In the previous post I explained what an essentially ordered series is and gave an argument to the effect that every such series must have a first member. While I still think the argument works, discussions about the post with others have led me to realize that we can give a considerably simpler argument for the same conclusion.
Start with a case of one thing causally influencing another, say Alice picking up her mug from the table. The thing doing the causing (Alice) is the agent and the thing being influenced (the mug) is the patient. Both the agent and the patient contribute something that enables the causation to occur, namely the actuality in the agent and the potential in the patient, and the causation itself consists in these contributions coming together in such a way that the potential can be actualized by the actuality.
A causal series is a series of successive causations. When this occurs, the members of the series fall into one of three categories: the first member (if there is one) is an agent without being a patient; the last member is a patient without being an agent; and each intermediate member is in some sense both an agent and a patient. For any intermediate member, its agency and its patiency will coincide either accidentally or essentially. They coincide accidentally when the actuality whereby the member is an agent is to some extent distinct from the potential whereby it is a patient. For instance, when Bob lifts Charlie so that he can grab an item off the top shelf, Charlie has the potential to be lifted and the actuality of grabbing, where the latter is distinct from the former. An intermediate member’s agency and patiency coincide essentially when the actuality whereby it is an agent just is the actualization of the potential whereby it is a patient. For instance, when Alice moves a stone in a shape on the ground using a stick, the actuality in the stick whereby it moves the stone just is the actualization of its potential to be moved in that way.
This essential coincidence of agency and patiency captures a unique middle ground between the “pure” agent and patient that we started with, and for this reason we introduce a third term to describe this sort of member: instrument. Similar to an agent, an instrument has an actuality in virtue of which it actualizes the potential of something else. Unlike an agent, this actuality is something the instrument receives from another as part of the functioning of the causal series rather than something that it contributes itself. Similar to a patient, then, the only thing the instrument contributes to the series is the potential. But unlike a patient, the potential contributed by the instrument is the potential for actualizing a potential in the next member of the series.
By contrast, the accidental coincidence of agency and patiency does not require us to introduce another sort of member, since in this case the intermediate member is separately a patient of the member preceding it and an agent of the member succeeding it.
We are now in a position to introduce the distinction between two types of causal series. An accidentally ordered series is a causal series in which the agency and patiency of every intermediate member coincide accidentally, whereas an essentially ordered series is one in which they coincide essentially. In other words, none of the intermediate members in an accidentally ordered series are instruments, while in an essentially ordered series all of them are instruments.
Given this distinction, we can see quite easily that every essentially ordered series must have a first member. After all, if any such series didn’t have a first member, then the only members in the series would be the instruments and the patient. But instruments and patients only contribute potentials to the series, and therefore this series would not have any actuality in it. But without any actuality, no potentials can be actualized to bring about any effect. And therefore, this series wouldn’t in fact cause anything at all.
 More technically, a contribution of a member M to a causal series S is some intrinsic feature of M which makes it possible for S to obtain and which it does not receive as part of S obtaining.
 There can still be some overlap or dependency and still be considered distinct, so long as the actualization of the potential is not identical to the actuality.
 We are restricting ourselves to causal series where there is at least one intermediate member so that we can give succinct versions of these definitions.
A causal series or chain is an ordered collection of members, where earlier members cause or explain later members. Every member other than the first is preceded by one other member, and every member other than the last is succeeded by one other member. We can distinguish between accidentally ordered series and essentially order series. These don’t exhaust all the casual series there could be, but they do pick out important groups.
The difference between these two types of causal series can be illustrated with paradigm examples. A paradigm case of accidentally ordered series is that of parents begetting children: x begets y, y begets z, and so on. On the other hand, a paradigm case of essentially ordered series is that of someone moving a stone in a shape on the ground using a stick.
In both of these cases the later members depend on earlier members, but they do so in different ways. In the stick-and-stone case the stick moves the stone only insofar as it is moved by the person, whereas in the begetting case it is not true that y begets z only insofar as x begets y. Put another way, in the begetting case there is a measure of independence between members that is absent in the stick-and-stone case. Or to put it yet another way, in the stick-and-stone case we have an example of caused causing — the person causes the stick’s causing the stone to move — whereas this is not so in the begetting case.
Contrary to the impression we might get from these examples, the difference is not simply about whether the causes are simultaneous or not. Consider the example of Bob holding Charlie up while Charlie reaches for and picks up something off a high shelf. In this case, Charlie’s reaching is simultaneous with Bob’s lifting, but the latter does not cause the former and so this is an example of an accidentally ordered series.
In my opinion, the best description of the difference between the two types is the third difference we mentioned above: essentially ordered series involve caused causations while accidentally ordered series do not. To put it a bit more generally, we could say that in an accidentally ordered series each member causes the next without causing the members after it, whereas in an essentially ordered series each member causes the next and all subsequent members at once, by causing the later ones through the earlier ones.
Among other things, this description is best because it explains the other two descriptions we gave. The independence that obtains in accidentally ordered series has to do with the fact that members are not caused by members not directly preceding them. And what we mean by “only insofar as” is captured by the fact that intermediate members cause later members because they are caused to do so, like the movement of the stone is caused through the movement of the stick.
Given this difference between these two types of series, we can argue that every essentially ordered series must have a first member as follows:
The entirety of any essentially ordered series forms an act.
This act must arise from one of the members within the series.
The member from which this act arises must be the first member of the series.
Therefore, every essentially ordered series has a first member.
Regarding premise (1), every causal relation belongs to some act but it is possible for multiple causal relations to belong to a single act. When x causes y’s causing z, there are three causal relations (x causing y, y causing z, x causing y’s causing z), but only one act: x causes y and z at once, by causing z through y. We might think about y causing z in isolation from anything x does, but properly speaking it is part of the act arising from x. On the other hand, it is of course possible for multiple causes to work together while belonging to separate acts. Every member in every accidentally ordered series acts separately from the other, since we have said that it causes the next member of the series without causing any of the subsequent members.
With this in mind, premise (1) says that for any essentially ordered series, there is some act to which the entire series belongs. If this weren’t the case, then there would need to be two or more acts such that any part of the series is contained in at least one of them, but the entire series is not contained in any of them. To see why this cannot be the case, assume to the contrary that x and y are two members of the series, such that x is part of some act X but not part of some act Y and y is part of Y but not X. We can assume, without loss of generality, that y is subsequent to x in the series. Now, because we’re in an essentially ordered series, x causes the next member as well as all subsequent members at once, by causing the later ones through the earlier ones. Among these, therefore, x will cause y and y’s causing whatever it does. Therefore, y will be part of the act to which x belongs, namely X, which is a contradiction. Since every member must be part of some act (otherwise it would not be doing anything), it follows that all members must belong to the same act. Therefore, the entire series forms an act.
Regarding premise (2), we note that whatever a causal series does is reducible to what its members do, and therefore we have three options for whence the act of the series arises: (a) from nothing, (b) from one member, or (c) from a multitude of members. It can’t arise from nothing, since nothing comes from nothing. It also can’t arise from a multitude of members, since any multitude will contain at least one member from which it cannot arise, even in part. After all, any multitude will have at least two members with one being subsequent to the other, and therefore one caused to do what it does by the other. In this case, the act will in no way arise from this later member, not even partially. Thus, the act does not arise from that particular multitude, but some proper part of it. Since the same could be said of any multitude, it follows that the act arises from no multitude. This leaves us with option (b), that the act arises from one member within the essentially ordered series.
Regarding premise (3), if the act arises from a single member then that member is not caused to act by members prior to it. Since every member other than the first is caused to act by members prior to it, this member from which the act arises cannot have any members prior to it. Thus, it is the first member in the series.
The conclusion in (4) is sufficient for many of the uses of essentially ordered series, such as some arguments for God’s existence or Aristotle’s argument that there must be some chief good (see the last section here). But we could also use it to say something about the finitude of essentially ordered series. Since every member has one predecessor and one successor, and since there must always be a first member, it follows that the only way for the series to be infinite is if it has no last member. Conversely, then, any essentially ordered series with a last member must be finite.
In a recent blog post, Edward Feser outlines a problem he sees with Rob Koons’ usage of relative actuality/potentiality to explain how an Aristotelian B-theorist might explain the reality of change. If you want to see Koons’ proposal then take a look at section 6 of his paper or take a look at Feser’s brief summary of it on his blog post; I will assume a general familiarity with it in this post. The objection is as follows:
Suppose someone suggested that time was nothing more than a spatial dimension. I reject this view, and Rob wants to avoid it too. One problem with it is that it also seems incompatible with the existence of real potentialities in the world. If past, present, and future events are equally real in exactly the same way that the spatially separated hot and cold ends of a fireplace poker are (to borrow a famous example from McTaggart), then it seems that they are equally actual, just as the hot and cold ends of the poker are equally actual. There is no real potentiality in a spatialized conception of time, and thus no real change — and thus, really, no time either.
But suppose our imagined spatializer of time defended his view by saying that there is potentiality of at least a relative sort on his conception of time. Suppose he appealed to the poker analogy, and suggested that we could say that relative to the left side of the poker, the poker was actually cold but potentially hot, whereas relative to the right side, it was actually hot and potentially cold. Suppose he suggested that there was therefore a kind of “change” in the poker from left to right. And suppose he suggested that a similar kind of relative actuality and potentiality could be attributed to things and events at his spatialized points of time, and that a similar kind of change could therefore be attributed to them too.
In my view this would be clearly fallacious, involving little more than a pun on the word “change.” … I imagine Rob might agree, since, as I say, he too wants to avoid spatializing time, or at least denies that the B-theory need be interpreted as spatializing it. But I fail to see how Rob’s notion of relative actuality and potentiality captures real potentiality, and thus real change, any more than my imagined spatializer of time does.
Feser’s point here is that the relativization of actuality/potentiality doesn’t help the spatializer to account for change, and he struggles to see how it could be comparatively any better for Koons. But I think he misdiagnoses the problem with the spatializer’s suggestion, and in fixing the diagnosis the difference between the spatializer and the Aristotelian B-theorist becomes clear.
As the last sentence of the quote makes clear, Feser thinks that the problem with the spatializer’s account lies in the fact that there are no real potentials anywhere, and so there can be no real change. But in the poker example, there surely are real potentials in the picture: the cold end is actually cold and potentially hot, whereas the hot end is actually hot and potentially cold. Anyone who accepts the Aristotelian account of change will affirm this, since we all know that pokers can change from hot to cold and back again. And they will likewise tell you can’t deny the presence of potentials simply because of the presence of actualities. Thus, if we suppose that time is spatially spread out like the poker, then the mere fact that all events are actual doesn’t prevent them from including various real potentials. Moreover, these real potentials and actualities seem to be adequately demarcated by using the notions of relative actuality and potentiality, so the problem isn’t there either.
The true problem with the spatializer’s answer is not that there are no real potentials, but that the potentials and the actualities are not connected in such a way so as to constitute change. Change, after all, is the actualization of a potential, it is not the spatial coincidence of a potential with an actuality. We can think of it like this: one reason someone might spatialize time is in order to explain why time is extended rather than collapsing into a single moment — it is extended, they say, for the same reason that space is extended, whatever that reason happens to be. But, of course, the extension of space doesn’t depend on the actualization of potentials, and therefore we know that simply pointing at spatially separated potentials and actualities doesn’t give us real instances of change. The problem, then, is that the spatializer spatializes time, and in doing so removes the possibility of an actuality ever being the actualization of a potential.
By contrast, the Aristotelian B-theorist need not spatialize time in order to explain its extension, because they have a ready alternative: the extension of time is explained by the actualizations of potentials. That is, the fundamental reason why things exist through multiple moments is that at earlier moments they have potentials which are actualized in order to bring about later moments. Of course, we’ve explained before that this is only the beginning of the account, since things can also move through time because of their real relations to other things. But even after we fill out all the details, the extension of time will always ultimately be explained with reference to the actualization of potentials — which, you will notice, is another way of stating the Aristotelian position that time is the measure of change.
So, then, the difference between the Aristotelian B-theorist and the spatializing B-theorist is that the former accounts for the extension of time in terms of the actualizations of potentials, whereas the latter has no room for the actualization of potentials because of how they account for the extension of time.
