Filii, sese ad hanc salutem procurandam sistentis, habet rationem conventionis, dum secundum ineffabilem illam oeconomiam negocii salutis notrae consideratur Pater stipulans obedientiam Filii usque ad mortem, & pro ea ipsi regnum & semen spirituale repromittens: filius autem se sistens, ad faciendam voluntatem Dei, & à Patre salutem populi sibi è mundo dati restipulans, sive, ut claritis loquar, altrinsecus petens.”

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Son is the Father, this will is appropriated by each of both distinctly and according to their own mode, to the one as sending and giving, to the other as sent and given. Thus, this greatest mystery becomes known (which had to become known to confirm our faith concerning our salvation and to direct [this faith] to God), in what way we are justified and saved by God, in what way God is, who both judges and vouches for us, and is judged in that way, who absolves and intercedes, who sends and is being sent.31

Cocceius’ insistence on the inexpressibility is significant vis-à-vis Barth’s critique of the pactum salutis as a sort of contract between two divine subjects, a view of the Trinity which is obviously incompatible with Barth’s view of the trinitarian persons as modes of being.32 While Barth refers to the Reformed tradition in support of his conception of the trinitarian persons,33 the possibility of a pact between the trinitarian persons in Cocceius makes clear how Barth’s conception differs from the tradition. Whereas Barth’s modes of being in God are three rationally conceived functions of a single subject, the traditional Reformed view still conceives of the relationship between the one being of God in three Persons as, well indeed: an ineffable relationship.34 In this ineffable relationship, indeed three more or less subject-like persons can be distinguished, who at the same time, however, form an inexpressible unity, both in themselves and in their works.

31 SD V, 92: “Patris quidem & Filii voluntas eadem est, non diversa, quia & unum sunt; sed, quatenus Pater non est Filius, neque Filius Pater, eadem voluntas distincte & suo modo utrique appropriatur, scilicet alteri ut donanti & mittenti, alteri ut dato & misso. Ita mysterium illud maximum (quod fidei nostrae de salute nostra confirmandae & in Deum dirigendae causa patescere debebat) patescit, quomodo in Deo justificemus & salvemur, quomodo Deus sit & qui judicat & qui spondet, atque ita judicatur; qui absolvit & qui intercedit; qui mittit & qui mittitur.” 32 CD IV/1, 64–65; KD IV/1, 68–69. See also van Asselt, Federal Theology, 233– 236. For some nuances concerning the use of the trinitarian persons as ‘modes of being,’ see: Iain Taylor, “In Defence of Karl Barth’s Doctrine of the Trinity,” International Journal of Systematic Theology 5 (2003): 33–46. 33 See also CD I/1, 407–415; KD I/1, 374–381. 34 For a systematic account of the view of the Trinity as ineffable, drawing on Augustine’s theology, see: Maarten Wisse, “‘Ego sum qui sum’: Die trinitarische Essenz Gottes nach Augustins De Trinitate,” in Entzogenheit in Gott: Beiträge zur Rede von der Verborgenheit der Trinität, ed. M. Mühling and M. Wendte, Ars Disputandi Supplement Series 2 (Utrecht: Ars Disputandi, 2005), URL: http:// adss.library.uu.nl, 63–76; idem, “De uniciteit van God en de relationaliteit van de mens: De relevantie van Augustinus voor de hedendaagse theologie,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 60:4 (2006): 310–328.

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Obviously, Cocceius’ conviction that the covenant of grace must include a pact between the Father and the Son, has also significant ramifications for his view of the work of Christ. In § 104 the question is raised for whom Christ has become Sponsor: for the elect only. However, Cocceius is very careful with the use of predestination language. He is always keen on explaining the soteriological context in which the conclusion of limited atonement becomes unavoidable: First of all, it is clear that, for whom he has vouched, for them he has also succeeded, he has been their merit, their sins have been put on him and they have been condemned in him, he has sacrificed himself for them and has prayed for them; in addition, it is clear that those for which he died, also died [in him]: that those are the same that have been justified and saved through him. These things, namely, are of the same effect and extent. . . . Since Scripture denies in the strongest wordings that the guarantee of Christ concerns all and each, no one excepted, and since it has thus far been a generally accepted dogma in the Church that Christ, as it has been said, did not die for all without exception according to the efficacy [of his death], it can easily and safely be concluded (although it concerns a great mystery), that Christ was no guarantee for all without exception, or for those who are not saved.35

An extensive argument follows against the Arminians and Socinians, who extended the benefit of Christ’s work to all people. What is at stake in this argument time and again, is the content of what it means to say that Christ died for someone. If, Cocceius argues, the scope of the atonement in Christ is extended to all people, the material content of what it means that Christ died for someone will change, and in Cocceius’ view, it will loose its force. Thus, in § 113: In no way should the phrase from Scripture be weakened that Christ has died for sinners. This means much more than just that he has died to the benefit of humans, insofar as at least is not meant that benefit that there is

35 SD V, 108: “Et primo quidem illud evidens est, pro quibus spopondit, illis & impetravisse, illis meritum esse, illorum peccata in ipsum injecta suisse, & in ipso condemnata esse, pro illis se obtulisse, pro illis orasse; &, pro quibus mortuus est, illos mortuos esse: eosdemque justificari & salvari per ipsum. Haec enim paris efficaciae & ejusdem sunt latitudinis. . . . Quum igitur Scripturae apertissimis verbis negent, illam sponsionem Christi ad omnes pertinere & singulos, nullo excepto, fueritque hactenus in Ecclesia receptissimum dogma, Christum (ut loquuntur) secundum efficaciam non esse mortuum pro omnibus hominibus sine exceptione: & facile & tutum est (licet in re magni mysterii) definite, Christum non spopondisse pro omnibus sine exceptione, sive etiam pro illis, qui non salvantur.”

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in the attainment of salvation, but in some other benefit, such as that they are called, or that they are led to the knowledge of truth.36

And again in § 163: There are others who reduce the merit of Christ, such as 1. Those who state that Christ has died no more for those who are saved, as for those who perish. Although they seem to extend the merit of Christ, in fact they reduce it in such a way, that nothing remains of what he has merited. Indeed they speak of the grace that is necessary and sufficient to believe and to acquire reconciliation. But what is this [grace]? Is it the calling? Impossible, for many are not called.37

So, if we bring this back to the discussion with Barth: for Cocceius, the duplexity in the covenant of grace, that is the duplexity of the firmness of the inter-trinitarian pact on the one hand, and the dynamics of invitation and faith in time on the other, is absolutely necessary. If we, like Barth, speak of only one decision in God, we will loose one of the two elements: We will either loose the firmness, fruitfulness and effectivity of God’s work of salvation, ending up in a theology in which God is in some way dependent on human responsibility for salvation to come about (Pelagianism/Arminianism), or we loose the dynamics of God’s interaction with human beings in the preaching of the gospel, ending up in hard universalism (unconditional salvation for all, regardless what their response is).38 The problem of Barth’s position is that he refuses to choose one of the two options.

36 SD V, 113: “Minimè enervanda est phrasis Scripturae, qua dicitur Christus pro hominibus mortuus. Plus illud significat, quam mortuus utilitate hominum, siquidem non utilitatem illam, quae est in assecutione salutis, sed utilitatem quamvis intelligas; ut est, quod vocantur, quod ad agnitionem veritatis adducuntur . . .” 37 SD V, 163: “Sunt alii, qui imminuunt, videlicet 1. Qui statuunt Christum non magis pro iis, qui salvantur, quam pro iis, qui pereunt, mortuum esse. Quanquam enim videantur extendere meritum christi, reipsa tamen id adeò imminuunt, ut omnino nihl ipsi relinquant, quod meritus sit. Dicunt quidem . . . Gratiam ad credendum & reconciliationem consequendum necessariam & sufficientem. Quid illa? An vocatio? Non potest. Plurimi enim non vocantur.” 38 I distinguish between “hard” and “soft” universalism. “Hard universalism” is a view of salvation in which all will be saved, regardless of what their response is (the so-called apokatastasis pantoon). “Soft universalism” is a view in which God promises salvation to all, but makes it dependent on human decision whether it is actually realized (popularly phrased: Arminianism).

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The Covenant of Grace as Communicative Act So far, we have seen that for Cocceius, the covenant of grace needs to be grounded in the pactum salutis—among other reasons—in order to provide the covenant with the robustness required by the disastrous effects of sin. This is the first central tenet on which the Reformed soteriology is built. Reformed theology would not be characterized by duplexity, though, if there were not a second central notion constituting it. As much as Reformed theology is concerned to maintain the firmness of salvation, it is concerned to maintain the nature of salvation as a communicative act. God saves by the Word, by proclaiming salvation in Christ to human beings in the preaching of the gospel. Partaking in salvation is a matter of a human act of response to the preaching of the gospel. But can these two notions live together in a peaceful way? The charge of the Barthian tradition is that they cannot. In Barth’s view, the Reformed view of Christ as the mirror of election cannot be consistently thought together with a doctrine of double predestination, in which God decides on the ultimate destination of human beings in an arbitrary way. This is one of the main grounds for Barth’s reduction of the doctrine of election to a communicative act: Election is the “Sum of the gospel.”39 According to Barth, the covenant between God and human beings can only be a communicative act if there is no “secret decree” behind it. Cocceius is of the exactly opposite opinion. He believes that the communicative nature of the covenant of grace can only be truly safeguarded if it is rooted in the pactum salutis as God’s ultimate decision on the destination of human beings that remains independent of the communicative structure of the gospel. It needs to be independent of this communicative structure because its firmness requires that it remains independent of human consent. The key passage in which Cocceius explains the inner logic of this position is this: This is of utmost importance to the foundation of faith and evangelical consolation. And because God approves every truth that flows from his counsel, one can rightly say that it is his will that everyone who sees the Son and believes in him, has everlasting life. Although, namely, these ALL are ONLY those given to Christ, and in God there is no universal counsel without a determination of subject, or again, a decree to bless 39 CD II/2, 12–34; KD II/2, 11–35.

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without the explicit mentioning of a certain seed, nevertheless, through his approving will, he wants to be universally true that which follows and is implied by his special and definite counsel. . . . Through such a conditional commandment and promise, salvation is offered to all those called, i.e. it is proposed to them without any deceit; thus, it is clear that there is no reason to suggest some sort of desire or incomplete will or the like that God would be unworthy of, so that we uphold God’s integrity and sincerity.40

This passage may require some explanation. Let me start at the end. Cocceius’ emphasis on God’s integrity and sincerity can be technically phrased as his conviction that the combination of a doctrine of predestination (including limited atonement) with the free offer of Christ in the gospel to all who hear it, is entirely consistent. No compromise of the content of God’s eternal decree in the preaching of the gospel is required, nor is the offer of Christ in the gospel to all in any sense an insincere offer, a mere play to guarantee the responsibility of the nonelect. Cocceius provides the solution in the abovementioned key passage: what God decides to work out from eternity is an unconditional promise, taking the form of “God will do so and so whatever happens.” At the same time, however, this decree to do so and so appears in the preaching of the gospel in a conditional manner: “All those who believe in Jesus Christ will be saved.” The latter is entirely consistent with the former, as all those who believe in Jesus Christ will indeed be saved, the eternal decree providing the certainty that those who receive the regenerating grace of God, will indeed believe in Jesus Christ. Thus, the eternal decree of God in no way interferes with the free offer of Christ in the gospel, because the believer-to-be does not in any sense need access to the eternal decree in order to be allowed access to Jesus Christ offered in the gospel. The Reformed theologians remain perfectly able 40 SD VI, 184: “Maximique id ipsum momenti est ad fundandam fidem & consolationem Evangelicam. Et, quia Deus approbat omnem veritatem, quae ex consilio ipsus fluit, rectè dicitur voluntas ipsius esse, ut omnu, qui videt filium & credit in ipsum, habeat vitam aeternam. quanquam enim hi O M N E S sint S O L I dati Christo, & Deus non habeat consilium universale sine determinatione subjecti, sive propositum benedicendi citra vocationem seminis; tamen Voluntate approbante hoc vult universaliter esse verum, quod ex speciali & definito ipsius consilio fluit & consequitur. . . . Per tale mandatum & promissionem conditionatam omnibus vocatis salus offertur, h. e. proponitur sine omni illusione; ut patet neque necesse est singere desiderium sive voluntatem incompletam & alia istiusmodi Deo indecora, ut tueamur ipsius integritatem & sinceritatem.”

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to quote Isa 55:1/Rev 22:17: “[W]hoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life.”41 Furthermore, the act of faith in Christ is and remains the sole point of access to salvation. It is important to see that this is a crucial point of agreement between the Reformed orthodox theologians and the Arminians. Being saved is really about doing something, acting upon the gospel proclaimed. The Reformed object against the Arminians’ unclarity about the origin of the act of faith, i.e., the question whether and in what sense grace is necessary to make the act of faith possible, but they do not dispute the character of faith as an act of response to Christ offered in the gospel.42 If we put it in a popular way: What the Reformed orthodox would have against the mass meetings of Billy Graham is not the emphasis on making a decision for Christ. There is much of such emphasis on making a decision in Reformed practical literature, the Anglo-American Puritan tradition in particular. What the Reformed tradition might have against a Billy Graham meeting is the suggestion that one’s being able to make the right decision depends on oneself rather than God alone. You may choose, but in choosing, the only thing you can say is: “We love because he first loved us.” (1 John 4:19). Of course, the conditional nature of the promise of salvation to all who believe qualifies the object of the belief. What one has to believe is not so much the fact that one is saved, but that those who believe will be saved. This has important consequences for the question of assurance of faith: Question: is everyone in common obliged to believe that Christ has died for them? Answer: This is exactly the consolation that is the fruit of justice; it pertains only to those who have a dismayed conscience, and to those souls that hunger and thirst after justice. . . . Nobody may dare to arrogate this consolation to himself who has not been converted to God by true faith of his heart, i.e. who not hungers and thirsts after justice, and [bears] fruits of that to the glory of God. Someone who has not taken ref41 See the earlier argument for this point in: Maarten Wisse, “‘Zij laat alles zoals het is’: De actualiteit van de scholastieke methode,” in van Asselt, ed., Inleiding, 163– 173. 42 It must be said that there are some exceptions to this rule, compensating for the negative consequences the emphasis on faith as an act might have in pastoral practice. This compensation is particularly provided by the concept of faith as a habit. See Maarten Wisse, “Habitus fidei: An Essay on the History of a Concept,” Scottish Journal of Theology 56:2 (2003): 172–189.

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uge in Christ, to put it concisely, who did not begin to love him as the ruler of salvation.43

The position of the traditional Reformed theologians becomes all the more clear when we confront it with Barth’s view. Barth’s single decree of God to be God in Jesus Christ is motivated by his attempt to think God exclusively as God with us, as God in relation to human beings.44 In addition, the attempt to think God as God in Christ exclusively is motivated by Barth’s aim to dynamize the allegedly static understanding of God in the tradition.45 Barth’s aim is to bring history, the contingent encounter between God and human beings in the here and now, to the center of the theological discourse. Thus, for him, the doctrine of election can be nothing but a form of communication, the sum of the gospel. However, as there is only room for one decree in God,46 and the communicative message of the gospel cannot be the announcement of those elected from eternity, Barth is forced to accept universalism.47 Thus, the message of the gospel can be nothing but an announcement of a state of affairs, namely the state of being reconciled with God. Although in Barth, God is defined by his being God in Christ in time, the dynamics of God in time is in fact a dynamics of a single moment,

43 SD VI, 180: “Quaeritur, An omnibus omnino imperetur credere, Christum esse pro se mortuum? Resp. Hanc ipsam esse consolationem, quae est fructus justitiae; & non pertinere nisi ad conscientias contritas & animas esurientes & sitientes justitiae. . . . Hanc consolationem nemo sibi debet arrogare, qui non vera animi fide conversus est ad Deum; h. e. qui non sitit & esurit justitiam & fructus ejus ad gloriam Dei; qui non confugit ad Christum, &, ut uno verbo dicam, qui non ipsum incepit amare, ut principem salutis,” Here, Cocceius is fully on par with Voetius: De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae, ed. W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995), 98–100. 44 CD IV/1, 1–22; KD IV/1, 1–22. Of course this is not to deny Barth’s emphasis on the freedom of God to be God with us. 45 CD II/1, 257–271; KD II/1, 288–305. 46 What I mean by “one” decree here is: one level of decision in God—over against the two in traditional Reformed orthodoxy. This is not to overlook Barth’s doctrine of reprobation. It is only to suggest that in Barth, the doctrine of reprobation is a function of the doctrine of election, and thus does not introduce a distinct level of decision in God. 47 I am aware of the discussion concerning Barth’s universalism. Berkouwer’s discussion provides a good overview: G. C. Berkouwer, The Triumph of Grace in the Theology of Karl Barth (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1956), chapter X.

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namely the being of God as being God in Christ.48 The event of the preaching of the gospel and the human response to it is a mere recognition—both on the part of the preacher and on the part of the believer— of the one single act of God’s being in Christ. There is no additional soteriological level in which the restoration of the divine-human relationship between God and the believer is taken into account. Put in trinitarian terms: there is no separate level of the Spirit in the economy of salvation.49 While motivated by a concern to build the relationship between God and human beings into the very being of God, Barth ended with a static account of this relationship, a relationship in which a reciprocal action between God and the believer cannot truly be taken into account.50

48 On this point, see especially the essays on time and eternity: CD I/2, 45–121, and III/1, 42–93; KD I/2, 50–133, and III/1, 44–103. 49 In a sense, Barth’s critique of Cocceius as having no room for the Spirit in the pactum salutis is a typical case of the pot calling the cattle black! Cf. van Asselt, Federal Theology, 233–236. 50 I would like to thank, in chronological order, Prof. Dr. Christoph Schwöbel, the members of Prof. Schwöbel’s Doktorandenkolloquium at Tübingen, Dr. Bert Loonstra, Prof. Dr. Gijsbert van den Brink, Prof. Dr. Richard A. Muller, and Prof. Dr. Marcel Sarot for their comments on an earlier version of this paper. The research for this article was funded by the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (NWO), the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, and the Flemish Organisation for Scientific Research (FWO-V).

OMNISCIENT AND ETERNAL GOD Marcel Sarot

1. Introduction In recent years, Prof. Willem van Asselt and the author of this article jointly introduced first year theology students into the history of philosophy and theology. Each week, I give a lecture on a philosopher (e.g., Plato) and Prof. van Asselt gives a lecture on a theologian influenced by that philosopher (e.g., Augustine). Later in the same week, together we give a seminar on a classic text by the theologian in question, e.g., Augustine, Confessiones bk. XI. At this stage, we do not limit ourselves to purely historical comments, but also try to show the relevance of the texts we discuss to our own theologies. In some instances, this issues in a discussion in which we argue for rival views. This always happens when we discuss Confessiones bk. XI, since Prof. van Asselt defends Augustine’s view on eternity whereas I argue that we should view God as sempiternal. The discussion on God’s omniscience and eternity— both that between colleague van Asselt and me and that in philosophy of religion general—is an obvious example of a theological discussion in which scholastic distinctions play an undiminished role. For this reason, and also because van Asselt and I have been discussing the topic for a long time, I have selected it as a topic for my contribution to his Festschrift. In this way, I hope to be able to pursue some of the questions concerning Gods eternity and omniscience at some greater length than is possible at a single seminar. I will start by providing a brief introduction to the “standard” doctrines of eternity and omniscience to which Prof. van Asselt adheres. After that, I will provide a brief sketch of the way we should conceive of God’s knowledge. Finally, I will discuss two factual questions concerning empirical reality and trace the implications which the most plausible answers to these questions have for the doctrines of omni-

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science and eternity. These questions are: (1) What is the nature of the temporal structure of reality?; (2) Does the future contain a limited set of possibilities, of which it only has to become clear which will and which will not be actualized? I will try to outline the implications of the most plausible answers to these questions for the doctrines of omniscience and eternity. 2. The Standard Interpretation of the Doctrines of Divine Omniscience and Eternity In the Bible God is depicted as omniscient. According to Exodus 3, God not only knows the present distress of his people, he also knows in advance how the pharaoh will react to the request to give the Hebrews leave to make a three day journey into the wilderness in order to offer a sacrifice to YHWH their God. The beginning of Psalm 139 expresses God’s comprehensive knowledge as follows:1 Lord, thou hast examined me and knowest me. Thou knowest all, whether I sit down or rise up; thou hast discerned my thoughts from afar. Thou hast traced my journey and my resting places, and art familiar with all my paths. For there is not a word on my tongue but thou, Lord, knowest them all . . . . Such knowledge is beyond my understanding, so high that I cannot reach it. Where can I escape from thy spirit? Where can I flee from thy presence? If I climb up to heaven, thou art there; if I make my bed in Sheol, again I find thee. If I take my flight to the frontiers of the morning or dwell at the limit of the western sea, even there thy hand will meet me . . . If I say, “Surely darkness . . . will close around me,” darkness is no darkness for thee and light is luminous as day; to thee both dark and light are one.

1 All Bible texts are quoted according to the translation in the New English Bible.

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St. John’s Gospel (16:30) suggests that omniscience is the defining characteristic of God when it reports the apostles as saying: “We are certain now that you know everything, and do not need to be questioned; because of this we believe that you have come from God.”2 As these examples show, God’s omniscience is well attested in the Bible. God knows past, present and future; God’s knowledge is not superficial, but fathoms the essence of the human personality; it is even suggested that God does not only know that people suffer or are in distress, but also knows how their experiences feel. However, the Bible does not provide a systematically developed doctrine of omniscience. On the contrary, at first sight the biblical assertions with respect to God’s knowledge are inconsistent. I have already mentioned that some texts seem to suggest that God is omniscient, but there are also texts that suggest a certain degree of ignorance on God’s part. Gen 6:5–6 is a case in point: “When the Lord saw that man had done much evil on earth and that his thoughts and inclinations were always evil, he was sorry that he had made man on earth, and he was grieved at heart.” This text—as well as some other texts on the repentance of God—seems to suggest that God had not anticipated human wickedness.3 This suggestion seems incompatible with the affirmation of omniscience in other texts. If the Bible does not speak with one voice, how can one expect systematic theologians to agree with each other? Well, in fact they do not. Nevertheless, though there is no single classical doctrine of omniscience, by discussing the contributions of St. Augustine and Boethius to this doctrine, I will now introduce the posi-

2 Other Bible texts suggesting omniscience are: Num 12:2; Deut 31:17–21; 1 Kgs 8:39; 1 Chr 28:9; 2 Chr 16:9; Job 28:24, 34:21–2; Pss 11:4, 33:13, 34:16, 38:10, 44:22, 94:9–11, 106:44; Prov 15:3.11, 24:12; Isa 29:15–6, 40:27, 48:4; Jer 1:5, 7:11, 17:10, 23:24, 32:19; Ezek 11:5; Matt 6:4, 12:25, 21:2; Mark 2:8, 14:13; John 1:48, 13:22, 21:17; Acts 2:23, 15:8; Rom 8:27; 1 Thess 2:4; Heb 4:13; 1 John 3:20. 3 For a systematic review of the Old Testament texts that suggest a degree of ignorance on God’s part, see Terence E. Fretheim, The Suffering of God: An Old Testament Perspective (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), 45–59. On the repentance of God, see my “Does God Suffer? A Critical Discussion of Thomas G. Weinandy’s Does God Suffer?” Ars Disputandi 1 (2001), www.ArsDisputandi.org. For a general discussion of Bible texts concerning God’s foreknowledge, see Gregory A. Boyd, “The Open-Theism View,” in Divine Foreknowledge: Four Views, ed. J. K. Beilby and P. R. Eddy (Downer’s Grove, Ill.: Intervarsity Press, 2002), 13–47.

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tion that has won most acclaim in the tradition and that is to the present day taken very seriously in theological and philosophical discussions of the doctrine.4 Augustine’s most important contribution to the doctrine of omniscience was not intended as such. In the 11th book of his Confessions, Augustine discusses the question what God was doing before he created heaven and earth.5 We find the essence of Augustine’s answer in chap. 13: Although you are before time, it is not in time that you precede it. If this were so, you would not be before all time. It is in eternity, which is supreme over time because it is a never-ending present, that you are at once before all past time and after all future time. For what is now the future, once it comes, will become the past, whereas you are unchanging . . . Your years neither go nor come, but our years pass and others come after them. . . . Your years are completely present to you all at once, because they are at a permanent standstill. They do not move on, forced to give way before the advance of others, because they never pass at all. But our years will be complete only when they have all moved into the past. Your years are one day, yet your day does not come daily but is always today, because your today does not give place to any tomorrow nor does it take the place of any yesterday. Your today is eternity.6

According to Augustine, God’s eternity is not an existence in time without beginning and end (sempiternity), but a timeless existence. God has neither past nor future, but only an eternal present. The influence of this conception on the doctrine of omniscience can hardly be overestimated. I will presently analyze it in some more detail, concentrating on what “timeless existence” could mean rather than on what Augustine intended by it. Thus I aim at a rational reconstruction—an interpretation that produces fruitful conceptual suggestions relevant to contemporary theology—rather than at an intentional interpretation, that is to say an interpretation e mente auctoris.7

4 For the following, see William Hasker, God, Time, and Knowledge (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989), 2–15. 5 St. Augustine, Confessions, trans. R. S. Pine-Coffin, 15th ed. (1961; Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1979), XI 10–4. 6 Cf. Augustine, De Genesi ad litteram VII 26, 48.

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Since we do not have any experiential knowledge of timeless eternity—we ourselves and all objects in the world exist in time—it seems that we should take our knowledge of temporal existence as a starting-point for our analysis of timeless existence. To exist in time means (1) to have temporal location, i.e., to be temporally related to other objects and occurrences and (2) to have temporal duration or extension. To begin with the first: each moment of our existence is simultaneous with some objects and occurrences, before others and after still other objects and occurrences. If God exists timelessly, God cannot in this way be temporally related to other objects and occurrences. In that case, either God has no relation at all with anything existing in time, or God’s relationship with temporal objects and occurrences is a relationship of presence. Since both the Scriptures and the perfection of God seem to require that God has some relation to temporal reality, many Christian theologians have argued for the second option: God is simultaneous8 with everything that happens and that exists in time. In other words: everything that exists in time is present in God’s eternal now. Whereas our existence—even if it does not end in time—goes by, the whole of God’s existence—and the temporal existence of anything else—is directly present to God’s eternal now. A second feature of our temporal existence is that we have a temporal relation to ourselves. One could try to imagine an object existing in time for just one indivisible moment. Such an existence would have a relationship of simultaneity with itself: since it is indivisible, there can be no before and after within it. It is characteristic for the existence of all temporal objects we know, however, that their existence is divisible, that there is a before and an after within it. This means that we have different temporal relationships to ourselves: I have different relationships to my present, my past and my future. In other words: our existence has temporal extension or duration. If God exists timelessly, his existence has no temporal extension; it is not only simultaneous with all temporal occurrences, but also with itself. God’s existence is indivisible, there is no “before” and “after” in it. 7 For the distinction between intentional and rational interpretations, see Vincent Brümmer, Brümmer on Meaning and the Christian Faith (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 433–451, esp. 439. My analysis has profited from: Nelson Pike, God and Timelessness (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970) and Eleonore Stump and Norman Kretzmann, “Eternity,” in The Concept of God, ed. T. V. Morris (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 219–252. 8 On the application of the concept of simultaneity to the coexistence of something temporal and something eternal, see Stump and Kretzmann, “Eternity,” 225–232.

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Precisely this indivisibility can easily be misunderstood, because one might take it to imply that God’s existence is similar to that of a temporal object that merely exists for one indivisible moment. The existence of such an object has no temporal extension either! But by this lack of temporal extension it does not gain anything—on the contrary, its existence is reduced to a temporal minimum. We would not want to be in its place. Over against this imperfect mode of temporal existence it is important to emphasize that if God exists timelessly, God’s existence cannot have temporal extension, but it should have timeless duration.9 At first sight this is a contradiction in terms: anything that has duration can be characterized by terms like “earlier” and “later” and must therefore be temporal. Sub specie eternitatis, however, it may be argued that only the existence of a timeless being can have duration in the proper sense. Temporal existence really has only the present, and a volatile present at that. Human beings cannot retain the present as present even for the shortest of moments; before they realise it, it has become past already. They have only the present; the past they have had, but do not have any more, and the future they will have, but do not yet have. Thus, human beings have no duration in the proper sense; in fact they only have the present, and even the present they cannot retain. A being would have duration in the proper sense only when it would be capable of retaining past, present and future in an eternal now. This is exactly the form of eternity Augustine and his followers ascribe to God: past, present and future are simultaneously present to God’s eternal now. This applies, as Augustine explicitly claims, not only to all temporal occurrences, but also to God’s own life: “Your years are one day, yet your day does not come daily but is always today, because your today does not give place to any tomorrow nor does it take the place of any yesterday. Your today is eternity.” Thus God’s life has duration in a more proper sense than ours: it has no temporal extension, but completely actualized duration. This explains why Augustine’s view has been so influential: it rendered conceivable how God can be immune to the transitoriness that characterizes all existence of which we have experience.10 The view of God’s eternity as a temporal existence without beginning and end cannot do this to the same extent, because it leaves the transitoriness of each now, and therewith of each moment, as it is.

