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.↩︎
Divine providence is about God’s direction of all history in accordance with his plans, without thereby frustrating human freedom or undermining nature. Long-time readers will know that I was once a Molinist, but I have not said much on the topic since changing my views. I would describe the view I now hold as the Thomistic view, but others views go by that description and I have little interest in an exegetical defense. For the sake of clarity, then, we will use the name “omni-instrumentality”, since this view is built around the notion that all of nature is a divine instrument.1 My aim in this series of posts is to outline omni-instrumentality in as accessible a way as I can manage, without requiring the reader have a significant familiarity with Thomistic metaphysics. Nevertheless, if you happen to be familiar with Thomistic metaphysics you should recognize many of the things we cover.
Divine concurrence is about God’s cooperation with the actions of creatures. Views on divine providence differ in the role they assign to divine concurrence, but at the heart of omni-instrumentality is an account of divine concurrence as essential cooperation with nature. Our approach to unpacking the view, then, will start with this and gradually work our way outwards. In this first post, we will give an analysis of cooperation, its modes and its characteristics. In the second post, we will expand this into an account of divine concurrence by introducing nature and the relevant conceptual tools to bridge our everyday experience of cooperation with God’s special cooperation with us. Thus, by the end of the second post we will have a robust understanding of essential cooperation with nature. In the third, we will flesh out the details surrounding divine concurrence, and thereby fill in the rest of the picture of divine providence. In the fourth and final post, we will compare omni-instrumentality to other views commonly held or discussed today.
Components of cooperation
Two things cooperate when they work together to bring about some final product. Here, we use the term “thing” very broadly, such that it could be a substance, aggregate, property, state of affairs, or process. Insofar as one thing brings about some other thing we call it a “cause”, and any distinct thing that is brought about by one or more causes we call a “product”. The final product is the thing caused by the cooperation as a whole. When we call a product “distinct” we mean that it is something beyond the causes and their influences, although not necessarily distinct from the cooperation as a whole. For instance, when the cooperation involves making a chair then the final product (the chair itself) is distinct from the cooperation (the making), but when the cooperation is a musical performance the final product is the same as the cooperation. Finally, insofar as something depends in a particular way on a cause we speak of a cause “causing”, or “influencing”, or “contributing to the cooperation”.
We could depict all of this as a directed graph made up of nodes and edges: things are nodes, causes are nodes with edges coming out of them, products are nodes with edges coming into them, and causal influences are the edges themselves. The final product would be the product that has no edges coming out of it at all, that is the product that is not also a cause.
None of this so far is meant to be controversial. We’ve simply given names to the various moving parts involved in any cooperation so that our discussion can proceed with slightly more precision. Our primary goal in this post is to discuss, at the broadest level, the different ways two things can cooperate with one another.
The most distinctive aspect of cooperation is that the causes work together, and so any analysis of cooperation should help us break this down into more basic components. One component of working together is combination. 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. Another component of working together is dependence. This occurs when one cause is enabled to exert its causal influence by virtue of another cause first exerting causal influence on it. In this case, the product of the independent cause will be something in the dependent cause.
Using these two components we can enumerate the different modes of cooperation that arise from how they can be logically composed: (1) combination without dependence, (2) dependence without combination, and (3) combination with dependence. If two things have neither combination nor dependence it is difficult to see that as cooperation in any sense, and so we will leave that option to one side.
Modes of cooperation
A straightforward example of combination without dependence would be that of two people pulling a car or lifting a box. Neither of the two people depends on the other in order to be able to pull, but when they pull together their combined force is enough to pull the car. We call this “coordinate cooperation”2, and it has the structure of two influences and one product.
Once we recognize this category and its structure, we can see that it applies to other cases that we might not have instinctively described as cooperation. For example, when two teams engage in tug-of-war this is also coordinate cooperation, since they do not depend on one another to exert their influence on the rope, but the resultant tension in the rope is a product of the combination of each of their influences. Of course, at another level this cooperation is a competition, which we’ll discuss more below. Other examples of coordinate cooperation include two sticks standing upright against one another, two sports teams playing a match against each other, and an orchestra performing a piece of music.