When one person cooperates with the act of another they can “share” in that act in different ways. Knowing these differences is important, because the degree and manner of sharing can influence whether the cooperator is morally culpable for their cooperation. Here I wish to outline the different modes of cooperation by deriving them from another principle of moral decision-making, the principle of double effect.
Desire, intention, and foresight
We are to pursue good and avoid evil, but the complexities of our world mean that our actions will often have both good and bad effects. The principle of double effect outlines the conditions that need to be met in order for an action with both good and bad effects to be morally permissible. The principle itself presupposes a more basic distinction between intention and foresight, which we will outline before proceeding to the principle itself.
It’s easy to think of cases where we foresee that our actions will have certains consequences which we find undesirable. Imagine Alice punches Bob under duress — perhaps someone is threatening to kill Bob if Alice doesn’t punch him. Alice punches Bob out of the desire to save him, and although she foresees that this will cause him pain, she does not desire to cause him pain. We might even acknowledge this difference in the less extreme case where Alice merely desires to punch Bob in order to test her strength, and foresees that this might cause him pain even though this is not what she desires. The point here is that we can recognize that our actions will produce all sorts of effects that we do not desire.
Now, in everyday speech we treat desire and intention as virtually synonymous, but when it comes to the principle of double effect we need to distinguish them. Desire is an orientation of our will wherein we recognize something as worth pursuing — this is more or less what we mean in our everyday speech. Intention, in the sense we’re using it here, includes desire but goes beyond it to include everything that makes an action what it is. For instance, if Alice’s hand moves into Bob’s face, this could be because Alice is punching Bob, or because she is reaching for something near him and mistakenly hits him, or something else. The motion underlying each of these actions is the same, but the intention which informs this motion determines which action is being performed.
To put this difference another way, desire is a psychological feature within the agent performing the action whereas intention is a feature of the action itself. An action includes the psychological features of the agent performing it, but is not exhausted by them. If I’m very angry I will desire some outlet for this anger, which can be achieved by punching a wall, shouting loudly, throwing a pillow across the room, and any number of other actions. In each of these cases, the desire is the same, but the intention varies and includes all sorts of things that are beyond my desire, such as risking breaking things in the house, or damaging my hand.
Despite being distinct, desire and intention are still connected to one another. One way of articulating this connection is as follows: when we perform an action, we intend to do so under a description of the action that makes it seem desirable to us in some way — the intention is for the action as such, but the desire attaches to the action insofar as it is captured by this description. When Alice intends to punch Bob under the description of testing her strength she might not desire to perform an action which causes pain as one of its effects, but she cannot avoid intending to do so because punching him is exactly this sort of action.
Another way intention can be wider than desire is when we engage instrumental reasoning, where we do one thing (the means) for the sake of another (the end). Whenever we perform X as a means to Y, we intend both X and Y even though we might not desire either on their own terms, but for wholly extrinsic reasons. The case of Alice punching Bob under duress is an example of this: Alice punches Bob as a means to saving him, but there is nothing about punching Bob that she finds desirable apart from the fact that it will save him. Nevertheless, because she engages in the act of punching Bob, she intends to punch him alongside intending to save him.
Even though intention is wider than desire, it doesn’t necessarily extend to every foreseen effect of an action. This is the intention-foresight distinction. When Alice punches Bob to save him, she might foresee his pain without intending it. This is possible because an action is distinct from its effects: in this case, Alice intends an action which is such that it will cause both Bob’s pain and his salvation, but she intends one of these effects and not the other.
Principle of double effect
Having distinguished desire, intention, and foresight, we can state the conditions that make up the principle of double effect. These are the conditions under which an action with both good and bad effects is morally permissible:
The act intended by the agent is morally permissible.
The bad effect is foreseen, but not intended.
The bad effect is not a means to the good effect.
The good effect is proportionate to the bad effect.
As we can see from this, rather than reducing the question to rule-following or outcome maximization, the principle of double effect ties them together into a unified set of considerations. Notice also that the principle presupposes that we already have a wider theory of how to determine when acts and effects are good or bad, or how to weigh these against each other (in the proportionality condition). It’s goal is not to give us such a theory, but to help us apply it in complicated situations.
We won’t spend all our time defending these conditions, but we can say something about each of them. Condition (1) captures the idea that intention determines the action, and so an evil intention will make the action evil. Condition (2) says that our intention must not extend to the bad effect, since in this case we would be intending something evil. Based on what we’ve already said, our intention could extend to the bad effect if the action is performed as a means to it. Condition (3) is concerned with the reverse of this, namely that the bad effect shouldn’t be pursued for the sake of the good effect. In this case, we would again be intending the bad effect, which would be a problem. A more general consequence of this is that the ends do not justify the means. Finally, condition (4) tells us that even after satisfying the other conditions, there is still the question of whether the good effect provides a sufficiently strong reason for doing something that will result in the bad effect. If the good effect doesn’t in some sense compel us to pursue it to a degree that warrants the bad effect, then we are to that extent choosing the bad effect itself, and thereby intending it. Making the judgment required of (4) can be very complicated, and involve considerations of things beyond guaranteed consequences, such as risk and danger, weighing up nice-to-haves vs need-to-haves, and so on.
Let’s apply the principle of double effect to the two scenarios involving Alice punching Bob. In the first case, where Alice punches Bob to save him, the act is justified: punching is not intrinsically immoral, she does not intend Bob’s pain, she does not use his pain as a means to his salvation, and the value of his life outweighs the cost of his temporary discomfort. In the second case, however, the act is not justified, at least because testing her strength is not sufficient reason to cause Bob pain.
Modes of cooperation
When we apply the principle of double effect to the issue of cooperation, we find these conditions result in successively more nuanced modes of cooperation. In any cooperation, there is a principal agent performing the principal act, and the cooperator is someone who performs a cooperative act which is in some way contributing to the principal act. In our case, we’re interested in the permissibility of cooperation with an evil principal act. Throughout this discussion, we will consider Charlie’s cooperation with Alice punching Bob where there are no overriding reasons, such as saving him.
The first distinction is between formal cooperation and material cooperation. In formal cooperation the cooperative act is the same as the principal act, and the cooperator is effectively just another principal agent. Put another way, with formal cooperation the cooperator shares the intention of the principal agent, and therefore the two of them perform the same act for the same end. For example, Charlie formally cooperates with Alice when together they attack Bob. Formal cooperation with an evil act fails on the first condition of the principle of double effect, since the action intended is the principal act, which is morally wrong.
In material cooperation the principal act is not identical to the cooperative act, but in some sense an outcome of it. Stated in the terms of the principle of double effect, the principal act is an effect of the cooperative act. Material cooperation can be divided into immediate and mediate. In immediate material cooperation, though they are not identical, the cooperative act is still in some sense part of the principal act. This happens when the cooperator doesn’t share the intention of the principal agent, but nevertheless engages in part of the principal act for some other reason, such as out of fear. Since intentions determine actions, this divergence in intention results in two distinct actions rather than only one. From the outside, this kind of cooperation might look similar to formal cooperation, since in both cases the cooperator is actively engaged in the principal act. For instance, we might say that Charlie cooperates with Alice in this way when, out of fear, he holds Bob down for Alice to punch him. Immediate material cooperation with an evil act fails on the second condition of the principle of double effect. This is because whenever an act is performed as part of another, then the former is performed as a means to the end of the latter. Since the principal act is evil, the cooperative act is being performed as a means to an evil end. As we mentioned earlier, it follows that the bad effect of the cooperative act (ie. the principal act) is intended by the cooperator.
In mediate material cooperation the cooperative act is not part of the principal act, but merely supplies one or more conditions necessary for the principal act to occur. Mediate material cooperation can be divided into instrumental and non-instrumental forms. These aren’t commonly mentioned in discussions on cooperation with evil, but we will see that they fall out of the principle of double effect like everything else, and fit naturally into our taxonomy. In instrumental mediate material cooperation the principal act is enabled by the cooperator as a means to a benefit (or avoidance of loss) for the cooperator. For example, Charlie cooperates with Alice in this way if at Alice’s request he lures Bob into a room so that she can punch him, with the promise that she will give Charlie any money she finds on Bob’s unconscious body. This mode of cooperation fails on the third condition of the principle of double effect, since in this case the bad effect (the principal act) is a means to the good effect (the benefit, or avoidance of loss).
One possible reason this mode of cooperation isn’t often discussed is that it’s requirements are not often met in cases of cooperation. For a meditate material cooperation to be instrumental, it’s not enough for the cooperator to benefit from an evil act. Rather, the cooperator needs to benefit specifically from the principal act which is enabled by the cooperative act. In order words, the evil needs to be the bad effect of the cooperative act which is used as a means to the good effect. After all, the principle of double effect considers the effects of our actions, not the antecedents to our benefits.
Proximity and dispensability
If the cooperation is material, mediate, and non-instrumental, then it satisfies the first three conditions of the principle of double effect. This leaves us with the proportionality condition to consider. In general, the factors that need to be considered when making a proportionately judgement will vary greatly from one situation to the next. Nevertheless, the fact that we’re considering proportionality in the context of cooperation means that we can lay out two general factors that will always need to be considered alongside anything else we might consider, namely proximity and dispensability.
The proximity of a cooperation is how causally near it is to the principal act, which is to say how few actions there are between it and the principal act. Imagine Charlie invites Bob to come over to his house the next day, and when Bob eventually arrives Charlie distracts him, which gives Alice the opportunity to punch Bob. In this case, the distraction is more proximate with the punching, whereas the invitation is more remote. An important caveat is that causal proximity doesn’t always correspond to temporal proximity: if Charlie had set up the distraction to go off automatically days prior to inviting Bob, it would still be causally more proximate than the invitation.
The dispensability of a cooperation is the degree to which the principal agent is in need of the cooperator’s help specifically, rather than being able to get it equally from others. For example, if Bob is skeptical of invites from everyone except for Charlie, then Charlie would be more indispensable to Alice’s plans than if Bob would happily accept invites from a number of different people.
Proximity and dispensability are applicable whenever cooperation is material, mediate, and non-instrumental. Moreover, they are morally relevant because they determine the degree to which the cooperator has influence over whether and how the principal act might occur: the more proximate and indispensable the cooperator is, the more likely they are able to prevent the principal act from occurring at all, or at least reduce the chance or degree of its success. We describe this all with terms like “the degree to which”, “more likely”, and “reduce”, because neither proximity nor dispensability are not discrete notions, but fall along a spectrum. Together, they make up a 2-dimensional spectrum which we can visualize as follows:
When it comes to considerations about proportionality, proximity and dispensability will always be among the things that must be considered, but they will rarely (if ever) be alone. That said, all other things being equal, the closer we get to proximate and indispensable cooperation the more significant we need the good effect to be in order to warrant the cooperation; conversely, the closer we get to remote and dispensable cooperation the less significant we need the good effect to be. Somewhere in the middle are the cases of remote and indispensable cooperation, and proximate and dispensable cooperation.
It’s tempting to suppose that any proximate and indispensable cooperation will fail the proportionality condition, but this is mistaken. Consider the cooperation between a dentist’s assistant and the dentist while they are doing a root canal on a patient. Certainly this is proximate, and if we suppose that this is a private practice with only one assistant then it will also be indispensable, but it does not fail the proportionality condition since the pain caused by the procedure is warranted by the benefits it will secure for the patient. It seems, then, that the most we can say in cases where the cooperation is proximite and indispensable, is that these factors make it harder (or at least don’t make it easier) for the good effect to be proportionate to the bad effect.
These, then, are the various ways that we might cooperate with evil. By connecting them to the conditions of the principle of double effect we have seen that only non-instrumental mediate material cooperation with evil has a hope at being morally permissible. And even then it will ultimately depend on whether the good effect is proportionate to the evil of the principal act with which we cooperate.
 This is the so-called “guise of the good thesis”. The description under which we consider the action is the guise, and this description makes the action desirable because it casts it in a good light, thereby highlighting it as something worthy of pursuit. I have discussed the relationship between desire and goodness in my blogpost “How Aristotle starts the Nicomachean Ethics”.
 For a lengthy discussion of intention in the context of the principle of double effect, see Matthew B. O’Brien & Robert C. Koons, “Objects of Intention: A Hylomorphic Critique of the New Natural Law Theory”, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 86 (4): 655-703 (2012).