9 See Stump and Kretzmann, “Eternity,” 236–9.

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Boethius made clear how the doctrine of omniscience can profit by Augustine’s idea of timelessness by using it in his solution of the perennial problem of God’s foreknowledge and human free will. This dilemma can—in contemporary terms—be stated as follows. Human beings have an essentially free will, not merely in the sense of liberty of spontaneity—that is the sort of freedom a woman has who on finding herself in a room with three doors, two of which are locked, “freely” chooses to leave the room by the third door, without knowing that the other doors are locked—but also in the sense of liberty of indifference: the freedom to choose between alternatives, to do one thing while one has the ability to do something else.11 There are at least two reasons to hold to such a strong form of free will: without it, human beings (1) cannot be held responsible for their acts and (2) do not have the choice between turning to and turning against God.12 Prima facie the omniscience of God excludes such a strong form of free will. When God is omniscient (all-knowing), he must also have perfect knowledge of the future. And whoever has perfect knowledge of the future, must know all true propositions regarding the future, even when these propositions concern “free” future actions. But then these actions can hardly be free!

10 Therefore it is remarkable that Paul Helm, Eternal God: A Study of God without Time (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), John C. Yates, The Timelessness of God (Lanham: University Press of America, 1990) and Katherin A. Rogers, “Eternity has no Duration,” Religious Studies 30 (1994): 1–16 defend the timelessness of God but do not accept the idea of timeless duration. In this way, the idea of timelessness loses much of its attractiveness. Rogers, who gives the most extensive refutation of the concept of timeless duration, construes “duration” as “extension.” Once the interpretation of “timeless duration” as “timeless extension” has been accepted, it is not very difficult to show that the idea of timeless duration is radically incoherent. “Extension” is an incomplete symbol: something cannot just be “extended,” but it always is extended in something (e.g., in space, in time). In what could a timeless God be extended so as to have duration? Timeless duration, however, has to do with continuity (or better still: the absence of discontinuity) rather than with extension. What makes “duration” into a positive quality is that an object that has duration continues to exist as long as the duration lasts. Duration is the absence of discontinuity. Ascribing timeless duration to God is a way of ascribing this absence of discontinuity to God. 11 On the distinction between “liberty of spontaneity” and “liberty of indifference,” see David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, bk. II, pt. II, section 2; Anthony Kenny, Will, Freedom and Power (Oxford: Blackwell, 1975) and idem, Freewill and Responsibility (1978; repr., London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1988). 12 This sort of free choice is presupposed by the “free will defence,” the most influential and important form of theodicy. For a classic statement of the free will defence, see Alvin Plantinga, God, Freedom and Evil (1974; repr., Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1974).

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If God has infallible knowledge in advance of what I am going to do at a certain time in the future, then I must—because of the infallibility of God’s knowledge—be incapable of falsifying this divine knowledge and thus be incapable of doing anything else than God knows me to do. Consequently, I cannot have freedom of indifference; I must be incapable of choosing between alternatives. Boethius’ solution to this problem is the following: Since, therefore, all judgement comprehends those things that are subject to it according to its own nature, and since the state of God is ever that of eternal presence, His knowledge, too, transcends all temporal change. . . . It embraces . . . past and future and views them in the immediacy of its knowing as though they are happening in the present. If you wish to consider, then, the foreknowledge or prevision by which He discovers all things, it will be more correct to think of it not as a kind of foreknowledge of the future, but as the knowledge of a never ending presence. So that it is better called providence or “looking forth” then prevision or “seeing beforehand.” For it . . . looks forth at all things as though from a lofty peak above them. Why, then, do you insist that all that is scanned by the sight of God becomes necessary? Men see things but this certainly doesn’t make them necessary. . . . And, if human and divine present may be compared, just as you see certain things in this your present time, so God sees all things in his eternal present. So that his divine foreknowledge does not change the nature and property of things.13

Summarized: when human beings see that something happens, this does not imply that it happens necessarily, in the sense that it could not but happen. All moments of time are present to God’s eternal now; therefore God in his eternity can as it were “see” all occurrences in time. Why would this divine seeing, as opposed to human seeing, subject all occurrences to necessity?

13 Boethius, De Consolatione Philosophiae V 6. Translation taken from: Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, trans. V. E. Watts, 6th ed. (1969; Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1982); on the extent to which Boethius’ solution is foreshadowed by Augustine, see Gareth B. Matthews, Augustine (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 100–104. On the distinctions Boethius applies, cf. also John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion II 21,5 and Richard A. Muller, Dictionary of Latin and Greek Theological Terms Drawn Principally from Protestant Scholastic Theology, 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 1989), 199–200.

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Further on, when he discusses the objection that if God sees the future, the future must be in some sense necessary, Boethius develops this line of thought in some more detail. He then distinguishes different forms of necessity: simple necessity and conditional necessity.14 Boethius’ example of conditional necessity is: when I see someone walking, he necessarily walks. Otherwise, I would not see him walking. But this does not mean that the man in question is in some way or other forced to walk, or that he has no alternatives. The walking of the man is not intrinsically necessary. It is not simply necessary, but conditionally, namely because I see it. According to Boethius this conditional necessity, which is no necessity to which things are subject, is the form of necessity that characterizes the future contingents God sees in his eternal now. In this way Boethius can claim that when God sees future events, these events are necessary from the perspective of God, but not of their own nature.

14 This distinction was introduced by St. Anselm and has been influential throughout the Christian tradition. See the contribution of Vos and Dekker to this volume, esp. 87-90, and cf. Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles I 67.

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By suggesting that the dilemma of omniscience and free will can be solved by means of the idea of timeless eternity, Boethius provided an important motive for accepting this idea. Both Boethius’ solution and the idea of eternity have gained wide acclaim, and therefore I will call this the standard position.15 In this article, I will examine the objects of God’s knowledge, and inquire whether the nature of these objects is compatible with the standard account of omniscience. Before that, however, I need to make some remarks on the nature of knowledge in general and God’s knowledge in particular. 3. The Nature of God’s Knowledge16 On a classic definition, (human) knowledge is “justified true belief.”17 Knowledge is more than belief: one can believe something that is not true, but one cannot know it. It is also more than true belief: one can believe a true proposition on false grounds—e.g., when one believes that the earth is round because Jesus said so in the Gospels—but then one does not know it. Belief has to be both justified and true; otherwise one should not claim that it is knowledge. During the last four decades it has been shown that “justified true belief” is not entirely adequate as 15 The standard position has been further developed by Aquinas and by the Protestant Scholastics. It is still very influential in contemporary Roman Catholic theology, but the majority of 19th and 20th century protestant theologians have rejected it, following John Duns Scotus (whose ground-clearing work was impressive, but who did not himself clearly reject the standard position) and William of Ockham (who did). For a succinct survey, see Richard Swinburne, The Coherence of Theism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), 217–218. On Duns Scotus, see Hermann Schwamm, Das göttliche Vorherwissen bei Duns Scotus und seinen ersten Anhängern (Innsbruck: Felizian Rauch, 1934), Douglas C. Langston, God’s Willing Knowledge: The Influence of Scotus’ Analysis of Omniscience (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1986), esp. 16–19 and Garrett J. DeWeese, God and the Nature of Time (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 186–194. A translation of Scotus’ Lectura I 39 is offered by Antonie Vos Jaczn et al., in John Duns Scotus: Contingency and Freedom (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1994). Ockham’s position is summarized by Hasker, God, 12–15 and DeWeese, God, 194–200. See also William Ockham, Predestination, God’s Foreknowledge, and Future Contingents, trans. Marilyn McCord Adams and Norman Kretzmann (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1969) and Marilyn McCord Adams, William Ockham, vol. II (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1987), 1137ff. 16 For the following I am indebted to William P. Alston, “Does God Have Beliefs?” in Alston, Divine Nature and Human Language: Essays in Philosophical Theology (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989), 178–93. 17 For this definition see, e.g., Plato, Theaetetus 201 c–d.

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a definition of “knowledge;” many counter-examples can be given,18 and it is very difficult, if not impossible, to give a definition that satisfies all the counter-examples. However, all this has led to further qualifications rather than to a fundamentally different approach to human knowledge.19 It is not difficult to see that this approach to knowledge, though more or less adequate when applied to human knowledge, will not do in the case of divine knowledge. Let’s suppose, in the tradition of Anselmian perfect being theology, that God is a Being greater than which cannot be conceived.20 Then God’s knowledge must be perfect.21 Consequently, in the case of God, distinctions between belief and knowledge cannot apply. Every divine belief is true; if not, a more perfect being would be conceivable. Moreover: God never believes anything without sufficient grounds; for again, otherwise a more perfect being would be conceivable. In short: all God’s beliefs are both true and justified. This does not yet show that the model of justified true belief is not applicable to God’s knowledge. Even if God cannot have beliefs that are not true or not justified, that does not entail that God’s knowledge does not consist of beliefs, namely, justified true beliefs. In order to show why this will not do, let’s return to the fact that all God’s knowledge must be justified. Theology has never been content with merely claiming that all God’s knowledge is justified; it has also wanted to indicate why God’s knowledge cannot but be justified. In this connection it has referred to the nondiscursiveness of God’s knowledge.22 Our cognitive faculties can fail because they are dependent upon sense-experience—which can be mis-

18 The best known counter-examples are those of Edmund L. Gettier, “Is Justified True Belief Knowledge?” Analysis 23 (1963): 121–3; an instructive survey of both the counter-examples and the proposed qualifications has been given by T. Sorell, “The Analysis of Knowledge,” in An Encyclopaedia of Philosophy, ed. G. H. R. Parkinson (London: Routledge, 1988), 127–133. 19 See also Brümmer, Brümmer on Meaning, 165–70. 20 For a justification of this supposition, see my God, Passibility and Corporeality (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1992), 16–25; cf. St. Anselm, Proslogion and Thomas V. Morris, “Introduction,” in Morris, Concept of God, 6–10. 21 Cf. Jonathan Kvanvig, The Possibility of an All-knowing God (London: Macmillan, 1986), 171. 22 Cf., e.g., Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I 14, 7.

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leading—and upon the drawing of inferences (e.g., from sense-experience)—and this can also go wrong. Our knowledge is discursive. God’s knowledge, classical theology has it, is non-discursive: it is neither dependent upon sense-experience, nor on the drawing of inferences. God knows directly, non-discursively: his knowledge consists as it were in a direct awareness of things as they are. This points in the direction of an alternative model of knowledge which does more justice to God’s cognitive perfection: knowledge as a direct awareness of the objects known. In the words of H. H. Price, knowledge “is simply the situation in which some entity or some fact is directly present to consciousness.”23 This model is not applicable to human knowledge: We can be aware only of a very limited number of objects at a time, whereas we can have knowledge about many more objects. On the other hand, this model can draw attention to the fact that God’s perfect knowledge cannot, like ours, be stored in a memory from which it can be recalled only by making a deliberate attempt, but should be forever present to the divine consciousness. At first sight the direct-awareness model of knowledge and the Augustinian-Boethian view of omniscience seem to be made for each other, and historically they are certainly connected. The direct-awareness model can be presented as a consequence of the timelessness of God: if God exists timelessly, he cannot know in another way than by direct awareness, because there can be no lapse of time between the existence of the object of God’s knowledge and God’s knowledge itself. Timelessness requires direct awareness, but direct awareness does not require timelessness. Though I will hold fast to the direct-awareness model, I will try to show in the following section that the nature of the universe—one of the objects of God’s knowledge24—requires a rejection of the Augustinian-Boethian interpretation of omniscience. In this connection I will discuss two aspects of the universe: (1) its essentially temporal structure and (2) the indeterminateness of its future.

23 H. H. Price, “Some Considerations about Belief,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 35 (1934–1935): 229. This alternative model of knowledge is certainly not without roots in the tradition either; Alston, “Does God Have Beliefs,” 187, refers to Descartes and Locke and claims that this view “has been much more prominent historically” than the view of knowledge as justified true belief. 24 According to traditional theology, of course, God knows firstly and foremostly himself; see, e.g., Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I 14, 2–3.

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4. God and the Essentially Temporal Structure of the Universe25 In my discussion of the views of St. Augustine, I have already touched on the temporal structure of reality. In the 11th Book of his Confessions, Augustine wrestles with the nature of time. Today his contemplations still form the starting-point of many philosophical discussions of time. As Augustine claimed, it is difficult to say what time is: “I know well enough what it is, provided that nobody asks me; but if I am asked what it is and try to explain, I am baffled.”26 However, most people will agree with Augustine that our reality is temporal. The experience of time is a fundamental given; everything we experience, we experience in time. A denial of the reality of time would not only be in flagrant contradiction with our daily experience, but also create all kinds of conceptual and philosophical problems. We can render these problems visible when we, as a thought experiment, for a moment imagine that time is not a characteristic of reality, but only of our own experience.27 In that case the distinction between past, present and future would be an illusion, and either the future would be as determined and as unchangeable as the past, or we should be able to influence the past like we are able to influence the future. In principle we should be able to recall the future, just like we recall the past. It would be radically irrational to grieve for the loss of someone dear to us, since—in spite of our experiences—it is not the case that a person who previously existed has now ceased to exist.28 And it would be equally irrational to be anxious about the future, for reality is entirely unchangeable. And, to mention a final consequence of the claim that time is an illusion, the present would in no way be unique, because each and every part of the temporal process exists now.

25 For the topics discussed in this section, see the excellent anthology by Robert Le Poidevin and Murray McBeath, eds., The Philosophy of Time (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). On the consequences of Einstein’s theory of relativity for our conception of time, see Paul Davies, About Time: Einstein’s Unfinished Revolution (London: Penguin, 1995), who clearly outlines the puzzles implied by the theory of relativity, but also shows that both physicists and philosophers are still seeking for a unified theory of time that accounts for these. As I understand the situation, such a theory would not deny the essentially temporal nature of reality, but it would deny that time is an unchangeable given that is not itself subject to natural laws. Cf. also DeWeese, God and the Nature of Time (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), chap. 3. Therefore, I will leave the theory of relativity out of consideration. 26 Confessions I, 14.

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As this short list of consequences of the time-is-an-illusion view makes clear, the reality of time is a constitutive presupposition of many of the conceptual activities or practices in which we usually participate. This reality of time cannot be fully analyzed in terms of the relations earlier than, simultaneous with and later than (B-terms). In a complete analysis, one would also need terms like past, present and future (Aterms).29 One needs these A-terms to be able to note the difference between (1) A bomb will explode in the station at noon, March 1. (2) A bomb will explode in the station five minutes from now. (3) A bomb explodes in the station five minutes later than this utterance.

27 It is often argued that the view that time is an illusion is entailed by the view of God’s eternity as timelessness. Anthony Kenny, “Divine Foreknowledge and Human Freedom,” in Aquinas: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. idem (London: Macmillan 1970), 264, puts it very effectively: “The whole concept of a timeless eternity, the whole of which is simultaneous with every part of time, seems to be radically incoherent. For simultaneity as ordinarily understood is a transitive relation. If A happens at the same time as B, and B happens at the same time as C, then A happens at the same time as C. If the BBC programme and the ITV programme both start when Big Ben strikes ten, then they both start at the same time. But, on St. Thomas’ view, my typing of this paper is simultaneous with the whole of eternity. Therefore, while I type these very words, Nero fiddles heartlessly on” [reprinted in Kenny, The God of the Philosophers (Oxford 1979), 38–9]. For the source of this argument, Kenny refers to Suárez’ De Scientia Dei Futurorum Contingentium, whereas Langston, God’s Willing Knowledge, 15–6, traces it to Duns Scotus. For a contemporary statement of the argument, see also Swinburne, Coherence of Theism, 220–221. The most important refutation of the argument is that by Stump and Kretzmann, “Eternity,” 225–36 [Stump and Kretzmann argue that time-eternity simultaneity is not transitive]; cf. Langston, God’s Willing Knowledge, 18–9 and Hasker, God, 164–170, who convincingly uncovers the weaknesses in Stump and Kretzmann’s arguments [especially with respect to the question how a temporal object can be present to an eternal subject]. My argument in the text is independent of Kenny’s argument. 28 William Lane Craig recounts how Einstein once tried to comfort the sister and son of a deceased friend in this way, without telling how successful he was. William Lane Craig, “Timelessness & Omnitemporality,” in God and Time: Four Views, ed. G. E. Ganssle (Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001), 134. 29 J. M. E. McTaggart, The Nature of Existence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1927) vol. II, chap. 33, repr. in LePoidevin and McBeath, eds., Philosophy of Time, 23–34, introduced the distinction between an A-theory of time and a B-theory of time. Though he uses different terms, St. Augustine in fact makes similar distinctions. Matthews, Augustine, 82–84.

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As Garrett J. DeWeese, from whom I took this example, notes: Only (2) will lead to the immediate evacuation of the station.30 The reason for this is that only (2) accounts for the privileged position of the present. In light of the fact that the reality of time is a constitutive presupposition of many of our activities, it is not surprising that the view that time is an illusion is almost without supporters. However, many philosophers ascribe this unattractive position to others, for example to the proponents of the Augustinian-Boethian view of eternity31 and of Minkowski’s “block-universe” space-time geometry.32 Because of the influence of Minkowski’s views among scientists and the authority this lends to his views among theologians,33 I will discuss them briefly. According to Hermann Minkowski space and time do not exist independently, but the universe is a unitary space-time. Time is a fourth dimension analogous to the spatial dimensions. Each object has four dimensions: North - South, East - West, top - bottom, past - present. An object that is growing, tapers towards the past; an object that grows smaller, tapers towards the future. Sometimes this model is taken to imply that reality is a static four-dimensional block, in which nothing ever happens or changes. Time would be an illusion. This interpretation is clearly false, however. Discussing Minkowski’s four-dimensional space-time in terms of “static” and “dynamic”34 presupposes that space-time itself exists in a sort of hypertime, for without time change35 is impossible. And if one expected this 30 DeWeese, God, 27. 31 See note 27; below, I will come back to the question whether the view of eternity as timeless is compatible with the reality of time. 32 Among the philosophers who argue that Minkowski’s “block-universe” theory implies that time is an illusion are, e.g.: Peter Geach, “Some Problems about Time,” in Studies in the Philosophy of Thought and Action, ed. P. F. Strawson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), 175–91; repr. in Geach, Logic Matters (Oxford: Blackwell, 1972), 302–18; Brian Hebblethwaite, “Some Reflections on Predestination, Providence and Divine Foreknowledge,” Religious Studies 15 (1979): 434–5; John R. Lucas, The Future: An Essay on God, Temporality and Truth (Oxford: Blackwell, 1989), 4–8. 33 See, e.g., Dirk Evers, Raum - Materie - Zeit: Schöpfungstheologie im Dialog mit naturwissenschaftlicher Kosmologie, Hermeneutische Untersuchungen zur Theologie 41 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 56–58; cf. Strawson, “Introduction,” in Philosophy of Thought and Action, 5; cf. Lucas, Future, 5. 34 For the following argument I am indebted to J. J. C. Smart, “Space-Time and Individuals,” in idem, Essays Metaphysical and Moral: Selected Philosophical Papers (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987), 66–7; for a shorter version of the same argument, see his “Space, Time and Motion,” in Encyclopaedia of Philosophy, ed. Parkinson, 359. 35 On the nature of change, see the next paragraph.

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hyper-time to be dynamic too, one would need a hyper-hyper-time, et cetera ad infinitum (et absurdum). Thus, the objection that Minkowski’s four-dimensional space-time is static, fails. It is true, of course, that the Minkowski model analyzes time in B-terms (earlier, simultaneous, later) rather than in A-terms (past, present, future), but an analysis in terms of a B-series is not incompatible with the applicability of A-terms. One should keep in mind, of course, that each theoretical model is a simplification in that it represents only particular aspects of the world for specific purposes. The fact that some aspects are not represented, does not imply that these aspects are denied!36 Thus, the Minkowski model does not necessitate a denial of the reality of time, as some mistakenly suppose. In the following, I will presuppose the common sense view that reality is essentially temporal.37 If the empirical reality known by God is a temporal reality, only the present of this reality is actual. The past has been actual, but is not so any more, and the future will be actual, but is not yet so. What is the significance of this for the nature of God’s omniscience?38 If God’s knowledge of reality consists in a direct awareness of it, it is a direct awareness of a temporal reality. It is characteristic for this temporal reality that processes of change occur within it. God will have to know these processes as they are, that is to say: he will have to know change as change. Change requires time, for what is change, if not that a certain aspect of reality is different at different times? But how can one know change if one cannot follow it through time within one’s consciousness? If one would know change by being simultaneously aware of the different moments of a process of change, one would not know change as change. In short: if God has a direct awareness of change, he must exist not in a timeless eternity, but temporally. By this conclusion we have given up one aspect of the stand-

36 For an elaboration of this view of models, see my God, Passibility and Corporeality (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1992), 147, and the literature mentioned there. 37 DeWeese, God, chaps. 2–3, has more space to present the major arguments than I have here. 38 For the following argument I am indebted to Richard E. Creel, Divine Impassibility: An Essay in Philosophical Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 87–8.; see also my God, Passibility and Corporeality, 58, and Nicholas Wolterstorff, “God Everlasting,” in God and the Good: Essays in Honor of Henry Stob, ed. C. J. Orlebeke and L. B. Smedes (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1975), 198–200.

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ard view of omniscience. Moreover, it has become clear how our views of the nature of reality can influence our theological views—even those concerning the attributes of God. The position that God’s existence is temporal is not without problems of its own. It may help us to understand how God can know processes of change in the present, but what about God’s knowledge of past and future? I will come back to God’s knowledge of the future below; here I want to suggest how God could know the past. Since the past has lost its actuality, God cannot know it as actual. But he can possess a perfect memory, and thus his awareness of the past can be as vivid and sharp as his awareness of the present. Our own memory can serve as an analogy: while most of our memories are vague, some have an almost uncanny clarity. Why would it be impossible for God to remember the whole of the past with the same vividness and clarity that characterizes his awareness of the present? Moreover, it is conceivable that God does not need to recall the past, but that it is continuously present to his awareness—not as actual of course, but as past. In other words: God does not loose the past when it is gone, but keeps it without loss of clarity in his memory. He is directly aware of it, not as actual, but as past.39 When we reject the Augustinian-Boethian model of eternity, we cannot retain Boethius’ solution for the dilemma of foreknowledge and free will. Since this is a prima facie disadvantage of the temporal view of God’s eternity, it is helpful to show why this solution would have to be rejected anyway.40 The problem is the following: if God infallibly knows at t1 that Jones mows his lawn at t2, Jones cannot be free at t2 to mow his lawn or not. The Boethian solution: God does not know at t1 that Jones will mow his lawn at t2, but he knows it in e (= timeless eternity). He does not have foreknowledge, but knowledge. But this does not really solve the dilemma, because we can now restate it as follows. If God knows in e that Jones mows his lawn at t2, then the statement “God knows in e that Jones mows his lawn at t2” is true at t1—and at all other moments in time. If God

39 Cf. Ganssle, “Introduction: Thinking about God and Time,” in Four Views, ed. idem, 23; Craig, “Timelessness,” 135. 40 For the following, see Alvin Plantinga, “On Ockham’s Way Out,” in Concept of God, ed. Morris, 171–7; Ganssle, “Introduction,” 19–21; see also note 27 and the literature mentioned there.

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wanted to, God could reveal to one of God’s prophets that Jones mows his lawn at t2 at any time prior to t2. But if that is the case, Jones cannot be free at t2 to mow his lawn or not! In a similar way one can prove that the Augustinian-Boethian conception of eternity implies that time is an illusion. All moments of time are present to God’s eternity. Therefore: t2 is present to God’s eternity. Ergo: at t1 it is true that t2 is present to God’s eternity. But then t2 must be present at t1, which entails that t1 and t2 coincide.41 Quod erat demonstrandum. 5. The Nature of the Future and God’s Knowledge of It If time is not an attribute of those perceiving it but of reality itself, the future cannot yet be actual or present. In other words, the future does not yet exist. Consequently, it seems, God cannot know the future, for what is not, cannot be known. This does not detract from God’s omniscience, for one can hardly expect an all-knowing being to know the unknowable. This is the view currently known as “open theism.”42 The following objection might be raised against this position. The future shares its non-actuality with the past. If God can know the past by being aware of it, not as actual, but as non-actual, why can God not know the future in an analogous way? Why can God not have a clear awareness of everything that is going to happen in the future, not as actual but as nonactual? The crystal ball of the fortune-teller can serve as an analogy: it is not inconceivable that a fortune-teller clearly foresees certain future events in his ball. But then why cannot God in his “crystal ball” foresee all future events? And if such comprehensive foreknowledge is possible, we should ascribe it to God. Otherwise, a being greater than God would be conceivable, and that would be incompatible with the position adopted above that God is a being greater than which cannot be thought.

41 For a much fuller treatment of various forms of this argument I refer to DeWeese, God, 179–184. 42 See, e.g., David Basinger, The Case for Freewill Theism: A Philosophical Assessment (Downer’s Grove, Ill.: Intervarsity Press, 1996); Boyd, “The Open-Theism View”; Clark H. Pinnock, The Openness of God: A Biblical Challenge to the Traditional Understanding of God (Downer’s Grove, Ill.: Intervarsity Press, 1994); Clark H. Pinnock, Most Moved Mover: A Theology of God’s Openness (Downer’s Grove, Ill.: Intervarsity Press, 2001); John Sanders, The God Who Risks: A Theology of Providence (Downer’s Grove, Ill.: Intervarsity Press, 1998).

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This objection is not without problems. To what extent can a fortuneteller foresee the future?43 The answer to this question depends upon the extent to which the future is already determined in the present. If the universe is a closed system each state of which is entirely determined by the previous state, one can in principle know the whole of the past and the whole of the future as soon as one has comprehensive knowledge of the state of the universe at one specific moment, and knows the workings of causality. In that case the future is in principle predictable, not only for a person with the immense knowledge just indicated, but also for a fortuneteller with a crystal ball. However, as soon as we suppose a less rigorous determination of the future and assign a more important role to chance or free will, the future will be fixed to a smaller extent in advance and therefore be predictable with less certainty. In short: the most important objection against comprehensive knowledge of the future consists not in the non-actuality of the future, but in its indeterminateness. This does not mean that knowledge of the future is altogether impossible. An indeterminate future can be known as indeterminate. Thus it is frequently claimed that God not only knows all possibilities as possible, but also knows the relative probability of each possibility being actualized.44 This is the view of God’s knowledge of future contingents articulated by Peter Geach in his well-known analogy of the grand master of chess. On this analogy the world resembles a game of chess. God is like a Grand Master who, whatever his opponent may do, will be able to determine the outcome of the game. “‘On that square,’ says the Grand Master, ‘I will promote my pawn to Queen and deliver checkmate to my adversary’: and it is even so.”45 This analogy assumes that the future consists of a finite and knowable set of possibilities; it is because of this—and because the chess player knows his own moves—that the Grand Master is able to pre-

43 On the level of a novel, this question is discussed in Susan Howatch, Glamorous Powers (1988; repr., Glasgow: Fontana Paperback, 1989), 218–219. The answer suggested there is that clairvoyance is an escape from time into eternity. This answer presupposes the view of eternity that I have rejected in the previous section. 44 Vincent Brümmer, What Are We Doing When We Pray? A Philosophical Inquiry (London: SCM Press, 1984), 44. Cf. Huw P. Owen, Concepts of Deity (London: Macmillan, 1971), 32–3, who only discusses God’s knowledge of possibilities. 45 Peter Geach, Providence and Evil: The Stanton Lectures 1971–2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 57–8. Cf. Pinnock, Most Moved Mover, 51–53.

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dict the outcome with certainty. In a game of chess this is indeed the case, and it is only due to the limitations of the human mind that even the best grand master cannot survey all possibilities simultaneously. It is doubtful, however, whether in this respect reality resembles a game of chess, differing only in that a more comprehensive mind is needed to survey all possibilities. In his work on continua, Charles Hartshorne has shown this Aristotelian picture of the future to be misleading.46 The distinguishing characteristic of a continuum is that there is no limit to the quantity of parts into which it can be divided. Take a straight line between two points A and B: there is no finite number of points which constitute this line. Between each possible pair of points a third point can be located. Another example is that of the chromatic spectrum. If we focus on the color “red”: There is no limit to the shades of red. Between each two shades, a third can be located. These are only two examples, but in many respects the world consists of continua, and it is only for reasons of convenience that we often use measuring units and units of account that are much less fine-meshed than intricate reality itself. The consequence of this is that the future possibilities for the world are infinite. The following example can illustrate this. When I draw an isosceles triangle with two sides of each ten centimeters, I can choose between an infinite number of possibilities, for the angle between both equal sides is a continuum with zero and 180 degrees as limits. The number of possibilities between these extremes is infinite, and thus there is no finite number for me to choose between and for God to know.

46 Hartshorne made use of the work of Charles Peirce in this field. For a good and critical discussion of the work of both, see Creel, Divine Impassibility, 35–63. See also Philosophers Speak of God, ed. C. Hartshorne and W. L. Reese (1953; repr., Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1976), 258–269. On the Aristotelian origin of thinking about the future in terms of separate possibilities see, e.g., Muller, Dictionary, 230–231. It was common both in medieval and in Reformed Scholasticism. See, e.g., on Gisbertus Voetius: De scholastieke Voetius, ed. W.J. van Asselt and Eef Dekker (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995), 34–54, esp. 46.