Next we turn to dependence without combination, an example of which is when a person throws a brick through a window. In this case the brick depends on the person to impart to it a certain velocity by which it can go through the window, but the breaking of the window is only directly caused by the brick. We can call this “accidental cooperation”3, and it has the structure of two influences and two products. In the person-and-brick example, the first influence is of the person on the brick, the first product is the brick’s velocity, the second influence is of the brick on the window, and the second (final) product is the window’s breaking.
Again, there are cases of accidental cooperation which fit the definition and go beyond our motivating example. For instance, a grandparent and a parent accidentally cooperate to beget a grandchild, since the parent depends on the grandparent for their existence (and therefore their ability to procreate) but the grandparent does not directly contribute to the begetting of the grandchild. Indeed, cases of accidental cooperation needn’t even involve temporally separate events. For example, imagine Alice holds Bob up because he is too short to grab an item off the shelf by himself. In this case Alice accidentally cooperates with Bob, because her activity enables him to do his activity (dependence) but they do not both directly grab the item off the shelf (without combination). Another example of simultaneous accidental cooperation is when the sun shines on the moon, which in turn reflects this onto the earth. This case is noteworthy, because though the moon is radically dependent upon the sun, this dependence does not occur in such a way that the rays of the sun must combine with the reflected rays of the moon in order for the moon to illuminate the earth.4
The last mode of cooperation, combination with dependence, is by far the trickiest to grasp. An example of this is when Alice uses a stick to push a stone by means of directed motion. Similarly, it occurs between Bob and a piece of chalk as he uses it to write on a blackboard. We can call this “essential cooperation”, and its trickiness becomes clear when we attempt to describe its structure. The key thing to realize is that in essential cooperation the combination and the dependence are not two distinct acts, but rather two aspects of one and the same act. Thus, we could equally describe it as “dependent combination” or “combinatory dependence”. If this weren’t the case, then instead of essential cooperation we would really only have coordinate cooperation (combination without dependence) coinciding with accidental cooperation (dependence without combination).
To underscore this irreducibility, we can consider variations of the Alice-and-stick scenario which do not amount to essential cooperation. If Alice merely threw the stick at the stone, then we would have accidental cooperation rather than essential cooperation. If she merely pushed the stone with her hand at the same time as the stick hit the stone, then we would have coordinate cooperation rather essential cooperation. Even if she threw the stick and managed to then push the stone with her hand at the same time, we still would not have essential cooperation, but rather a coincidence of accidental and coordinate cooperations. Furthermore, if Alice were to let go of the stick after using it to move the stone, it might continue moving without her, in virtue of the velocity it had when she let go, but the essential cooperation between Alice and the stick ceases upon her letting go. This manifests itself in the fact that the motion the stick is no longer directed in the way it was before. Once she’s let go, the cooperation between the two is only accidental.
When Alice essentially cooperates with the stick, she not only moves the stick (dependence) but also moves the stick to move the stone by means of directing it (combination). It’s because the stick is not capable of directed motion in itself that Alice needs to keep acting through it to move the stone. And with this we see the structure of essential cooperation emerging: Alice not only influences the stick (by moving it), but also influences the stick’s influencing the stone (by moving the stone with the stick). Thus, in total we have three influences and two products, because Alice influencing the stick’s influence does not produce some distinct thing.
We can summarize everything we’ve said here with the following table:
dependence without combination
2 influences, 1 product
combination without dependence
2 influences, 2 products
combination with dependence
3 influences, 2 products
Having outlined these three modes of cooperation, the rest of this post will discuss what we might call the “characteristics” of cooperation. These apply in some sense to every mode of cooperation, even if the specific details differ in each case.
Through-causing and instrumentation
When one cause acts through another we call it “through-causing”. In any case of through-causing there are three components to consider: the cause, the passage, and the effect. In terms of the vocabulary we introduced above, these would correspond to the first cause, the second cause, and the final product respectively. Using these components we can unpack the differences in how through-causing applies to each of the modes of cooperation as outlined above.