 For a more detailed discussion, see David Oderberg, “The Doctrine of Double Effect”, in T. O’Connor and C. Sandis (eds) A Companion to the Philosophy of Action (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010): 324-30. The order I have used here is from David Oderberg, “Further Clarity on Cooperation and Morality”.
 This account of formal cooperation corresponds to our earlier point that intentions are the forms of actions.
 See my discussion of superordinate and subordinate activities in my blogpost “How Aristotle starts the Nicomachean Ethics”.
 We can distinguish the “primary” end of the cooperative act from the “superordinate” end of the cooperative act. The former is the end for which the cooperator intends to play their part in the principal act in the first place, such as fear. The latter is the end for which the cooperator intends to act insofar as this act is part of the principal act. These two ends may be distinct from each other or subsumed into a single end that encompasses both of them. Either of these options is consistent with what we’ve been saying, since in either case the cooperative act is intended for the sake of at least one end that differs from that of the principal agent’s act.
… the influences of both God and creature on the final product are direct (or immediate), complete, and total, but according to different modes. That is, they both extend to the final product (direct/immediate), to all of the final product (complete), and to every detail of the final product (total), but not in the same way (different modes). It’s because they contribute according to different modes that both God and creature can influence the effect without rendering the other superfluous.
The difference, I claimed, lies in the fact that the creature causes the effect whereas God causes the causing of the effect. God is the divine agent whereas the creature is the divine instrument. Given the breadth of topics covered in that post, it’s understandable that I didn’t spend too much time dwelling on this point. Nevertheless, it is a puzzling claim to make and reader Mashsha’i has drawn attention to this in comments on the post. After some back and forth with Mashsha’i in the comments, I’ve decided it’s worth to put my thoughts together in a short follow-up post.
Starting with an imperfect but intuitive example, imagine Alice and Bob are hanging up a big painting. This can work in at least three ways, which correspond to the three modes of cooperation. First, it could be that the two of them are holding the painting together at the right height while trying to hook it against the wall, which would be coordinate cooperation. Second, it could be that Alice gave Bob the painting as a gift which he is hanging it up himself, which would be accidental cooperation. And third, it could be that Bob is busy holding up the painting while Alice instructs him how to move so as to get the painting in the correct position, which would be essential cooperation — by guiding him Alice causes Bob to cause the painting to hang properly.
With these three cases in hand, we may ask: in which of them is Alice directly involved in the hanging of the painting? At least in the first two scenarios the answer is clear: Alice is directly involved in the case of coordinate cooperation, and only indirectly involved in the case of accidental cooperation. But what about the essential cooperation? It seems to me that there is a sense in which Alice is directly involved in the hanging — since the hanging of the painting occurs by virtue of her and Bob working together — but it is equally clear that this cannot be the same sense which applies in the coordinate cooperation.1
Reflecting on the painting example, I think we can distinguish between two senses of what it means to be “directly involved”. Something is directly involved in the production of an effect if (1) it directly contributes to the effect, or (2) is contributes to an act which directly brings about the effect. These two senses are not incompatible but neither are they coextensive: whenever we have (1) we also have (2), but not vice versa. In the coordinate cooperation, both Alice and Bob directly influence the motion of the painting, and so both (1) and (2) are true of both Alice and Bob. In the accidental cooperation, both (1) and (2) are true of Bob, and neither are true of Alice. And in the essential cooperation, both Alice and Bob contribute to the act of hanging the painting but only Bob directly influences the motion of the painting, meaning that (1) and (2) are true of Bob but only (2) is true of Alice.
Using the categories of my post on cooperation, what’s common between these two senses of direct involvement is that there is combination between Alice and Bob in the production of the final product. Within this commonality, the difference between the two lies in the fact that coordinate cooperation is combination without dependence while essential cooperation is combination with dependence. The introduction of dependence in essential cooperation means that of the two things cooperating in the act, the second cause will directly contribute to the effect while the first cause will merely contribute to the act that directly brings about the effect.
In the case of God’s essential cooperation with nature, we can say two things. First, the sort of direct involvement he has in the final product of the cooperation will be the second one outlined above, but with an important qualification: apart from the particular way in which Bob depends on Alice in our essential cooperation example, he is largely independent of her; on the other hand, a creature is entirely dependent upon God for all of its being. Thus, the “distance” between Alice and Bob is far greater than that between God and the creature.
Second, while I was right (in my post on concurrence) to say that God is directly involved in the production of final products, I was wrong to equate “direct” with “immediate”. In the cooperation, God is directly involved in the production of the effect precisely by virtue of mediating his causal power through the creature in the act which directly brings about the effect.2 Thus, while God is directly involved in the production of the effect, his involvement is mediated rather than immediate. In fact, this might well another way of characterizing the difference between the two senses of direct involvement: the first sense involves direct and immediate involvement, while the latter direct and mediated involvement.
In my post on cooperation I defined “direct” as “having no intermediate product” (“This occurs between two things when a product arises directly from the influence of both of them, which is to say that there are no intermediate products between the causes and their mutual product”), but we still need to explain the difference between coordinate and essential cooperation in this respect.↩
The qualification “in the cooperation” is important, for there are many cases in which God does immediately cause the effect. For instance, parents mediate the becoming of a child, but God immediately causes its continued being.↩
This is part two of my follow-up to my original post on potentiality and inertia, where I respond to comments made by defenders of existential inertia. In the previous post we delved deeper into the nature of potentials, and saw that not everything we call a potential is equally deserving of the name. This helped us clarify the indifference of potentials, and how they relate to their actualizations. In my estimation, the indifference of potentials is the core reason for thinking that potentials depend on some other actuality for their continued actualization. In the course of this post, we will have an opportunity to further unpack these two ideas and the connection between them.
The objection of interest for this post is raised both by Joe Schmid and Graham Oppy in different contexts. Oppy, in responding to a paper by Feser, says the following:
Yesterday, throughout the entire day, there was a red chair in my room. Pick some time t around noon yesterday. At t, the chair existed, and the chair was red. Moreover, at t, the chair had the potential to exist, and to be red, at t + ε, where ε is some relatively short time interval (say, a millionth of second). Do we need to postulate the existence of some distinct thing that exists through (t, t + ε) that actualizes at t + ε the potential that the chair had at t to both exist and be red at t + ε? I do not think so. Given that, at t, the chair has the potential to exist and to be red at t + ε, all that is required for the realization of this potential is that nothing intervenes to bring it about, either that the chair does not exist, or that the chair is not red, at t + ε. Potentials to remain unchanged do not require distinct actualizers; all they require is the absence of any preventers of the actualization of those potentials. In particular, things that have the potential to go on existing go on existing unless there are preventers — internal or external — that cause those things to cease to exist.1
In private correspondence, Schmid has raised a similar objection: even if we grant the continued indifference of potentials, all we need is some kind of explanation, not necessarily an explanation in terms of a concurrent sustaining efficient cause. The persistence in actuality could be explained by a whole host of explanatory factors that don’t invoke sustaining causes — for example, the prior state and existence of the object combined with no sufficiently destructive causal factors, or in terms of an existential inertia tendency, or something else.
It may come as a surprise, but for the most part I am in agreement with Oppy and Schmid: it is often the case that something with an actualized potential P does not require some external sustaining cause to sustain the actualization of P. As I mentioned in my original post, Newtonian inertia is a great example of this: physical objects remain maintain their rectilinear motion until some other thing causes them to stop. And the example of the chair’s “inertial color” given by Oppy is another good example: the chair maintains its color until something causes it to be another color. The trouble is that these examples don’t undermine a more nuanced rejection of existential inertia.
In my original post, we saw that the indifference of potentials is consistent with inertial behavior because of what we termed “inertial actualities”. There we arrived at these in a fairly roundabout way, but we can get to them more directly as follows. Say we have some S with potential P and its actualization A at time t, and we want an account of how A persists until some later time t+ε. Given that potentials are indifferent to their actualizations, it can’t be that P keeps A around. Of course, the continued existence of P is necessary for the continued existence of A, but its indifference to A makes it insufficient for the task. There must be something else in the picture, that isn’t indifferent to the continued actualization of P. At this point, a proponent of existential inertia might note that this could be an intrinsic aspect of S to maintain A in the absence of contrary causes. And it certainly could be, but we can know more about it. Since it’s not indifferent to A, it cannot be another potential. And since being is divided into potentiality and actuality, it must therefore be an actuality. Moreover, this actuality must be closely connected to P in a way that other actualities in S are not. This is what I call an “inertial actuality” since it’s an actuality that explains the inertial behavior of the actualization of P.
Going further, I have suggested that we understand an inertial actuality as an incomplete determination to some behavior, in such a way that it allows for variation in the details of how that behavior plays out.2 This incomplete determination gives us potentials for the actuality to express itself in concrete ways. The example of interest in my original post was Newtonian inertia: by virtue of something existing as a physical thing it is determined to continue its rectilinear motion (behavior) but does not fix the vector of that motion (incomplete). Let’s say we’re considering the potential some S has to be moving along some vector V. This potential arises from the incomplete determination of S to continued rectilinear motion, but is (as all real potentials are) indifferent as to whether S is actually moving along the relevant vector. However, when the potential is actualized in S, by virtue of the underlying inertial actuality S will continue along V until stopped by something else. This isn’t because P has somehow stopped being indifferent to its actualization, but because P exists in virtue of an underlying inertial actuality that was never indifferent to S’s motion. Similarly, the material constitution of a typical chair entails that it will have some color, but is consistent with this color being one among a wide range of options. Again, this incomplete determination gives rise to a variety of potentials, each of which is indifferent to whether it is actualized. But when one is actualized, the material constitution of the chair (not the potential) ensures that it will remain actualized in the absence of contrary causes.
Thus, the inertial behavior we observe in the world points us to the lower-level inertial actuality that gives some potentials existence and maintains their actualizations in the absence of contrary causes. The relationship between the two isn’t ad hoc, either, for it is the incomplete determination to the relevant behavior that gives rise to the potentials in the first place. Furthermore, such incomplete determinations have long been recognized when thinking about change, apart from questions of existential inertia.3
All of this helps us see that Oppy’s “potential to remain unchanged” is just another example of a pseudo-potential, this time made up of the potential and the inertial actuality from whence it arises. And it also helps us see the truth of the point made by both Schmid and Oppy, that the indifference of potentials doesn’t necessitate some external sustaining cause outside of the thing with the potential, for the inertial actuality is neither external nor an efficient cause.
Where does this leave us on the question of existential inertia? I think there are two things we can say here.
First, we are still left in need of external causes for actualized potentials that can’t be sustained by some lower-level inertial actuality. Aristotelians have traditionally recognized the distinction between prime matter and substantial form, and Thomists have recognized the real distinction between essence and existence.4 Now, both prime matter and essence are potentials that have no lower-level actualities, and therefore there can be no inertial actuality to maintain their actualizations. In these cases, then, we would need some external cause to sustain the actualizations of these potentials.
Second, we can shift the question of existential inertia from substances to their potentials and actualities, and thereby render moot the question of external efficient causes. The question of existential inertia typically arises in the context certain arguments for God’s existence, such as Aquinas’s argument in On Being and Essence5 and his second way.6 These formulations frame the argument in terms of efficient causes of existence, but strictly speaking all we need is the actualization of potentials by other actualities. That is, we can start with some actuality and build an essentially ordered series of actualizers leading back to a pure actuality. The question of whether this requires a separate substance from the one we started with can be settled as a corollary of what it means to be pure actuality. Despite sounding similar to Aquinas’s first way — which is also construed in terms of actuality and potentiality — this is in fact a different argument. The first way proceeds from the reduction of potentiality to actuality, whereas this argument proceeds from the continued actualization of potentials.
The upshot of all of this, I think, is a more nuanced understanding of existential inertia and its rejection. When we discuss the continued existence of some aspect of reality, we need to get clear on whether it can be explained by some inertial actuality within a substance or not. And if we wish to establish a separate sustaining cause of something, then we need to be clear on which potentials we’re considering within that thing, for not all require such an explanation.