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Let’s consider a further, somewhat more intricate example. When I am going to paint a small picture—let’s say of the size of a CD-cover—I have even more possibilities to choose from than in drawing a triangle. Now I cannot only choose from an infinite set of angles, but also from an infinite set of forms in general, and colours, and materials, etc. In making a picture I can choose from many continua, and my possibilities are infinite to the umpteenth power. This makes it doubtful whether it makes sense to claim that Someone knows all possibilities the artist has—even when the artist is only going to paint a CD-cover.47 Let me now try to generalize the picture that emerges from these examples. On the traditional view, each realized actuality is preceded by a corresponding possibility, which is similar to the actuality in all respects except that it has not yet been realized in reality. This is a misleading picture, however. It may be helpful to speak about realized actualities in the present, but these were not chosen from a number of separate unrealized possibilities. Instead, they were selected from continua, and it is misleading to describe continua in terms of (un)limited numbers of separate possibilities. When we say that a certain state of affairs is possible, we say that it falls within the continua that determine what might become actual and what not, i.e., we say that it falls between certain limits. We sometimes express this by saying that this state of affairs is a possibility, but we should not by this way of speaking let ourselves be led to believe that the future exists of sets of separate possibilities waiting to be actualized. The future is not a set of actualities leading a sort of shadow existence in expectation of their realization. When we think about the future in that way, we in fact perform a mental reduplication of reality, understandable because we think about the unknown (the future) in terms of the known (the present), but nevertheless misleading.48

47 It was Hartshorne who consistently argued against the reduplication of reality in the traditional view that each realized actuality is preceded by a corresponding possibility, which is similar to the actuality in all respects except that it has not yet been realized in reality. Possibilities are not actualities leading a sort of shadow existence in expectation of their realization. Cf. Creel, Divine Impassibility, 38–43. 48 My argument in the present section follows the trail of Charles Hartshorne. Cf. Creel, Divine Impassibility, 38–43.

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Once we start to think about the future not in terms of finite sets of possibilities waiting to be actualized but in terms of continua, we should no longer say that God can know all possibilities, but rather that God can know the limits within which future actualities will have to fit. For the near future, God will know these limits more precisely and more accurately than for the far future. Omniscience can still be attributed to God, for God still knows all that can be known, but omniscience no longer includes full foreknowledge.49 6. Concluding Reflections The above analysis of God’s eternity and omniscience is neither intended as a piece of free-floating speculation, nor as an attempt to translate religious wishes into theological proposals. It started from traditional articulations of God’s omniscience and eternity, and only revised those traditional articulations of these doctrines in light of certain alleged facts concerning the temporal nature of the world and the nature of the future. One might dispute the conclusions at which I have arrived at either of three levels. Firstly, one might debate whether what I have presented as facts are really facts. If they are not, the conclusions I have drawn need not be drawn. Secondly, even if one admits the facts, one might question whether the conclusions for God’s eternity and omniscience do really follow. I will not enter these avenues here, but others have done so in the past and will no doubt do so in the future. Thirdly, if one is inclined to concede both the facts and the compellingness of the arguments, one might nevertheless argue that the conclusions arrived at are from a religious point of view so inadequate that they have to be rejected. That is the question by which I want to conclude this contribution: Are the articulations of the doctrines of eternity and omniscience that I have proposed religiously adequate? In order to answer this question, we should know first what the religious functions are of the doctrines that God is eternal and omniscient. Eternity by itself, 49 It falls outside the scope of the present contribution to develop this here, but the account of the future given above also excludes middle knowledge solutions. On middle knowledge, see William Hasker, David Basinger and Eef Dekker, eds., Middle Knowledge: Theory and Applications (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2000). The view does admit of God acting in the world to bring about the future God wishes to actualize, however.

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I suggest, has no other function than safeguarding the God’s worthiness of worship. A God who is, like us, “locked up in time”50, would not be worthy of worship.51 Existing sempiternally means, however, that the two most important temporal limitations do not apply: God exists without beginning and without end. If we add to this that God has a perfect memory (guaranteeing that God, unlike us, will not loose the past) and unlimited powers of cognition and action (guaranteeing that at each moment of God’s existence, God can know everything that can be known and do everything that can be done, so that God, unlike us, does not need amounts of time to know or do things) there is no reason to claim that God is “locked up in time” and thus is not worthy of worship. The primary religious function of God’s omniscience is, I would suggest, that only an omniscient God can be fully reliable, because only an omniscient God will be able to know infallibly in advance that things will not get out of hand, in other words, that the world cannot develop in such a way that God can no longer control it. My suggestion would be that for this, God need not know every future state of affairs, but that it is sufficient that God knows the limits within which the future will develop, and knows that these limits will not exceed God’s control. In this respect also, then, I submit that the revised interpretation of the doctrines of God’s omniscience and eternity is religiously adequate. In this contribution I have outlined the traditional doctrines of God’s omniscience and eternity in terms that draw upon scholastic theology, confronted these doctrines with the essentially temporal nature of the world and with the nature of the future, that should be seen as a series of continua rather than as a series of sets of separate states of affairs waiting to be actualized, and argued that and how the traditional doctrines should be reinterpreted in light of this factual information about the world. The result is, I would like to claim, neither a modish rejection of scholasticism and its methods, nor a reduplication of traditional scholasticism and the result to which it comes, but a contemporary way of doing theology in dialogue with the scholastics: scholasticism neither rejected nor vindicated, but reformed!

50 I borrow this phrase from Howatch, Glamorous Powers, 219. 51 See, e.g., Paul Helm, “Divine Timeless Eternity,” in Four Views, ed. Ganssle, 29–30; Craig, “Timelessness,” 132–133.

AN EDWARDSIAN THEODICY Sebastian Rehnman

1. Introduction The relevance of scholasticism for contemporary theology is for the historically uninformed an outrageous idea, but for the historically informed an obvious one. The highly precise and detailed dialectical programme, which characterized instruction and research in law, philosophy, and theology from the eleventh to the mid-eighteenth century, is of standing scholarly importance. For, as Adolph Harnack pointed out, scholasticism exhibits many elements that are common to intellectual activity in every age.1 High precision and detailed dialects will be of particular importance for theology, understood as the investigation into the first and most fundamental principle of reality (to which everything else is related). “For it concerns the most important of beings,”2 and requires a method answering to its demanding subject matter. Here the monumental achievements of scholastics, not only their analysis and arguments from putatively revealed truths in dogmatic theology, but also their investigation and inferences from what is presumably accessible to everybody in natural theology, are of standing relevance and continuing venture. Here I will focus on natural theology. Natural theology is the body of evidence in favour of the existence of a divine being that may be obtained by ordinary human faculties, unsupported by any purported special divine revelation or illumination.3 In natural theology, then, arguments from the existence of the world, together with features such as design and morality, play a significant role. This theology is thus natural in two ways. It is natural in its method, namely the ordinary means of human nature in gaining knowledge (inferential reasoning, introspection, perception, testimony and memory). But the causal, telic, and moral data of this theology is also in principle naturally available to all humans of properly functioning fac1 Adolph Harnack, History of Dogma, ed. Neil Buchanan, 7 vols. (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1894–99), VI.23. 2 Aristoteles Metaphysica, 1064b4–5. My translation.

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ulties. So ideally natural theology rests on established ways of reasoning as well as approved facts. Thus natural theology is regarded as a branch of metaphysics.4 The most important philosophical counterevidence to natural theology is an argument from evil. Many westerners maintain today that belief in the god of traditional theistic religions, such as Christianity, Islam and Judaism, is seriously challenged by the presence of evil. This challenge is by the precisioning and refining of philosophers made into an argument for atheism.5 Accordingly, and especially since the eighteenth century, evil takes a prominent place in the philosophical evaluation of whether or not God exists.6 Philosophical counterarguments have of course been offered to arguments from evil. Here the term “theodicy” has been used for that part of natural theology concerned with vindicating God’s justice or goodness in relation to the evils of the world.7 A justification is minimally some3 William Alston provides a more comprehensive definition: “Natural theology is the enterprise of providing support for religious beliefs by starting from premises that neither are nor presuppose any religious beliefs. We begin from the mere existence of the world, or the teleological order of the world, or the concept of God, and we try to show that when we think through the implications of our starting point we are led to recognize the existence of a being that possesses attributes sufficient to identify Him as God. Once we get that foothold we may seek to show that a being could not have the initial attributes without also possessing certain others; in this manner we try to go as far as building up a picture of God without relying on any supposed experience of God or communication from God, or any religious authority.” William P. Alston, Perceiving God: The Epistemology of Religious Experience (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 289. For some protestant scholastic sources, see Johann-Heinrich Alsted, Theologia naturalis (Frankfurt am Main: Antonius Hummius, 1615), Christoph Scheibler, Theologia naturalis (Giessen: Casparus Chemlinus, 1621), Thomas Barlow, Exercitationes aliquot metaphysicae de Deo, 2nd ed. (Oxford: A. Lichfield, 1658). 4 Anthony Kenny remarks: “Natural theology, it is sometimes said, is neither natural nor theological. It is not theology, but philosophy: it is the philosophical study of questions concerning the existence and nature of God. It is not natural, but highly artificial: it is a discipline which came into existence only after both philosophy and theology had reached a mature stage.” What Is Faith? Essays in the Philosophy of Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 63. 5 There are obviously other concepts of deity for which evil is no problem. (E.g. Aristotle and Simon Blackburn, Think: A Compelling Introduction to Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 175.) The problem of reconciling God with evil rises from additional doctrines of creation and providence. The problem of reconciling evil with divine being does not to my knowledge arise for polytheism. For this reason the problem presupposes a particular kind of monotheism, and therefore I will in this paper use the proper name “God” and the general term “god.” However, whether or not there is one or there are more divine beings is of course something for which natural theology will have to argue.

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thing that accounts for the truth of something else, and here a theodicy purports to discover some divine reasons for some kind(s) of evil(s) in creation and providence. As such a theodicy aims to show the consistency of God with evil by applying divine reasons to evil events and actions. In the nature of the case there cannot, however, be exhaustive knowledge of divine reasons for permitting evil. For the (putative) providential relations to particular evil things are potentially incomprehensible to human beings. For the celebratory purposes of this volume, this paper will develop a brief theodicy out of the late protestant scholastic Jonathan Edwards, especially his posthumous work Concerning the End for which God Created the World (1765). This treatise is divided into a metaphysical and a Scriptural part. In the interest of natural theology I will only use the first part, “wherein is considered what reason teaches concerning” the divine end in the creation of the world.8 2. Divine Moral Perfection Metaphysical arguments for the existence of God lead us to suppose certain divine properties, such as simplicity, infinity, eternity, immutability, and immateriality. They also give reason to infer that God is perfect in power, knowledge, and goodness.9 The problem of evil is part of the classical philosophical dialectic of offering arguments and counterarguments for a hypothesis, in this instance the god hypothesis. But what is the problem more precisely?

6 I do not here concern myself with the distinctions that have been inferred in the problem of evil over the last few decades. For a clear overview, see Michael L. Peterson, “The Problem of Evil,” in A Companion to Philosophy of Religion, ed. P. L. Quinn and C. Taliaferro (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997), 393–401. Richard Swinburne notices, however, the ambiguous way in which the term “the logical problem of evil” is used. Richard Swinburne, Providence and the Problem of Evil (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 20, n. 13. He seems to have in mind that it signifies both “deductive” and “metaphysical.” For a good understanding of the recent discussion, see Ian Wilks, “The Structure of the Contemporary Debate on the Problem of Evil,” Religious Studies 40 (2004): 307–321. 7 The term “theodicy,” though of course not the problem, was introduced by Leibniz in 1710. John Milton writes for instance of the business “to justify the ways of God to man,” and the problem is at least implied in very old canonical passages such as Genesis 18:25: “Shall not the Judge of the earth do right?”

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Philosophers such as J. L. Mackie and William Rowe argue that God does not exist because there occur evils that God could do away with.10 The ability in question is not divine power, since Mackie, Rowe and classical theists agree on omnipotence.11 Rather the problem is divine moral perfection, that God (supposedly) never does the morally impermissible and hence always does the obligatory. For according to Mackie all intelligent beings are obliged to eliminate evil as far as they can, unless there is “absorbed evil,” that is, some suffering “whose goodness outweighs the badness of that suffering.”12 However, although God is supposed to be such a being, there occur some evils that he can eliminate. Thus if God exists, he has not done what he is obliged to do. But God is assumed to be morally perfectly good, and thus always doing what he ought to do and never doing what he ought not to do. So, since 8 Jonathan Edwards, Concerning the End for Which God Created the World, vol. 8, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. Paul Ramsey (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989, 1765), 417. The editor claims that “it is a grave error, now or ever, to separate Edwards’ philosophy from his theology, or his moral philosophy from his theological ethics.” (11) This seems clearly wrong. First of all scholastics such as Edwards never assumed such a relationship between theology and philosophy as Barthians, such as Ramsey, do. For scholasticism philosophy and theology were naturally integrated because of their overlapping subject matter, but were distinct owing to their different sources. Second, it is clear that arguments with naturally accessible premises are ubiquitous in Edwards’ writings and these can thus be isolated for philosophical analysis. Third, Edwards distinguishes explicitly between the metaphysical and exegetical part of Concerning the End for which God Created the World. Thus we have both general and particular grounds for studying Edwards’ philosophy separate from his theology. For similar criticism of Ramsey, see Philip L. Quinn, “The Master Argument of the Nature of True Virtue,” in Jonathan Edwards: Philosophical Theologian, ed. P. Helm and O. D. Crisp (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 79–80. For a major refutation of the inseparability thesis of theology and philosophy in scholasticism with reference to Aquinas, see Russell Pannier and Thomas Sullivan, “Getting a Grip on the Philosophies of Thomas Aquinas: A Defense of Systematic Reconstruction,” Faith and Philosophy 18 (2001): 50–60. 9 For contemporary book-length treatments of aspects of natural theology, see for instance David Braine, The Reality of Time and the Existence of God: The Project of Proving God’s Existence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), William Lane Craig, The Kalam Cosmological Argument (London: Macmillan, 1979), Paul Helm, Eternal God: A Study of God without Time (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), H. P. Owen, The Moral Argument for Christian Theism (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1965), Barry Miller, From Existence to God: A Contemporary Philosophical Argument (London: Routledge, 1992), idem, A Most Unlikely God (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1996), Richard Swinburne, The Existence of God, 2nd rev. ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2004), Illtyd Trethowan, Absolute Value: A Study in Christian Theism (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1970), William F. Vallicella, A Paradigm Theory of Existence: Onto-Theology Vindicated (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2002), and Mark Wynn, God and Goodness: A Natural Theological Perspective (London: Routledge, 1999).

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there are evils that God ought to have eliminated if he existed, God does not exist. Rowe likewise assumes that a good being ought to prevent the occurrence of any intense suffering it can, “unless it could not do so without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse.”13 But since there occur such instances of suffering that God could prevent and God supposedly always does what he ought to do, God does not exist. Divine moral perfection will of course be understood in terms of one or another theory of the nature of morality. This argument from evil arises from the assumption of consequentialism.14 According to this moral theory, whether an action (or a series of actions) is right or wrong, is determined by its consequences. An act is obligatory if it produces (or can be expected to produce) an overall balance of good over evil. An act

10 E.g. J. L. Mackie, The Miracle of Theism: Arguments for and against the Existence of God (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), 150–76, William L. Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. D. Howard-Snyder (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1996, 1979), idem, “The Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil. 11 A much discussed proposal for a solution to the logical version of the problem of evil is the free will defence of Alvin Plantinga. His argument assumes however a concept of providence that is incompatible with such representative theists as Augustine, Anselm, Aquinas, Turretin, and others. I discuss the free will defence in Tänkesätt: Studier i Alvin Plantingas Filosofi (Skellefteå: Norma, 2004), 63–91. 12 Mackie, The Miracle of Theism, 154. 13 Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” 2. 14 Although the argument is clearly formulated in terms of the overall balance of good over evil (“greater good” or “outweighing good”), it has been claimed that with certain minor modifications the argument need not assume consequentialism and thus is theoretically neutral. See, e.g., Bruce Russell, “The Persistent Problem of Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 6 (1989): 129. For an argument that the argument from evil commonly assumes the truth of consequentialism and that minor modifications will not do, see Eric Reitan, “Does the Argument from Evil Assume a Consequentialist Morality?” Faith and Philosophy 17 (2000): 306–319, esp. 312–4. It has moreover been claimed that, “theists who adopt the greater-good hypothesis accept a consequentialist approach to defining evils. Such theists are consequentialist in applying moral theory to God, but may nonetheless be, as most theists are, deontological in applying moral theory to humans.” Wilks, “The Structure of the Contemporary Debate on the Problem of Evil,” 321, n. 15. For a comprehensive theodicy that seems to apply consequentialism to God, see Swinburne, Providence and the Problem of Evil. Cf. also David McNaughton, “Is God (Almost) a Consequentialist? Swinburne’s Moral Theory,” Religious Studies 38 (2002): 265–281.

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has the best consequences if the aggregated amount of good outweighs the aggregated amount of evil. So on this account, for God to be morally perfectly good, he ought to do what has the best consequences. However, consequentialism and divine moral perfection are incompatible. On a consequentialist account a perfect God is obliged to produce a world with a greater overall balance of good over evil than any other world he could produce. But let us assume that God produces a world with a certain surplus of good over evil. Call this world W1 and the aggregated amount of good things n. Now, God can produce a world W2 such that the overall amount of good things is greater than n, say, n+1. However, to n+1 could be added, so God could produce a world W3 in which there is a greater good than n+1. Thus for any world with a surplus of good, God could produce a world with a greater surplus of good. But then God cannot produce the greatest surplus of good. Since the argument assumes both consequentialism and divine moral perfection and these are not compatible, it cannot be true. However, classical theism assumes some form of non-consequentialism, and so characterizes what is good and what is evil in terms of right and wrong kinds of actions. It is in terms of such a moral theory that theists typically take God to be morally perfectly good.15 But this cannot simply mean that God is morally perfectly good because of his will or command. For then God would be good only insofar as he has willed something or issued commands. Rather God is typically taken to be morally perfectly good by nature, so that it is because of God’s nature that he always wills what is good and never wills what is evil.16 But what is it in God’s nature on this account that makes some kinds of actions right and some kinds of actions wrong? Well, moral judgments such as “good” or “bad,” “right” or “wrong,” ascribe moral properties to actions. Since (from what has already been said on this account) these 15 Brian Davies is an exception, who denies that God is morally good. E.g., Brian Davies, “The Problem of Evil,” in Philosophy of Religion: A Guide to the Subject, ed. B. Davies (London: Cassell, 1998), 177–82. For two brief counter-arguments, see Brian J. Shanley, The Thomist Tradition, vol. 2, Handbook of Contemporary Philosophy of Religion, ed. E. T. Long (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2002), 115–6; cf. Richard Swinburne, The Coherence of Theism, rev. ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 187. 16 Even so-called divine command theorists refer to God’s nature in face of a counter-argument from the arbitrariness of morality on their account. E.g., Janine Marie Idziak, “Divine Command Ethics,” in Companion to Philosophy of Religion, ed. P. L. Quinn and C. Taliaferro (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997), 453–459, 459.) However, such a response is not consistent with that theory of morality and thus not available to the divine command theorist.

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properties do not depend on the attitudes of agents (whether divine or human) but on the objective nature of reality, moral properties will then depend (in some sense) on the natural properties of kinds of actions. Those actions that are good intrinsically and independently of the will of God are so because moral properties are taken to be entailed by natural properties. On this account (following Richard Swinburne’s succinct statement), if something has the natural properties, say, N1, N2 and N3, then it has the moral property M. Given this, it is a (logically) necessary moral truth that whatever is N1, N2 and N3 is M; and it is a contingent moral truth that there exists something which possesses N1, N2, N3 and M. But the fact that this contingent moral truth obtains is itself a necessary moral truth. For a complete factual statement of the natural properties of the action in question, entails the moral property.17 Now, since moral goodness is then based on a set of logically necessary truths and God knows all necessary truths, the will of God cannot set these aside, or God cannot act contrary to them, as God cannot do the logically impossible. Thus it is logically necessary that God never does a wrong kind of action and always does a right kind of action. What good, then, might God have aimed at in the act of creating the world? Here Jonathan Edwards can make a contribution. God cannot have aimed at fulfilling a want. As God is purportedly infinite, eternal, and immutable, so he is independently glorious and happy or perfect in and of himself. No concept of God’s ultimate end in the creation of the world would then be coherent, which implies “any indigence, insufficiency and mutability in God; or any dependence of the Creator on the creature, for any part of his perfection or happiness.” It is moreover incompatible with the concept of creation that created reality adds anything to God, since that concept implies perfect, absolute and universal derivation and dependence.18 So God is infinitely happy in and of himself, and infinitely values his existence and perfection apart from the world. And since God is “infinitely the greatest and best of beings,” it is intrinsically good that he is his own ultimate end in the creation of the world.19

17 Swinburne, The Coherence of Theism, 192. 18 Edwards, Concerning the End for Which God Created the World, 420. 19 Ibid., 421.

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However, God’s infinite existence and perfection cannot be supposed to be the end of any divine operation. For God’s existence and perfection is actual prior to any divine action. God’s original ultimate and highest end in the act of creation must then be something that is attainable by the creation. That is, it will be an end in consequence of the will to create: we must suppose that God before he created the world had some good in view, as a consequence of the world’s existence, that was originally agreeable to him in itself considered, that inclined him to create the world, or bring the universe with various intelligent creatures into existence in such a manner as he created it.20

For, an end such as dealing justly and faithfully with the creation, and especially with intelligent creatures, is a consequence of its existence. It is only on the occasion of the creation that divine justice and faithfulness will be exercised, but being just and faithful towards the creation cannot have been God’s ultimate end prior to the creation of the world. Rather, it is the original ultimate end that gives God occasion for such consequential ends. God’s glory and happiness is infinite, eternal and immutable in and of himself. To suppose then that God exercises his will about temporal and spatial things and makes them his end, is to suppose that God takes pleasure in them. As there is no want in God, his pleasure in created things is a pleasure in and of himself. For if he did not take pleasure in the expression of his own glory and happiness in the creation and governance of the world, then that would be evidence that he is not infinitely, eternally and immutably glorious and happy in and of himself. So if God creates and governs a world, that is something he does for his mere pleasure in and of himself. God’s end in creation and providence must then be something that is simply and originally valuable in itself. If God could make himself the end in the creation of the world, that would be a simply and absolutely good end. As God is perfectly happy in his attributes, so he is supposedly perfectly happy in their exercise and expression. So, “if the fullness of good [in God . . .] is in itself excellent and worthy to exist, then the emanation, or that which is as it were an increase, repetition or multiplication of it, is excellent and worthy to exist.”21 Thus: 20 Ibid., 412. 21 Ibid., 433.

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we may suppose that a disposition in God, as an original property of his nature, to an emanation of his own infinite fullness, was what excited him to create the world; and so that the emanation itself was aimed at by him as a last end of the creation.22 So that in delighting in the expressions of his perfections, . . . he manifests a delight in himself; and in making these expressions of his own perfections his end, he makes himself his end.23

This is the intrinsically good God aims at in the creation of the world, and it is right that God is infinitely, eternally and immutably delighted in himself and his properties. 3. Evil Things and Subordinate Ends Is, however, the creation of a world seemingly full of evil part of God’s end in communicating his own glory? How can God make such an evil world for the pleasure of communicating his glory? We need first to consider what evil is. In speech we easily reify evil, but there are only things that are evil. There is no such independent reality as badness, but only a lot of evil or bad things. But what makes a thing evil? A thing can be bad or evil for innumerable reasons. What makes a bilge-pump bad is not what makes blindness bad. A pump is bad if it is defective in drawing off water, whereas an eye is bad if there is a loss of sight. Similarly a selfish disposition or action inhibits or destroys the common human good. Things are bad in one way or another by being an instance of a kind that does not flourish. If the thing had been a flourishing instance of its kind, it would not have been bad. So the absence, loss, incompleteness or deprivation of the optimal function of the nature of the thing makes something bad or evil. In the words of Edwards, what makes something

22 Ibid., 435. Cf. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, 22th ed., 6 vols. (Rome: Marietti, 1940, 1266–73), 1.19.3–5 23 Ibid., 437. For reasons of space I leave out the further precision that comes out of Edwards answer to objections against this concept of God. These are (1) that God’s disposition of communicating his own fullness is inconsistent with God’s absolute independence and immutability; (2) that God is selfish; (3) that God is self-absorbed; and (4) that, if God makes himself into the ultimate end, it diminishes the obligation of gratitude in creatures (436–63).

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existent evil is a “defect and nonentity.”24 But since a thing is bad or evil because of a defect in what it is supposed to be, that which makes the thing bad always supervenes on that which makes the thing good. The thing will not be bad unless it is at least good enough to be identified as that thing and not another. Evil can then only exist in something good, and thus there is an asymmetrical relationship between the good and bad of a thing. But why are there so many defective things? To understand this we need to consider what sorts of evil things there are. Evil things are commonly divided into two kinds: such that are suffered and such that are done.25 In evil suffered there is something lacking with respect to generation and locomotion, and in evil done there is something deficient with respect to reason, emotion and will. When bacteria attack a healthy

24 Ibid., 432, cf. Jonathan Edwards, Freedom of the Will, vol. 1, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. P. Ramsey (New Haven/London: Yale University Press/Oxford University Press, 1957, 1754), 145. This idea has a long tradition and is found, for instance, in Plato, Respublica, trans. Paul Shorey, 2 vols., Loeb Classical Library (London: Heinemann, 1930, 1935), 476a, idem, Theaetetus, trans. Harold North Fowler, Loeb Classical Library (London: Heinemann, 1921), 176e, Aristotle, Metaphysica, trans. Hugh Tredenick, 2 vols., Loeb Classical Library (London: Heinemann, 1933), 1051a4–22, Plotinus, Enneades, trans. A. H. Armstrong, 7 vols., Loeb Classical Library (London: Heinemann, 1966–88), 1.8.3, Augustine, Enchiridion ad Laurentium de fide spe et caritate, vol. 46, Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina (Turnholt: Brepols, 1954–, 421–3), Anselm, De Casu Diaboli, vol. 1, Anselmi Opera Omnia, ed. F. S. Schmitt, 6 vols. (Edinburgh: Thomas Nelson, 1946–61, 1086), 19–20, idem, De Concordia (1108), Opera Omnia, vol. 2, 7, Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles, ed. A. Leone (Rome: Forzanii et socii, 1894, 1259–65), 2.41.10, 3.6, 3.9.2, 3.14.3, 3.20.4, idem, Summa Theologiae, 1.48.2.2, 1.2.79.2, John Owen, A Display of Arminianism, vol. 1, The Works of John Owen, ed. W. H. Goold, 24 vols. (London: Johnstone & Hunter, 1850–55, 1643), 86, idem, Pneumatologia: A Discourse Concerning the Holy Spirit (1674), Works, vol. 3, 287, Francis Turrettin, Institutio Theologicae Elencticae (Geneva: Samuel de Tournes, 1679–85), 9.11.16. Privatio boni has also been defended by contemporary philosophers Marilyn McCord Adams, Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God (Ithaca/London: Cornell University Press, 1999), Bill Anglin and Stewart Goetz, “Evil Is Privation,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 13 (1982): 3–12, Paul Helm, The Providence of God (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press, 1993), 168–71, Herbert McCabe, “Evil,” in God Matters, ed. H. McCabe (London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1981), Nicholas Wolterstorff, “Barth on Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 13 (1996): 597–598. 25 Already in the introduction to De gratia et libero arbitrio Augustine distinguished between “evil of penalty” (malum poenae) and “evil of fault” (malum culpae). Scholastics later developed this distinction (cf. Aquinas, ST, 1.19.9, 1.49.2), and contemporary philosophers generally distinguish similarly between “natural evil” and “moral evil.” McCabe’s terms “evil suffered” and “evil done” seems preferable as they avoid most assumptions about what results in what in the distinction.

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human being or a fawn is caught in a forest fire, evil is suffered. When someone steals someone else’s car or when a five-year-old girl is brutally murdered, evil is done. Let us first consider natural evil or suffering. We noticed above that things are bad in one way or another by being an instance of a kind that does not flourish. But in a world where an enormous amount of things regularly interact some flourish at the expense of the flourishing of others. Whenever a lynx kills a roe or a bacterium attacks a human being, the lynx and the bacterium operate as a good lynx or a good bacterium naturally should. They perfect their nature and are thus not in themselves evil. The destruction is of course bad for the sufferer, relatively though really, but of itself it is an occasion of good for the destroyer. Such destruction would even seem to be a condition of life for finite things. For the life of one evolves by means of the death of another, and the realisation of one is the deprivation of another. In a universe with multiple kinds of things that bring their nature to completion, suffering will attend by “natural necessity,”26 and the amount will be proportional to the amount of things. So there is as much suffering as one would expect. But considered in their ecosystem, the overall interaction of things appears thrifty, gentle and well-adapted. Some of this suffering is of course also good for the avoidance of further suffering. Instances of suffering are occasions for the sufferer and/or observers to stay away from that which inflicts the suffering. Here we can turn to the other kind of evil, namely moral evil that is done. Evil can be done because of the human ability to choose, and some naturally occurring evils carry the good of human freedom. For without the occurrence of some such evil it is likely that we would not know the difference between doing good or bad, to help or harm, and without a lawful order in the world significant moral action would not be possible. This order is a necessary condition for the endurance of things and intelligent action.27 But these natural processes will result in some pain, suffering, disability and frustration in free beings.