Of the three modes, essential cooperation involves through-causing in the truest sense, since the first cause acts through the second by causing it to cause the final product. In this case the second cause acts only insofar as the first cause acts through it, which is to say that the second cause propagates the causal influence that originates with the first. When Alice pushes the stone with the stick, the stick propagates Alice’s causal influence to the stone.
The Alice-and-stick example also shows us something that we might be tempted to forget: propagation doesn’t mean that the second cause does nothing, as if things would be the same without it. The stick modifies Alice’s causal influence according to its nature, and thereby enables her to push a stone that otherwise might be out of reach due to distance or obstacles. We’ll return to this point in the next section. For now, the upshot is that the origination-propagation language gives us another perspective on how dependence and combination work together in essential cooperation: there is dependence because the second cause does not originate the causal influence, and there is combination because the second cause propagates this influence rather than the first cause bringing about the product by itself. If the second cause weren’t making some kind of contribution, then the final product wouldn’t occur in the same way or even at all.
The two other modes of cooperation can make sense of through-causing, but only by considering it in a looser sense. In a case of accidental cooperation the order of first and second cause is given by the dependence of the second cause on the first, but because the first cause doesn’t directly influence the final product it can only be said to “cause” it in a loose sense. In other words, accidental cooperation gives a natural sense of through-causing, but requires a looser sense of through-causing.5
In a case of coordinate cooperation both causes directly influence the final product, but there is no dependence to give an objective ordering between them. So, any ordering between the causes must be supplied by us, in terms of how we consider them. For instance, if Alice and Bob are pulling a rope from either end, then we could take either to be the first cause, the other to be the second cause, and the final product to be the tension in the rope. Alice acts “through” Bob not because Bob propagates Alice’s influence or because Bob depends on Alice for his acting, but simply because Bob modifies the result of Alice’s contribution in some way. Thus, we might say that coordinate cooperation gives us a natural sense of through-causing, but requires a looser sense of through-causing.
The notion of through-causing is closely linked to the notion of instrumentation. An agent works through an instrument by applying it to an end. In the strictest sense, an instrument is something that has the capacity for producing its effect within itself, but which is incapable of realizing this capacity by itself. Thus, the instrument produces the effect only so long as the agent applies it to this end. To give an example, the stick is capable of moving in any number of directions (capacity), but cannot direct itself to move the stone (incapable of realization), and therefore requires Alice to continually apply it to this end. Connecting this with what we’ve been saying, an instrument in the strictest sense is what an agent causes through in the truest sense. And just as accidental and coordinate cooperation involve looser sense of through-causing, so too do they involve looser senses of instrumentation. Thus, we can say, in a looser sense, that the sun uses the moon as an instrument to illuminate the earth, and the Alice uses Bob as an instrument to produce tension in the rope.
Because essential cooperation captures the truest senses of these notions, unless otherwise specified we will use them exclusively for cases of this mode of cooperation.
We’ve touched on the notion of causes “modifying” each other’s influence, and it’s worth spending some time making this more precise. Whenever one cause modifies another’s influence in some way, we’ll say that it “imposes upon” that cause. Accordingly, we will refer to this characteristic of cooperation as “imposition”. There are two components that determine the kind of imposition in view: (1) how it imposes, and (2) what it results in.
Regarding the how, an imposition can be active or passive. Alice actively imposes upon Bob when she pulls the rope in the opposite direction to him in a game of tug-of-war, but the stick passively imposes upon Alice when it enables her to act through it in accordance with its structure and strength. Active impositions arise from how one thing’s casual influence impacts another’s, while passive impositions arise from how one thing receives the causal influence of another. Of the two, active impositions are the ones we more intuitively grasp, so much so that we might be tempted to think that passive impositions are not really impositions at all. But this would be a mistake, as the Alice-and-stick example should make clear. Among other things, the stick could modify Alice’s causal influence by extending it by its length or limiting its force by its fragility.