Graham Oppy, “On stage one of Feser’s ‘Aristotelian proof’”.↩︎
There we spoke about this in terms of form and matter, but for this post we will try to restrict ourselves simply to language of actuality and potential.↩︎
For example, they arise in the distinction between substantial and accidental forms in the course of making sense of the difference between substantial and accidental change.↩︎
Recent comments by defenders of existential inertia have motivated me to return to the topic of my earlier post on potentiality and inertia. In that post I proposed that a key feature of potentials is that they are indifferent to what is actually the case. This, I explained, is the core reason for thinking that the continued actualization of a potential must depend on some other actuality. In this post we will clarify this further, and in the next post we will say more about the relation of all of this to inertia.
Joe Schmid, of Majesty of Reason, has put forward the following objection to my earlier post, which we will use as a departure point:
A potential is indifferent when merely potential, but when actualized it is no longer indifferent because it has become actual. We can’t assume that it doesn’t remain in that state of actuality absent a sustaining cause. When actualized, it is determinate with respect to its actuality, and we can’t assume that that determinacy does not persist.1
In another statement of this objection, he asks us to imagine a fence in regard to the color it is painted:
Suppose I have a fence, and the fence has the potential to receive contrary paint colors. Take its potency to be red. Now, prior to being red (the consideration applies in both temporal and ontological senses of ‘priority’), the potency to be red is certainly indifferent to what is actual… But once the actualization occurs — say, by painting the fence red — the potency no longer is indifferent to what’s actual, since it has been made actual. And we cannot just assume that, once actualized, the ‘potency’ (previously a potency) does not or cannot remain in a state of actuality (as that is the very question at issue).2
In responding to this objection, it would help to return to a distinction I mentioned in my earlier post: in everyday language we speak about both the potential for becoming F and the potential for being F, but I noted that these are two different sorts of potentials. Indeed, not only are they different but the latter is more fundamental and more truly a potential than the former.
You see, when we move from our imprecise everyday speech to the more precise notions employed in the Aristotelian account of change, we see that the “potential” for becoming F isn’t a real potential at all. Rather it is an aggregate feature, wholly reducible to (1) the real potential for being F and (2) the actuality of being not-F — or, more accurately, the actuality of being G where G is some feature incompatible with F. This second part is needed because something can’t become F if it’s already F. Since the potential for becoming F is really this aggregate feature made up of both a potential and an actuality, it would be better to call it a “pseudo-potential” for becoming F in contrast to the “pure” or “real” potential for being F. Schmid’s fence has the real potential for being red by virtue of its structure and material constitution, and this real potential together with the fact that the fence is not actually red is what constitutes the pseudo-potential to become red. When the fences’s potential for being red is actualized, it retains the real potential (because it still has the capacity for being red) but loses the pseudo-potential (because it can no longer become red).
Unfortunately, our language is even more misleading than it may first appear, since we don’t often need to make a distinction between real potentials and pseudo-potentials. For example, Schmid’s usage of “merely potential” is in keeping with typical usage, but it isn’t the same thing as a potential simpliciter. The latter is a potential considered in itself. The former indicates that there is a potential and that this potential is unactualized. In other words, despite what we might think a mere potential is the same sort of aggregate feature as the pseudo-potential we considered above. This is why, when the potential is actualized the mere potential ceases to exist and is replaced by an “actualized potential” — a pseudo-potential referring to the same potential but this time with a fact about its actualization instead. Another common way of speaking is not in terms of potentials, but in terms of the things that have the potentials, as when we say something is “potentially F” or “in potentiality with respect to F”. To the best of my knowledge, these are typically understood as meaning that the thing has the mere potential for F.3
Unlike real potentials, pseudo-potentials aren’t indifferent to what is actually the case precisely because they have facts about actualities built into them. I gestured to all of this in my first post with the example of the one-liter bottle. This has the capacity (potential) for containing one liter of water by virtue of its design. When empty this is a mere potential (potential + unactualization) because this capacity is not actually fulfilled, and the bottle has the pseudo-potential for holding a liter more than it does. When filled, the mere potential is replaced with an actualized potential (potential + actualization), and the pseudo-potential to be filled is replaced with the pseudo-potential to be emptied. However, throughout this process the bottle retains the potential for containing a liter of water, for a bottle can’t hold a liter of water if it doesn’t at that moment have the capacity for doing so.
So, real potentials are always indifferent to what is actually the case and pseudo-potentials are never indifferent to what is actually the case. Contrary to Schmid’s suggestion, I don’t think it’s possible to have a potential only sometimes be indifferent. After all, if we supposed that a potential for being F were not indifferent to being F when actualized and indifferent when unactualized, then it’s very indifference would entail that it is actually not F!
It may help if we clarify what we mean when we say a potential is indifferent to “what is actually the case”, since this is an overly-general way of phrasing it. Specifically, a potential is indifferent in regard to its actualization. It’s entirely possible for there to be other “lower level” actualities that a potential is not indifferent to. For example, a human leg is structured in a way that permits a certain freedom of movement, ranging from a straight leg to a fully bent knee. This structure is an actuality which grounds the potential to be in any of a range of different positions. Of itself, the structure of the knee does not fix the position of the knee to any particular position — it is indifferent to the position within this range. In terms of potentials, we would say that it has the potentials to be in any of these positions. Now, each of these potentials is indifferent to the actual position of the knee (ie. whether it itself is actualized or not), but none of them is indifferent to the underlying structure of the knee, since this structure is what sustains each potential in existence. So, to nuance what we’ve been saying, a potential is indifferent to its actualization, but if it arises from a lower level actuality then it is not indifferent to that actuality.
But, we may wonder, isn’t change the actualization of a potential? For sure, but not in such a way that the potential somehow becomes an actuality and ceases being a potential. If that were the case, then we would not be able to account for the permanence across change, and every instance of “change” would amount to simple replacement. When the mere potential becomes an actualized potential, what ties these two pseudo-potentials together is the underlying real potential that remains indifferent across its actualization. Without this we would have a potential one moment and an actuality another moment, but nothing to account for their unity.4
What, then, do we mean when we speak of the actualization of a potential? We mean that a thing’s constitution gives it the capacity for being actual in a particular way (potential), and that this capacity has been realized in that thing (actualization). It’s not as though the capacity has become its realization, but simply that the thing now exists in a way that is within the range permitted by its constitution. This, I think, is why Thomists say that a potential “composes” with its actualization rather than “becomes” it. We could perhaps put this in terms of grounding: the potential is a partial ground for its actualization, in need of additional factors that are not indifferent to the actualization, such as an efficient cause or inertial actuality. Of all the factors that ground the actualization, the potential is what provides the capacity for being actual in the relevant way — it’s the “slot” that’s “filled in” by the other factors. It’s because of this that we associate the actuality with the potential, saying that it is the actualization of that potential.
Consider two examples. First, the materials and shape of the one-liter bottle give it the capacity (potential) for containing water, which is realized when the bottle actually contains one liter of water (actualization). The capacity doesn’t “become” the containment, but grounds it along with the factors that explain why the water is actually there. And second, the way the parts of the knee are connected allows for a certain range of movement corresponding to a collection of potentials for being in various positions. One of these potential together with the actual orientation of these parts relative to one another ground the knee’s actually being in one position rather than another.
To sum up, the analysis of change requires, and concrete examples confirm, that real potentials are indifferent to their actualizations. Schmid’s objection misses the mark because, if anything, it concerns itself with pseudo-potentials rather than real potentials. And this is an understandable consequence of our language failing to distinguish between real potentials and aggregate features made up of both potentials and actualities. While it may not always be necessary to keep such a distinction in mind, it is crucial in the debate over existential inertia.
This particular phrasing came from a private Facebook conversation with Joe.↩
This is how Aristotle uses the word, for instance, when he says that, “change is the actuality of that which exists potentially, in so far as it is potentially this actuality.” (Physics 3.1 201a10-12). See my post on actualization of potentiality as such for a brief discussion of this phrase. At the time I wrote it, I hadn’t thought much about the indifference of potentials, but I don’t think anything I say there is incompatible with it.↩
At the level of an individual potential and its actualization, the potential acts much like matter in the hylomorphic account of change. This is no coincidence, for matter is the “seat” of the potentials inherent in a material thing. As I’ve explained before, in general matter “is a substratum that of itself is indeterminate between various alternatives, while form is the determination of that substratum to one of those alternatives”. In other words, matter is indifferent to its determination by form.↩
This is the last of four posts on omni-instrumentality, a Thomistic model for divine providence. In the first three posts (here, here, and here) we outlined this model, the core of which is an account of divine concurrence as essential cooperation with nature. In this post we will be comparing our proposal with other views commonly held today — one of which is also from the Thomistic tradition — in the hopes that doing so will further clarify what we may have left unsaid thus far. As before, it is highly recommended that you read the previous posts before continuing here. Unless otherwise specified we will use divine concurrence to refer to God’s general concurrence, rather than the special concurrence we introduced at the end of the previous post.
Conservationism and occasionalism
While all the views we will be discussing below recognize some form of concurrence as playing a role in divine providence, others have rejected it outright. Concurrence is actually something of a middle-ground between the two extremes of conservationism and occasionalism.
Conservationism holds that God simply holds everything in existence without cooperating with their actions, even though he might still specially cooperate with them in particular circumstances. God’s activity of upholding everything in existence could be likened to the ultimate form of accidental cooperation, and any action he takes in ordering history would have to be by means of special accidental or coordinate cooperation on creatures. Conservationist models can differ from one another in how much control they propose God exerts over history, and at what cost this comes. The simple foreknowledge view, for instance, holds that God does not exert any control, but simply knows what will happen throughout history. Other views might say that he works within the confines of special concurrence, or even go so far as to say that he does violence to some of his creation in order to achieve his plans.
On the other side of the spectrum is occasionalism, which holds that creatures do not really act at all, but simply provide the occasion for God to act. The appearance of creatures acting is really an illusion, and there is no cooperation between God and creature at all, since the creature is not really involved in the act.
Concurrence is somewhere in the middle: it holds that God cooperates with creatures (contra occasionalism), but in such a way that he cooperates with the exercise of their powers (contra conservatism). But there are many forms of concurrence, corresponding to the different models of divine providence. Our aim here is not to defend concurrentism against conservationism or occasionalism — aside from the clarifications we’ve been making throughout the last three posts — but rather to delimit the extremes of the spectrum along which concurrentism exists.
In the broadest possible sense, compatibilism is the view that God’s control is compatible with human freedom. In this sense, most views of divine providence would be considered compatibilist, even they not usually so called. Compatibilism is therefore typically used in a narrower sense, referring to the view that human freedom is compatible with some form of natural or causal determinism that precludes the possibility of alternative choice. We can see how this might work by looking at three examples of compatibilist models. Compatibilism comes in many shapes and sizes, so these are meant to be illustrative rather than exhaustive.
First, there is Terrance Tiessen’s proposal, which posits a form of natural determinism based on what he calls the “principles of [creaturely] agent causation.”1 On this view, the very nature of creaturely agency — whereby we deliberate and choose as rational creatures — is governed by fundamental principles that are necessarily true, and which fix how agents of various kinds would choose in any given circumstance. Given that God (1) knows these principles of agency and (2) is able to ensure that agents are of the appropriate kind and in the relevant circumstances, he is able to govern history knowing that these determine how we will act.2 For Tiessen, an agent is free insofar as they are not externally coerced, and this is true when they are allowed to act in accordance with the principles of the kind of creaturely agent that they are.3
A second, and more radical, form of compatibilism is one that reduces human volition to deterministic laws of physics or chemistry. In this case, God could govern human choices simply by upholding these laws and knowing how they would impact the actions of humans. I don’t know of anyone who defends this sort of compatibilism today, and mention it more as a contrast to Tiessen’s proposal. The latter recognizes creaturely agency as an irreducible feature of reality, but posits that it follows its own kind of deterministic laws. In fact, Tiessen’s proposal is consistent with the laws of physics and chemistry being indeterministic, so long as the laws of creaturely agency are not.
Third, there is Paul Helseth’s proposal of omnicausality, which holds that God freely determines all that occurs in such a way that the real activity of second causes is upheld, so that he is not the sole cause of what happens and is not the source of evil.4 God determining all the occurs is understood as preventing agents from choosing other than they do, but upholds the “real activity of second causes” insofar as it works through the deliberating processes of agents rather than coercing them.5 This is a form of causal determinism rather than natural determinism, since it does not arise from the nature of agency or material existence (as in the first two versions), but from the causal action of God on his creatures. God’s act of directing history is understood quite differently on this view of compatibilism, since it is not based on his knowledge of how agents will act, but on his determining those agents to act in accordance with his will.