26 Edwards, Freedom of the Will, 156. 27 For Edwards’ development of this cf. ibid; Jonathan Edwards, Original Sin, vol. 3, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. C. A. Holbrook (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1970, 1758), 384–8; similarly Swinburne, Providence and the Problem of Evil, 160–92.

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But human freedom also results in an awful amount of evil actions. Such actings are obviously regarded as in some way unbecoming or improper to a human being. Injustice or cruelty makes human beings less human than they could be. For whereas good actions complete human nature, bad actions diminish both the humanity of the perpetrator and the victim(s). When good is done the agent perceives or desires his own and/or others’ well-being. When evil is done the agent fails to perceive or desires to frustrate his own and others’ well-being. Moral evil thus arises from a perverse volition or misdirected realisation of the will where the agent turns from something good to “defect and nonentity.” When evil is done some apparent or trivial good is chosen instead of some real and great good. From the above it should be clear that our ontology should not include evils. Given theism, God made all individuals (other than himself) with all their positive properties in order to communicate his own infinite goodness. But God cannot be said to have made evil or badness as all substances were created and are preserved metaphysically good by God. Evil is not then substantial or real (actus), but lack of reality. God does not cause the evil of things, but evil supervenes on the creature’s lack of goodness. Thus a general assumption of the argument from evil is not granted by the theist and the argument is at least not sound. From the above it should also be clear that God’s relation to evil things is not the same as his relation to good things.28 Although God is supposed to be the sufficient cause of the good of everything, his causal relationship to good things and to evil things is asymmetrical. As primary cause God initiates the finite causal chain of all contingent causes and effects. This order of secondary causality operates according to the nature of things. This implies that usually all causal relations are not preceded by special divine action, but that God only sustains in being the necessary as well as the free operations of secondary causes. When a secondary cause is deficient (either with respect to suffering or the

28 Cf. Edwards, Concerning the End for Which God Created the World, 426, Edwards, Freedom of the Will, 399, 403–4, Edwards, Original Sin, 397–8, 402. Aquinas SCG, 3.70, ST, 1.105.5, Turrettin, Institutio, Kathryn Tanner, “Human Freedom, Human Sin, and God the Creator,” in The God Who Acts: Philosophical and Theological Explorations, ed. T. F. Tracy (University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994), 111–135.

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doing of something as it ought not to be done), it depends on the primary cause with respect to what is real and good; it cannot be sustained by what is deficient. But its deficiency comes out of itself. But if God is the sufficient cause of being and goodness, and evil is absence of being and goodness, then God seems ultimately responsible for the evil effects of secondary causes, even if free contingent beings are blamed for evil acts. Edwards replies: If by “the author of sin,” be meant the sinner, the agent, or actor of sin, or the doer of a wicked thing; so it would be a reproach and blasphemy, to suppose God to be the author of sin. In this sense, I utterly deny God to be the author of sin; rejecting such an imputation on the most High, as what is infinitely to be abhorred; and deny any such thing to be the consequence of what I have laid down. But if by “the author of sin,” is meant the permitter, or not a hinderer of sin; and at the same time, a disposer of the state of events, in such a manner, for wise, holy and most excellent ends and purposes, that sin, if it be permitted or not hindered, will most certainly and infallibly follow: I say, if this be all that is meant, by being the author of sin, I don’t deny that God is the author of sin (though I dislike and reject the phrase, as that which by use and custom is apt to carry another sense), it is no reproach for the most High to be thus the author of sin.29

This formulation of God’s causal relationship to evil in traditional terms of permissio, flows from theism: there are two orders of causes, that of the Creator and that of the creature. Within the latter there is a further distinction between physically necessary and voluntarily contingent causes. Intelligent beings are free by the judgment of reason and the spontaneity of choice, and if God did not permit human beings to determine to act or not to act according to their nature, he would destroy his own work. Human beings are then themselves the immediate cause of their own bad actions by their judgment of reason and the spontaneity

29 Edwards, Freedom of the Will, 399, Edwards, Original Sin, 384, 93–4, Turrettin, Institutio, 6.8. Contemporary philosophers have also argued that God is ultimately responsible for evil done, but that humans as the proximate cause by its deficient volition can be blamed for this kind of evil. Paul Helm, “God and the Approval of Sin,” Religious Studies 20 (1984), Helm, Eternal God: A Study of God without Time, 144– 70, Gerard J. Hughes, The Nature of God (London: Routledge, 1995), 153–4, 65–71, William Mann, “God’s Freedom, Human Freedom, and God’s Responsibility for Sin,” in Divine and Human Action: Essays in the Metaphysics of Theism, ed. T. V. Morris; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988), Nelson Pike, “Over-Power and God’s Responsibility for Sin,” in The Existence and Attributes of God, ed. A. Freddoso (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983).

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of choice. Although God sustains in being all human actions, he does not bring about the failure of human beings in achieving and preserving something good. It can here be objected that God ought to prevent moral evil. But how can God be obliged to this? Edwards writes: It is unreasonable to suppose, that God should be obliged, if he makes a reasonable creature capable of knowing his will, and receiving a law from him, and being subject to his moral government, at the same time to make it impossible for him to sin, or break this law. For if God be obliged to this, it destroys all use of any commands, laws, promises, or threatenings, and the very notion of any moral government of God over those reasonable creatures.30

This objection proves too much in annulling divine authority and human morality. If God is obliged to anything, as lawgiver he is certainly obliged to maintain the moral government of intelligent creatures. And there cannot be any significant moral choices if whenever something evil were to be done, that which makes it evil is taken away. We are now in a position to consider possible divine ends in relation to evil things. God’s ultimate end in the creation of the world is to communicate his own fullness of good. This is what he seeks for its own sake and values more than anything else in creation and providence. God pursues and aims at everything else not for its own sake, but as means to his highest end. Opposite to this ultimate end are inferior and subordinate ends. These are less valued than and sought for the sake of God’s communication of his glory. Among God’s inferior and subordinate ends is permission of evil by causing goodness in things. God sustains all things in being, although the perfection of some leads to the destruction of others. All things cause or are caused according to the power of their kind, and within the finite order secondary causes obtain so that human beings are subject to the powers of natural causes. Cause and effect, Edwards argues, “is only by the established laws, and settled course of nature; which is allowed to be nothing but the continued immediate efficacy of God, according to a constitution that he has been pleased to establish.”31 But the communication of God’s wisdom and power in a highly fine tuned universe 30 Jonathan Edwards, The Justice of God in the Damnation of Sinners, vol. 1, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. E. Hickman, 2 vols. (London: Arnold Ball, 1834, 1738), 670. 31 Edwards, Original Sin, 401.

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with an enormous amount of things that constantly interact is more valued and sought after than the suffering that naturally follows this order. Particular occurrences of suffering are dependent and permitted for the subordinate end of an orderly world. This latter subordinate end is in turn sought wholly on account of the further end or in order to communicate the divine fullness, of which it is considered as a means. God can of course set aside the natural order whenever it may become evil. However, if God did that often, the universe would be dissolved and the predictability necessary for morally significant action eliminated. So God allows evil of certain kinds (together with its consequences) because it is necessary for moral responsibility and the latter is good. The orderliness of the universe is then an inferior and subordinate end for God’s ultimate end in delighting in the expression of his wisdom, goodness, justice, and truth. Human freedom is moreover a good that makes it possible for human beings to know and love the infinite fullness of God. This is closely related to the ultimate divine end. But human freedom also makes horrendous actions possible. Human freedom is not of course so highly valued or regarded as the ultimate end for the creation of the world. God is though good in producing human freedom, and if God took away the judgment of reason and the spontaneity of choice, he would destroy his own work and not be good. So evil done may be in a succession of subordinate ends for God’s ultimate end in communicating his fullness. As subordinate ends they are never more valued than the end to which they are subordinate. There may even be further subordinate ends of the subordinate end of human freedom. Some suffering leads to human development and maturity, and in turn understanding and love of the divine glory. So God does something good to the subject through something evil he or she is suffering, and God’s end with some evil may then be to have humans mature and thereby ultimately be united in fellowship with him: “the more those divine communications increase in the creature, the more it

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becomes one with God.”32 On this account some evil states of affairs would be valuable in conveying participation in God’s ultimate end for the creation of the world. Moreover some kinds of evil may be temporal punishment for some other human evil.33 Such a subordinate and inferior end would enforce the moral nature of the universe.34 4. Consequentialism Redivivus? Are not then after all the evil suffered and done in the world simply means to God’s end? Has not then consequentialism come back to life? Here is Edwards reply: I answer, that for God to dispose and permit evil, in the manner that has been spoken of, is not to do evil that good may come; for it is not to do evil at all. In order to a thing’s being morally evil, there must be one of these things belonging to it: either it must be a thing unfit and unsuitable in its own nature; or it must have a bad tendency; or it must proceed from an evil disposition, and be done for an evil end. But neither of these can be attributed to God’s ordering or permitting such events, as the immoral acts of creatures, for good ends.35

Of these three conditions the last two do not require a lot of comment. For divine moral goodness is supposed in the argument from evil, and a good tendency and disposition done for a good end have been argued 32 Cf. Edwards, Concerning the End for Which God Created the World, 443. For more on suffering and character formation, see Jonathan Edwards, Charity and Its Fruits, vol. 8, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. P. Ramsey (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1989, 1738), 313–25. For similar contemporary arguments, see John Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 2nd ed. (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1978), Eleonore Stump, “The Problem of Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 2 (1985): 392–423, Marilyn M. Adams, “Redemptive Suffering: A Christian Approach to the Problem of Evil,” in Rationality, Religious Belief, and Moral Commitment, ed. R. Audi and W. J. Wainwright (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986). 33 Edwards, Original Sin, 118, 213, 57–8, 315. 34 Several other ends could be appealed to if putatively revealed truths are allowed in theodicy. This has been fairly common in philosophy the last few decades. However, Edwards and scholasticism in general would regard such appeals as a transfer from natural to dogmatic or supernatural theology. Philosophical analysis is clearly applicable to such putative truths and a complete or fully adequate theodicy likely needs such truths. But this raises the question of premise acceptability. From a scholastic point of view some recent work on the problem of evil is a hybrid of theology and philosophy. 35 Edwards, Freedom of the Will, 410.

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for. But is the communication of divine fullness a fit and suitable ultimate end in the creation of the world? First it should be clear that this is not consequentialism. For it is maintained that there is something about the communication of divine fullness itself, apart from outweighing good consequences, that is determinative of its moral goodness. Thus God’s act of creation is not evil at all. Some consequences may of course be relevant, but characteristics of the act itself are crucial, and it is those characteristics that make the action good. But, second, is the communication of divine fullness really intrinsically good? God is fit to be made the ultimate end for every being, since he is the infinitely highest and greatest being. For “there is an infinite fullness of all possible good in God, a fullness of every perfection, of all excellency and beauty, and of infinite happiness.”36 Thus it is not unfit in its own nature for God to dispose and permit some evil for this end. Nor is this inconsistent with the good of creatures. For God is benevolent to them in making them subordinate and inferior ends participating in his ultimate end. The good of every being consists in participation in the divine fullness, and in his pursuit of happiness God does not deprive creatures of that. Like parents who may allow a child to sacrifice something for the good of the family, God may withhold some individuals a certain kind of happiness for the good of God’s glory. However the evil states of affairs that this implies are not God’s ultimate end for the creation of the world, nor are they intrinsically and absolutely pleasing, but have just a dependent and subordinate value as subordinate ends in a succession of many subordinate ends. For God to act differently would be evil. Edwards brings out the intrinsic goodness of God’s communication of himself in relation to an argument from a disinterested person: Now such a judge in adjusting the proper measures and kinds of regard that every part of existence is to have, would weigh things in an even balance; taking care that greater, or more existence should have a greater share than a less, that a greater part of the whole should be more looked at and respected than the lesser in proportion (other things being equal) to the measure of existence, that the more excellent should be more regarded than the less excellent: so that the degree of regard should always be in proportion compounded of the proportion of existence and proportion of excellence, or according to the degree of greatness and 36 Edwards, Concerning the End for Which God Created the World, 432–3.

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goodness considered conjunctly. Such an arbiter, in considering the system of created intelligent beings by itself, would determine that the system in general, consisting of many millions, was of greater importance, and worthy of a greater share of regard, than only one individual. . . . And if this judge consider not only the system of created beings, but the system of being in general, comprehending the sum total of universal existence, both Creator and creature; still every part must be considered according to its weight and importance, or the measure it has of existence and excellence. To determine, then, what proportion of regard is to be allotted to the Creator, and all his creatures taken together, both must be as it were put in the balance; the Supreme Being, with all in him that is great, considerable, and excellent, is to be estimated and compared with all that is to be found in the whole creation: and according as the former is found to outweigh, in such proportion is he to have a greater share of regard. . . . And as the Creator is infinite, and has all possible existence, perfection and excellence, so he must have all possible regard.37

God is good in having a respect to everything else in proportion to their nature and everything else should have a respect to God in proportion to his nature. 5. Conclusion Philosophy stands in dialogue with its history perhaps more than other disciplines, because many of the traditional problems are of perennial concern and essential to our pursuit of truth. In this paper I have tried to show the relevance of the late protestant scholastic Jonathan Edwards for the contemporary philosophical problem of evil. The contemporary formulation of the problem of evil commonly assumes consequentialism. Thus God is assumed to be obliged to produce a greater good that outweighs the evil things of this world. However, God’s moral perfection cannot be understood in terms of consequentialism. On classical theism, the creation and governance of the world is an intrinsically good action. For thereby the divine fullness is manifested and that fullness is intrinsically good. The communication of God’s power, wisdom, justice, goodness and truth is the great and good end of the world. 37 Ibid., 423–4. Cf. the argument in Augustine (Confessiones, 13) and Aquinas (ST, 148.2.3, 1.49.3) that the reason God permits some evil states of affairs may be that they are for the better of the “great chain of being.”

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The contemporary formulation of the problem of evil also commonly and unsoundly assumes that on classical theism God made evil. But there is no such thing as evil or badness; only the lack of goodness in evil things. A world that moreover allows for the evolution and interaction of many kinds of things, and especially intelligent life, naturally necessitates much suffering. But as subordinate end such a world is never more valued than the end to which it is subordinate, namely the communication of God’s glory. Thus God may regard particular evil states of affairs as consequent, subordinate and inferior ends under given circumstances. Some things may under the general nature of things, the general design in the being and constitution of the universe, and particular emergent circumstances, be inferior ends and accordingly pleasing to God under those conditions. Properly and originally such states of affairs are though not God’s ultimate end of the creation of the world. It is God’s ultimate end to communicate himself in and through the constant interaction of creatures.38

38 I am grateful to Prof. Paul Helm for comments and to Dr. Daniel Hill for comments and discussion of an earlier version of this paper. Any remaining deficiencies are of course my own responsibility. Some material in this paper has a remote ancestor in an earlier book of mine: Sebastian Rehnman, Gud, Kunskap och Vara: Kunskapsteori och Metafysik hos Ingemar Hedenius (Nora: Nya Doxa, 2002), 207–34.

REFORMED SCHOLASTICISM AND THE TRINITARIAN RENAISSANCE Gijsbert van den Brink

1. Introduction: The Twentieth Century Trinitarian Renaissance The locus which provokes the most energetic research and lively debate in contemporary systematic theology is no doubt the doctrine of the divine Trinity. As David Cunningham observes, “[o]nce threatened by its relative scarcity in modern theology, the doctrine of the Trinity now seems more likely to be obscured by an overabundance of theologians clustered around it.”1 And in what would become his last book the late Stanley Grenz points to the same fact, when he indicates that “exploring the triunity of God has developed into one of the most popular theological pursuits . . . , encompassing the efforts of thinkers representing nearly every ecclesiological tradition and theological persuasion.”2 Indeed, during the twentieth century both Eastern Orthodox and Western theologians from all major traditions (Roman Catholic, Lutheran, Anglican, Reformed etc.) came to reaffirm the doctrine of the Trinity as the result of careful reflection on the biblical narratives concerning God’s concrete action in the world in the coming of the Messiah and the gift of the Holy Spirit. Thus, the huge resurgence of interest in the doctrine of the Trinity and, more widely, in trinitarian theology, can be considered as a first-rate ecumenical event. I will not delve into the background and motives behind this remarkable movement here—an issue as intriguing as it is complex.3 Rather, given this volume’s focus on some of the themes which have the professional interest of Willem van Asselt and on which he has done such 1 David Cunningham, These Three are One: The Practice of Trinitarian Theology (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1998), 19. 2 Stanley J. Grenz, Rediscovering the Triune God: The Trinity in Contemporary Theology (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 2004), 1. 3 For an insightful analysis, cf. Christoph Schwöbel, “The Renaissance of Trinitarian Theology: Reasons, Problems and Tasks,” in Trinitarian Theology Today, ed. C. Schwöbel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1995), 1–30; see also my “De hedendaagse renaissance van de triniteitsleer,” Theologia Reformata 46 (2003): 210–40.

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energetic and important work during the past decades, we have to pause for a moment to contemplate the so-called other side of the coin. For we cannot ignore the fact that the present-day trinitarian renaissance goes hand in hand with a profound intuition that, when it comes to the doctrine of the Trinity, something has gone fatally wrong in the past. Usually, the starting point of the trinitarian renaissance is found in the work of Karl Barth, while an important new impetus on the Catholic side came from Karl Rahner.4 Both thinkers—perhaps the most influential Western theologians of the twentieth century—contributed greatly to the disruption of the widespread idea that trinitarian thought was a mere speculative issue of at best antiquarian interest, as well as to the recovery of its central place in the story of Christian theology. If it is true that something has gone wrong in the history of the doctrine of the Trinity, this fault must be found somewhere prior to the twentieth century. Indeed, this is where most theologians locate it. Opinions differ widely, however, as to where and when exactly the decline of trinitarian theology began. Karl Rahner, for one, accused Thomas Aquinas of taking a crucial wrong turn in his Summa Theologiae when he discussed the doctrine of the one God (de Deo uno) prior to the doctrine of the triune God (de Deo trino). For others, however, such as Robert Jenson and Colin Gunton, the root of the West’s trinitarian oblivion is to be found already in Augustine’s De Trinitate. Still others, Catherine LaCugna being their most well-known representative, claim that the main cause of the problems can even be traced back as far as the post-Nicene Greek fathers, who purportedly isolated the immanent from the economic Trinity by one-sidedly focusing their attention on the former.5 There is a fourth group of interpreters who, without denying altogether the elements of truth in the other historical analyses, point to the seventeenth century as the main period in which crucial shifts took place which led to the marginalization of the Trinity. According to them, it 4 Cf., e.g., Roger E. Olson and Christopher Hall, The Trinity (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2002), 95–100; Grenz, Rediscovering, 5, rightly assumes that Barth and Rahner “more than any other thinkers both launched the renewal and set the parameters for the trinitarian theology that would arise in the twentieth century.” 5 Catherine M. LaCugna, God For Us: The Trinity and Christian Life (San Francisco: Harper, 1991). For other references to the literature, and for some thoughtful caveats with regard to this practice of “historical scapegoating,” see Cunningham, These Three are One, 31–3; cf. also his “Trinitarian Theology since 1990,” Reviews in Religion and Theology 2 (1995): 13–4.

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was very early in the Enlightenment era that the doctrine of the Trinity, which had been central for Thomas Aquinas, Luther, Calvin and their contemporaries, fell into rapid decline—a process which they attempt to trace in the writings of both Catholic theologians and Protestant postReformation scholastics at the time.6 Since Willem van Asselt is highly interested in this period, and especially in the work of its Protestant scholastic writers, it is this last charge in particular which we will try to evaluate in the present contribution. Firstly, we will summarize the acute way in which Yale theologian William C. Placher has phrased the charge in question a couple of years ago in his intriguing analysis of the vicissitudes of the doctrine of God in the seventeenth century (section 2). Secondly, to get a first indication of its cogency (or not) we will have a look at the primary sources to which Placher appeals (section 3). Thirdly, drawing upon Rahner and Pannenberg as well as upon Richard Muller’s impressive “defence” of the theology of the seventeenth-century Protestant scholastics, we will try to come to a more balanced judgement (section 4). Finally, we will draw some conclusions (section 5). 2. Reformed Scholasticism under Critical Fire In his rendering of the story of the decline of trinitarian faith during the seventeenth century, Placher contrasts the patterns of thought found in Aquinas, Luther and Calvin to those present in subsequent Protestant confessions and theological writings. Despite the fact that in Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae the discussion of the Trinity was preceded by the treatise on the existence and attributes of the one God, the former section was nearly as long as the latter. So clearly, Thomas did not at all neglect the doctrine. Nor did he leave the Trinity behind when moving 6 Thus, e.g., William C. Placher, The Domestication of Transcendence: How Modern Thinking about God Went Wrong (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 164–78; as to his portrayal of the developments in Catholic theology, Placher is drawing heavily upon Michael J. Buckley, At the Origins of Modern Atheism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987). Placher’s allegations are endorsed by Cunningham, These Three are One, 274–5 (notwithstanding the latter’s criticism of the very practice of “scapegoating”!), and by Philip Dixon, Nice and Hot Disputes: The Doctrine of the Trinity in the Seventeenth Century (London: T&T Clark, 2003), xii and passim. Dixon’s book clearly shows how the doctrine of the Trinity was “lost” in seventeenthcentury British theology. Cf. also F. LeRon Shults, Reforming the Doctrine of God (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2005), 48–51.

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on in his Summa. Rather, Thomas consistently presented the story of human salvation in trinitarian terms. Similarly, according to Luther, the real God is the triune God, graciously revealing himself first externally in the Word (i.e., in Christ) and then internally (i.e., in our hearts) in the Spirit. Reason, on the other hand, seeks to know God apart from Christ, and in doing so turns into foolishness. Luther knew the God of grace as Father, Son and Spirit, and he even found it difficult to think these three together as being one God. As to Calvin, despite his rejection of all speculative reflection on the Trinity, he also knew no other God than the one who lowers himself to us in Christ and who penetrates the saving knowledge of his work in our hearts by the Spirit.7 According to Placher, when it comes to the thoroughly trinitarian character of their faith and theology, Aquinas, Luther and Calvin “exemplify a fairly consistent pattern in the Christian tradition before the seventeenth century.”8 It is only in the seventeenth century that this pattern broke down. To be sure, by the end of the seventeenth century confessing the Trinity counted as necessary lip-service to the standards of Christian orthodoxy; but it did no longer make a serious difference in practice. God was primarily seen as the one sovereign cosmic ruler and moral judge of the universe, rather than as creation’s gracious redeemer in Christ. Moreover, in expounding the faith, seventeenth-century thinkers more and more appealed to reason alone, and referring to the Trinity in such a context seemed to complicate matters unnecessarily. Thus, John Locke simply avoided the topic, whereas Newton kept his anti-trinitarian views private. Newton’s friend Samuel Clarke did not, but no official action was taken on charges against him. Clarke only had to promise not to preach on the topic anymore—which shows that the leaders of the church no longer attached indispensable significance to the doctrine.9 How could all this have come about? Suggesting some tentative answers, with regard to Protestant theology Placher first of all points to the changing structure of its confessions and theological systems:

7 Placher, Domestication of Transcendence, 166–8. 8 Placher, Domestication of Transcendence, 168. 9 Placher, Domestication of Transcendence, 177–8: “The leaders of the church accepted keeping quiet about it as an adequate attitude to Trinitarian orthodoxy” (178); cf. J. P. Ferguson, An Eighteenth-Century Heretic: Dr. Samuel Clarke (Kineton: Roundwood Press, 1976).

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Calvin’s Institutes, like the Lutheran Augsburg Confession, began with a discussion of God, and in both cases that discussion talked about the Trinity. Calvin then subsequently presented Scripture as a gift of the Triune God he had already identified. The Westminster Confession, written in the 1640s, however, begins with a chapter on scripture. ‘Of God, and of the Holy Trinity’ comes only in chapter 2. . . . Much seventeenth-century theology, in both Lutheran and Reformed traditions, likewise discussed scripture first and then the Triune God.10

According to Placher, one result of this reversal is a change of attitude regarding the authority of Scripture. Calvin rejected any attempts to prove that Scripture is the Word of God, since it is only by the inward testimony of the Holy Spirit that we become convinced of its divine origin. So the proper functioning of Scripture presupposes the grace of the Holy Spirit. For the seventeenth-century Reformed theologian Francis Turretin, however, the divine character of the Bible can be established by means of rational arguments, since God has impressed a number of marks upon it (antiquity, accurate preservation, majesty of style, harmony of content etc.) which form indubitable proofs of its divinity. No need then for the Holy Spirit in this connection! After having traced a similar development in the Lutheran camp, Placher concludes that in Protestant theology “orthodoxy” gradually came to be defined more in terms of scriptural authority than in terms of trinitarian doctrine. Biblical authority, being established by means of human reason, “served as a foundation for a theology that need not to appeal in the way earlier theologians had to the mysteries of grace and revelation”11—i.e., one might add, to the work of the Father in the Son and through the Spirit. Next to this, Placher mentions yet another development in Reformed theology which he considers pertinent to the issue: in the course of time the notions of the decrees and covenants came to the fore as important structuring principles in theology. Both in the Westminster Confession and in, e.g., Turretin’s Institutes, a section on God’s decrees was added to the doctrine of God before any other topic was discussed. Especially eternal predestination as the first and most determinative of these decrees came to dominate the work of Christ and the Spirit. “The pattern of divine decrees, rather than the activity of the Triune God, thus became the shaping principle of theology . . .” As to the covenants, federal theology with its more and more contractual understanding of both 10 Placher, Domestication of Transcendence, 168–9. 11 Placher, Domestication of Transcendence, 169.

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the covenant of works and the covenant of grace reduced the earlier Reformed account of grace as an unexpected and all-changing gift of God to more humanly manageable proportions. Thus, federal theology “was also making the Trinity less important . . . .”12 3. Assessing the Evidence: Calvin Against Turretin? Clearly, Placher’s criticism of Protestant scholastic theology stands in a long tradition of discrediting this period and blaming it for its deviation from the Reformation and for other kinds of “evils.”13 This is not the place to assess this very tradition. Yet we will try to evaluate just Placher’s allegations by briefly looking at two of the historical figures whom he held to differ widely in their respective treatment of the doctrine of the Trinity, viz. John Calvin and Francis Turretin. Of course we have to be aware of the dangers inherent in such an approach. As Richard Muller argues: “Flat, one-for-one comparisons of documents like Calvin’s Institutio christianae religionis and Turretin’s Institutio theologiae elenchticae ignore not only significant differences in historical context but also significant differences in literary genre (despite the similarity of their titles).”14 So clearly, neither Calvin nor Turretin should be abstracted from their respective contexts, which no doubt were different in some important respects. Moreover, Calvin cannot be taken as the sole arbiter in questions of what is to count as truly Reformed, nor should Turretin be considered as a writer fully representative of the post-Reformation era. Keeping these proviso’s in mind, however, a small-scale comparison can still have a limited value, for example in testing claims such as those made by Placher. First of all, it is surprising that Placher presents Calvin as first discussing in his Institutes the triune God and only subsequently taking up the doctrine of Scripture. For clearly, the real order is the other way round. It is only after having discussed Scripture as a necessary “guide 12 Placher, Domestication of Transcendence, 170; cf. on federal theology 155–63. 13 See on this tradition, e.g., Willem J. van Asselt and Eef Dekker, “Introduction,” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise, ed. idem (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001), 14–24, 29–30. 14 Richard A. Muller, Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics, 4 vols. (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 1987–2003), henceforward PRRD, vol. 4 (The Triunity of God, 2003), 388–9.

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and teacher for anyone who would come to God the Creator” (Institutes 1 VI) that Calvin goes on to expand on the divine Trinity (Institutes 1 XIII).15 It can even be argued that Calvin proceeds intentionally in this way. For both the title and the content of his chapter on the doctrine of the Trinity make clear that Calvin attempts to derive this doctrine from Scripture. Although words like “person” and “trinity” do not occur in Scripture, they “explain nothing else than what is attested and sealed by Scripture,” and therefore “conscientiously and faithfully serve the truth of Scripture itself.”16 So it seems false to suggest that in Calvin’s theological thinking the doctrine of Scripture is subordinate to the prior knowledge of the triune God—for precisely the opposite is the case.17 It comes as no surprise, then, that Turretin follows the same order by first discussing the doctrine of Scripture and only then the doctrine of “the One and Triune God.”18 Secondly, it might nevertheless be the case that, whereas Calvin rejected any attempt to prove the divinity of Scripture, Turretin tried to establish its divine character in a purely rational way, without any appeal to the indispensable role of the Holy Spirit. But this does not seem to be true to the facts either. On the one hand, Calvin, although emphasizing that Scripture “will not find acceptance in men’s hearts before it is sealed by the inward testimony of the Spirit,”19 devotes an entire chapter to making clear that “as far as human reason goes, sufficiently firm proofs are at hand to establish the credibility of Scripture.”20 In this connection, he points to the high antiquity of Scripture, its unique majesty and impressiveness, the credibility of its miracle stories, et cetera. On the other hand, it is simply false to suggest that Tur15 Of course Calvin starts his Institutes with a discussion of our knowledge of God, but (a) this discussion does not presuppose a trinitarian context, and (b) this knowledge of God apart from Scripture is not of much use in Calvin’s view. 16 John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, 1 XIII 3, ed. John T. McNeill (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1960), 123–4. 17 For a careful reading of Calvin’s doctrine of the Trinity and its relation to Scripture according to the Institutes, see A. Baars, Om Gods verhevenheid en Zijn nabijheid:De Drie-eenheid bij Calvijn (Kampen: Kok, 2004), 271–2, 637, 645–52, 703 (“ . . . it goes too far to characterize this work as having a trinitarian structure”). An English translation of Baars’ impressive work is in preparation. 18 Francis Turretin, Institutes of Elenchtic Theology, ed. James T. Dennison, Jr. (Phillipsburg: P&R Publishing, 1992), vol. 1, viii–x, 55, 169. 19 Calvin, Institutes 1 VII, 4. 20 Calvin, Institutes 1 VIII.