This brings us to the results of impositions, which involve either helping or hindering. An imposition helps when it supports or amplifies, and it hinders when it frustrates or limits. In the tug-of-war Bob and Alice mutually hinder one another, but when they pick up a box together they help one another. Both of these examples are of active impositions, but passive impositions can also be hindering and helpful. Returning to the Alice-and-stick example, if the stick is fragile or bent then it might hinder the causal influence it receives from Alice, while its weight and shape might help her use it for the purpose of pushing the stone. Similarly, it’s because a brick is a certain size and weight that it can be used to break a window by throwing it, unlike a bunch of feathers or a piece of cloth.
So an imposition can be active or passive, and it can hinder or help. This gives us four options for the nature of a particular imposition, to which we give names in the following table:
We hasten to add that the sense of these names is very broad. In our everyday language we restrict “violence” to situations in which someone actively hinders the safety of another. Our technical sense here includes this, but is not exhausted by it. If I’ve asked you not to play a certain kind of music and you persist in playing it, then you’re imposing violence against my will without necessarily hindering my safety. But it gets broader even than this: if one rock knocks another off-course then this is also violence, since it hinders its movement along its original trajectory. The same point of generality applies to limitation, elevation, and facilitation.
Active impositions can be bi-directional, in the sense that two things can actively impose upon each other in the same act of cooperation. In the tug-of-war, for example, both sides of the war impose violence upon by the other. And when two people pick up a box together they impose elevation upon each other. This is possible, because the nature of active impositions allows for there to be a form of symmetry between the two causes. By contrast, passive impositions are by nature asymmetric, and so there is no comparable bi-directionality.
Levels of cooperation
Sometimes a cooperation occurs by means of a lower-level cooperation. Return once more to the Alice-and-stick example. We’ve said that Alice essentially cooperates with the stick, and this is correct, but this essential cooperation is made possible by various lower-level cooperations governed by the laws of physics. For instance, it is because the stick has a certain structural integrity that it doesn’t simply buckle when pushed by Alice into the stone. So, one of these lower-level cooperations is the coordinate cooperation between Alice and the stick which produces the internal stress within the stick. If such cooperation did not occur, then Alice wouldn’t be able to push anything with the stick, since it would simply crumble or her hand would move through it.
This is actually the second time we’ve seen multiple cooperations coincide with one another. Earlier we saw it when we were introducing essential cooperation, and noting that it is not equivalent to the coincidence of accidental and coordinate cooperations. In that case the two cooperations occurred at the same level, but here they occur at different levels.
Given that cooperations can coincide in various ways, it is necessary that we be able to distinguish between them somehow. Sometimes we can distinguish them by reference to their final products, but this is not always enough: in our earlier example, of Alice throwing the stick and pushing the stone at the same time the stick hits it, the two cooperations have the same final product, namely the motion of the stone. In such cases, if we want to distinguish between the cooperations it is necessary to qualify how we consider each of the causes. When considering the accidental cooperation between Alice and the stick when she throws it, we are considering Alice-as-thrower cooperating with the stick-as-projectile. But when considering the coordinate cooperation between Alice and the stick when they move the stone, we are considering Alice-as-pusher cooperating with stick-as-pusher.
An important thing to notice is that when two cooperations coincide they needn’t involve the same impositions. At one level the tug-of-war game is cooperative and at another level it is competitive. At the lower level, both teams cooperate with each other in playing the game in accordance with the rules. At the higher level, they also cooperate with one another in the technical sense we’ve been discussing, but in this instance they mutually impose violence on the other in an attempt to claim victory. Healthy competition just is this sort of mutually violent cooperation at a higher level built upon a non-violent cooperation at a lower level.