Perhaps the most notable difference between these views and our own is in how we understand voluntary freedom. While they differ in the details, each of these compatibilist models agree that a determinism that precludes the possibility of alternative choice is compatible with free choice. This is in stark contrast to the picture we outlined in the second post. Despite rejecting alternative possibilities as a universal condition of free choice, we nevertheless did admit that in the vast majority of cases it would be required. This follows from the nature of choice, which we said is the determination of an option for the achievement of an end that our will has determined to be worthy of pursuit. Since life often presents us with multiple options that equally good or incommensurable with one another, and since our ability to choose between options arises from our rational apprehension of them as options, it follows that we should be able to choose any of them in the absence of some overriding factors.6 From this perspective, then, these compatibilist models get the nature of free choice wrong.
Beyond this, Helseth’s omnicausality proposal has some striking similarities with our own. But there are differences, the most notable being that on our proposal divine concurrence does not remove alternative possibilities when it comes to choice. After all, we’ve been saying that God’s concurrence with us is what constitutes our natural powers and their exercise. Since some of our natural powers are volitional powers, and since these involve alternative possibilities, it follows that God’s concurrence constitutes the exercise of powers that allow for alternative possibilities. But at the same time, we’ve seen that his influence over the final product is direct, complete, and total, meaning that at the end of the day, the free choice of an agent will always be in accordance with God’s will. Now, of course, this is a very foreign notion, difficult to get one’s head around, for we have no experience of it in our everyday cooperation with artifice. (The closest we get to it is when playing with action figures or writing novels, in which case the freedom of the artificial characters piggybacks on our freedom as their authors.) This is why we need the analogy of cooperation, so that we can discuss these topics despite not having direct intuitive access to the subject matter.
What shall we say of our view, then? Is it compatibilist? Well, we hold that God determines the choice of agents, but without precluding alternative possibilities. So, yes and no. Some have labeled such a view hard compatibilism in contrast to the soft compatibilism we’ve been discussing up until now. As we saw at the beginning of this section, compatibilism admits of multiple senses, and we must be careful to clarify what exactly we claim is compatible and what we do not.
Molinism and Bañezianism
We move now to another important pair of views, Molinism and Bañezianism. These have their origin in a sixteenth-century debate between Jesuits and Dominicans, about how best to resolve certain problems surrounding God’s cooperation with creatures. Both the Jesuit Luis de Molina and the Dominican Domingo Bañez used Thomas Aquinas as something of a starting point in their discussions, although the former was happier to move beyond Aquinas where he saw fit. Thus, Bañezianism is classified as a Thomistic position, whereas Molinism is typically not.
Both Molina and Bañez start with certain model of concurrence, which leads to a problem that they each resolve in a different way. We discussed the core of this model, as explained by Freddoso, at the end of our second post. There we saw that it relied on an inadequate account of the difference between agent and instrument: the agent gives merely indeterminate (or non-specific) being to the final product, ensuring that it exists without specifying any details about this existence; and the instrument then gives determination (or specification) to this, filling in the details left out by the agent. Again, to quote Freddoso:
… one and the same effect — say, our newly conceived armadillo — is from God insofar as it exists at all, i.e., insofar as it is something rather than nothing, and from its parents insofar as its being is determinate, i.e., insofar as it is an animal of the species armadillo. In short, the effect is undivided and yet such that both its universal or general cause (God) and its particular causes (the parents) contribute to its production in distinctive and non-redundant modes.7 (emphasis added)
In the case of a choice, God ensures that a choice is made rather than not, but the creature determines the content of this choice. This leads us to the following problem: if God only gives indeterminate being when concurring with his creatures, then how can he guarantee the outcome of their actions, particularly the free choices of humans? Molina and Bañez took different approaches in answering this, which in some ways resemble the different approaches of Tiessen and Helseth we saw above. But whereas Tiessen and Helseth are both compatibilists, Molina and Bañez both sought to uphold the possibility of alternative choice.
Molina posited that God has a special kind of knowledge, called “middle knowledge”, which he uses to ensure that humans choose in accordance with his plans.8 By means of this knowledge God knows the so-called “counterfactuals of creaturely freedom”, which specify how each human would freely act were they put in each hypothetical circumstance. While most agree that God knows these counterfactuals, Molina’s proposal posits that this knowledge is both contingent and not decided by God. Thus, it is logically in the middle between God’s natural knowledge (which is necessary and not decided by God) and God’s free knowledge (which is contingent and decided by God). Because the truth of these counterfactuals is contingent, we can distinguish the ways an agent could choose from the ways they would choose given the current set of counterfactuals. And because God does not decide which counterfactuals are true, we are not in danger of falling into causal determinism.9 Using this middle knowledge, then, God is able to ensure that humans freely choose in accordance with his plan by ensuring that they find themselves in the appropriate circumstances.
Not decided by God
Not decided by God
Decided by God
Bañez took a causal approach rather than a knowledge-based one. In addition to giving indeterminate being to the choice, he posited that prior to this God pre-moves the agent from potentially choosing to actually choosing something.10 This so-called “physical premotion” is not like the Aristotelian premotion we discussed in the previous post, since it is an action performed on the agent’s will directly rather than externally through the circumstances of the choice. By means of this act God exercises control over the particulars of the choice that the agent is pre-moved to make, despite only indeterminately upholding the choice while it occurs. On the face of it, such premotion would seem to exclude the possibility of alternative choice, but Bañez assures us that this is not the case, which he explains by means of a distinction. The will is capable of choosing contrary to the premotion when considered simply and in a divided sense, but considered in a composite sense it cannot. What he seems to mean by this is that when the will is considered in isolation (divided) from the premotion, then it has within itself the capability to choose between alternatives. (This is presumably why God can pre-move it to choose any of these alternatives without doing violence to it.) But when the will is considered together (composed) with the premotion, then it can only choose in accordance with that premotion. For Bañez, only the former sense is important when considering the possibility of alternative choice, but I must admit that I struggle to see how this does not in the end amount to a case of causal determinism.
We have already explained why we find the model of concurrence shared by Molina and Bañez to be problematic, but it would be informative to compare the two resulting views to our own. When it comes to relationship between God and evil, Molinism and Bañezianism seem to fall into two opposite extremes. In excluding the details of the choice from God’s influence, Molinism successfully manages to avoid making him the author of evil, but also avoids making him the sole source of goodness, since these details will include both of these elements. And in making all the details of the choice arise from the same premotion, Bañezianism cannot distinguish the evil elements from the good, and so if forced to say that God is equally the source of both, or that the premotion makes him the source of neither. Our proposal allows us to decompose the components of the contribution, and we’ve seen how God is the source of all goodness, while we are the sole authors of evil by virtue of our privative limitation of his influence.
The Bañezian view is similar to our own insofar as it seeks to place concurrence at the center of an account of providence, but the differences between the two are important. The introduction of physical premotion into the picture seems to make two acts where we have one. And insofar physical premotion is an act on the human will, it amounts to a rejection of the first corollary we drew in our second post. These two points suggest that Bañezian concurrence should be understood not in terms of essential cooperation, but rather in terms of coordinate cooperation coinciding with accidental cooperation. God coordinately cooperates with the agent by moving their will to choose, and accidentally cooperates with them by indeterminately sustaining the choice in existence. It’s the coordinate cooperation, wherein God acts on the will, that restricts the will from choosing otherwise. In holding instead that God acts through the will, as part of his essential cooperation with it, we avoid the need for this restriction.
This brings an end to our posts on divine providence. In the course of these, we have discussed cooperation, nature and artifice, and will and choice. We have introduced the analogy of cooperation, and with it been able to study some of the consequences of God’s essential cooperation with nature. We have considered how divine providence must incorporate creaturely limitations, including those limitations from whence evil arises, and briefly mentioned how special concurrence can be used to overcome some of these. Altogether, this makes up our view, which we have called omni-instrumentality because of the relationship between essential cooperation and instrumentation. Finally, in this post, we have compared our view with others commonly held today.
Reflecting on all of this, it strikes me that any view on divine providence must ultimately recognize some form of mystery. Compatibilism asks us to reject our commonsense notion of freedom; Molinism asks us to accept this special class of contingent facts that God doesn’t decide; Bañezianism asks us to qualify the principle of alternative possibilities to the capacity of the will rather than its exercise; and our own omni-instrumentality asks us to accept that the exact nature of God’s concurrence is beyond our intuitive grasp.
The presence of mystery should not be considered a failure, for divine providence is a very unique and alien feature of reality. The inevitability of mystery should not dissuade us from studying divine providence, for much can be gained within the bounds it sets for us. And the way each view deals with mystery should not be the sole factor we consider when evaluating it, but it is an interesting one.
How we deal with this mystery is up to us: we may downplay it, punt to it when questions get tough, bite the bullet, or something else. Our own approach has been to work with it in as systematic a way as we can manage, by building an analogical bridge between our cooperation with artifice and God’s cooperation with nature. This affords us a mechanism for reasoning about divine providence without needing to be able to peer behind the curtain and see all the details.
A brief outline of his view can be found here with an expanded discussion of some points here. A more focused discussion on his view on the principles of agent causation can be found here.↩︎
I must admit that I do not see the value of introducing the category of principles of agent causation, for it seems to me that the “kind” of agent a particular person is can simply be included in the specification of the circumstance. In this case, we could say that the agents are determined in their choices by the circumstances, because these circumstances fully determine the inputs of the deterministic deliberation process that governs creaturely reasoning. Perhaps this just is what Tiessen is proposing.↩︎
As he says here, “In regard to my own model of providence, Craig would be incorrect to complain that whether or not a person accepts the arguments for determinism is ‘wholly . . . determined by causal factors outside himself’… An essential contention of the soft-compatibilistic account of freedom is that the crucial determining factors are internal. Moral responsibility derives from the fact that a person is not coerced to the action. Although he could not have done otherwise, being who he is and all the circumstances of the situation being what they were, the person acted freely, that is, voluntarily or without external coercion.” We’ve noted before that compatibilists do not typically hold the compatibility of determinism and freedom in any case, but only when the relevant choice is non-constrained.↩︎
As far as I am aware, Helseth never outright states this, but it is clear from how he responds to objections and counter-proposals. Toward the end of his contribution in the book, he rejects libertarian freedom and the “power to do otherwise.” And near the end of his response to William Lane Craig’s contribution, he rejects the notion the “rulers of this age” (1 Cor 2:8) were using their libertarian freedom “in one way and not the other.”↩︎
A common objection raised against libertarian free will is the alternative possibilities render a choice inexplicable. However, this only follows if we assume that explanations need to entail what they explain, which seems false. I have discussed how I think libertarian choices can be explained with non-entailing explanations here and in section 1 here. These are basically simplified forms of a proposal from Alexander Pruss, which he discusses in section 4 of his Divine Creative Freedom.↩︎
The primary differences between this and Tiessen’s compatibilist proposal, then, are that (1) these counterfactuals can be different for different individuals, whereas for Tiessen they differ according to types of individuals, and (2) these counterfactuals are part of God’s middle knowledge, whereas for Tiessen they are part of his natural knowledge.↩︎
See David Svoboda’s “Physical Premotion and Human Freedom” for a succinct discussion of physical premotion, as well as the attempts of Bañez and Ludwig Babenstuber at securing freedom of the will in the face of physical premotion.↩︎
This is the third of four posts on omni-instrumentality, a Thomistic model for divine providence. So far we’ve discussed cooperation (here), the distinction between nature and artifice, the analogy of cooperation, and our proposal that divine concurrence is God’s essential cooperation with nature (here). Although concurrence is the central component to our view on providence, it is not the whole picture. So, in this post we will discuss some of the other components the view, using what we have said so far as a basis. As before, it is highly recommended that you read the previous posts before continuing here.
Inherent and privative limitations
We’ve seen that God’s essential cooperation with nature is a consequence of our absolute dependence upon him as the Creator. We’ve also seen that as divine instruments we act by virtue of God applying us as instruments to our ends. All of this might suggest that we can make no original contribution of our own in our cooperation with him, but in fact we do. In our first post we delineated four ways something can impose upon another when cooperating with it, and you’ll recall that two of these were active (elevation and violence) while the other two were passive (facilitation and limitation). What we’ve said up until now should make it clear that we cannot actively impose upon God’s acting through us, since all our being originates from him; but there is still room for us to passively impose upon it, since this occurs merely through our reception of his causal influence rather than by our adding something to it.