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retin has “no need for the Holy Spirit” in this connection. Turretin explicitly affirms that “believers are persuaded by the testimony of the Holy Spirit of the inspiration of the Scriptures,” and discusses some problems connected with this affirmation.21 In fact, Turretin subordinates the unique “marks” of Scripture which convince us of its divinity to the operation of the Spirit. The question then amounts to this – why, or on account of what, do we believe that the Bible is the Word of God; or what argument does the Holy Spirit principally use to convince us of the inspiration of the Scriptures? The testimony and voice of the church, or the marks impressed upon Scripture itself? Our opponents assert the former; we the latter.22

So neither Calvin nor Turretin played off the external marks of Scripture and the internal testimony of the Spirit against one another. To be sure, Turretin’s treatment of the self-authenticating marks of Scripture is much more extensive than Calvin’s. But this is at best a difference in degree rather than in principle, and as such attributable to the changed context in which Turretin was writing. In Turretin’s academic environment, the Roman Catholic post-Tridentine attack on the sola Scriptura of the Reformation had prompted a detailed further investigation of the specific characteristics of Scripture. Thirdly, when Placher argues that in Protestant theology the notion of orthodoxy came to be defined in terms of the doctrine of Scripture as opposed to the doctrine of the Trinity, he seems to relapse into a version of the antiquated “central-dogma theory.” According to this theory, inaugurated in the nineteenth century by Alexander Schweizer, the Protestant system of theology is controlled and guided by one and only one “central dogma.” Usually, this role is attributed to the doctrine of predestination in the case of Reformed theology and to the doctrine of justification in the case of the Lutherans. Similarly, Placher suggests that whereas the doctrine of the Trinity was the structuring principle in classical theology, this role was taken over by the doctrine of Scripture in Reformed theology. Detailed recent research has pointed out, however, that this “centraldogma theory” is a historically inaccurate projection of nineteenth-century monistic thinking onto the past. On closer scrutiny, it turns out that the intricate web of beliefs that constitutes Protestant orthodoxy cannot 21 Turretin, Institutes 2 VI 17 (ed. Dennison, I, 91). 22 Turretin, Institutes 2 VI 9 (ed. Dennison, I, 88).

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be reduced to one central doctrine. Rather, a plurality of structuring convictions and central viewpoints played a role in its definition of proper theology. Of course the doctrine of Scripture was tremendously important as the principium cognoscendi theologiae; but so was the doctrine of God as theology’s principium essendi.23 In general, what “we encounter in all of the Reformed systems from Calvin to . . . Turretin and Heidegger, is a theology with multiple foci . . . . There are, indeed, crucial loci, organizational patterns and principles—Trinity, Christ, the divine causality, covenant, but the idea of a central dogma and a single organizational principle for scholastic theology is an anachronism.”24 Fourthly, then, this correction also throws light upon the alleged substitution of the work of the Trinity by the divine decrees as the decisive principle in seventeenth-century Reformed orthodox theology. Placher is right in pointing to Turretin’s interpolation of a long chapter on “the decrees of God in general and predestination in particular” in between the locus of God and Trinity and the locus of creation. It does not follow from this observation, however, that the content of other loci was changed as a result. As Karl Barth already stated, mentioning Turretin among other orthodox authors in this connection, “it was not a matter of deducing all dogmatics from the doctrine of predestination.” Barth pointed out that election, being part of the doctrine of the decrees, “was never regarded or treated as an integral part of the doctrine of God” by the Reformed orthodox.25 No doubt, the interpolation of a section on the divine decrees indicates a process of rationalization, in which Reformed theology moved from its concentration on the history of salvation to an examination of its prior causal grounds in God. However, as Muller concludes in his study of the relation between Christology and predestination in Reformed theology, “this rationalizing process did not ignore the relation of the decree as operum Dei ad intra to the trinitarian life of God and to the Christological center of the ordo salutis.”26 Rather, it can be 23 See Richard Muller, PRRD 1 (1987), 82–7 (84). 24 Richard Muller, Christ and the Decree: Christology and Predestination in Reformed Theology from Calvin to Perkins (Durham, N.C.: Labyrinth Press, 1986), 178 (cf. 1–2, 176–80, 226n1). Cf. his “The Problem of Protestant Scholasticism – A Review and Definition,” in Reformation and Scholasticism, ed. van Asselt and Dekker), 45–64, and the further literature referred to there. 25 Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics II 2 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1957), 78–9. 26 Muller, Christ and the Decree, 131.

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argued that it captured in a new language, suited to the scholastic academic context, the basic soteriological insights of the Reformers. The decree, after all, is nothing but the “unwavering purpose of God” that precedes creation and history; and the primary role of the doctrine of predestination is to affirm “the invincibility of grace in the ordo salutis.”27 Both motives are no less evident in Calvin’s theology than in e.g. Turretin’s thinking. Fifthly and finally, when it comes to the notion of the covenant, its use among Reformed theologians is very diversified. There are early writers like Heinrich Bullinger who made important theological use of it, and later writers like Heidanus and Voetius who hardly did. As to Turretin, he adopted the by then traditional distinction between the covenant of works and the covenant of grace, but did not develop this into a structural principle of his theology.28 Like Calvin, he seems to have taken a moderate position.29 Among those who developed a federal theology, the results differed widely in scope and content. A federal theology could be elaborated in a way that eclipsed the centrality of God’s concrete historical acts of salvation, measuring the assurance of our faith according to the degree in which we satisfy the rules of the covenant rather than according to the mercy of Christ.30 However, as is clear from the example of Cocceius, who was no doubt one of the most influential representatives of seventeenth-century federal theology, the notion of a two- or threefold covenant could also be employed to highlight the importance of the concrete history of salvation. Far from obscuring its central place, Cocceius systematically employed the notion of the covenant in such a way as to underscore the priority of God’s saving action in history. While Cocceius acknowledged God’s eternal decree of predestination, he prevented this decree from undermining the importance of time and history by means of his 27 Muller, Christ and the Decree, 130 (in relation to Polanus von Polansdorf, but the observation can also be applied to other orthodox writers). 28 Turretin, Institutes 8 III (ed. Denisson, I, 574–78). 29 This is the reason that in this final part of our discussion of Placher’s thesis we no longer focus on Calvin and Turretin, but turn to other authors. See on the place of the covenant in Calvin’s theology J. B. Torrance, “The Concept of Federal Theology : Was Calvin a Federal Theologian?” in Calvinus Sacrae Scripturae Professor, ed. W. Neuser (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1994), 15–40; C. Graafland, Van Calvijn tot Comrie, vol. 1 and 2 (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1992), 71–82. 30 Placher, Domestication of Transcendence, 158–60, argues that this was the case in the theology of (among others) Samuel Rutherford (1600–1661).

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specific version of federal theology.31 The centerpiece of his federal theology is to be found in his so-called doctrine of the pactum salutis, moreover, which was thoroughly trinitarian in character.32 I conclude, then, that Placher’s suggestion that the rise of federal theology contributed to the marginalization of the Trinity and of God’s grace in Christ as shown in the history of salvation, is just like his aforementioned other charges too crude to pass the test of even a superficial inspection. 4. The Marginalization of the Trinity in Western Theology Doesn’t Placher have a point at all, then? I am afraid he has. The fact that his underpinning of the thesis of a fatal marginalization of the doctrine of the Trinity in the seventeenth century is inadequate, does not imply that the thesis itself is entirely false. First of all, when it comes to the developments in seventeenth-century Catholic theology, we have no reason to doubt Placher’s analysis, which is in line with the highly acclaimed work of Michael Buckley.33 Secondly, however, when it comes to Protestant theology, we must point to a phenomenon which Placher leaves unmentioned, but which in our view is of critical importance. This concerns the standard arrangement of subtopics in the Reformed orthodox doctrine of God. In the doctrine of God, most of the orthodox writers—and Turretin is a wholly representative example here—proceed from a discussion of whether God is (an sit Deus?) to a treatment of the question what God is (quid sit Deus?) in order to end with the question who or of what sort God is (qualis sit Deus?). The first question results in a discussion of the proofs of God’s existence, the second one usually leads to a review of the divine essence and its attributes, while the third one exists in an examination of the Christian doctrine of the Trinity. As a result of this proce31 Willem J. van Asselt, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603–1669) (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 245–6. Van Asselt emphasizes that Cocceius’ theology, although different from contemporaneous theological systems, was orthodox and, in a sense, even scholastic; cf. his Johannes Coccejus: Portret van een zeventiende-eeuws theoloog op oude en nieuwe wegen (Heerenveen: J. J. Groen, 1997), 2, 160–64. 32 The pactum salutis concerns the eternal pact between Father, Son and Spirit about how to save people. See van Asselt, Johannes Coccejus, chap. 11, and B. Loonstra, Verkiezing – verzoening – verbond (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1990), 84–99. 33 See above, footnote 6.

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dure the doctrine of the Trinity often became a relatively unimportant appendix after the many things that had been said already in the lengthy treatises on the divine essence and its attributes. That the doctrine of the Trinity was slowly but surely made irrelevant in this way appears from the fact that it failed to affect the subsequent expositions. When Turretin goes on to discuss the divine decrees, for example, he clearly draws upon the material uncovered in his prior analysis of the divine essence and its attributes, but we hardly find any references to (the doctrine of) the Trinity. From beginning to end, the decrees are attributed to the eternal absolutely necessary being of the one God rather than to the triune God. As to the role of Christ in the decree of predestination, it is even explicitly denied that Christ is the foundation of election, since he only enters into it a posteriori, i.e., as the primary means of its execution.34 So it is the Deus unus who is seen at work here rather than the trinitarian God. Now one might ask whether the same pattern is present perhaps in Calvin’s doctrine of predestination, albeit more covertly. This is a matter of grave debate. According to Graafland, Calvin highly emphasized the Christological quality of the doctrine of predestination, calling Christ even the author of election, together with the Father. Graafland acknowledges, however, that in Calvin’s definition of predestination the name of Christ—and the Holy Spirit for that matter—is lacking, and that the exact role of Christ in the decree of predestination is not particularly clear.35 But even if we grant this point, it still remains true that Calvin, after having qualified the relevance of the proofs of God’s existence, omitted the traditional extensive (and in modern eyes often boring) discussion of the divine essence and its attributes, in order to jump immediately to the doctrine of the Trinity as the real heart of the Christian doctrine of God. That Calvin intentionally proceeded in this way, is clear from the following programmatic remark at the beginning of his Institutes: “What is God? Men who pose this question are merely toying

41.

34 Turretin, Institutes 4 X, II. 35 C. Graafland, Van Calvijn tot Barth (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1987), 35–

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with idle speculations. It is more important for us to know what kind of being God is and what things are agreeable to his nature.”36 In criticizing the traditional ordering of subtopics in the doctrine of God because of its speculative impact, Calvin not only broke with the medieval scholastic tradition, but also with classical rhetoric as recaptured by Renaissance humanism, both of which knew the movement from an sit to quid sit and on to quale sit as a rhetorical device.37 Calvin did not deny that God is an infinite and spiritual being in his essence. But he refused to elaborate this point. As to the divine attributes, he mentions a great number of them in the Institutes, but hardly ever elucidates what they mean. Nor does he order them in a systematic way or reflects on their relation to the trinitarian dogma; he simply seems to assume that the divine attributes are the perfections of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. His main interest is in the true God according to the Bible, which according to Calvin is the triune God.38 Quite a number of twentieth-century Protestant systematic theologians have followed Calvin’s lead by placing the doctrine of the Trinity in the heart of their (mutually different) doctrines of God.39 Most of them agree with Calvin that the common three-step arrangement of the doctrine of God runs the risk of speaking about God in a general and highly abstract way, in isolation of God’s trinitarian existence. By discussing the doctrine of the Trinity prior to that of the divine attributes, they want to secure that as Christians we can only think about God as Father, Son and Spirit, and that the divine attributes are perfections of this trinitarian God. In this way they prevent the doctrine of the Trinity from becoming an erratic block in their theologies, and the history of salvation (which is the work of Father, Son and Spirit par excellence) from becoming disconnected from the very being and attributes of God. Among these contemporary theologians, Pannenberg is the one who more consistently than others attempts to show what the trinitarian char36 Calvin, Institutes I 2, 1. Richard Muller, PRRD 3 (2003), 157, points to the fact that Calvin especially criticizes the Epicureans in this connection, but from comparable statements in other writings it is clear that Calvin had in mind scholastic writers as well (ed. McNeill, vol. 1, 41, n6). 37 Muller, PRRD 3, 156. 38 Cf. Baars, Om Gods verhevenheid, 638–9. 39 Think of, e.g., Karl Barth, Wolfhart Pannenberg, Thomas F. Torrance, Robert Jenson, J. A. Heyns, J. van Genderen. See Baars, Om Gods verhevenheid, 681 (also for further references).

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acter of Christian theology implies for every single locus, thus giving the doctrine of the Trinity a primary role in his entire dogmatic system.40 So here at least we encounter a serious discontinuity between Calvin on the one hand and such later orthodox Reformed writers as Turretin on the other. Recently, however, Richard Muller has vehemently protested against this type of evaluation. To be sure, Muller acknowledges that the expositions of the Reformers . . . tended toward rather brief expositions of the doctrine of God in which the language of essence and attributes was stated and a lengthy discussion avoided, whereas the expositions of the Reformed orthodox . . . became increasingly lengthy and began, rather quickly, to draw overtly on the definitions and distinctions of the medieval scholastics.41

He even speaks of “Calvin’s omission of the attributes” in this connection, but adds to this that this omission was not characteristic of the Reformed theology of Calvin’s days. If Calvin was the exception rather than the rule, however, that makes it all the more important to take his position seriously! Further, Muller argues that the traditional three-step ordering of the doctrine of God “was not intended to deflect discussion away from the uniquely Christian content of the doctrine of God.”42 Rather, the entire orthodox doctrine of God (including the discussion of essence and attributes) was an attempt to answer the question who (or what) the biblical God is, as is clear from the discussion of the divine names which was included. Muller even holds that the traditional arrangement of the doctrine reflects biblical order, since it starts with “the primary datum of biblical revelation, the oneness of God, and then, on the basis of this biblical monotheism, moves on to the mystery of the threeness of the one God.”43 In this connection, Muller fiercely criticizes what he sees

40 It must be added, of course, that Pannenberg does not derive the doctrine of the Trinity directly from Scripture (as both the Reformers and the Reformed scholastics tried to do), but from the historical appearance and message of Jesus as attested in the New Testament. See his Systematic Theology 1 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1991), 281–2, 300–4. 41 Muller, PRRD 4, 414. 42 Muller, PRRD 3, 156. 43 Muller, PRRD 3, 158–9.

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as the “theological and dogmatic claims”44 made by theologians such as Barth, Brunner, O. Weber and T. F. Torrance, who blamed the orthodox theologians (among other things) for their tripartite ordering of the doctrine of God. “As is often the case with Barth’s reviews and critiques of the tradition, his argument is directed more toward justification of his own position than toward a genuine understanding of the past.”45 It seems to me, however, that over against this firm defence of Reformed orthodox theology a couple of points must be made.46 First of all, it is interesting that Muller focuses on the intentions of the Reformed orthodox theologians, arguing that they did not intend their tripartite ordering to deflect from a fully Christian doctrine of God etc. In this respect, it seems to me that Muller is completely right. No doubt, the intentions of the orthodox theologians were not so very different from those of the Reformers themselves. Most orthodox theologians make clear that they did not aim at anything but defending and fortifying the main tenets of Reformed theology, and we have no reason to doubt their intentions. Muller does not examine, however, whether despite their positive intentions these orthodox theologians were responsible for a serious shift in subsequent theological reflection. Especially, it should be asked whether by taking up the medieval habit of postponing the discussion of the Trinity to the final part of the doctrine of God, they unwittingly contributed to an abstraction of the image of God and hence to the marginalization of the doctrine of the Trinity, making the latter largely irrelevant to the practical life of faith. It is this question which Karl Rahner has answered in the affirmative in relation to Catholic medieval scholasticism,47 and it seems to me that Protestant theologians should not evade the same question when it comes to their tradition. Personally, I am not convinced that Barth was completely beside the point when he argued that it is hard to see how the distinctive character of the God of the Bible can be made clear in the framework of the traditional tripartite division of the doctrine of God.48 44 Muller, PRRD 3, 154. 45 Muller, PRRD 3, 155. 46 See also Baars, Om Gods verhevenheid, 681–2. 47 Karl Rahner, The Trinity (New York: Crossroad, 1970), 10–21; Karl Rahner, “Bemerkungen zur dogmatischen Traktat ‘De Trinitate’,” in idem, Schriften zur Theologie 4, 3rd ed. (Einsiedeln: Benziger, 1962), 110–112. 48 Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics I 1 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1936), 300–1.

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Secondly, Muller assumes that the movement from a discussion of the unity of God to the doctrine of the divine Trinity reflects biblical order. However, this view is debatable. It was again Karl Rahner who contested it, arguing that in Scripture the phrase ho theos usually does not point to God-as-such but to the Father. If, with Scripture and the Greeks, we mean by ho theos in the first place the Father . . . , then the trinitarian structure of the Apostles’ Creed, in line with Greek theology of the Trinity, would lead us to treat first of the Father and to consider also, in this first chapter of the doctrine of God, the “essence” of God, the Father’s godhead.49

Rahner points to the fact that in this way Peter Lombard’s Sentences still subsumed the general doctrine of God under a doctrine of the Trinity, whereas Thomas Aquinas was the first to reverse this order. Later, Wolfhart Pannenberg also dealt with the problem of the inner division of the Christian doctrine of God.50 Like Placher, Pannenberg argues that the doctrine of the Trinity fell into decline only in the seventeenth century, after which it came under modern criticism. But unlike Placher, Pannenberg points to its lack of inner connection with the doctrine of the unity of God as an important reason behind this process. Especially in Protestant theology, where it had to be derived directly from Scripture, the doctrine of the Trinity could no longer be derived conceptually from the divine unity, as had been done in medieval scholasticism (either by means of the psychological analogies or along Neoplatonic lines). As a result, the doctrine of the Trinity came to be experienced as “a superfluous addition to the concept of the one God,” and was even deemed “incompatible with the divine unity.”51 The only remedy to this problem, according to Pannenberg, is to find the basis for the doctrine of God in the way in which Father, Son and Spirit come to us in the event of revelation—which is exactly what Pannenberg goes on to do in the next chapter of his work. “On this approach there is no material reason to append the doctrine of the Trinity to that 49 Rahner, The Trinity, 16. On the problem of the Christian identification of the Old Testament God with either the Father, the Trinity, or even the Son (!), see the illuminating essay of Bruce Marshall, “Israel,” in Knowing the Triune God, ed. J. J. Buckley and D. S. Yeago (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2001), esp. 243–64. Among other things, Marshall shows how problematic the simple identification of the Old Testament God with “God-as-such” is. 50 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology 1, 280–99. 51 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology 1, 291.

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of God’s essence and attributes. The latter can be relevantly dealt with in the context of the trinitarian revelation of God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”52 Without implying that such (mutually different) analyses and proposals as those of Rahner and Pannenberg are unproblematic, it seems to me that Muller’s total negligence of them is to some extent myopic. Thirdly, this leads us to a final observation, viz. that Muller seems to have no eye for the proper significance of a dogmatic evaluation of theological choices made in the past as distinct from his historical examination. Of course, such a dogmatic approach should remain true to the facts, without distorting the evidence, and Muller rightly criticizes what he sees as such distortions. However, it seems that Muller cum suis do not allow for the possibility that our appropriation of parts of our theological heritage might be, and depending on one’s own theology in certain specific cases has to be, very critical of the past.53 In this regard, there is a clear connection between one’s own theology and one’s appreciation of the past. Thus, one should not judge too quickly that Barth’s criticism of the past is directed more at the justification of his own position than at a genuine understanding of that past. Clearly, there is a hermeneutical circle here: our understanding of the past influences our own thinking and the other way round. But this cannot be avoided by recommending the so-called neutrality of a strictly historical analysis. Such a recommendation can easily serve to mask one’s own interests. Nobody succeeds in looking at the past (or at any other phenomenon) without being influenced in subtle ways by some preconceived ideas as to what it might look like.54 Therefore, nothing is wrong with explicitly accounting for one’s own theological interests, and then trying to relate these to the past.

52 Pannenberg, Systematic Theology 1, 299. 53 Willem van Asselt also overlooks this point, when he argues that scholasticism should not be described as “speculative,” “rigid” etc., because “all these predicates are value judgements, and are therefore unacceptable” (“Introduction,” in Reformation and scholasticism, 21). In a strictly historical discourse this may be true; from a dogmatic point of view (which has its own right!), however, it is false, because in this connection value judgements are unavoidable. 54 Here I have in mind the so-called “theory-ladenness of observation”; cf. my Een publieke zaak: Theologie tussen geloof en wetenschap (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2004), 134–45.

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To some extent, the polemics of Muller and other contemporary defenders of Protestant scholasticism against its critics can be traced to the gulf between a theological and a historical approach of the past. Much would be won, in my opinion, if from both sides the partial character of one’s own perspectives and the additional value of the approaches of others would be respected, so that the gulf can be bridged. Perhaps the future of research into the nature of seventeenth-century orthodox theology, its continuities and discontinuities with prior and posterior developments etc., can be found in a mutual appreciation by and cooperation between advocates of a historical and a theological approach. 5. Conclusion However this may be, we conclude that the development of the doctrine of the Trinity in seventeenth-century Protestant theology is not as innocuous as is sometimes suggested. Placher may have been focusing onesidedly on the seventeenth century as responsible for the doctrine’s marginalization, offering some contestable arguments for this view, but he nevertheless turned out to have a point. It seems that the doctrine of the Trinity’s slide into irrelevance started already in the medieval period, since Thomas Aquinas postponed its treatment to the final part of his doctrine of God. But even if that might be contested (as Placher and Pannenberg do), orthodox Protestant theologians in the seventeenth century no doubt aggravated the situation by conceptually disconnecting the treatment of God as Trinity from the treatment of God’s one essence. Subsequently, the great nineteenth-century critics of religion, as is well-known, crushed the Christian faith (its specific trinitarian nature hardly being recognizable anymore) along with their real target: philosophical theism.55 By now, most Christians (let alone others) no longer have any idea of what the doctrine of the Trinity is about and why it might be relevant. If we want to grasp and secure the distinctive character of the Christian view of God, however, a proper recovery and reappraisal of this doc55 Cf. Eberhard Jüngel, God as the Mystery of the World: On the Foundation of the Theology of the Crucified One in the Dispute between Theism and Atheism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1983).

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trine’s point—that God is to be found nowhere else than in Jesus, his Father and the Spirit of both—is of the highest importance. The recent renaissance of trinitarian doctrine, therefore, is to be welcomed—even when it is unavoidably accompanied by a critical reappraisal of the doctrine’s history.

WHY A TRINITARIAN DYNAMICS REQUIRES OPEN SCHOLASTICISM Luco J. van den Brom

1. Introduction In contemporary theology, saying that a theological essay includes several scholastic arguments is generally taken as a disqualification. Scholastic theology has the negative connotation of being outmoded and unsatisfactory for twenty-first-century theological debate. Rigid, cold argumentation and pre-critical closed systematization are features that render such a theology no longer viable. Nowadays, many theologians consider scholasticism a museum piece with some historical significance but no relevance to contemporary questions of faith and problems of religious practice. Following the argument of José Ignacio Cabezón that scholasticism is a cross-cultural phenomenon,1 we should not restrict scholastic method to a debate on the right Platonic-Aristotelian interpretation of theological themes in Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae and Summa contra Gentiles. Considering a cross-cultural perspective as a spatial metaphor, we can imagine that it implies an attitude of openness to other cultures. But interpreted as a temporal metaphor, such a cross-cultural perspective may also imply openness to a wide range of historical developments in the ongoing philosophical and theological debates. Understanding theology as the continuing talk on the meaning of Christian faith, we cannot simply reject scholastic theology as a set of preEnlightenment conversations because of its Platonic-Aristotelian metaphysical presentation. I will argue that in contemporary theology too a form of scholasticism may be discerned insofar as theological argument is open to the possibility of the application of new philosophical approaches and insights to its issues. For instance, the contemporary debate on the doctrine of the Trinity provides a clear theological illustration of it, follow1 José Ignacio Cabezón, ed., Scholasticism: Cross-Cultural and Comparative Perspectives (Albany: SUNY Press, 1998), 1–17.

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ing Bruce Marshall on Rahner’s rule. Although a voice from the early Enlightenment period, a seventeenth-century theologian like Johannes Cocceius may present a relevant contribution to this debate as well. 2. Scholastic Theology: A Lost Cause? Since the emergence of modern historical consciousness, post-critical or post-Kantian theology is saddled with the fundamental difficulty of “particularity,” because it is logically impossible to base timeless and universal values on arguments from historically contingent events. Lessing provided us with the classical formulation of this problem: “accidental truths of history can never become the proof of necessary truths of reason.” Theological judgments which are based on historical events are at best probable but not universal, because they are allegedly not amenable to “reason.” If this is a correct reconstruction of how Christian doctrine developed starting from a historical foundation, it looks as if Lessing’s theorem is devastating for Christian faith and theology. Whereas any form of scholasticism seems to suggest a timeless system of theological doctrines based on the authority of biblical eyewitness reports, post-Kantian theology runs into difficulties if it is to maintain classical doctrine. How to make sense of a universal theological system based on the particular histories of Jesus and the Christian community? Taking scholasticism as a timeless theological system, modern (Enlightenment) theology started to look for an alternative starting point. Having lost the logical strength of seventeenth-century Protestant orthodoxy due to the Enlightenment crisis in the theory of history, theology attempted to rescue those elements of the Christian faith that might survive this break in modern consciousness. After crossing Lessing’s “ugly ditch,” modern Christians still might consider Jesus’ human way of life or his spirituality worthy of imitation. Would Lessing’s axiom undermine their belief that God definitively reveals himself in Jesus Christ? Lessing’s axiom presupposes the Kantian epistemological principles that humans do not perceive the world as it is but in accordance with their nature, whereas “extension of concepts beyond our sensible intuition is of no advantage to us.”2 These epistemological assumptions suggest that even if we really could have a definite description of Jesus of

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Nazareth, we would still not have sufficient evidence for his Messiahship. For this reason Pannenberg argues that faith must leave room for the fact that knowledge of its object is relative, because this only underlines God’s real involvement in human history.3 If revelation really took place in history, the truth of God’s involvement in history will constantly emerge in the development of time, according to Pannenberg, although we need to distinguish between the content of revelation and the time-bound forms of presentation. However, this is not so much a solution to the problem of the universal meaning of the historical Christian gospel as a repetition of it! It still has to be established whether any historian, philosopher, or theologian can really adopt a neutral or theory-free viewpoint from which to observe free-floating data and reconstruct a noumenal world of universal truths. A serious objection to the attitude of post-Kantian modern theology insofar as it accepts Lessing’s axiom concerns the nature of a historical perspective: we can never claim that we have collected all the evidence for a complete reconstruction of the Jesus of history or the Christ-event. Such a claim would require that we know all the possible past, present, and future relations of this set of events in order to declare it absolutely epoch-making and therefore most supremely significant. For such a claim we need a God’s Eye point of view from which “all epochs are equidistant” (Leopold Ranke), but we humans cannot see each historical period for what it is because we do not know what these words really mean. We would have to stand outside history to see an epoch for what it is, for example, by adopting a Hegelian illusionary perspective. Therefore it is really impossible to speak of a definite meaning of an event or a period. As the philosopher of history Arthur Danto rightly says, “Completely to describe an event is to locate it in all the right stories, and this we cannot.” The reason is as simple as it is devastating for any definite claim on the significance or non-significance of an historical event, for “we cannot because we are temporally provincial with regard to the future.”4 The meaning of events such as the so-called

2 Immanuel Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, trans. Norman Kemp Smith (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1965), B 147/8. 3 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematic Theology (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1998), III 153–4. 4 Arthur C. Danto, Narration and Knowledge (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 142.