For a particularly interesting example of this, imagine Alice pushing a stone using Bob’s hand against his will. Here we can distinguish at least two different cooperations, each at a different level. First there’s the higher-level essential cooperation between Alice-as-agent and Bob’s-arm-as-instrument, and second there’s the lower-level coordinate cooperation between Alice-as-wanting-to-push-Bob’s-arm and Bob-as-not-wanting-his-arm-pushed. If we ask whether Alice imposes violence upon Bob, then we will get a different answer depending on which of the cooperations we’re considering. In the essential cooperation, Alice’s action is what makes and sustains Bob’s-arm-as-instrument, and therefore cannot be said to be violent against it. In the coordinate cooperation, by contrast, Alice’s actions go against Bob’s will for his arm and are therefore violent against Bob. In fact, this is a general feature of essential cooperation: because the influence of the first cause is what establishes and sustains the influence of the second, the first can never impose violence or elevation upon the second at the level of the cooperation. But this imposition could still exist at a lower level, as this example shows.
With this we have covered the necessary groundwork of cooperation: the modes of cooperation, through-causing and instrumentation, impositions, and levels of cooperation. All of these will serve us in our account of divine concurrence and comparison of different views.
Alternatively, we could call it the “Lonergan-McArthur model,” since it arises from the discussions by Bernard Lonergan in his book Grace and Freedom and Ronald McArthur in his paper “Universal in praedicando, universal in causando”. Both of these works are excellent, and if you are somewhat familiar with Thomistic metaphysics I highly recommend them.↩︎
The names for these first two modes are given by Lonergan in his Grace and Freedom. We differ from his naming for the third mode: he calls it “serial cooperation” but I think “essential cooperation” is more appropriate given the Thomistic source of the discussion.↩︎
For those unfamiliar with Scholastic jargon this may sound like a bit of strange name. After all, the person needn’t throw the brick by accident for there to be cooperation. But this is not the sense in which the word is used here. An accident, in this sense, is a feature not contained within the definition of something. In the current example, the person imparts the accident of a certain velocity to the brick, which enables it to go through the window.↩︎
For Thomists, the lesson here is even more noteworthy. As Lonergan notes, the moon in this case is a moved mover that is not properly speaking an instrument (section 4.1 of his Gratia Operans, which is included in Volume One of his Collected Works). This has consequences for how we should conceive of essentially-ordered causal series, which are chains of essentially (not accidentally) cooperating causes.↩︎
In English there’s an unfortunate ambiguity in the word “through,” which makes it applicable to essential or accidental cooperation: Alice causes the stone’s motion through the stick (essential), and she breaks the window through the momentum of the brick (accidental). We have attempted to get around this by emphasizing both the “through” and the “causing” components. Alternatively, there is a similar ambiguity in the word “with,” which makes it applicable to essential and coordinate cooperation: Alice moves the stone with the stick, and plays a tennis match with Bob. Another way to think about what we’re getting at with through-causing, then, is to consider that sense of “through” that would make it interchangeable with “with.”↩︎
A common but mistaken tendency when trying to understand hylomorphism is to equate form and structure and matter with the elements in that structure.1 This tendency is unsurprising, since modern science has taught us how to think about reality in terms of its physical and biological structure, but it is still a mistake. When Aristotle introduces form in the Physics, his preferred example is a person who changes from being uneducated to being educated. In this case, the forms are the uneducatedness or educatedness, while the matter is the person that persists through the change. Surely he does not intend for us to think of the person as an element, that their [un]educatedness somehow structures — this would stretch these words so much as to empty them of meaning.
A better way of thinking about form and matter is as two mutually intelligible notions that work together in the constitution of material things.2 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. So, the matter and form of a thing do not exist separately from one another, but each exists indirectly through the existence of the thing they compose. The form and matter of a human exist where I am, for example, because I am a human composed of form and matter. In Aristotle’s example, when we consider a person apart from whether they are educated or not, we have something that is indeterminate between different levels of being educated, that is we have matter. And adding in the educatedness determines this matter to one of these various alternatives. Or consider another case of form and matter that doesn’t involve structure. Imagine Alice’s hand is moving into Bob’s face. By itself, this motion is indeterminate between (a) Alice attacking Bob and (b) her clumsily hitting him by mistake in the course of reaching to something near him. The form that determines which of these is the case is her intention. Together the motion (as matter) and the intention (as form) constitute her action.