Of the two passive impositions, the more interesting one when it comes to the topic of divine providence is limitation, wherein we hinder God’s causal influence. This hinderance is not a result of us overpowering God in any way (which would be an active imposition), but is the result of our own limitedness. Now, we can distinguish between two kinds of limitation. There are what we can call “inherent” limitations, which instruments impose simply in virtue of having the capacities that they do. For instance, humans are physical creatures, and therefore our scope of influence is limited to where we are at any given moment and the speed at which we can travel: if I’m sitting at home then I can’t influence things at work, and nor can I get to work in the next two minutes. In divine concurrence, then, God’s influence will always be limited to what I am able to achieve through my nature. This also applies to essential cooperation with artifice: an abacus can only calculate with numbers up to a certain point, governed by the number of beads it has; and when Alice moves the stone with the prodder she must work within the constraints of its strength, lest it buckle and break under the pressure of her influence.
In addition to inherent limitations there are what we can call “privative” limitations, which instruments impose by failing to fulfill their ends. In the case of the abacus, if it has lost some beads then it will not be able to calculate to the full extent of its design. In the case of the prodder, if Alice intends to use it to push a stone that is too heavy, and it breaks under her influence, then it has failed to fulfill the end Alice had given it. Of course, for this to happen Alice would need to be ignorant or indignant of the inherent limitations of the underlying stick, but the prodder exists and has its ends because of Alice’s intentions, and to this extent fails to live up to these ends.
Divine concurrence is similar to both of these cases, and God’s design and intention result in our nature and its fulfillment. While we may conceptually distinguish between God giving something a nature and disposing it to its fulfillment, in reality these are the same act.1 Intuitively, this amounts to the fact that when we intend to do something we also intend to do it well. So, when God concurs with an animal, this single act both establishes the animal’s natural life and disposes it to the fulfillment of this nature, which fulfillment is called “health” or “flourishing”. The animal will have inherent limitations based on its nature (a horse will be four-legged, and bird will be able to fly), and when the animal acts contrary to its health, by damaging itself, say, or by not eating properly, then it fails to fulfill its nature, which is a privative limitation.
The remaining notions we will discuss in this post all have something to do with how God incorporates our limitations into his direction of history.
Evil as privative limitation
Privative limitation helps us to explain why divine concurrence does not make God the source of evil. Avoiding this untoward conclusion is perhaps the most compelling reason for restricting God’s influence on our actions, and thereby rejecting the second corollary we mentioned in the previous post. The reasoning goes roughly as follows: if God’s influence on a human’s action were not direct, complete, and total, then we could say that any evil arose when that human added to God’s contribution in order to make the action occur. But while this move may be tempting, it is in fact unnecessary.
The better way to proceed is to build upon the distinction between agent and instrument, and recognize that God’s influence as agent is limited by the human instrument through which he acts. What’s more, this limitation comes in both inherent and privative versions. To see the significance of this, recall that some of our natural powers are volitional powers, whereby we pursue the good. In creating and concurring with our nature, then, God disposes us to the fulfillment of these powers, namely the conscious pursuit of what is truly good. We fall short of this only to the extent that we privatively limit his influence, and to the extent that we fall short of what is truly good, we and our actions are evil. God ordering us toward the good can be likened to Alice disposing the prodder to move the stone, and our limitation of this can be likened to the stick buckling under the pressure. But there is an important difference: the privative limitation of the prodder is the result of an inherent limitation of the underlying stick, but there is no pre-existent underlying thing in God’s concurrence with us. So, our privative limitations cannot be reduced to inherent limitations of something at a lower level.
Now, we must underscore that this privative limitation of God’s influence is not something we add to God’s contribution, but has to do with how we passively receive his influence as he works through us. We are also not saying that God makes us will an end and leaves us to choose the means, for this is just to repeat in different words the mistake we’re trying to avoid. We are saying that both willing and choosing arise from the essential cooperation between God and us, and that the goodness in each originates with God while the evil in each results from our privative limitation. In other words, both we and God cause the action but God doesn’t cause the evil of the action and we don’t originate the good of the action.
In this we see the superiority of our proposal over the alternative. If we restrict the scope of God’s influence (as the alternative does) we may avoid making him the source of evil, but we also avoid making him the source of all goodness. After all, if we need to add to God’s contribution in order for our action to occur, then this addition that can bring evil could also bring good. By contrast, on our proposal God is the sole source of goodness, which we do not add to, but which we can limit in our reception and propagation. We are responsible for the things we do, including the good and evil in them, but God is the source of the good and we are uniquely responsible for the evil.
Divine permission of evil
Once we recognize the possibilities of our original contribution and of privative limitation, we are led to various distinctions within God’s intentions. In particular, there are multiple senses in which he wills something, and an objective difference between what he wills and what he permits.
God’s will extends to what he causes, but this occurs in different ways. When essentially cooperating with a creature, his own contribution reflects his will more directly than the final product, since the latter is mediated through a creature whereas the former is not. Accordingly, while both his own contribution and the final product express his will in the particular action, the former does so more truly than the latter. Furthermore, since the nature of the creature is caused by God, its inherent limitations will also to some extent be part of his will.
Now, since the final product is also impacted by the privative limitations of the creature, what shall we say of the connection between God and these limitations? Like any artist he is cognizant of the limitations of his instruments, and so they must factor into his intentions somehow. But since they arise solely from the creature, and since it is privative of what he most truly wills, it cannot be a product of his will in the same way as the other components we’ve just mentioned. We are led to introduce a new category, namely what God permits. The objective difference between what God wills and what he permits, therefore, lies in whether something arises from God’s actions or not, with volition being further divided by how directly it does so. God most truly wills for goodness to be expressed, permits the evil of his creatures, and incorporates both into the plan he wills for all of history.
So far we’ve been focusing on privative limitations, but inherent limitations play an important role in divine providence and are connected to another important notion, namely “premotion”. This term that comes up occasionally in discussions of divine providence, perhaps most often in connection to the Bañezian notion of physical premotion. We will discuss this in the next post, but here we will focus on the form of premotion that applies to our proposal.
The most apt name for this premotion is Aristotelian premotion, but we could also call it accidental premotion. In his Physics, Aristotle notes that every change (or motion) presupposes an earlier change (or motion). For instance, a fire may be able to heat a pan, but it only does so when these two are moved into the appropriate positions relative to one another. Similarly, an agent may make a choice, but this only happens when they find themselves in the appropriate circumstance, impressed by various reasons for choosing among the different options. This earlier change is what we call a premotion.
Some reflection makes it clear that the need for such a premotion is a result of our limitations, both privative as well as inherent. A flame is limited in space and time, and so needs to be brought near something in order to start heating it. And human cognition requires that we be appropriately situated, both in terms of our senses and in terms of our intellects if we are to deliberate and choose. Thus, the need for such premotion does not arise merely from our failures, but also simply from us having the natures that we do.2
God’s direction of history, then, requires that he take into account the limitations of his creatures if he is to avoid doing violence to their nature and freedom. He needs to ensure that the relevant premotion has occurred for a creature to be in the circumstance to act, and once there that the creature’s inherent and privative limitations do not preclude the action he has planned. When the circumstantial, inherent, and privative limitations have been taken into account, then God can concur with the creature through the exercise of its natural powers in accordance with his plan. As we saw last time, this concurrence does not constrain the powers of the creature, but rather constitutes them. And since God concurs with all of creation, he is uniquely capable orchestrating all of history in accordance with his plan.
Grace and special concurrence
Up until now, the kind of divine concurrence that we’ve been discussing is what can be called God’s general concurrence, owing to the fact that it applies to all existing things, in accordance with their natures. There is another kind of concurrence, however, called God’s special concurrence, which applies only when God specially wills to act in this or that creature. Much can be said about special concurrence, but we include a few brief notes simply as a way of recognizing that though general concurrence is the foundation for divine providence, it is not the only component of it.
Now, since general concurrence is God’s essential cooperation with nature, it follows that special concurrence must involve either coordinate or accidental cooperation with nature.3 Since general concurrence is needed for a creature to do anything, special concurrence will be in addition to this rather than instead of it.
Accidental cooperation with nature occurs when God supernaturally enables a creature to act, as when he gave Samson the superhuman strength that he used to kill himself along with the lords of the Philistines by pulling down the supporting pillars of the building they were in (Judges 16:23–31).
Coordinate cooperation with nature occurs when God actively imposes upon a creature’s actions, moving them to act in a particular way that may not otherwise be open to them given their limitations. Eleonore Stump discusses two interesting cases of coordinate cooperation in this sense.4 What makes them interesting is that despite this kind of cooperation involving God acting on a human’s will, neither case amounts to violence against their will.
In the first, imagine Alice is a recovering alcoholic. In this case she still has the dependence upon alcohol and therefore also the first-order desire to drink it. But because she is trying to recover she also has a second-order desire to be free of this dependence, which is to say she desires to no longer desire alcohol in such a dependent way. She is thus divided against herself, and will be so as long as she is on the road to recovery. Now, let’s say that Alice prays to God one day, and asks him to help her fight the temptation to drink alcohol. If God obliges, then he overpower her first-order desire to drink alcohol, thereby supporting her second-order desire for recovery. In this case, though he frustrates her (first-order) will he nevertheless upholds her freedom.
In the second, we are to consider the process of someone coming to faith in God. Traditional Christian doctrine holds that this transition occurs by a supernatural act from God, but that failure to make this transition occurs by obstinance of the unbeliever. In proposing a model to reconcile the tension between these two claims, Stump provides another example of God’s coordinate cooperation with the human will. As background, she notes that the will can be in one of three dispositions: assent, where the will is attracted to something; dissent, where the will is repulsed from something; and quiescence, where the will is in some sense “off”, neither assenting nor dissenting. Given this tripartite division, she continues as follows:
…suppose the following theology story to be the case. (1) God is constantly offering grace to every human being in such a way that if a person doesn’t refuse that grace, she receives it and it produces in her the will of faith. (2) Normal adult human beings in a post-Fall condition who are not converted or in the process of being converted refuse grace continually, even if they are not aware of doing so. (3) Ceasing to refuse grace is accompanied by an understanding that grace will follow and that grace would not follow if the refusal of grace were continued. (4) It is solely up to a human person whether or not she refuses grace. A person who ceases to refuse grace in these circumstances is thus in some respects analogous to a person suffering an allergic reaction who actively refuses an injection of an antidote to the allergen, perhaps out of a hysterical fear of needles. Such a person might not be able to bring himself to will that the doctor give him the injection. If the doctor were asking him whether he would accept the injection, he might not be able to bring himself to say “yes,” for example. But he might nonetheless be able to stop actively refusing the injection, knowing that if he ceases to refuse it, the doctor will press it on him. In this case, whether or not he receives the injection is in his control, even if it is also true that he cannot bring himself to answer “yes” to the doctor’s request to give him the injection.
Now, on this story, the means by which the person is brought to faith is by God working in them to produce the “will of faith”. This occurs by a coordinate cooperation with God and the human, where the human will is supernaturally moved by God from a state of quiescence to a state of assenting. But, because of the setup of the situation — and particularly point (3) — this supernatural movement does not do violence to the will of the person.
Stump uses the word “grace” in the above quote, which in our present context refers to a supernatural gift from God.5 It is used primarily in regard to the process whereby someone comes to faith, but can be used for any supernatural gift from God. Now, anything that comes from his general concurrence with us would be a natural gift, since this concurrence is what constitutes our natures. Thus, grace, in this sense, is any gift from God that is given through his special concurrence with us, whether it be through accidental or coordinate cooperation.
While divine concurrence is the linchpin of our proposal for divine providence, it is not the whole story. In this post we have fleshed out that story, by exploring how God concurs with creatures that are limited in all sorts of ways. We have also seen that to some extent God can work beyond these limitations by means of special concurrence, although doing so without frustrating our natures brings its own set of constraints. While much more would need to be said about grace to get a complete picture of divine providence, what we have so far should be sufficient for what lies ahead, namely comparing our proposal to other views commonly held today.