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Christ-event is constituted by an ongoing process of re-interpretation and communication and cannot be the mere result of a logical conclusion from the description of its facts. The mistake of post-Enlightenment theology in using Lessing’s theorem consists in the negligence of “the meaning of meaning” in the case of events. The fact is that this type of theological argument views an event as a text within which we might discern its intended meaning. By analogy, this rule locates the meaning of an event in the event itself. However, the meaning of an event is neither how agents intended it nor how participants interpreted it, as it is only partially available in retrospect: its meaning consists in a temporal network of meanings. The meaning of events can develop for posterity. The relation with earlier and later events characterizes the meaning of specific events. For example, the crucifixion of Jesus meant more than an end of the disputes between him and some Jewish leaders, but is crucial if one wants to understand the subsequent history of Christianity. Therefore, I want to argue that using the axiom of the “ugly ditch” to talk about all the implications of the execution of Jesus neglects the importance of an ongoing reception history of religious narration of events.5 A post-Kantian theologian could argue that the message of the Gospel is interpreted by seventeenth-century orthodox theology in terms of the concept of “necessity” of “satisfaction for us.” François Turrettini, for one, writes that [c]oncerning the necessity of a satisfaction, there are three principal opinions of theologians. The first of those simply denying it (as the Socinians . . .). The second, that of those distinguishing between an absolute and hypothetical necessity; as to the latter, . . . the necessity of a satisfaction because God so decreed it. . . . As to the former, they deny that it was thus necessary absolutely because if God had wished, there were other modes of liberation possible to him. This appears to have been the opinion of Augustine . . . and some of the Reformers, . . . The third, that of those affirming, who maintain its absolute necessity, so that God not only has not willed to remit our sins without a satisfaction, but could not do so on account of his justice. This is the common opinion of the orthodox (which we follow).6 5 E.g., “the atomic bomb on Hiroshima” meant more than the end of World War II because it changed the world completely by the emergence of the notion of a “cold war.” 6 Cf. Francis Turretin, Institutes of Elenctic Theology, trans. G. M. Giger (Phillipsburg: P&R Publishing, 1994), XIV.10.4.

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This understanding of the message of the gospel is substantiated by Turretin’s reference to God’s eternal authority: God is a priori entitled to satisfaction if a particular sin were committed by human creatures. However, that interpretation itself is not refuted by Lessing’s axiom, because it is an attempt to make sense of the Christ-event within a whole network of meanings (e.g., God’s justice, love, glory, law, preaching of Gospel).7 And as such it is a contribution to an ongoing discussion about the meaning of the story of the Christ-event for the community of believers. It almost looks as if the way in which these seventeenth-century scholastics understood the message of the Gospel suggests the idea that in some way they intuitively already applied Quine’s holistic theory of meaning8 ante datum, whereas Lessing’s axiom seems to presuppose a version of a verification theory of meaning. In historical retrospect, it appears as if seventeenth-century theology has a really important postKantian feature, whereas the “ugly ditch” theology uses a contestable theory of meaning. That could be sufficient reason to reopen the debate on behalf of pre-Kantian Reformed theology, especially if one realizes that the adjective “scholastic” primarily concerns a formal methodology and definitely not a specific content. As a first step towards that debate I would like to explore the issue of the relevance of Cocceius’ doctrine of God: is this an old-fashioned scholastic construal of the concept of God or is it still viable? 3. The Promises of Federal Theology Writing about “the” promises of the federal theology of Cocceius is a pretentious undertaking because it suggests we have an overview of all his theological writings and of all possible theological positions. My first restriction is that I take Cocceius as exemplar of what it means to do federal theology and the second one is that I take his doctrine of God as illustrative of innovative possibilities of his theology. My question is: Is it possible, within the limits of Cocceius’ own time, to draw our attention to elements in it that are relevant for twenty-first-century talk of God? That is to say, I am not looking for the right interpretation of 7 Ibid., XIV.10.17–23. 8 W. V. O. Quine, From a Logical Point of View, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980), 42–3.

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Cocceius’ theology, especially his doctrine of God, but I want to find out what is at stake in the debate among his interpreters. Hence my third restriction: finding out what is at stake means to make theological sense and to explore the systematic issues that are at play in this debate. The historical reconstruction of Cocceius’ theology by Willem van Asselt will function as my point of reference. His reconstruction is generally approved by experts on the subject of the intellectual history of the seventeenth century.9 It is not by accident that I ask for the systematic-theological points within the debate among the historians of doctrine who are interpreters of Cocceius’ theology. As a systematic theologian I do not take debates at their face value—those are the issues with which historians struggle—but I am interested primarily in the kind of contributions that are made to the concept of faith and of God in the course of theological debates among representatives of quite different historical perspectives. The point of view of historians of doctrine carries as such no systematic interest, but only the question whether their historical insights may contribute to a theological deepening of understanding of the contemporary grammar of Christian faith. Historians of doctrine may play their historical ping-pong and meanwhile systematic theologians may develop a sensitivity for the conceivable ways in which theological concepts and metaphors do their work. If we would succeed in understanding what faith in God meant in Cocceius’ own situation, it would perhaps help to make sense to talk of God today as well. Systematic theologians may be blamed for drawing on the scholarly work of historians and exegetes. The latter’s historical analyses give systematic theologians an idea of what actually happened in a biblical text or what is actually going on in a historical document. Reconstructions of the past form of life from which a religious document originates are in themselves no warrant of the true meaning of these texts today because they represent at the very most a past network of meanings. They cannot prescribe by way of extrapolation of the past meaning of such texts how to use them in dealing with the religious way of life here and now. That is to say, the performative power of religious sayings, utterances, stories, ideas, words, and concepts is not established by their past use, but merely exemplifies a moment in the history of their appli9 Willem J. van Asselt, The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603–1669) (Leiden: Brill, 2001).

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cation. We can describe that history as one of an ongoing debate on the exercises of the practical abilities which constitute the understanding of these sayings, stories, and concepts. For example, we can read the Hebrew Bible and various versions of its texts as collections of ongoing debates on God-talk both in testimonies and counter-testimonies within which something of the mystery of the sense of the presence of God is indicated and articulated.10 Subsequently, we may consider the New Testament texts as expressions of a kind of continuation of these Old Testament debates but now in a Christian style within a growing framework constituted by the Christ-experiences of the faithful community.11 In accordance with this perspective on the New Testament we can contemplate New Testament texts as paradigmatic examples for the interpretation of what happens in the history of Christian theology and doctrine later on. By contemplating the history of Christian theology as a series of ongoing debates on the meaning of the Christian God-talk, that is, on the meaning of the mystery of God’s presence in Jesus Christ in the contemporary world,12 Cocceius appears to be a theologian who presented a relevant contribution. After all, there is no reason to limit the period of serious debate to the time since the Enlightenment. A federal theology provides the grammar of God-talk with a set of words, concepts, figurative expressions, and rules, all of which related to the notion of covenant, in order to elucidate the various elements of the Christian form of life. Thus “covenant” is the organizing concept within a web of meanings that helps to talk about important aspects of the relationship between God and the faithful. As a relational idea it has at least two specific connotations of commitment. On the one hand, a covenant means a mutual commitment of partners that can have a moral 10 This way of considering the Hebrew Bible is proposed by scholars as different as Rainer Albertz and Walter Brueggemann; see Albertz, Religionsgeschichte Israels in alttestamentlicher Zeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992) and Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997/2005). 11 Cf. the illuminating paper by Klaus Koch, “Der doppelte Ausgang des Alten Testaments in Judentum und Christentum,” in Altes Testament und christlicher Glaube, ed. Bernd Janowski, JBT 6 (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 215– 242. 12 Jaroslav Pelikan speaks of a movement in scholarly thought from a static definition of a continuity in the history of creeds and doctrine to an ‘innovative effort at a redefinition of continuity that embraces change’; see his Credo: Historical and Theological Guide to Creeds and Confessions of Faith in the Christian Tradition (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2003), 32–34, 508–515.

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and sometimes a religious character as well. Both partners take on commitments. On the other hand, a covenant can be a one-sided affair in so far as one of the partners solemnly promises to take responsibility for the material or mental welfare of the other partner. In that case the latter has to accept the committing pledge of the other. In Reformed theology the mutuality of the covenant or foedus dipleuron is not conceived as a merely synergistic pattern but as a relation primarily ordained by God alone. The establishment of a covenant is made with some serious formalities which express the personal involvement of the partners, but the initiative is taken by God. This personal involvement of the partners implies a level of commitment which presupposes a pledge in accordance with their possibilities. Although a covenant presupposes reciprocity, the partners actually accept each other as they are, including their capacities and possibilities. For example, the character of God’s involvement in the story of the covenant with Abraham (Genesis 17) expresses itself in pledges formulated according to his divine status, whereas the human commitment cannot be expressed on the same scale simply because of the distinction Creator-creature. The logic of covenant language implies that the partners involved are related to each other personally. Therefore, the covenant partners should not objectify each other in an instrumental way. Because of the interactive relationship of the partners the connotation of a covenant includes the notion of history which describes the flux of their diverse efforts that contribute to the preservation of the relation. By consequence, a federal theology highlights the dynamic character of language by expressing the way God and the believers contribute to their relationship; at the same time it avoids a timeless, abstract formulation of God’s involvement in human history as if he were a general aspect or qualification of the process. The strength of a federal theology thus conceived consists in the capacity to structure the wide range of stories of God’s continuing involvement with human affairs as Creator, Redeemer, and Consummator represented in biblical narrative.13

13 Cf. Christian Link, “Föderaltheologie,” RGG4 Vol.3 (2000), 172–175; Jürgen Moltmann, “Bund: III. Dogmengeschichtlich (Föderaltheologie),” EKL (1956), 621– 624; Peter A. Lillback, The Binding of God: Calvin’s Role in the Development of Covenant Theology (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic, 2001), 26–28; van Asselt, Federal Theology, 1–2.

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However, different interpretations of federal theology are possible. We can interpret the covenant structure as a realistic description or as an approximately correct analogy of the ontology of the complex way in which the divine-human relationship is constituted. In such an interpretation the covenant structure is considered a one-to-one mapping of the diverse elements of the ontological structure of the divine-human interactions. That is a formal way to state that such a federal theology may claim to have established a workable one-to-one correspondence between all the actual divine-human events and the designed space of the covenant structure. By consequence, all God-talk based on such a covenant conceptuality can provide a valid substitute for what is happening between God and human creatures. The covenant structure in this interpretation has become a speculative auxiliary construction. A more circumspect interpretation of federal theology may be to use the covenant conceptuality as appropriate language to talk about the complexity of the divine-human relationship, while avoiding claims about an ontological structure of the divine-human interactions. This interpretation suggests a more moderate use of covenant language by considering it metaphorically instead of analogically. The image of covenant helps believers to decide on their personal attitude to God by supplying them with relational language without objectifying God in metaphysical terminology. Because God enters into a relation with his creatures it is, for example, appropriate to address God and to talk about God in relational language without referring to God as an individual object among other entities. Because of God’s transcendence there is no need to speculate on the divine nature in and of itself, apart from this covenantal partnership. Consequently, federal theology is not tied to the pre-Kantian period because it is not actually presupposing a particular outdated world view. 4. Updating Cocceius’ Doctrine of God There are elements in Cocceius’ theology which we may consider as pointers to a conception of God which is helpful to theology in the twenty-first century. In his Summa Theologiae he inserts a remarkable topic on the cognitio naturalis Dei as transition from the doctrine of Scripture to theology in a more strict sense, i.e., the topic de Dei Qeiot / hti. On the one hand, he construes the doctrine of God in a tradi-

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tional way, including the biblical names, the metaphysical attributes and the doctrine of the Christian God, the Triune God. However, just before the introduction of the notion of the cognitio naturalis Dei Cocceius inserts a chapter on what he calls a fundamental truth or axiom.14 This fundamentum has the function of the criterion for all other doctrines, for theological reflection as well as exegesis. But the most interesting thing is that he relates this fundamentum to faith (fides) as the Christian way of life, because it denotes both the confessing of the certain truth of the divine promises and the inner acceptance of the covenant. This fundamentum is not an isolated object of knowledge, but Cocceius qualifies its understanding rather as wisdom (sapientia). In other words, it is an insight and a virtue for which one ought to be praised. Finally, this fundamental axiom functions as Cocceius’ hermeneutical principle for understanding Scripture. As fundamental truth this principle is not a doctrinal proposition but a confession of faith that “we belong to our faithful Lord Jesus Christ” (Heidelberg Catechism 1). The important point is that Cocceius does not take a fideist standpoint here but declares that his theological expositions and exegetical research are related to the position of Christian faith inasmuch as it understands, interprets and indicates the whole of life as life coram Deo. That is to say, starting point for his theology is not simply Scripture or the Creed but the relation between God in Jesus Christ and the believers. Therefore I call this theology a typically relational one, because the fundamentum clarifies the basics of what it means to be a believer. Although it functions as “canon outside the canon,” being no part of Scripture, it is the result of a delicate understanding of what happens in the engagement with Scripture, of what is read between the lines: it is “Lesefrucht.” This basic confession is for Cocceius the point of departure for unfolding the systematic ideas of covenant and testament. The present-day systematic relevance of the fundamentum will be clearly shown when we compare a relational interpretation of Cocceius with its realist and anti-realist alternatives. A realist theology starts its argument by presupposing the existence of the constitutive agents and objects in the theological universe independent of the believers and their ideas. Those constitutive elements are central to any interaction with what is happening in this universe. There14 Summa Theologiae, chap. 7, “De Fundamento,” § 15.21: “veritas fundamentalis sive axioma fundamentale.”

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fore, “reality” can correct human ideas about it. An anti-realist theology, however, starts from concepts or ideas within the mind of the believers through which they understand and perceive their theological universe. A realist doctrine of God describes God as independent of his relation with his believers. On the other hand, an anti-realist or idealist conception of God presents images or ideas within the mind of the believers, independent of a possible divine-human relationship or interaction. An anti-realist theology presupposes this interpretive mind to be primary—as preceding the experience of any event or relationship. Contrary to the realist and the anti-realist perspective, a relational theology departs from the relationship between God and human beings and does not start with (epistemological arguments for) the independent existence of God and human beings as given objects of reflection. The relational perspective, however, does not consider God as merely dependent on the possible commitment of human beings, and hence left to the caprices of his own creatures, because that is exactly the antirealist position. In relational God-talk theological reflection starts from the existence of the living divine-human relation, considered basic for all theological endeavours, which means that we cannot abstract theology from the relation between God and his people, i.e., the community of believers. In other words, this theological perspective always implies reflection from within the faithful relation to God because talking of God or his believers independently of their relation would be meaningless.15 Therefore, we can dub it an (exclusively) “internalist theology.” My point is that given a primary topic in theology, its method and its source, i.e., Scripture as God’s instrument to reveal himself to humanity, the notion of fundamentum in Cocceius’ Summa Theologiae turns out to be a relational qualification of Cocceius’ theology. Therefore we may expect more relational conceptuality in the subsequent development of this theology, which we can find in the use of such concepts as foedus, testamentum, salus, pactum salutis, amicitia, beneplacitum. 15 Turretin states that God is not to be regarded as God in himself or theoretically as deity because that kind of knowledge is ‘deadly to sinners,’ but as he is our God, i.e., ‘covenanted in Christ.’ Francis Turretin, Institutes, loc I.v.4. Cf. Richard A. Muller, “The Myth of ‘Decretal Theology’,” Calvin Theological Journal 30 (1995): 159–167, esp. 165; he argues that this relational thinking had priority among many other Reformed contemporary theologians! See also Muller’s Post-Reformation Reformed Dogmatics (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic, 2003), I, chap. 7: where he contends that classical Reformed theology has an essentially soteriological view of Christian doctrine (323, italics mine).

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However, these concepts are open to more than one interpretation of course. It is possible to interpret the foedus gratiae in a realist frame of reference which considers God’s eternal counsel as a pre-existing timeless inalterable framework to establish the intra-trinitarian pactum salutis between the Father and the Son concerning a temporal foedus gratiae with (fallen) humanity in general. This realist interpretation looks upon God the Father and God the Son, pactum, humanity, and covenant, as independent entities that make up a universe of objects, external to the interpreter. Being himself a critical realist, Karl Barth interprets all these concepts in such a realist way, thus discrediting this pactum aspect of federal theology as “mythology.” The reason is that it introduces a volitional dualism in God which disturbs the divine unity as revealed in the gospel and creates a basic uncertainty concerning the unconditional offer of divine grace to human beings.16 Barth’s realist interpretation of the pactum salutis considers it as if it were a literal, i.e., an ontological description of what happens in the consilium Dei. By doing so, he suggests that Cocceius’ federal theology actually starts from God’s perspective and claims to have an overview of the entire consilium of God although it transcends human history and knowledge. A relational interpretation, however, looks upon the pactum as metaphor for an appropriate way of speaking about the basis of God’s complete fidelity to the divine-human relationship. In this context the term “mythology” is not a pejorative word in the Straussian sense but rather a token of the awareness to live on the human side of the divine-human relationship. However, I realize that Cocceius raised many realist questions concerning the meaning of “quod Deus sit,” as he uses the subject-object scheme in his God-talk. [I]t is necessary to fix the attention of the reader on the concept that God is. If we are not completely certain about this, we will be incapable of either seeking or drawing near to God, and we will not be attentive to the testimony concerning him.17

16 Karl Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik IV/1, 69 (CD IV/1, 65). In §33 (KD II/2, 109 [CD II/2, 101–2], however, Barth presents God’s eternal plan of salvation in a way that reminds of the pactum salutis both in language and structure! God chooses to be who he is in Jesus Christ by giving up his Son for humanity; it is Christ’s choice to be obedient to this choice in order to realize the covenant. This would not be mythology? 17 Cocceius, STh, chap. 8, §3; cit. & tr. van Asselt, Federal Theology, 141.

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On a deeper level these realist features are related to the fundamentum framework of the doctrine of the covenant and the Testament of God. The consequence is that, given the fundamentum framework, we can raise questions on how God and human beings are viewed as disconnected entities, however, outside this relational framework these questions are completely meaningless. That is to say, we can talk about natural knowledge of God but this knowledge only gets its meaning within the relational framework and does not operate as a separate argument for the framework. So Cocceius writes: [T]he question arises which starting point is more appropriate for the proof of God and his divinity, either to set aside revelation for a moment and proceed from things in the world . . . ; or whether it is better that we proceed from revelation itself and from the certainty of God’s divinity provided therein.18

Cocceius’ answer to this question is very clear: “[I]f there is divine revelation, and if it can be established as being certain, . . . , then the existence of God will also be proven, and ... we may learn . . . with more certainty about the nature of God and his divinity.” This answer suggests that a cognitio naturalis is meaningless19 when viewed apart from revelation, whereas in the event of revelation (relationally interpreted) God introduces himself as Deus amabilis present to the recipients. This revealing presence of God comprehends in itself the immediate evidence of God to the believers which is more existentially certain than evidence which passes through an indirect ratiocination from e.g. causality. Cocceius does not deny the possibility of a cognitio naturalis Dei because God has disclosed himself to humankind, even though they do not grasp the point of the divine intention, as stated in Romans 1:19ff. Cocceius interprets this biblical notion of a cognitio naturalis as communis qualiscunque cognitio—“universal, general knowledge of God.”20 I cannot see the necessity of this reading of the Pauline text because it suggests that all human beings have the same kind of knowledge of God. In addition, Cocceius’ conclusion is not logically self-evi18 Ibid. 19 Van Asselt considers an attempt to teach people natural knowledge of God “a useless enterprise” (142). However, an enterprise must be meaningful in order to be useless, not vice versa. 20 STh chap. 8, § 10, translation by van Asselt.

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dent. Why not read the apostle’s text as saying that God has not left every heathen individual without some witness of God? That means, Paul speaks of particular knowledge, that is, every human being knows God in her own way without understanding that this God seeks a covenantal relationship with every individual and with every community. But for people living within the context of the covenant with God, that is, a relational framework, natural knowledge can be regarded as complementary to the revealed knowledge of God’s covenantal intentions. Within a relational framework, natural knowledge of God can be understood as indirect knowledge because it is mediated by all creatures that surround us in their own relatedness to God. This is knowledge of God’s hiddenness in his relatedness to all creatures. The mistake of realist theology consists in the attempt to spell out this talk of divine hiddenness in relatedness as if it were clear to us how the nature of God’s hiddenness in general is to be thought. It is not as if theologians have a “God’s Eye point of view” from which they could have an overview of God’s agency in or through the universe. However, if we take the concept of the covenant seriously as constitutive of Cocceius’ theology, the notion of a general knowledge of God should by consequence be interpreted in relational terms. That is to say, God reveals himself in a particular way to each individual human being in particular. Therefore, the adjective “general” in general knowledge does not qualify “knowledge” but it concerns the range of recipients of this knowledge. This interpretation of the cognitio naturalis seems odd, however, when we notice a striking contrast in how Cocceius presents his arguments for the existence of God in his Summa Theologiae.21 He develops his doctrine of God by means of a “perfect being theology” deducing that God is the highest, most perfect, necessary, eternal Creator of all things. Given this definition of God it is absurd to deny the existence of God, according to Cocceius. One could argue that this is realist Godtalk, stressing God’s existence by definition apart from any relation. However, I would like to emphasize that according to Cocceius it is absurd to deny the existence of the Creator of all things. Speaking of the Creator of all things includes speaking about me as well. Given this inclusive perspective on creatures, denying the existence of this Creator is tantamount to denying my own existence as creature. Because of the fact that “Creator” and “creature” are relational concepts, a relational 21 STh, chap. 8.

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reading of Cocceius’ first argument is preferable to a realist reading: Cocceius claims that denying one side of the relation simultaneously implies denying the other (human) side of it and that is absurd.22 My argument in favour of a relational interpretation is supported by the opening lines of Chapter 8 of the Summa Theologiae: In order to be able to consider the doctrine of the Covenant and that of the Testament of God—which is the basis for our hope of eternal life and the love for him who makes this hope possible, and in which we find the pinnacle of all theology, her completion and goal—it is necessary to fix the attention of the reader on the concept that God is.23

By stating “quod Deus sit” Cocceius is claiming the actuality of the relationship between God and his creatures, and with the relational aspects the actuality of the foedus and the Testamentum Dei too. We cannot say he merely claims the existence of God as an isolated fact without significance for other theological topics. On the contrary, by stating “quod Deus sit,” he simultaneously speaks about implications in a whole network of meanings. So the issue “quod Deus sit” concerns both the actuality of the opera Dei ad extra: i.e., the opus naturae and the opus gratiae, and the actuality of the opera Dei ad intra. Given this salvation perspective we may say that by talking about arguments for the existence of God, Cocceius does not intend to speak of epistemological foundations for his theological enterprise as such. Rather, his point is that because of the Christian “hope of eternal life,” talk about “quod Deus sit” needs a relational perspective of interpretation which includes the trinitarian agency concerning human beings. 5. Cocceian Doctrine of the Trinity If by stating that God exists Cocceius speaks of his existence within the context of the actuality of the foedus and the Testamentum Dei and by implication about the pactum salutis as well, he presents a concept of an acting God. We can understand that the network of these salvafic interrelations relates to God’s trinitarian agency ad extra and ad intra. With 22 Ibid., §33: “Quod is, qui dubitat an Deus vel omnino aliquid sit, revera est, et a se ipso esse non potest”—that the person who doubts whether God or anything else exists, does exist herself indeed and her existence cannot be from herself. This relational point of view is the opposite of the realist one of Descartes. 23 STh, chap. 8, §1; cit. van Asselt, Federal Theology, 141–2.

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these concepts he introduces a dynamic sort of language in his God-talk: they are all concerned with specific interactions. Therefore we may claim that Cocceius in effect presents a picture of God who basically acts both in an intra-trinitarian way in God self and in relation to (human) creatures. Such a statement is suggestive of the formula: God’s being is in acting. I immediately want to qualify this formula by the remark that this is not a definition of God’s essence or his divinity. Explicating the significance of the tetragrammaton Cocceius refers to the fact that it has three distinguished senses: “He who is,” “He is what he is,” and “He becomes what he is.”24 About the third sense he says that God “reveals his virtues (attributes) through his work, and his decrees and his promises through his acts, and never denies himself, his virtues and his goodness, either by word or by deed.” This sense also indicates that God is completely reliable because his agency is and will be as good as his promises and decrees. Faulenbach interprets this third aspect according to Barth’s theology as “God’s being is becoming” and clarifies it with the comment: “God’s activity is self-realization.”25 This last remark about God’s self-realization considers Cocceius’ theology in a realist perspective because of its concentration on a description of the divine “self” tending primarily towards self-fulfilment and self-glorification in, with and through creatures. Like all Reformed theology it is formulated in voluntarist language, but what God wills, according to Faulenbach’s impression of things, is primarily his personal glory, that is, he actually presents the Cocceian God as a Big Ego. In a relational perspective God’s aim is the optimization of the reciprocal relationship between Creator and creature, i.e., God’s subject is always in relation. Van Asselt correctly criticizes Faulenbach on this point where he inverts Cocceius’ words “qui fit, quod est” which means “God’s becoming is in his being.” However, when he proposes to speak of an unfolding of God’s being or of a movement in his being,26 his well-chosen words remain within the realist language of the framework of Faulenbach because he is talking about God-in-himself and not about God-inrelation. Whereas Cocceius opens the topic of God’s virtues with the 24 STh, chap. 9, § 9: “eum, qui est;” “qui est, quod est;” “qui fit, quod est.” 25 Faulenbach, Wege und Ziel der Erkenntnis Christi (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1973), 174: “Gottes Sein ist im Werden;” “Gottes Handeln ist Selbstverwirklichung.” 26 Van Asselt, Federal Theology, 157n2.

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fundamental decision that we do not know God per essentiam, but through his works and through the name through which he willed to reveal himself to us.27 That God reveals “his decrees and his promises through his deed” to us, is a voluntarist and relational phrasing of the most important feature of the Reformed notion of the covenant which is based on both the eternal and eschatological faithfulness of God in his agency towards us humans. If the formula “God’s being is in acting” is applied to trinitarian theology, we can say that the pactum salutis is a picture to understand God’s agency concerning his creatures as an intra-trinitarian action. In my view we would overemphasize the individual existence of the agents in this picture by presenting God the Father over against God the Son as legal partners in a contractual relationship. In doing so, however, we would forget that the pactum is a metaphor which tells us how the trinitarian God is oriented towards the well-being of his creatures. By treating the pactum as a realistic picture of what happens in eternity between the Father and the Son we present the Father and the Son as individual partners and by doing so we introduce them as individual “persons” in the modern sense, that is, as individual self-conscious agents. Actually, in that case we would be introducing the trinitarian God as a “committee God” consisting of three individuals in reciprocal activity.28 In that case we would need various qualifications to avoid the appearance of tritheism of three coequal deities. In a realist picture of the Trinity the Divine persons are primarily thought as individual substances. However, the logic of the trinitarian language of the Cappadocian fathers makes it possible to talk about the one God and the three hypostases which are eternal (basic) relations constitutive of God. The Cocceian pactum salutis interpreted in that Cappadocian relational perspective cannot logically be a contract internally made within the godhead, but presents the divine internal orientation as activity in relation towards the well-being of the creatures. This is a picture to order our language to speak properly of the basis of God’s complete fidelity to the divine-human relationship. In Cocceian theology the distinction of the trinitarian persons is not a matter of assigning various attributes to the different persons but is based in their mutual relations. Van Asselt argues that Cocceius follows 27 STh, chap. 9, §1; my italics. 28 A nickname of social trinitarianism.

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the Cappadocian line of thinking in terms of relations as found in Gregory of Nazianzus’ treatise on the notio personalis of the Spirit.29 Any form of Sabbellian subordinationism is rejected because the ordo personarum sive relationum is interpreted by him in a logical way and not in an ontological one. The Father is Deus unus et solus, but not at the expense of the deity of the Son or the Holy Spirit. That is to say, the nature of the Father is prior (prius), i.e., logically and not temporally preceding the co-eternal Son and Spirit.30 Cocceius’ theology gets its relational character primarily by using this Cappadocian type of language. As a consequence I think the Barthian criticism that this theology historicized God’s revelatory activity by neglecting the biblical proclamation character, is not fair. Barth’s critique seems to be predetermined by his own realist postKantian conception of the culminating point of history, which is the atoning event in Jesus Christ. This is projected upon Cocceius’ seventeenth-century theology by anachronistically presenting it as a philosophy of history which applies a covenantal dualism of foedus operum and foedus gratiae.31 There is a serious flaw in Barth’s argument. It is true Cocceius did not reduce the various revelatory stories of the Bible to the central idea of Revelation in Jesus Christ but he maintained their relational character by locating the different human partners in their “historical context” with a specific covenantal character. Barth, however, reduces the whole of the biblical testimony to one central concept, namely the Christ-event, to make sense of every human situation in the history of God and humankind. It is not clear why the Cocceian theological proposal should be dubbed a dualistic philosophy of history, and why Barth’s own theology, centered on the Christological inclusiveness of one unique event, should be deemed the one and only true approach. Is any theology able to contemplate reality from a universal God’s Eye point of view and to make good such a claim? We may discern such a Cartesian perspective in Barth’s judgement of the foedus operum too. He interprets this covenant of works as a dout-des relationship but that is an objectivistic registration of the charac-

29 Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio, 31.9. 30 Van Asselt, Federal Theology, 177–184; he refers to STh, chap. 12 § 17 and 13 § 29. 31 Karl Barth, KD IV/1, 58–9, 61–2.