So, form is not structure. But neither are the two entirely separate: if some T exists at least partially by virtue of an underlying structure, then a form determining matter to be a T will need to include that structure. Take as an example a simple wooden table with four legs and a tabletop. The structure places the tabletop above the four legs, each of which is standing upright. And the form and matter? The matter could be the wood itself, in which case the form would be everything that makes the wood a table, including the division of it into pieces, the structuring of these pieces, and the collective intentions we have that make something a table rather than something else like a chair or mug.
Let’s use a water molecule as a case study. Structurally, it arises from a bond between two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom, the bond being the structure and the atoms being the elements. In terms of form and matter, things are more complicated. Assuming the water molecule is a substance,3 we’re primarily interested in substantial form and prime matter. Prime matter underlies all material substances and is completely indeterminate, while substantial form determines this matter to being a particular kind of material substance. Mapping this onto language about structure, it is clear that the hydrogen and oxygen atoms are not primary matter, for they are also made up of structured elements: a hydrogen atom, for instance, is made up of a proton and an electron. And these are also made up of structured element: a proton, for instance, is made up of an up quark and a down quark. Since structure is a kind of determination, the prime matter of the water molecule must underly all of these things. Accordingly, the substantial form of the water molecule must include all of these structures at different levels as part of its determination of the prime matter. I have illustrated how these different components all fit together in the following diagram:
What may have initially seemed like a subtle distinction has now snowballed in two clearly different accounts of something as simple as a water molecule. And, moreover, this difference sheds some light on a puzzling claim in Thomistic metaphysics, that the hydrogen and oxygen atoms exist virtually within the water molecule. Only if the water molecule were to be destroyed, leaving free hydrogen and oxygen atoms, then they would really exist. Understandably, someone not familiar with these terms would find this all a little perplexing: the molecules have the same structure both when inside the water and when free, so why say that they only virtually exist in the one case?
For starters, we must note that by calling something “virtual” we are not denying that it has some measure of existence in reality. This might what we colloquially mean by “virtual”, but in Thomism both “real” and “virtual” afford some kind of existence in reality. If we wanted to say that something had no existence in reality, then we’d say that its existence was purely logical.4
Furthermore, when Thomists speak about the way a thing exists, we primarily have in mind its form and matter rather than simply the structures that underly it. And we think that every substance has exactly one substantial form, since a material substance is the determination of matter, not a pre-existing material substance.
Now, while there may be no structural difference between a bound hydrogen atom and a free one, in terms of form and matter there is a substantial difference (pun intended). The bound hydrogen atom exists and is structured as part of the water molecule’s form, whereas the free hydrogen atom exists and is structured by its own form. The free hydrogen atom’s form excludes all sorts of things that are included by the water molecule’s form, not least of which are the structures of the oxygen atoms . Of course, the two are not completely unrelated, since the form of the water molecule in some sense “contains” the form of the hydrogen atom. This is what we’re getting at when we say that the hydrogen exists virtually within the water — even though the water molecule has only one substantial form, its form is multi-faceted.5 It’s because of this that if we destroyed the molecule properly, we could recover the three atoms which until then would have existed virtually within it.
By “structure” I mean a static or dynamic specification of the quantitative relationships between a collection of elements. In my post on the threefold whole I used the word “configuration” instead, but I think “structure” is more familiar to people and so have used it here.↩
By “things” I include material composites in general, such as substances, accidents, actions, states of affairs, and aggregates.↩
See Eleonore Stump’s paper “Emergence, Causal Powers, and Aristotelianism in Metaphysics” in Powers and Capacities in Philosophy: The New Aristotelianism. There is a more general question about whether we should consider each individual molecule as a substance, or whether bodies of water are better candidates. This is hugely relevant to us here, and we use the molecule because it’s easier to talk about.↩
See my post on the real distinction for a discussion on real, virtual, and purely logical in the context of distinctions, which bears some resemblance to how they work in the context of existence.↩
In order to better understand the multi-faceted nature of forms, we need to consider them as potential wholes. I have discussed these in my post on the threefold whole.↩
The issue I have is with regards to God’s necessary existence. Since God’s essence and existence are identical, He exists necessarily. But the same thing could be said of matter as well, as it seems to me. Why could it not be the case that some fundamental layer of physical reality necessarily exists aka that it cannot fail to exist? Suppose that we are dealing with some form of “atomism”. How do we know that some kind of physical particles or fields don’t have necessary existence? Existence could be a PART of particles/fields or some other kind of fundamental physical reality. Then, what it means to be a particle/field ENTAILS, among other things, that this particle/field EXISTS.