In the case of living things we’ve seen before that every activity is disposed toward an end, and the activities of life in living things are in particular ordered inward so as to make them self-perfective. Human life is just a special case of this, which we’ve also discussed before. More generally, the real identity of a thing’s nature and its disposition toward an end is discussed by Aristotle in book two of his Physics, and we’ve discussed it briefly in section 2.2 here. It can also be seen as a consequence of what a form is, namely the determination of something to one of a variety of alternatives, which in the case of substantial forms will be the natural ends of that thing.↩︎
Lonergan argues that this sort of premotion is the properly-Thomistic form, and furthermore that for Aquinas divine application is an intended premotion.↩︎
I suppose we could also consider God’s cooperation with artifice, but what is unique about God is his ability to cooperate with nature, so we restrict ourselves to this for our discussion here.↩︎
These can be found, respectively, in her papers Hardening of the Heart, and Frankfurt’s Concept of Free Will and Augustine on Free Will. The latter paper actually contains both examples of the kinds we mention here, but the former paper also includes a discussion where God’s aid is in helping someone remain in their sin.↩︎
I have discussed in a previous post what I think grace primarily means in Pauline theology. I have no problem with it having a different, and more technical, meaning in systematic and philosophical theology, so long as we endeavor not to confuse these two with one another.↩︎
This is the second of four posts on omni-instrumentality, a Thomistic model for divine providence. The central piece of this model is an account of divine concurrence in terms of “essential cooperation with nature”. In the first post we discussed cooperation in general and essential cooperation in particular. In this post we will complete our discussion of concurrence, unpacking what it means for essential cooperation to be with nature. In the next post we will flesh this out into a fuller picture of divine providence as a whole, before we compare our model to others in the fourth post. It is highly recommended that you read the first post before continuing here, since space does not allow us to retread any ground.
Nature, artifice, and coincidence
Loosely speaking, a nature is the specification of what something is, such that we can speak of the nature of a cat, an abacus, and a pile of rocks. Strictly speaking, however, the nature of a thing is an intrinsic source of change and stability, whereby it acts and behaves in the course of its existence. A living thing, for instance, will grow and exercise its various powers in the course of the activity of its life. A thing’s nature is what gives it the foundational powers it has, all other powers being made up of a combination of these in some way.
Of the three examples we listed, only the cat has a nature in this strict sense, and it is on account this that we say that a cat is a “natural” thing. Because a nature is intrinsic to a natural thing, and because it is the source of that thing’s powers, an indicator that something is natural is that it has powers that do not arise entirely from its parts or are imposed upon it from outside. In the case of the cat, this is evident from the fact that a cat is capable of doing things that its corpse is not, which means that the powers the cat has are not reducible to the sum of the powers of its parts. Rather, the cat’s powers must be a consequence of the organization of its parts brought about by the intrinsic activity whereby it lives and acts.
The abacus and the pile of rocks represent two ways a thing might be non-natural, and in each case this is indicated by its powers arising from something extrinsic. Any power that the pile of rocks has is just the sum of powers of the individual rocks in the pile. Such powers are extrinsic to the pile because they do not arise at the level of the pile itself, but at a lower level of its parts. Because the pile is the result of its parts coinciding, we say that it is a “coincidental” thing. By contrast, the powers of the abacus that enable it to calculate are neither intrinsic to the whole nor to its parts, but arise from the meaning and functions we collectively imbue into them by convention. Since these arise from outside, such powers are extrinsic to the abacus, but this time because they are added over and above it. Because these powers ultimately arise from us, we say that it is an “artificial” thing, or simply an “artifact”.
Now, two factors make it difficult to talk about artifacts precisely. First, we do not typically distinguish the underlying thing from the meaning or functions we add to it. In the case of the abacus, there is the artificial calculating machine as well as the underlying coincidental thing made up of pieces of wood. This coincidental thing is what is left of the abacus when we remove our conventions from the picture, but because we interact with artifacts through the lens of our conventions, we rarely (if ever) have the underlying thing in mind. Similarly with a sword (artifact) and the coincidental thing made up of steel and wood (underlying thing). Conversely, we sometimes refer to the artifact using the name of the underlying thing, as when we call our “writing implement” a “piece of chalk”, or when we call a “drinking cup” a “glass”.
Second, there are two senses in which something can be artificial. On the one hand there is artifice in fieri, which has to do with us causing a thing to come into existence for a particular purpose. On the other hand there is artifice in esse, which has to do with us causing the continual being of a thing by means of our intentions, conventions, and usages. This distinction is important, because something can be artificial in fieri but natural in esse, as when we synthesize water from hydrogen and oxygen in a laboratory. Something can also be natural in fieri but artificial in esse, as when we use a rock as a chair. And of course, something can be artificial in both senses, as when we build a wooden chair. In our discussion here, we are only concerned with artifice in esse, and will put artifice in fieri to one side.
Voluntary and free
Some natural powers are voluntary, which means that they are exercised in making decisions by means of a will informed by an intellect. All the natural powers arise from the thing itself, but voluntary powers do so in the fullest sense, since their exercise involves someone making a conscious decision to act in a way that they understand and desire. Sometimes the term “natural” is used in contrast to “voluntary”, but in the sense we’re using the term every voluntary power is a natural power.1
Voluntary powers feature prominently in discussions on divine providence, since it’s difficult to see how God could direct all of history without undermining our free will. Now, freedom is what something has when it is not constrained, where the meaning of “constrained” is determined by that thing’s nature.2 A horse is less free if it cannot gallop or eat, but it is no less free if it cannot fly. Unlike flying, galloping and eating are part of the horse’s nature, and so it is to the extent that these are impeded that the horse’s freedom is infringed.
In order to understand what it is for a will to be free, then, we must first say what a will is. Fundamentally, our will is the voluntary power that enables us to consciously pursue the good, and is therefore sometimes referred to as our “rational appetite”. Here, “the good” is meant in the broad sense of that which is worthy of pursuit, rather than the more restrictive moral sense. Ice-creams and movies can be good, as well as humans.3 Given that this is what a will is, our will is free to the extent that it properly orders us to that which is most truly good, which is to say most worthy of pursuit. Our free will is infringed, then, to the extent that we are prevented from this, either by ignorance of what is truly worth pursuing or by weakness of our desire for it.
We sometimes treat free will and free choice interchangeably, but strictly speaking they are distinct. Choice is our voluntary power to deliberate between alternatives and decide which of them to pursue. This occurs when our will determines that some end is desirable, and our intellect determines that there are multiple options for achieving it. In this case, we must make a choice between the alternatives in order to proceed. Now, the particulars of the end and the means will constrain which options are available for us to choose between, but more often than not there will still be multiple options to choose between. For example, the modes of transport available to me and the structure of the road networks constrain the options I have for traveling to church every Sunday, but even this leaves me with a number of options for routes, some of which are more scenic and others of which are more efficient. Because these constraints arise from the nature of the choice being made, they are better thought of as the parameters of the choice than as infringements upon my freedom. What would infringe upon my freedom would be any constraints imposed upon me beyond the parameters of the choice, such as roadworks that preclude one of my options, or someone else forcing me to choose one of the options. Freedom of choice can also be infringed by ignorance of what is truly a good means to achieving a particular end, which may result in an incorrect evaluation of the alternatives.
Freedom is sometimes thought to depend on the so-called “principle of alternate possibilities”, which says that our will is only free if we could have chosen otherwise. Given the distinction between will and choice, we can nuance this and determine the extent to which this principle is true. We said that the will is what orders us to some end worthy of pursuit. Thus, if there were only one end worthy of pursuit, then our will would be no less free if it were the only thing we desired. In fact, in this case it would infringe our freedom of we desired anything else. If this sounds strange, that’s probably because in the vast majority of cases there are multiple ends worthy of our pursuit, which are all equally good or incommensurable with one another. But it’s precisely this that differs in the edge case we mentioned.4 Thus, in the case of free will we should treat the principle of alternative possibilities as a good rule of thumb, but not a universally true principle. On the other hand, we said that free choice is about ability to deliberate between options for achieving an end we desire by our will. In this case, we might not be able to choose otherwise because (1) there is only one valid option for achieving the end or (2) there are multiple options but we are prevented from choosing some of them. In the first case we don’t have free choice because we don’t have choice at all, and so it would be better to say that in such case choice is precluded rather than say that the freedom of choice is infringed. In the second case, we do have a choice but our freedom is infringed. Thus, even with choice, applying the principle of alternative possibilities needs to be done with care.
Now, it is tempting to think that voluntary powers are uniquely problematic for divine providence, and much of the discussion on the topic focuses on how God could direct history without frustrating our voluntary freedom. But once we appreciate the distinction between nature and non-nature, it becomes clear that the real problem lies with natural powers in general. After all, natural powers are supposed to be intrinsic to things, but God is something extrinsic. How, then, can God’s cooperation with creaturely actions be anything other than something distant? And if he must “step in” to achieve his plans, then how does he avoid frustrating our natures by constraining the exercise of our intrinsic powers?
Analogy of cooperation
We must frankly admit that we cannot eliminate all mystery when it comes to divine providence, since it is unlike anything we experience in daily life. This notwithstanding, we can get at it indirectly by constructing an analogy between what happens in divine providence and things we understand more intuitively.5 This “analogy of cooperation” allows us to draw principled conclusions amidst unavoidable mystery.
In everyday experience, we are familiar with the causation of the continual being of artificial things. A musical performance is a good example of this, as well as a sports match or dance routine. There are also simpler cases where we use an object, as in the Alice-and-stick example we discussed in the previous post. In fact, when we discussed levels of cooperation we stumbled upon something resembling what we’ve said about artifacts: while Alice uses the stick to prod the stone, she produces something artificial (the prodder) out of something that is natural (the underlying stick) by imbuing it with a particular purpose and function. Alice’s continued usage sustains the artifact in existence, and when she stops using it like this it ceases to exist, leaving only the underlying stick behind.6
The doctrine of creation is our departure point when it comes to fleshing out God’s side of the analogy. We can arrive at this doctrine through scripture and philosophical argumentation, and our aim here is not to defend it but to draw out its consequences. In particular, it encodes a fundamental difference between us and God: we cause the being of artificial things, but as creator God causes the being of all natural things.
Now, causing the being of something is not simply about causing it to come into existence. The doctrine of creation is not only concerned with the beginning of creation, but also about our continual dependence upon God for our moment-to-moment being. We do not magically become independent of God once we come into existence, but continue depending on him as a musical piece depends for its continued existence on the musician playing it, or the prodder depends on Alice to continually direct the stone. Thus Paul, when reflecting on God being the creator of everything, approvingly quotes the statement that, “in him we live and move and have our being.” (Acts 17:28)7
In order to connect this with cooperation, we need to realize that a thing’s being is both (1) that by which it exists and (2) that in which it acts.8 To see this in action, consider a sports team. It exists by virtue of a group of people engaging in the characteristic activity of such a team, which will include training, gathering equipment, and playing matches. This one activity, which includes all the various sub-activities, constitutes the team in existence, and any action the team engages in will be part of it. Thus, this activity is the being of the team. The same sort of thing occurs with living things: all their actions are part of the activity of their life, which is also what sustains them in existence. The same also goes for natural non-living things as well, although it can be a bit more difficult to identify what exactly this activity involves.
The tendency to treat a thing’s existence as disconnected from its actions might be a consequence of our ability to conceptualize them as distinct. But we must bear in mind that we can conceptualize things as distinct even when they are not, as when we distinguish Superman from Clark Kent, or a downhill from an uphill. In the present case, we can abstract away the details of a thing’s being, leaving only an indeterminate (or non-specific) concept behind, corresponding merely to the fact of its existence.9 Alternatively, we can focus on just this or that part or time-slice of a thing’s being, which would correspond to a particular action or sub-activity involved in that being. But this conceptual distinction should not be confused for a real distinction in the thing itself. Really, there is one activity of being that is grounding the thing’s existence and involving the thing’s actions, and we are merely pulling it apart conceptually by considering it from different perspectives. In similar fashion, we can conceptualize something being red separately from it being a particular kind of red (like scarlet or crimson), even though nothing is ever red without also being a particular kind of red. And we can focus on a sports team’s sub-activity of training, or a particular match, without thinking about their overarching activity of being a team, even though the former are parts of the latter.