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ter of such a covenant.32 That is to say, this is an interpretation by an external observer who applies the contractual pattern of an abstract dout-des scheme to this relation. However, from an internalist perspective there are other possibilities as well. For example, God’s benevolence appears in the reciprocal relation of the foedus operum and invites human creatures personally to enjoy concrete participation in the foedus. Why should I not answer in thankfulness? The problem of Barth’s revelatory monism is that it appears to be a completely relational theology while in fact it introduces an externalist perspective in theology: the subject of the theologian observes the picture of God and the universe from an external point of view as if the theologian simultaneously were not herself part of that picture too. Cocceius introduced the concept of covenant in God’s eternal counsel and in doing so he introduced a dualism in the Godhead, according to Barth, because the pactum salutis is a transaction between the Father and the Son. He is of the opinion that it implies a volitional dualism in God which disturbs the divine unity as remarked above. This confusing idea of two wills and negotiating subjects within the one God is not compatible with the doctrine of the Trinity: it leaves out God the Spirit as partner in these divine “negotiations.” This picture is characteristic of Barth’s non-metaphorical, realist interpretation of the pactum salutis (see above).33 As van Asselt notes, Barth overlooks the role of the Holy Spirit in Cocceius’ conception of the pactum salutis because he leaves out the pneumatological perspective in the context of the pactum. In Cocceius’ exposition of the economic Trinity, however, the pneumatological aspect of the opera ad extra is rather dominant: the Spirit of reconciliation is the Spiritus Creator, that is, God’s immanent agency

32 Barth, KD IV/1, 66. 33 Idem, KD IV/1, 69: Barth speaks about the Trinity as the doctrine of the three “Seinsweisen” of God. Cf. the central role of Barth’s idea of Revelation in his doctrine of the Trinity: God the Revealer is identical with his revelational act and also with its effect. As Eberhard Jüngel said on Barth’s “triune God of Revelation”: Revelation is now understood as God’s self-interpretation which is identical with his self-identification. Barth’s phrasing of the traditional “persons” as “Seinsweisen” has a modalist overtone: modes of being as self-identification. Given this phrasing of the doctrine of the Trinity his realist criticism of Cocceian theology is rather weird.

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By consequence, in Cocceius’ theology “from the perspective of salvation history the Spirit is prior to Christ” and the Spirit’s indwelling in Christ dubs him Spiritus vivificans.34 The role of God the Spirit in the drama of the pactum salutis is not that of a legal partner who has to execute the testament but that of the one that implements the testament at large in salvation history. That is to say, the Spirit implements and actualizes the testament as the outcome of the pactum salutis within human history.35 In the light of these remarks, it is justifiable to say that Barth’s criticism of Cocceius’ theologoumenon of the pactum salutis ensues from his premature interpretation of it. We could argue, of course, that this implementation is an economic aspect of the work of the Spirit that has no place in the immanent or ontological Trinity. However, it is God the Spirit who has to implement the result of the intra-trinitarian pactum in its entirety and exactly this comprehensive activity is the Spirit’s immanent trinitarian role with regard to the drama of the pactum at large. The comprehensive role of God the Spirit contrasts with the incarnation perspective of the role of God the Son in the testament: it is the Son who has to identify himself completely with humanity and therefore we can say that this prescribes his specific role in the pactum. This relational reconstruction of Cocceius’ theologoumenon reveals a dynamic perspective on the doctrine of the Trinity: it concerns specific interactions both ad intra and ad extra. The pactum salutis is interpreted in a Cappadocian relational phrasing and through its pneumatological imbedding it introduces the story of a really intra-trinitarian affair. So we get a picture of God continuously in action both in an intra-trinitarian way and in an economic one and therefore God’s being is in acting. The complete story of the pactum salutis interpreted in the Cappadocian relational phrasing merges all the aspects of what is called the economic Trinity in its work in salvation history.

34 Van Asselt, Federal Theology, 10n21; 185–189. Hendrikus Berkhof, Christian Faith (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1990), 335–342: Father-Spirit-Son. 35 Van Asselt, Federal Theology, 233–236.

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6. A Cocceian Contribution to an Actual Debate Karl Rahner’s axiom says that “the ‘economic’ Trinity is the ‘immanent’ Trinity, and the ‘immanent’ Trinity is the ‘economic’ Trinity.” Stanley Grenz observes that Rahner’s Rule approaches the immanent Trinity from the perspective of the economic Trinity by looking for an access into the doctrine of the Trinity through the experience of our faith in Jesus and the Spirit. It is Rahner’s attack on what he considers the Neo-Scholastic tradition.36 The Rule has received different interpretations: realist and anti-realist. Bruce Marshall examines a strict realist reading of this axiom: the three persons who make up the economic Trinity are the same persons as the three who make up the immanent Trinity. As Marshall observes, this is an uninteresting reading because the Rule is refuting a completely unknown heresy that there would be two trinities including six persons. Another realist reading might say that God is essentially Father, Son and Spirit but in economy contingently Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier. Marshall charges this interpretation of the Rule with contradiction.37 There are many samples of a critical realist reading of the Rule saying that behind the economic trinitarian agency is a reliable guide to the immanent Trinity: under the veil of the history of Jesus the immanent intra-trinitarian self-communication is present. It simply states that God is Trinity of Father, Son and Spirit, and that the Son is Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ. Randal Rauser observes that this is actually an “obtuse” reading of the Nicene Creed.38 Rauser also discusses anti-realist readings of Rahner’s Rule which assert in one way or another that the immanent Trinity as the Godhead-in-itself is identical with the economic Trinity as the Godhead-for-us. By consequence the conceptualization of the immanent Trinity becomes redundant: there is only the economic conceptualization of the triune God.

36 Stanley J. Grenz, Rediscovering the Triune God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), 63–71. 37 Bruce D. Marshall, Trinity and Truth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 263–265. 38 Randal Rauser, “Rahner’s Rule: An Emperor without Clothes?” International Journal of Systematic Theology 7 (2005): 81–94. Rauser misreads Moltmann’s panentheism as antirealism.

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In my view, Cocceius’ story of the pactum salutis interpreted along relational lines is a promising alternative to the various readings of Rahner’s Rule. It avoids ontological claims concerning the nature of a Reality-in-itself behind the basic relationality of God and states the practical appropriateness of covenant talking about all the dimensions of the relationship between God and us. That is to say, Cocceius reminds trinitarian theology that it needs a scholasticism open to relational logic.

ABOUT METHOD AND MATTER SCHOLASTICISM AND THE REALISM-CONCEPTUALISM CONTROVERSY IN CONTEMPORARY THEOLOGY Bert Loonstra

Recent expositions of historical scholasticism have underscored the methodological character of this position. Still, the argument can be made that the use of the scholastic method in present-day theology has also a material implication, i.e., that of a realistic interpretation of theological statements. The reverse might also be true. Something like a scholastic approach to a realistic theology is indispensable. This paper first explains the link between the scholastic method and realism in contemporary theology; then it demonstrates the importance of realism as one of the two available a priori views of theology; and finally it demonstrates that the scholastic method is indispensable to promote and protect realism. 1. Scholasticism as a Method Historical scholasticism is primarily a matter of method and not of content, maintains van Asselt, in agreement with De Rijk and Muller.1 Var1 W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, “Rond Voetius’ Disputationes Selactae,” in De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae, ed. W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995), 1– 33. W. J. van Asselt, “Studie van de gereformeerde scholastiek: Verleden en toekomst,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 50 (1996): 290–312. W. J. van Asselt and P. L. Rouwendal, “Inleiding: Wat is gereformeerde scholastiek?” in Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek, ed. W. J. van Asselt (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998), 9–17. W. J. van Asselt and P. L. Rouwendal, “De stand van het onderzoek: Van discontinuïteit naar continuïteit,” in Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek. W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker, “Introduction,” in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise, ed. W. J. van Asselt and E. Dekker (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2001). L. M. de Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte: Traditie en vernieuwing, 2nd rev. ed. (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1981). R. A. Muller, Prolegomena to Theology, vol. 1, PostReformation Reformed Dogmatics (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 1987). R. A. Muller, “The Problem of Protestant Scholasticism: A Review and Definition,” in Reformation and Scholasticism.

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ious theological systems, such as those in different schools of medieval theology, and later on, in Reformed and Lutheran orthodoxy, agreeably use the same scholastic method. As for the Middle Ages, de Rijk defines scholasticism in terms of academic reasoning that is characterized by the use of specific propositions, argumentation techniques, and disputation methods.2 With respect to scholasticism in post-Reformation Reformed dogmatics, Muller asserts that the term “scholastic” . . . indicates neither a philosophical nor a doctrinal position but rather the topical approach of the loci communes or “common-places” and the method of exposition by definition, division, argument, and answer.3

These authors are aware of the influence of Aristotelian logic on scholastic reasoning, both in the Middle Ages (via antiqua) and in the postReformation era. Still, they deny that this influence is essential to and inseparable from scholasticism.4 The scholastic method, in its diversity, has been used in different theological and confessional contexts. For example, Reformed scholasticism can be defined as (1) an academic way of practising theology; (2) specifically, in the period of orthodoxy (from about 1560 until 1790); (3) an exposition of theological doctrines utilizing the scholastic method; and (4) with specific reference to the substance of Reformed confessions.5 In line with the scholars mentioned above this paper takes the term “scholastic-like method” in a collective sense to denote an academic technique of conceptual analysis aiming at terminological clarity and logical consistency. It is called “scholastic-like” because of its affinity with the historical phenomenon, and yet it is distinguished from the historical “scholastic method” because the latter has a more limited denotation.

2 3 4 5

De Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte, 25, 111. Muller, PRRD I, 259. De Rijk, Middeleeuwse wijsbegeerte, 126–127; Muller, PRRD I, 259–260. Van Asselt and Rouwendal, “Inleiding,” 16.

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2. Material Implication for Contemporary Theology Although scholasticism is primarily a matter of method, there seems to be a material implication of its use in contemporary theology. To elaborate on this, we would like to argue that a scholastic-like method might be useful as a technical tool in present-day systematic theology, in as far as terminological clarity and logical consistency are still respectable goals in the theological process. One restriction is pertinent, however. The usefulness of the scholastic method depends on the kind of theology that is pursued. Two academic approaches are dominant in current scholarship: realism and conceptualism (or: idealism, instrumentalism, functionalism, antirealism). Realism presupposes that scientific/scholarly observations, conclusions, theories, and convictions need to fit objective reality to be true. It implies that to a certain degree mind-independent reality can be known. Conceptualism, on the other hand, denies the possibility of having any access to a mind-independent reality. Conclusions, convictions and theories can only be helpful in gaining—in the mind—an integrated, coherent, and helpful conception of the world that we experience. At first sight this distinction has a parallel in the late medieval controversy about the ontological state of universals (such as properties). The realists assumed universals to be real. The nominalists, as they are called, looked on universals as mere names, existing in human minds only. They considered only individual entities to be real. The contemporary dispute is not a direct continuation of the former one. Firstly, present-day realism has shifted somewhat in meaning. Usually it rules out a direct cognitive access to the world as such. We know reality by approximation via analogies and in metaphors. Still it is objective reality that we are supposed to grasp indirectly. This sort of realism is called critical realism, over against so called naive realism.6 Secondly, present-day conceptualism differs from nominalism. It does not only reject the real existence of the universals, but the knowability of the outer world as such. Measured by the present controversy, medieval nominalism is a kind of realism. However, the impacts of both controversies on

6 G. van den Brink, Een publieke zaak: Theologie tussen geloof en wetenschap (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2004), 319.

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the theological discussion are similar. The two contrasting positions of realism and conceptualism divide current approaches to systematic theology. In theological discourse the benefit of a scholastic-like method proves its value particularly in a realistic worldview. A realistic approach to God—his existence, his words and his works—tries to make valid statements of general interest to everyone. For the sake of validity, clarity and consistency are essential. Statements must not be ambiguous or contradictory. This needs some amplification. Classical theology has always maintained that God transcends our understanding. So, many statements about God are beyond our logical control, e.g., those about the Trinity and the personal unity of the two natures of Christ. In other words, we speak about God by analogies and metaphors. Still, the absence of ambiguity and contradiction remains urgent. If an allegedly logical consequence of a theological statement is rejected, distinctions are usually made, leading to further clarity and consistency of the statement. The conceptualist approach to the Divine, however, does not strictly require the absence of ambiguity and contradiction, because it does not seek a general validation of religious pronouncements. Ideas, feelings, questions and expressions about God may differ among persons, and in different moments and circumstances in a person’s life. At this point we can state the material implication of the use of a scholastic-like method today: the use of a scholastic-like method implies a reality claim in theological pronouncements. The following discussion tests the impact of this conclusion in two ways: First, by exploring the importance of theological realism, and second, by illustrating the importance of a scholastic-like method to theological realism. The latter is done through an analysis of a topic discussed by two famous realistic theologians, Calvin and Barth. The point of the argument will be that realistic theology abandons scholastic-like methods only to its own detriment. The argument meets a desideratum in my study God Writes History, that methodological reflection on realistic theology should be advanced.7

7 B. Loonstra, God schrijft geschiedenis: Disputaties over de Eeuwige, 2nd ed. (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2004), 233.

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3. The Inevitable Choice Between Realism and Conceptualism The impact of the preceding conclusion regarding the material implication of a scholastic-like method depends on the assumption that the choice between realism and conceptualism is inevitable. Several efforts have been made to overcome the antithesis of these two options. The first attempt, narrative theology, tries to avoid the extremes of realism and conceptualism. Both realism and conceptualism presuppose some reflection on the knowability of the objective state of affairs, which the former accepts and the latter denies. Narrative theology considers this reflection an ineffective rational endeavour that threatens religious involvement.8 It seeks to overcome the objectivity of realism and the subjectivity of conceptualism by the inter-subjectivity of a believing community that tells its sacred stories. These stories explain, justify, and standardize the existence of the believing community. The narrated history and the history of the narrative, as well as the history of the community are intermingled and are not to be unravelled. This narrative approach indeed overcomes the alternative of realism versus conceptualism. There are indications, however, that after the emancipation of critical reason in our Occidental intellectual tradition we are not able to live in the narrative any longer. This is illustrated by two examples of scholars who both decide in favour of a narrative theology. The first example is Hauerwas. He says beautiful things about the community, its story, and its identity.9 Still, he states that it would be “disastrous” if narrative theology would make irrelevant the question whether Jesus in fact did exist and act in a way very much like the way he is portrayed in the Gospels. Not some external argument of historical truth, but the very nature of the story of Jesus itself demands that Jesus be the one who in fact the church said and continues to say he is.10 Here Hauerwas makes a distinction between the narrative and the actual state 8 S. Noorda, “Narratieve theologie,” in Op verhaal komen: Over narrativiteit in de mens- en cultuurwetenschappen, ed. F. Ankersmit, M. C. Doeser and A. K. Varga (Kampen: Kok, 1990), 107–129. 9 S. Hauerwas, A Community of Character: Toward a Constructive Christian Social Ethic (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981). 10 S. Hauerwas, R. Bondi, and D. B. Burrell, Truthfulness and Tragedy: Further Investigations in Christian Ethics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1977), 72.

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of affairs. Moreover, he describes how the actual state of affairs should have been. With his distinction Hauerwas steps outside the narrative. It is true, he makes the distinction for the sake of the reliability of the narrative. Even so, the distinction is not part of the narrative, and neither is the actual state of affairs. The narrative does not claim mind-independent truth—that would demand an analytical distance that is alien to the narrative approach—it claims relational reliability within the community. In short, Hauerwas’ appeal to realism exceeds the narrative structure of his theology. The second example points in the other direction. Manenschijn wrote a book entitled, God is so Great that He Need not Exist.11 This title is a clear allusion to the ontological argument by the early scholastic Anselm in his Proslogion, which runs as follows: God must be thought of as “a being than which nothing greater can be conceived” . . . If such a being happened not to exist, then it would not be the greatest one could conceive, for one can conceive of such a being as possessing existence, and the existent is plainly greater than the non-existent.12

One could label this realism in due form. We need not evaluate the validity of the argument in this context. It serves as the background for Manenschijn’s counter-position. The author distinguishes between narrative and objective reality. He stresses the central role of God in the narrative and argues that the narrative does not make any objective statement about God’s existence. Here he is right, in so far as the narrative does not make a statement about God’s existence being independent of our minds. However, curiously the title of the book still says something about the world outside the narrative: God need not exist. The author appeals to conceptualism: the real state of affairs about God cannot be known. He, too, crosses the boundaries of narrative theology, but he does so toward the other side. In these two examples narrative theology appears not to be able to overcome the antithesis between realism and conceptualism. In practice, the narrative approach conceals an underlying realism or conceptualism.

11 G. Manenschijn, God is zo groot dat Hij niet hoeft te bestaan: Over narratieve constructies van de geloofswerkelijkheid (Baarn: Ten Have, 2001). 12 R. Taylor, “Introduction,” in The Ontological Argument: From St. Anselm to Contemporary Philosophers, ed. A. Plantinga (London: Macmillan, 1968), ix, x.

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In a plea for a relational theology, van den Brom made a second effort to overcome the antithesis in theology.13 Characteristic for relational theology is its denial of the subject-object scheme, and its starting point in the relationship between God and human beings. According to van den Brom, it does not make sense to talk about God as an object independent of the believing subject, as in realism, nor to talk about God dependent on the believing subject, as conceptualism does. Relationships determine the interpretation of the experiences of faith. The constituent elements behind the relationship are not up for discussion. His main argument is that our images and notions about God cannot transcend our own experiences. Therefore, objective and universal definitions about God and his properties are impossible. However, there is no contradiction in the thesis that a universal claim about objective truth takes the form of a historically confined wording. The limitations of our language do not rule out the possibility that it expresses objective and universal truth in an insufficient way.14 Moreover, van den Brom’s effort does not satisfy the search for bridging the antithesis between realism and conceptualism because relational theology brings up the question of the modal state of the relationship: is it real or is it just conceptual? He chooses for realism. He speaks about “the reality of the relationship,” “the existence of a living relationship,” and “really live before God.”15 If the relationship is real, then the partners in the relationship are real, too. Besides, van den Brom speaks about “incomplete representations of the reality that manifests itself to us,”16 indicating a reality behind its representations. So his relational theology offers no escape out of the realism-conceptualism debate. 13 L. J. van den Brom, “Coccejus voor 21ste eeuwse theologische anti-realisten,” Kerk & Theologie 54 (2003): 347–360; L. J. van den Brom, “Aan het theïsme voorbij: Een relationeel alternatief,” in Schepper naast God? Theologie, bio-ethiek en pluralisme: Essays aangeboden aan Egbert Schroten, ed. T. Boer (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004), 39–52. 14 Cf. V. Brümmer, “Wittgenstein en de natuurlijke theologie,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 48 (1994): 306–318, who states: “religious belief demands a certain kind of critical realism towards the ontological status of religious models or ‘images’.” (314). Brümmer acknowledges the metaphorical characteristics of religious and theological language (“language-games”), and yet he does not hold critical realism to be contradictory. On the contrary, he looks upon it as indispensable. 15 Van den Brom, “Coccejus voor anti-realisten,” 354; van den Brom, “Aan het theïsme voorbij,” 52, and van den Brom, “Theologie als verbeelding over grenzen heen,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift, 58 (2004): 273–291. 16 Van den Brom, “Theologie als verbeelding,” 287.

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From the above we may conclude that realism is one of the available postulates for doing theology, with conceptualism as its only alternative. As we have seen, in realistic theology clarity and consistency are crucial. So, in contemporary theology scholastic-like methods have a large task to unfold the truth claims that are made by theological realism. 4. Human Sin in God’s Decree: Calvin Realistic theology can hardly do without a scholastic-like method, as it seeks clarity and consistency. This will be illustrated by two examples, both dealing with the relationship between human sin and God’s decree. The first example is John Calvin’s exposition of the topic. It will show the importance of the scholastic method for the sake of enhancing communication. The second example is the exposition by Karl Barth. This exposition will demonstrate the importance of a scholastic-like method for opposing conceptualism. In Calvin’s presentation, God by his eternal decree, determined with himself whatever he wished to happen to every human being . . . All are not created on equal terms (pari conditione), but some are preordained to eternal life, others to eternal damnation.17

This implies that God knew how human beings would end before he created them, and that God knew this just because he had ordained it this way by his decree.18 Calvin lists and refutes several objections to this position. The debate, rendered schematically, runs like this.19 Objection 1 Answers Objection 2 Answer

God does elect, but he does not reject. 1. There is no election without rejection. 2. Scripture teaches this: Matthew 15:13; Romans 9:22. God does not reject totally those whom he endured with much patience. (Romans 9:22). In God’s hidden counsel they are made for destruction (Romans 9:22).

17 J. Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion (edition of 1559), 3.21.5. 18 Institutes, 3.21.7. 19 Institutes, 3.23.1–8.

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Objection 3 Answers

Objection 4 Answer Objection 5 Answer

Objection 6 Answers

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For what good reason is God angry with his creatures, if he has not been provoked by them through any offence before? 1. God’s justice transcends our understanding, and he does not owe us an account. 2. This objection blames God wrongly. Sin corrupts people. When God condemns them, he judges them according to their true condition. People bear the penalty of the misery into which Adam fell, on account of God’s predestination, dragging down his posterity with him. “Who are you, a man, to answer back to God?” (Romans 9:20). If God reckons as sin those actions, which he imposed on people by necessity, because of predestination, these people have nowhere to turn. This argument excuses man wrongly. An appeal to God’s foreknowledge is not a way out. God foresees future things because he decided them to happen like that. (Proverbs 16:4) Adam had a free will to shape his destiny for himself. 1. No, he hadn’t. In that case God’s omnipotence, by which he governs all things, comes to nothing. 2. Predestination to sin indisputably appears in Adam’s posterity, so why be concerned about Adam’s predestination to sin? One has to distinguish between God’s will and God’s permission. The ungodly do not perish because of God’s will but because he permits it. 1. God permits it because he wills it, as Augustine says: God’s will is the necessity of things. 2. The destruction of the ungodly proceeds from God’s predestination in such a way that the cause and the matter are found in themselves.

This schematic rendering could give the impression that Calvin treats the topic in a factual way. That impression would be false. The discussion is not just about arguments; it is a battle against enemies of the

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truth. Calvin portrays the opponents as poisonous dogs, spitting out their slander against God, stupid people quarrelling with God, impudently scrutinizing the causes of God’s will. This antagonistic approach hinders a real debate. To be sure, the internal structure of Calvin’s expositions consists in the statement of a position followed by objections and replies. In this respect his method resembles the nature of the scholastic disputation.20 Still, the torrents of abuse weaken the reasoning. We take for granted that abusing one’s opponents was a rather common proceeding in those days, especially in theological debates. However, whether common or not, the example does show an antagonism being to the detriment of the argument. This ought to be avoided. In Calvin’s cause, many questions must still be answered to get a consistent overview of the employed argumentation. These are questions like: What is the character of God’s wrath? Is it a moral indignation? Moral indignation is directed against moral offences. If God’s wrath is his moral indignation, how, then, can it be addressed to people before they have committed moral offences? If it is not moral indignation, then what is it? If Adam did not have free will before he sinned, how can he be held responsible for his first sin? Is it true that God’s omnipotence is incompatible with human free will? Isn’t it convenient to distinguish between the several levels in God’s decreeing will: from God’s active will to his more passive permission, leaving room for various degrees of human responsibility? With questions like these we go on applying a scholastic-like method to reflecting on our theological pronouncements. This is not a matter of impudent curiosity, but of terminological and conceptual precision: What do you mean by what you say? Do the implications of what you say fit in with your other definitions, statements and presuppositions? This comment on Calvin’s method may seem to overlook a dominant principle in his theology, however. It is essential for him to respect the limits Scripture itself sets. He wants to do nothing but obediently repeat the Word of God. If questions remain, we should not yield to the temptation to speculate, but leave these questions unanswered. For Calvin, knowing God is a matter of seeing him in a mirror.21 Yet, in our appre20 R. A. Muller, The Unaccommodated Calvin: Studies in the Foundation of a Theological Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 62–78. 21 C. van der Kooi, As in a Mirror: John Calvin and Karl Barth on Knowing God: A Diptych (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 57, 62.

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ciation of this motif we should realize that every theological pronouncement, even if it is a quotation from the Bible, is a pronouncement accompanied by the theologian’s interpretation. Therefore, the question may always be posed: What do you mean by that? This does not alter the fact that we should be aware of our limited understanding in the light of revelation. But in the interest of good communication the theologian must explain what he means, and how his assertion relates to other theological statements. Again, in doing this we apply a scholastic-like method. Without the use of such a method, our argumentation would only appeal to the sentiments in like-minded circles. That would be an unacceptable restriction that runs counter to the essence of realism. The inherent claim of realism is its universal validity. Realism demands maximum communicability. 5. Human Sin and God’s Decree: Barth For Barth the existence of evil is the drawback of God’s creation. In creation, God expressed his glory and exposed it to the opposition, like the creation of light that can only show its benefit against the background of darkness. The possibility and reality of evil are derived from the existence of the good. In his decision to exhibit his glory in the creation of heaven and earth, God also decides necessarily that his glory and goodness will be opposed by evil. In his decision evil is the excluded and rejected possibility and reality. So, in divine predestination human beings are predestined to be witnesses of divine glory and to receive salvation and eternal life. However, their predestination cannot be realized other than on the edge of the abyss of their predestination to evil. To be sure, the “Yes” of divine predestination calls forth the abyss of God’s “No;” but this “No” is immediately rebutted and conquered by his “Yes.” God decided to create the human being within the conditions of creation, i.e., as a creature that would use and abuse its freedom; so it could and would disgrace its Creator. Both the possibility of being tempted and the reality of giving in to temptation are included in God’s decree.22 Discussing evil and sin elsewhere, Barth talks about an “impossible possibility.”23 22 K. Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik II/2, 2nd ed. (Zollikon – Zürich: Evangelischer Verlag, 1946), 185–187.

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This representation raises several questions about its clarity and consistency, such as: It seems that the possibility and the reality of evil are called into existence by God’s exclusion and rejection of it. The logical order seems to be that the possibility is first, and the rejection of it follows. For what should be rejected if there is not yet anything to be rejected? Is the necessity of evil compatible with human free choice? What is the reality content of evil, if it has been rebutted and conquered immediately? What does “impossible possibility” mean? Is it a rejected possibility? But, then, why say that it is impossible? Is it an ontological impossibility, as Barth asserts?24 But how, then, can you call it a possibility? We have to keep in mind what van der Kooi observes about the character of Barth’s dogmatics.25 According to Barth, we do not have direct access to the truth of God’s revelation. Dogmatics is the word of man, not the word of God. As the word of man, it points to the revelation of God’s own word. So human formulations about God and his acts are provisional. This caution should be heeded not only in the interpretation of Barth, but in all pursuit of realistic theology.26 Anyhow, this is not an argument for the use of ambiguous expressions. Even though according to Barth dogmatic statements have a regulative function, they are also intended to have a substantive content.27 The indirect approach to truth in dogmatics does not imply that its reality claim should be questioned. It, therefore, remains important to formulate theological statements clearly and consistently. Without clarity and consistency Barth’s position comes across as an impressionistic account of his theological concepts. This opens the door to the undesired conceptualistic consequence. In short, a scholastic-like method, with its stress on clarity and consistency, appears to be helpful in protecting realism from dissolving into conceptualism.

23 K. Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik IV/3, 1 (Zollikon – Zürich: Evangelischer Verlag, 1959), 203. 24 Kirchliche Dogmatik IV/3, 1, 204. 25 Van der Kooi, As in a Mirror, 283–286. 26 Cf. B. Loonstra, “Scholasticism and Hermeneutics,” in Reformation and Scholasticism (295–306), 306. 27 Van der Kooi, As in a Mirror, 283.

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6. Conclusions In this contribution “scholastic-like method” is a collective term meaning any academic technique of conceptual analysis that aims at terminological clarity and logical consistency. This definition links up with the primarily methodological significance of historical scholasticism, as argued by van Asselt and others. Our reflection on the current significance of scholastic-like methods leads to three conclusions: (1) A scholastic-like method implies a realistic view of theological pronouncements, because - only realism presupposes their universal validity, and - only universal validity asks for representations to be clear and consistent. (2) A scholastic-like method covers a large field of activity, because realism is one of only two possible a priori approaches: realism and conceptualism. (3) Without the use of a scholastic-like method, the universality claim of realism is threatened by lack of communication; and the reality claim is threatened by obscurity. If these conclusions are right, they have far-reaching consequences for the practice of orthodox, i.e., non-liberal theology, based on realism. Method matters!28

28 The author would like to thank Dr. Gijsbert van den Brink, Dr. Sidney DeWaal and Dr. Maarten Wisse for their comments on earlier drafts of the paper.