In fact, there are three related questions in here. Here we’ll try to disentangle them from one another, and give a brief answer to each.
Q1. Does matter have necessary existence?
Without trying to sound facetious, it depends on what you mean by “matter,” “necessary,” and “existence.”
Starting with matter, there are at least three senses that it can have. In contemporary usage, matter refers to the “stuff” that underlies physical reality — atoms, electrons, quarks, bosons, and so on. Then there is matter in the Aristotelian sense, which comes in two varieties, namely primary and secondary matter. Unlike the contemporary “physical” matter, the Aristotelian “metaphysical” matter is never a thing of itself, but is always a constitutive principle of things. It composes with form to, well, form composite things, such as animals, people, actions, and aggregates.
In general, this composition works as follows: 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. So, the matter and form of a thing do not exist separately from one another, but each exists indirectly through the existence of the thing they compose. The form and matter of a human exist where I am, for example, because I am a human composed of form and matter. When a thing changes it switches one form for another, but retains the same underlying matter. When a thing changes without being destroyed, like me standing up or changing clothes, then we’re talking about secondary matter composed with accidental form. But when the change brings about the destruction of one thing and the beginning of another thing, as when I die and become a corpse, then we’re talking about primary matter and substantial form. Primary matter is therefore more fundamental than secondary matter, and in some sense it persists across all change, even though whenever it exists it does so indirectly through the things it composes.
With necessary existence there is also a distinction between contemporary usage and classical usage. In contemporary metaphysics, “necessary” and “contingent” are cashed out in terms of possible worlds: a thing has necessary existence if it exists in every possible world, and has contingent existence if it fails to exist in some possible worlds. Since possible worlds capture what could have been the case, a thing exists necessarily if it could not have been the case that it failed to exist, while it exists contingently if it could have been the case that it failed to exist.
When Aquinas refers to things as necessary and contingent, however, he has something quite different in mind. He is not talking about whether things may or may not exist in other possible worlds, but whether things are corruptible or not — whether they go in and out of existence — in this possible world. For him, the corruptibility of something is a consequence of its nature: material things are made up of these two principles which need not be composed (form and matter), and therefore they are corruptible. Angels and God, on the other hand, are incorruptible. For the sake of clarity, then, we will refer to the necessary existence of Aquinas as “incorruptibility” and the necessary existence of contemporary metaphysics as “metaphysical necessity.”
In order to understand how a Thomist would approach the question of metaphysical necessity, we can compare it to a position defended by some in contemporary metaphysics, called “modal essentialism.” Broadly speaking, modal essentialists seek to analyze the notion of “essence” in terms of facts about possible worlds: the essence of a thing is the collection of its essential properties, and a property of a thing is essential if that thing has that property in every possible world it exists. Thomists, by contrast, hold to a position that has been called “real essentialism,” where essences are fundamental to things, and the truths about possible worlds are grounded in them rather than the other way around.1 Thus, from our point of view, modal essentialism gets things backwards.
An important consequence of real essentialism is that it allows essences to govern whether something is metaphysically necessary or not. For the Thomist, the essence of every thing apart from God is really distinct from its existence, with the former being a potential of some kind and the latter being its continued actualization. Now, every potential depends on another actuality for its continued actualization, and every chain of actualized potentials eventually leads back to God. Furthermore, since God is a free agent, it is metaphysically contingent whether he chooses to actualize any potentials at all, and therefore it is a metaphysically contingent fact that anything other than himself exists from moment to moment. God is the only exemption from this, because he does not exist through the actualization of a potential — he is pure actuality, his essence is his existence. Thus, God is metaphysically necessary while everything else is metaphysically contingent.