Now, if a thing’s being is that in which it acts, and something else continually causes its being, then that cause will necessarily also cooperate with its actions. When Alice sustains the prodder’s being, for instance, this occurs by means of the same activity by which the prodder acts to move the stone. And this just is the activity wherein she moves the prodder to move the stone, considered from a different perspective. Likewise, when God sustains the being of natural things, he cooperates with the actions that flow from the use of their natural powers. The exercise of their powers is, from another perspective, God’s working through them to act for the ends that they do. Stated as a proportion: we are to our cooperation with artifacts, as God is to his cooperation with nature. This is the analogy of cooperation, which bridges our typical experience of cooperation and the unique kind of cooperation that God engages in as the Creator of everything. In it, the mystery of divine concurrence is reduced to the mystery of creation, and we are enabled to reason about it using the kinds of cooperation we grasp more intuitively.
Essential cooperation with nature
But which mode of cooperation is at play in the analogy of cooperation? For two reasons we can see that it must be essential cooperation.
First, both coordinate and accidental cooperation would admit some measure of independence on the side of the creature, which is at odds with the absolute dependence all creation has upon the Creator. It is usual for these modes of cooperation to obtain between things within creation, since individual creatures are independent from one another at a fundamental level. But apart from the continual work of the Creator God nothing would exist at all, meaning that any activity arising from a creature must be a propagation of what first originated with the Creator.
Second, since a thing’s being is that in which it acts, the source of its continual being must cooperate directly with those actions, which implies that the cooperation must involve combination. And since a thing’s being also grounds the fact of its existence, it is also dependent upon this source for everything, which implies that the cooperation must involve dependency. And since a thing’s being arises from a single act from its source, we have a case of combination with dependence, which is essential cooperation.
So, divine concurrence is essential cooperation with nature. By causing the continual being of natural things, God causes our causing the things that we do in the course of our natural existence. This applies to all natural things and the actions that flow from their natural powers, including the voluntary powers by which we will the good and choose between alternatives. But in arriving at the statement of our proposal we are only half way through the journey, for we are prone to misunderstand what it does and does not imply. For the remainder of this post we will clarify it, drawing out two important corollaries and considering an interesting case study.
The first corollary is that when God essentially cooperates with us he does not act on us, but through us. Acting on something requires that it exist in some sense prior to the acting, but there is nothing of us prior to God’s cooperation with us, since it is by this cooperation that we are constituted. The analogy of cooperation helps us connect this with more familiar examples. In essential cooperation with artifice, there are three things to consider: the agent (Alice), the artifact (prodder), and the underlying thing (stick); the agent acts on the underlying thing in order to establish and sustain the artifact through which they are acting. Put solely in terms of cooperation, the agent cooperates with the artifact at the higher level by means of a separate and lower-level cooperation with the underlying thing. Now, the notion that God acts on us can be seen as an incorrect assignment of analogues when transposing from artifice to nature: we think the creature is analogous the underlying thing, but really it analogous to the artifact. If anything, God acts “on” the constitutive principles of our natures — such as prime matter and essence — and it is these principles that are the proper analogue to the stick. Nor does he act on our material parts, for these must also be constituted by his cooperation.10
A consequence of this is that divine concurrence does not impose violence against our natural powers, but rather that their exercise consists in God’s acting through us. This is true for all natural powers, and in particular voluntary powers. We mentioned in the previous post that essential cooperation can sometimes occur by means of violence at a lower level, and so if we were analogous to the underlying thing then God might have to impose violence against us in order to get his way. This would certainly go contrary to freedom. But since we are actually analogous to the artifact, divine concurrence constitutes rather than constrains our actions. God does not need to constrain creatures in order to ensure that we will act in accordance with this will, but acts through the exercise of our natural powers.
The second corollary is that the influences of both God and creature on the final product are direct (or immediate), complete, and total, but according to different modes. That is, they both extend to the final product (direct/immediate), to all of the final product (complete), and to every detail of the final product (total), but not in the same way (different modes). It’s because they contribute according to different modes that both God and creature can influence the effect without rendering the other superfluous. We can see this at work by returning again to essential cooperation with artifice. When Alice moves the stone with the prodder, both Alice and the prodder cause the motion of the stone. The prodder causes the stone to move by means of propagating the motion given to it by Alice, while Alice moves the stone through the prodder by causing its causing the stone to move. This caused causing directly involves Alice in the production the stone’s movement as an agent who applies an instrument to its end. It’s this difference between agent and instrument that enables both to contribute without superfluity. If this were accidental cooperation, Alice would cause the stick’s motion without applying it to the stone, and her influence would not extend all the way to the final product. But in essential cooperation both the prodder and Alice cause one and the same effect in different ways, as instrument and agent, the difference arising from the difference between causing and causing causing.
Of course, we know that this essential cooperation with Alice and the stick occurs by means of a coordinate cooperation at a lower level. Because of this there will always be some distance between Alice and the stone, requiring us to qualify the sense in which she directly influences it: she is directly involved in regard to her application of the prodder as an instrument to the stone (higher-level cooperation), but is indirectly involved in regard to her physical distance from it (lower-level cooperation). This lower-level distance is lost when we transpose all of this over to God’s essential cooperation with nature, since he is not limited in his power as we are, and so never works through an independent thing in his cooperation with us. This is perhaps the most notable difference between human instruments (artificial things) and divine instruments (natural things).
Now, some might feel uneasy about the application of these corollaries to divine concurrence, saying that the power of choice is fundamentally different to what we have in the prodder case. It is absolutely right that the cases differ, but not in a way that undermines what we’ve said. The prodder differs from free choice in that the former is an artificial thing whereas the latter is a natural power; but in both case we are drawing on a feature of essential cooperation as such, rather than something peculiar to essential cooperation with artifice. Thus, the difference is not salient. Free choice occurs by means of us exercising our natural powers, and just like the exercise of any natural power it consists in God working through us to bring about a final product directly, completely, and totally, as the divine agent of his natural instruments. Both corollaries are important, and ignoring either will prevent us from fully appreciating the other.
Case study: Freddoso’s indeterminate being
Alfred Freddoso has discussed a model of concurrence that is shared between two popular views on divine providence today, namely Molinism and Bañezianism.11 This model illustrates the importance of the agent-instrument distinction to both of these views, but is also problematic in that it relies on an inadequate account of this distinction. We have said that this difference lies in the difference between causing and causing causing, but the common position discussed by Freddoso seeks it elsewhere. On the latter position, the agent gives merely indeterminate (or non-specific) being to the final product, ensuring only that it exists, without specifying any details about this existence; and the instrument then gives determination (or further specification) to this, filling in the details left out by the agent. Freddoso illustrates the this as follows:
… one and the same effect — say, our newly conceived armadillo — is from God insofar as it exists at all, i.e., insofar as it is something rather than nothing, and from its parents insofar as its being is determinate, i.e., insofar as it is an animal of the species armadillo. In short, the effect is undivided and yet such that both its universal or general cause (God) and its particular causes (the parents) contribute to its production in distinctive and non-redundant modes.12 (emphasis added)
It is clear from the context of this quote that these two contributions are intended to be immediate to the effect. Thus, God influences the armadillo directly and completely, but not totally. Given this, the proposal seems to be a variation of the mistake we discussed earlier, namely confusing a distinction in our conceptions for a distinction in reality. A living thing doesn’t have being apart from the activity of its specific kind of life any more than something is red apart from being a specific kind of red. The armadillo exists by living as a specific kind of animal, and any distinction between these is merely a result of us conceptualizing its life at different levels of generality.
It is true that God creates all being while the parents of the armadillo are only able to beget a child of the same nature.13 And since God cooperates with nature in everything that it does, if we abstract away the details of each instance of divine concurrence, then the contribution from God that is common across all of them will be indeterminate being. But it would be wrong to infer from this that God actually gives indeterminate being in each case. This would be like abstracting the details of each instance of Bob using one of his tools (screwdriver, saw, hammer, etc.), leaving us with an indeterminate motion as his common contribution, and inferring from this that what he actually gives in each case is merely indeterminate motion. Really, in each case he gives specific and directed motion, and the indeterminacy is just a feature of our thinking about his activity.
Now, Freddoso is not unaware of this objection, and it is worth considering one of the examples he gives in his response:14
Suppose… I use a piece of blue chalk to draw a square on the blackboard. It seems clear that both the chalk and I count as joint immediate causes of a single effect, viz., the blue square-shaped line that appears on the surface of the blackboard. Yet the fact that the line is blue, rather than some other color, is traced back primarily to the causal properties of the chalk as an immediate instrumental cause of the blue square rather than to any of my properties as an immediate principal cause of the blue square. By the same token, the fact that there is a square-shaped effect — rather than, say, a circular effect or no effect at all — is traced back primarily to my influence as an immediate principal cause and not to the chalk’s as an instrumental cause.
Key aspects of this picture are correct: the shape and color of the effect are indeed primarily traced back to the different causes in the cooperation, and both the agent and the chalk are indeed immediate causes of the effect. However, it is not the case that each cause is only the immediate cause of the feature that is primarily traced back to it. The directed chalk is the immediately responsible for the shape just as it is for the color, as the implement in direct contact with the board that produces the colored shape by its motion. And the agent is immediately responsible for the color just as they are the shape, as someone who intentionally applies the blue chalk as an instrument to drawing the square.15 The real difference between agent and instrument is not to be found in the difference between indeterminate being and its determination, but in the difference between causing causing and causing. The chalk, of itself, is incapable of realizing its capacity for producing the square shape, so the agent applies it as an instrument to this end, causing its causing of the shape on the board. The result is two causes, both immediate, complete, and total, but in different ways, one as agent and the other as instrument.
In fact, there is an important sense in which Freddoso’s picture is incomplete, for it makes no distinction between the artificial instrument and the underlying thing. The piece of chalk is better thought of as the underlying thing, and the resulting writing implement as the artificial thing. The agent acts on the chalk, but through the writing implement, to produce the square shape. The cooperation with the writing implement is essential, resulting from the directed motion from the agent through the implement to produce the colored shape. It is at this higher-level that both instrument and agent are responsible for the colored shape, but in different ways.
At a lower-level, various cooperations with the chalk will be coordinate or accidental depending on which final product we consider. If it’s a particular motion of the chalk that overrides its inertia, or if it’s the pressure in the chalk upon pushing it into the board, then the cooperation will be coordinate. On the other hand, if the final product is the impression of the chalk on the board so as to leave chalk residue, then the cooperation is accidental; and in this case we have something like the indeterminacy that Freddoso mentions in the above quote. In this cooperation the agent merely provides the pressure to the chalk, which the chalk in turn uses the make an impression on the board of a particular color. But this is not the relevant cooperation when considering divine concurrence.
In this post we built upon the foundation of the first. The distinction between nature and artifice allowed us to see the fundamental difference between the kinds of cooperation we’re familiar with and the kind of cooperation involved in divine concurrence. With the analogy of cooperation we were able to bridge the gap between these two, and we used it to outline our proposal for divine concurrence as well as draw out important corollaries of this proposal. But our task is not done, for there are other notions within the vicinity that need to be discussed before we can fully appreciate our proposal that divine concurrence is essential cooperation with nature. We will discuss these in the next post.
See, for instance, Aquinas’s discussion in ST I Q83 A1, particularly corp and ad3.↩︎
Out of interest, this is why the impossibility of sinning in heaven does not go contrary to our freedom of will. Sinning is never a good thing, and those who are resurrected in heaven have their will perfectly orientated toward God so that sin never occurs to them as a valid option.↩︎
We focus on examples where the artificial thing exists by our continued active engagement, because they help us see things more clearly than the comparatively passive cases of our collective conventions or typical usages. Of course, such passive cases are still active insofar as holding onto conventions and understanding typical usages are activities, but these activities are less connected with the resulting artificial things.↩︎
Of course, the picture is complicated by evolutionary biology, but not so as to undermine the point being made here — only as to call for more nuance that would take us too far afield of our present discussion.↩︎
He discusses other examples of cooperation where different causes are primarily responsible for different aspects of the final product, but each of these is an example of coordinate cooperation and thus has little relevance to the essential cooperation that obtains between God and creatures in his concurrence with them.↩︎
In a footnote (n26) Freddoso considers the possibility that the agent could have chosen a different color a chalk, and rejects it as irrelevant. Our point, however, is about the act of the agent in the drawing of the shape, not their choices prior to drawing the shape.↩︎