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WILLEM J. VAN ASSELT Books Van Asselt, W. J. Amicitia Dei: Een onderzoek naar de structuur van de theologie van Johannes Coccejus (1603-1669). Ede, 1988 (257 pp.). Van Asselt W. J. & H. G. Renger. De leer van het verbond en het testament van God (transl. of Johannes Cocceius, Summa doctrinae de foedere et testamento Dei, third. ed. 1660). Kampen: De Groot-Goudriaan, 1990 (431 pp.). Van Asselt W. J. & E. Dekker, eds. De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995 (206 pp.). Van Amersfoort, J. & W. J. van Asselt. Liever Turks dan paaps? De visies van Johannes Coccejus, Gisbertus Voetius en Adrianus Relandus op de islam. Vertaald, ingeleid en toegelicht (Serie Missions nr. 17), Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1997 (172 pp.). Van Asselt, W. J. Johannes Coccejus: Portret van een zeventiende-eeuws theoloog op oude en nieuwe wegen (Serie Kerkhistorische Monografieën nr. 6). Heerenveen: J. J. Groen, 1997 (300 pp.). Van Asselt, W. J., ed. Inleiding in de gereformeerde scholastiek. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998 (210 pp.). Van Asselt, W. J. & E. Dekker, eds. Reformation and Scholasticism: An Oecumenical Enterprise. Grand Rapids: Baker Bookhouse, 2001 (311 pp.). Van Asselt, W. J. The Federal Theology of Johannes Cocceius (1603-1669). (Studies in the History of Christian Thought 100). Leiden-Boston-Köln: Brill, 2001 (360 pp.). Van Asselt, W. J., et al., eds. Wat is Theologie? Oriëntatie op een academische disciplie. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2001 (149 pp.). Otten, W. & W. J. van Asselt, eds. Kerk en conflict: Identiteitskwesties in de geschiedenis van het christendom. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2002 (217 pp.). Selderhuis, Herman, Paul Abels, Peter Nissen, and Willem van Asselt, et al. Handboek Nederlandse Kerkgeschiedenis. Kampen: Kok, 2005 (950 pp.). Asselt, W. J. van, Voetius. Inleiding met kernteksten. Kampen: De Groot Goudriaan, 2007 (154 pp.). Asselt, W. J. van, Paul van Geest, Daniela Müller & Theo Salemink, eds. Iconoclasm and Iconoclash. The Struggle for Religious Identity. Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2007 (viii + 508 pp.). Van Asselt, W. J., J. M. Bac & R. T. te Velde, eds. Reformed Thought on Freedom: The Concept of Free Choice in the History of Early-Modern Reformed Theology. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2009.

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Articles in Books Van Asselt, W. J., “Een gang door de geschiedenis van Uitwijk en Waardhuizen.” Pages 140-150 in Ik kom van Uitwijk en ik weet van niks. Edited by Mink van Rijsdijk, Uitwijk 1977. Van Asselt, W. J. “Voetius en Coccejus over de rechtvaardiging.” Pages 32-47 in De onbekende Voetius: Voordrachten wetenschappelijk symposium 1989. Edited by J. van Oort et al. Kampen: Kok, 1989. Van Asselt, W. J. “Pierre de Joncourt en zijn protest tegen de coccejaanse exegese in het begin van de achttiende eeuw.” Pages 146-164 in Een richtingenstrijd in de Gereformeerde Kerk: Voetianen en Coccejanen 1650-1750. Edited by F. G. M. Broeyer & E. G. E. van der Wall. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995. Van Asselt, W. J. & E. Dekker. “Rond Voetius Disputationes Selectae.” Pages 1-33 in De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius, Disputationes Selectae. Edited by W. J. van Asselt & E. Dekker. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995. Van Asselt, W. J. & A. J. Beck. “Gods kennis en wil.” Pages 34-42 in De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius Disputationes Selectae. Edited by W. J. van Asselt & E. Dekker. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995. Van Asselt, W. J. & E. Dekker. “De verdienste van Christus.” Pages 86-105 in De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius Disputationes Selectae. Edited by W. J. van Asselt & E. Dekker. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995. Van Asselt, W. J. & E. Dekker. “Register van alle disputaties in de Disputationes Selectae.” Pages 167-193 in De scholastieke Voetius: Een luisteroefening aan de hand van Voetius’ Disputationes Selectae. Edited by W. J. van Asselt & E. Dekker. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995. Van Asselt, W. J. & F. G. M. Broeyer. “Theologie in de gereformeerde kerk van de zeventiende eeuw.” Pages 134-149 in Reformatorica: Teksten uit de geschiedenis van het Nederlandse Protestantisme. Edited by C. Augustijn et al. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 1996. Van Asselt, W. J. “De neus van de bruid. De profetische en zinnebeeldige godgeleerdheid van Henricus Groenewegen en Johannes d’Outrein.” Pages 163184 in Profetie en Godsspraak in de geschiedenis van het christendom: Studies over de historische ontwikkeling van een opvallend verschijnsel. Edited by G. F. M. Broeyer & E. M. V. M. Honée. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1997. ——. “Coccejus en de kerkvaders: Een fragment uit het zeventiende-eeuwse debat tussen protestanten en rooms-katholieken over het juiste gebruik van de kerkvaders in theologische geschillen.” Pages 135-154 in De Kerkvaders in Reformatie en Nadere reformatie. Edited by J. van Oort. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1997. ——. “Dordt en de evangelicalen: God eerst of wij eerst?” Pages 52-61 in Dichtbij de eenheid: Een handreiking voor een geestelijk gesprek over Samen op Weg. Edited by J. Roelevink. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1998. Van Asselt, Willem J. & Eef Dekker. “Introduction.” Pages 11-43 in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise. Edited by Willem J. van Asselt & Eef Dekker. Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 2001.

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Van Asselt, W. J. “Cocceius Anti-Scholasticus?” Pages 227-251 in Reformation and Scholasticism: An Ecumenical Enterprise. Edited by Willem J. van Asselt & Eef Dekker. Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 2001. ——. “Chiliasm and Reformed Eschatology in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.” Pages 11-29 in Christian Hope in Context: Studies in Reformed Theology, vol. 4. Edited by A. van Egmond & D. van Keulen. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2001. ——. “Gisbertus Voetius (1589-1676): gereformeerd scholasticus.” Pages 99-108 in Vier Eeuwen theologie in Utrecht. Edited by A. de Groot & O. J. de Jong. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2001. Otten. W. & W. J. van Asselt. “Inleiding: Kerk en conflict in kerkhistorisch bestek.” Pages 7-11 in Kerk en conflict: Identiteitskwesties in de geschiedenis van het christendom. Edited by W. Otten & W. J. van Asselt. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2002. Van Asselt, W. J. “Concordia discors: Conflict en identiteit in de tijd der reformatie en daarna.” Pages 79-85 in Kerk en conflict: Identiteitskwesties in de geschiedenis van het christendom. Edited by W. Otten & W. J. van Asselt. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2002. ——. “De ontwikkeling van de remonstrantse theologie in de zeventiende eeuw als deel van het internationale calvinisme.” Pages 39-54 in Theologen in ondertal: Godgeleerdheid, godsdienstwetenschap, het Athenaeum Illustre en de Universiteit van Amsterdam. Edited by P. J. Knegtmans & P. van Rooden. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2003. ——. “Scholasticism Protestant and Catholic: Medieval Sources and Methods in Seventeenth Century Reformed Thought.” Pages 457-470 in Religious Identity and the Problem of Historical Foundation: The Foundational Character of Authoritative Sources in the History of Christianity and Judaism. Edited by Judith Frishman, Willemien Otten & Gerard Rouwhorst. Leiden, 2004. ——. “Adam en Eva als Laatkomers.” Pages 99-115 in Adam en Eva in het paradijs: Actuele visies op man en vrouw uit 2000 jaar christelijke theologie (Utrechtse studies nr. 7). Edited by Harm Goris & Susanne Hennecke. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2005. ——. “Een roepende zonde: Gisbertus Voetius (189-1676) en zijn strijd tegen de lombarden.” Pages 86-103 in Armzalig of armlastig? Armoede als vraagstuk en inspiratiebron voor de theologie (Utrechtse Theologische Reeks 56). Edited by M.F. Farag e.a. Utrecht: Theologische Faculteit, 2006. Van Asselt, Willem van & Paul H.A.M. Abels. “De zeventiende eeuw.” Pages 359– 496 in Handboek Nederlandse Kerkgeschiedenis. Edited by Herman Selderhuis et al. Kampen: Kok, 2005. Van Asselt, W. J. “Waar staan wij voor? Iets over de kerkelijke en theologische identiteit van de gemeente te Uitwijk en Waardhuizen c.a.” Pages 235-242 in Nigra sim at decora: 400 jaar Hervormde Gemeente Uitwijk en Waardhuizen. Kampen: De Groot/Goudriaan, 2007. ——. “Hoop op betere tijden: Spirituele dimensies in de theologie van Johannes Coccejus (1603-1669).” Pages 64-79 in Kerk rond het heilgeheim: Opstellen aangeboden aan prof. dr. A. de Reuver. Edited by H.J Lam, P.J. Vergunst & L. Wüllschleger. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2007. Asselt, Willem van, Paul van Geest, Daniela Müller & Theo Salemink, “Introduction” Pages 1-29 in Iconoclasm and Iconoclash: The Struggle for Religious Identity. Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2007.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY W. J. VAN ASSELT

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Not included in this bibliography: • many articles in ecclesiastical magazines (Hervormd Weekblad/ Confessioneel, Centraal Weekblad, Wapenveld, De Waarheidsvriend) • many book reviews (in Kerk en Theologie, Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift, Nederlands archief voor kerkgeschiedenis/Dutch Review of Church History, Calvin Theological Journal) • (with G. A. van den Brink) “De verbonden.” Dutch Translation of Hermannus Witsius, De Oeconomia Foederum cum hominibus Libri Quatuor. Utrecht 1694. liber I, cap. 1-8, in: Oudvaders: Bronnen van gereformeerd geloven, nrs 1-13 (September 2005-October 2007).

INDEX OF NAMES Abaelardus. See Abelard Abälard. See Abelard Abelard, P., 9, 62–73 Abélard. See Abelard Adamimalum, G., 94 Adams, M. M., 318 Adriaanse, H. J., 14 Aertsen, J. A., 45 Alan of Lille, 67 Alsted, J.-H., 118–119, 304 Alston, W. P., 38, 289, 291, 304 Althaus, P., 112, 118–119, 252 Alting, H., 120 Ames, W., 198 Amesius, G., 135, 144 Anglin, B., 312 Anna Maria. See Schurman Anselm of Canterbury, 48, 63, 86, 89, 290, 307, 312, 368 Anselm of Laon, 63 Anselmus. See Anselm Aquinas, T., 8, 23, 38–39, 41, 43–48, 57, 111, 126, 198, 208, 244–245, 261, 288– 291, 293, 306–307, 311–312, 314, 320, 323–325, 337, 339, 341 Areopagita, D., 153 Ariew, R., 124 Aristotle, 34, 38–40, 79, 111, 114–115, 126, 244, 303–304, 312 Arminii. See Arminius Arminius, J., 5, 15, 42, 109, 155–160, 162–164, 170, 172, 174–176 Asselt, W. J. van, 1–6, 9–13, 15–16, 18– 19, 25, 31–33, 49, 55–59, 61, 64, 72, 74– 75, 91–93, 95–96, 98, 100–102, 107, 109, 111, 129–130, 137, 157, 196, 199, 202, 248, 258–262, 264, 268–269, 272, 278– 280, 282, 290, 295, 299, 322, 324, 327, 332, 338, 346, 352–353, 355–356, 358– 360, 363–364, 375 Augustine of Hippo, 19, 39–40, 43–44, 88, 111, 126, 139, 220, 222, 227, 267, 272, 280, 282–283, 286–287, 292–293, 307, 312, 320 Austin, J. L., 38 Averroes, 79

Baars, A., 328, 334, 336 Baarsel, J. J. van, 215, 219 Bac, J. M., 8, 33, 91 Bac, M., 31 Bachuth, A., 134 Bakhuizen van den Brink, J. N., 175 Ball, J., 205 Balserak, J., 155 Bangs, C., 158, 160–161 Barlaeus, C., 157, 170–171 Barlow, T., 17, 179–195, 304 Barnes, J., 169 Barrow, H., 232 Barth, H.-M., 120–121 Barth, K., 3, 18, 20–21, 23–25, 56–57, 197, 214, 241–242, 244–279, 323, 330, 334, 336, 338, 352, 356, 358–360, 366, 370, 372–374 Basinger, D., 297, 301 Baxter, R., 193 Bayer, O., 116 Becanus, M., 111 Beck, A., 13–14, 107–108, 119 Beeke, J. R., 108, 131 Beenhacker, P. de, 96 Bellarmin, R., 243 Bellarmine, J., 198 Bellucci, D., 113 Berg, J. van den, 109 Berkhof, H., 360 Berkouwer, G. C., 178, 278 Bernard of Chartres, 63 Bertius, P., 15, 155–157, 163–171, 174, 176 Bertrant, A., 151 Beugholt, J., 151 Beza, T., 107, 216, 220, 222, 242 Biddle, J., 208 Biel, G., 244–245 Bierma, L. D., 119 Bizer, E., 109, 120, 241, 249 Blackburn, S., 304 Blacketer, R. A., 18–19, 215, 219, 224, 228, 230, 232 Blake, T., 205 Boehme, J., 101

INDEX OF NAMES

Boersma, H., 51 Boethius, 282, 286–289, 296 Böhme, J., 102 Bok, N. W. den, 76 Bolton, R., 133, 139, 189 Bonaventure, 48 Bondi, R., 367 Boom, J., 261, 268 Bosch, L. J. M., 155, 164 Boulton. See Bolton Boyd, G. A., 282 Boyle, R., 189–191, 193 Braine, D., 306 Brandt, G., 157 Breward, I., 215–216, 219, 227–228 Brink, G. van den, 4, 24, 279, 322, 365, 375 Broadie, A., 37 Broeyer, F. G. M., 14, 127, 130, 147 Brom, L. J. van den, 4, 24–25, 341, 369 Brouwer, R., 20 Brümmer, V., 4, 6, 16, 259, 284, 290, 298, 369 Brundell, B., 190 Brunner, E., 336 Bucer, M., 124 Buckley, M. J., 324, 332 Bulkeley, P., 199, 201 Bullinger, H., 331 Bunge, W. van, 74 Burgess, A., 208–210 Burman, F., 147 Burrell, D. B., 367 Busch, E., 241 Buxtorf, J., 207 Bychkov, O. V., 79 Cabezón, J. I., 341 Calvin, J., 2–3, 19, 24–25, 111, 120, 126, 142, 171–172, 197–198, 216, 219–221, 224, 227–230, 287, 324–331, 333–335, 366, 370–373 Campanella, T., 183, 193–194 Capek, M., 192 Cappel, L., 96 Carron, T., 162 Cattenburgh, A. van, 173 Charles II (king), 196 Charleton, W., 187–189, 192–193 Chrysostom, J., 206, 227 Cicero, 226

385

Clairvaux, B. de, 72 Clanchy, M., 64, 67 Clapmuts, J., 151 Clarke, S., 325 Cocceius, J., 3, 6, 11–12, 14, 17–18, 20– 21, 24, 57, 93, 102, 109, 126, 147, 157, 199, 210, 259–279, 331–332, 342, 345– 362, 369 Coccejus. See Cocceius Collinson, P., 145, 215–217 Comrie, A., 3 Cossee, E. H., 173 Craig, W. L., 296, 302, 306 Cramer, J. A., 108 Cranmer, T., 232 Creel, R. E., 295, 299–300 Cresswell, M. J., 82 Cunningham, D., 322–323 Cupius, J. P., 149 Danto, A., 343 Davenant, J., 132 Davies, B., 308 Davies, P., 292 Dekker, E., 4–5, 9, 33, 49, 57, 74–76, 111, 129, 158, 278, 299, 301, 327, 363 Democritus, 184 Dennis, A., 153 Denzinger, H., 173, 246 Descartes, R., 3, 14, 56, 111, 114, 124, 182, 187–188, 291 Deursen, A. T. van, 155, 177 DeWaal, S., 375 DeWeese, G. J., 289, 292, 294–295, 297 Dickson, D., 198–199, 201, 206, 213 Digby, K., 186 Dixon, P., 324 Dorthius, J., 152 Downame, G. (bishop), 212 Driessen, A., 15 Du Moulin, L., 109 Duker, A. C., 108, 110, 148 Duns Scotus, J., 6–8, 57, 76, 79–80, 83, 85, 87, 89, 121–122, 289, 293 Dyke, D., 139 Ebrard, J. H. A., 109 Edwards, J., 22, 305–306, 309, 311–316, 318–320 Einstein, A., 41, 292–293

386

INDEX OF NAMES

Elisabeth. See Elizabeth Elizabeth I (queen), 216–217, 235 Elleboogius, C. H., 92–102 Epicurus, 184 Erasmus, D., 222 Eugenius, F., 244 Evans, G. R., 40, 48 Evers, D., 294 Eversdijck, M., 151 Exter Blokland, A. F. den, 258 Faulenbach, H., 243–244, 356 Featley, D., 212–213 Ferguson, J. P., 325 Fisher, E., 199, 201 Flacius Illyricus, 121, 125, 222, 229 Francis of Assisi, 138 Frank, G., 108, 114–115, 117–118, 121, 123–124 Freedman, J. S., 179 Fretheim, T. E., 282 Fuller, F., 229 Fuller, T., 228 Fuller, W., 217 Funkenstein, A., 179 Ganssle, G. E., 293, 296, 302 Gaß, W., 108–109 Gassendi, P., 182, 187–190 Gassendus. See Gassendi Gataker, T., 96, 211–212 Geach, P., 294, 298 Genderen, J. van, 334 Gentman, C., 110, 133–134, 136, 147, 153 Gerhard, J., 206 Gettier, E. L., 290 Gillespie, G., 196 Gillespie, P., 18, 93, 196–197, 203–214 Glanvill. See Glanville Glanville, J., 184 Glasius, B., 156 Goetz, S., 312 Goldgar, A., 129 Gomarus, F., 5, 15, 91, 107, 109, 119– 120, 155, 157–164, 170–172, 174, 177 Goudriaan, A., 14–15, 114, 124, 155 Goudriaan, M., 178 Graafland, C., 3, 13, 131, 140, 331, 333 Graham, B., 277

Grant, E., 188 Greenwood, J., 232 Gregory of Nazianzus, 358 Grene, M., 124 Grenz, S. J., 322–323, 361 Groot, A. de, 108, 137 Grotius, H., 170, 175 Gunton, C., 323 Guthrie, J., 196 Haar, H. W. ter, 176–177 Hall, C., 323 Hamel, du, 182 Hammond, H. (bishop), 206–207 Harnack, A., 303 Harrison, A. W., 158 Hartshorne, C., 299–300 Hasker, W., 283, 289, 293, 301 Hasselaar, J. M., 4 Hauerwas, S., 25, 367–368 Hebblethwaite, B., 294 Hegarty, A. J., 42 Heidanus, A., 114, 136, 147, 331 Heinrich, J., 118 Hellenbroeck, A., 98 Helm, P., 286, 302, 306, 312, 315, 321 Hemmingius, N., 222 Henry of Ghent, 89 Heppe, H., 109, 231, 241–242 Heyns, J. A., 334 Hick, J., 318 Hill, D., 321 Hoenderdaal, G. J., 159 Hof, W. J. op ‘t, 140, 144 Hofmeyr, J. W., 176 Holopainen, T., 53 Holyoke, F., 186 Hommius, F., 156–157 Honnefelder, L., 121–122 Hoogstraeten, S. van, 127 Hooker, R., 215 Hoornbeeck, J., 97 Hoornbeek, J., 176 Horace, 227 Horsfall, J., 222 Hovius, J., 146 Howatch, S., 298, 302 Hughes, G. E., 82 Hughes, G. J., 315 Huidekoper, J., 97 Hume, D., 286

INDEX OF NAMES

Hutter, 125 Hutton, S., 42, 51 Huygens, C., 102 Hyperius, A., 222 Hyppolitus a Collibus, 158 Iacksons, D., 42 Idziak, J. M., 308 Israel, J., 74 Itterzon, G. P. van, 155, 158, 160 Jackson, T., 42, 44, 49–51 Jacobi, K., 34 James, King, 43 Jansenius, C., 110 Janssen, A. J., 260 Jeauneau, E., 63 Jenson, R., 323, 334 John of Salisbury, 63 Jones, N., 217 Jüngel, E., 339, 359 Junius, F., 91, 118, 120, 222, 248 Kant, I., 124, 343 Kargon, R., 189 Keckermann, B., 36, 110, 118 Keelknobbel, J., 94, 100 Keizer, G., 75 Kempis, T. à, 140 Kennedy, G. A., 226 Kenny, A., 286, 293, 304 Kern, B. R., 117 Kernkamp, G. W., 113 Klooster, K. ten, 176 Kniegewricht, E. van, 92–94, 97 Knijff, H. W. de, 4 Knuttel, W. P. C., 156–157 Knuuttila, S., 37 Kohlbrügge, H. F., 178 Kooi, C. van der, 372, 374 Kretzmann, N., 21, 37, 52, 284–285, 289, 293 Kühler, W. J., 173 Kuropka, N., 235 Kusukawa, S., 113, 115 Kuyper, H. H., 157 Kvanvig, J., 290 Labadie, J. de, 95 LaCugna, C. M., 323

387

Lamberigts, M., 110 Lane Craig, W., 293 Langston, D. C., 289, 293 Le Blanc, L., 193 Le Poidevin, R., 292 Leeuwen, M. van, 173 Leibniz, G.-W., 305 Leigh, E., 199 LeRon Shults, F., 324 Lessing, G. E., 342–345 Letham, R., 243 Lieburg, F. A. van, 15, 149 Linde, S. van der, 2–3 Locke, J., 291, 325 Lodenstein, J. van, 137, 147 Lodensteyn. See Lodenstein Lombard, P., 337 Looman-Graaskamp, A. H., 76 Loonstra, B., 25, 279, 332, 363, 366, 374 Lubbertus, S., 15, 155–158, 164–174, 177 Lucas, J. R., 294 Luther, M., 2, 60, 117, 154, 227, 324–325 Maag, K., 112 Maccovius, J., 13, 51, 94, 101 Macintosh, J. J., 190 Mackay, E., 35 Mackie, J. L., 306–307 Manenschijn, G., 25, 368 Mann, W., 315 Marenbon, J., 62 Maresius, S., 126 Marlorat, A., 222 Marrone, S. P., 52 Marshall, B., 342, 361 Mary (queen), 217 Mastricht, P. van, 15, 94 Matthews, G. M., 287, 293 Matthias, J., 222 Maurits van Nassau, 155 Maurus, R., 182 McBeath, M., 292 McCabe, H., 312 McCord Adams, M., 289, 312 McCormack, B., 261 McGahagan, T. A., 113, 121 McGrath, A. E., 157 McKim, D. K., 220, 226 McNaughton, D., 307 McTaggart, J. M. E., 293 Meijering, E. P., 75, 125, 252–253

388

INDEX OF NAMES

Melanchthon, P., 14, 107–118, 120–126, 235, 242 Mellos, de, 182 Merrett, C., 183 Mersennus, M., 182 Miller, B., 306 Millet, O., 224 Milton, J., 305 Minkowski, H., 294 Miskotte, K. H., 247 Moltmann, J., 361 Moor, B. de, 91, 176 Morris, T. V., 290, 296 Mühlegger, F., 173 Mühling, M., 259 Muller, R. A., 5–6, 16–18, 36, 49, 56–57, 107, 118, 131, 179, 181, 183, 188, 192, 198, 202, 209, 216, 220, 226, 243, 246, 279, 287, 299, 324, 327, 330–331, 334– 339, 363, 372 Munninx, A., 150 Musaeus, J., 124 Mylius, R. A., 10, 92, 96 Neusbeen, E., 92–95, 97, 100–101 Newton, I., 41, 325 Nichols, J., 159, 162 Niet, C. A. de, 143, 147 Nietzsche, F., 23 Noorda, S., 367 Nuttall, G. F., 109 Oberman, H. A., 18, 60 Occam. See Ockham Ockham, W. of, 48, 244–245, 289 Olson, R. E., 323 Oomius, S., 94, 97 Oort, J. van, 108 Opzoomer, C., 8 Osler, M. J., 179, 182 Ostorodus, C., 171, 174 Otten, W., 9, 55, 66, 68 Owen, H. P., 298, 306 Owen, J., 16, 18, 26, 51, 180, 197, 200– 202, 208–210, 213 Packer, J., 51 Pannenberg, W., 14, 24, 324, 334–335, 337–339, 343 Pannier, R., 306

Paraeus, D., 174 Parkinson, G. H. R., 294 Peirce, C., 299 Pelikan, J., 62 Perkins, W., 19, 130, 139, 145, 198, 212, 215–235 Peterson, M. L., 305 Petty, W. Sir, 185, 189–191 Piché, D., 115 Pike, N., 284, 315 Pine-Coffin, R. S., 283 Pinnock, C. H., 297–298 Piscator, J. of Herborn, 211–212 Placher, W. C., 24, 324–332, 337, 339 Plantinga, A., 286, 296, 307 Plato, 280, 289, 312 Platt, J., 16, 120 Plautus, 151 Pleizier, T., 8, 31 Plotinus, 312 Poitiers, G. of, 244, 246 Polanus, A., 20, 241–258 Polyander, J., 155–156 Posthumus Meyjes, G. H. M., 175 Price, H. H., 291 Pricquius, J., 145–146 Prynne, W., 183 Quenstedt, J. A., 125 Quine, W. V. O., 345 Quinn, P. L., 306 Rabbie, E., 170 Rahner, K., 23–24, 323–324, 336–338, 342, 361–362 Ramsey, P., 306 Ramus, P., 19, 220, 243, 248, 250 Ranke, L., 343 Ratschow, C. H., 124–125 Rauser, R., 361 Reeling Brouwer, R. H., 241 Rehnman, S., 16, 22, 303, 321 Reid, J., 42, 51 Reitan, E., 307 Rembrandt van Rijn, 127 Renger, H. G., 260 Revius, J., 14 Rijk, L. M. de, 7–9, 33–36, 39–40, 48, 58–61, 64, 85, 363–364 Ritschl, A., 108, 157

INDEX OF NAMES

Rochot, B., 187 Rodenborch, A., 145, 150 Rogers, K. A., 286 Rouwendal, P. L., 363–364 Rowe, W. L., 306–307 Ruler, J. A. van, 155, 179–180, 193, 260 Russell, B., 307 Rutherford, S., 51, 93, 208, 331 Ruusbroec, J., 153 Saenvliet, P. J., 128, 143 Saltmarsh, J., 211 Sanders, J., 297 Sarfey, M., 151 Sarot, M., 1, 21–22, 279–280 Scheen, R. van der, 93, 95, 98–100, 102 Scheibler, C., 304 Schlüter, J., 175 Schrenk, G., 262 Schurman, A. M. van, 94–95, 99–101 Schwamm, H., 289 Schweizer, A., 329 Schwöbel, C., 279, 322 Scotus. See Duns Scotus Selderhuis, H. J., 108, 111 Servet, M., 156, 171–172 Servetus. See Servet Severijn, J., 177 Shanley, B. J., 308 Simoniodes, S., 151 Sir J. B., 181–182, 184–185, 187, 190– 191, 193 Skalnik, J. V., 220 Smart, J. J. C., 294 Socino. See Socinus Socinus, F., 156, 171–174 Southern, R. W., 48, 63, 73 Spade, P. V., 37 Spanheim, E., 51 Spijker, W. J. van ‘t, 57, 108, 129, 143– 144 Spinks, B. D., 215 Sprunger, K. L., 144 Spruyt, B. J., 176 Staehelin, E., 242 Stanglin, K., 97 Steinmetz, D. C., 120 Strawson, P. F., 294 Strehle, S., 51 Strohm, C., 117, 248 Stubbe, H., 183–184

389

Stump, E., 21, 52, 284–285, 293, 318 Suárez, F., 14, 111, 114, 126, 209, 293 Sullivan, T., 306 Sung Shin, B., 98 Sweeney, E. C., 67–69 Swinburne, R., 305–306, 309, 313 Taffin, J., 130, 145 Tanner, K., 314 Taylor, I., 272 Taylor, R., 368 Teellinck, J., 147 Teellinck, W., 130, 145 Thersites, 114–115 Tholuck, A., 112 Torrance, J. B., 205, 331 Torrance, T. F., 334, 336 Trethowan, I., 306 Trigland, J., 156, 175–176 Trueman, C. R., 16–17, 57, 196, 208 Turretin, F., 9, 307, 326–333, 335, 344– 345, 351 Turrettin. See Turretin Turrettini. See Turretin Tweedale, M., 34 Twisse, W., 8, 42, 44–45, 47–51, 53, 208, 211 Ursinus, Z., 109, 119–120 Ussher, J., 212–213 Vaj, S., 149 Vallicella, W. F., 306 Vanhoozer, K. J., 259 Velde, A. van de, 147 Velde, R. T. te, 33, 91 Veldhuis, H., 4, 76 Verbeek, T., 115, 182 Vetch, R. H., 51 Vitringa, M., 176 Voet. See Voetius Voetius, G., 2, 13, 26, 49, 56–57, 61, 86, 89, 91–95, 97, 100, 107–121, 123–124, 126–134, 136–154, 157, 175, 180–181, 278, 299, 331, 363 Vorstius, C., 111, 211 Vos Jaczn, A., 4–9, 58, 60, 74–76, 80, 89, 93, 107, 114, 289 Vroegindewey, L., 177

390

INDEX OF NAMES

Walker, G., 211–212 Ward, S., 132 Watson, T., 199 Watts, V. E., 287 Weber, O., 336 Weinandy, T. G., 282 Weinberg, J., 83 Weingart, R. E., 65 Werenfels, S., 241 White, T., 187–188 Wigandus, J., 222 Wijminga, P. J., 157 Wilks, I., 305, 307 Williams, C. A., 199 Wisse, M., 1, 17, 20–21, 259, 272, 277,

375 Wittgenstein, L., 4 Wollebius, J., 241, 249 Wolter, A. B., 79 Wolterstorff, N., 295, 312 Worp, J. A., 102 Wotton, A., 211–212 Woude, C. van der, 155, 158, 164, 170 Wtenbogaert, J., 175 Wynn, M., 306 Yates, J. C., 286 Zanchius, H., 91 Zierotin, K. von, 242 Zwingli, H., 116