Returning to the two kinds of matter, every material thing exists through the actualization of a potential. Since contemporary matter is a material thing it is therefore metaphysically contingent along with every other material thing. Aristotelian matter, as we have said, exists at any moment indirectly through the existence of the material thing it makes up, and therefore will also be metaphysically contingent.
But they are not in the same boat when it comes to corruptibility. Contemporary matter is corruptible, since like any material thing it comes in and goes out of existence. Likewise, Aristotelian secondary matter comes in and goes out of existence along with the substances to which it belongs. But since Aristotelian primary matter persists through all generation and corruption, it is in some sense never generated or corrupted itself, and is therefore in that sense incorruptible. Of course, it is incorruptible in the thinnest sense. Even though it always exists, at any given moment it only exists indirectly through the substances it composes. And so, it would go out of existence the moment God stopped sustaining all material things in existence.
Indeed, primary matter might be the first incorruptible thing arrived at in Aquinas’s Third Way. At a crucial point in the argument, which has generated much discussion, he says, “if everything is corruptible, then at one time there could have been nothing in existence.” On the face of it, this sounds like he’s committing the quantifier shift fallacy. And this might be the case if he was only quantifying over substances, but if he was quantifying over substances and their principles then this shift is quite reasonable. If primary matter is also corruptible, then it also wouldn’t have existed at some time in the past. But since, for Aquinas, generation depends on pre-existing matter, it would follow that nothing could have subsequently been generated, which is contrary to experience. This leads him to posit the first incorruptible thing in his chain of incorruptible things, namely primary matter, from which point he traces the chain all the way back to God, the only incorruptible thing that is also metaphysically necessary.
So, does matter have necessary existence? In some sense yes, but mostly no:
Q2. What if atomism were true?
Would our answer change if some form of atomism were true? In this case, there would presumably be a bunch of fundamental physical things called “atoms,” which would not come in or go out of existence. This would certainly make them incorruptible, like Aristotelian primary matter, but would it make them metaphysically necessary?
It’s tempting to reach for our earlier answer about primary matter and apply it to these atoms, but that would be a mistake. For that answer, it was crucial that primary matter is a principle of things rather than a thing of itself. Because of this, its existence at any moment is in some sense parasitic on the composite thing to which it belongs, and if God simply stopped sustaining all composite things in existence, then primary matter would disappear along with them. By contrast, these atoms are not principles, but things in their own right, so the same line of argumentation won’t work.
A better analogy would be the angels. They are incorruptible, since they are not made out of matter at all, but their essence is nevertheless really distinct from their existence, which means they exist through the continued actualization of a potential, and therefore depend on God for their continued existence. So, what reason could there be for thinking that these atoms would need to likewise exist through the continued actualization of potentials?
For one thing, they are material, and therefore exist through the actualization of potentials of primary matter like any other material thing. What makes them different from other material things is not that this doesn’t apply to them, but rather that this applies to them without them being generated or corrupted.
For another thing, we saw earlier that anything whose essence is not identical to its existence is metaphysically contingent, and there can be only one being whose essence is identical with their existence. I covered this in a previous post on the real distinction, but briefly: existence unifies all existing things as existing, whereas essence diversifies us within this unity by limiting that existence in various ways. One thing is distinct from another by virtue of being limited in a way that the other is not. Material things with the same common essence are diversified by differing determinate dimensions, which limit us to different places and times; created immaterial substances (angels) are diversified simply by their individual essences, so that there are no two angels have their existence limited in a common way; and God is that existence which is not limited in any way by his essence, since they are identical. Since diversity occurs through limitation, and since a thing whose essence is identical to its existence is not limited, there cannot be a diversity of such things.
Q3. Could existence be part of an essence without being identical to it?
But what if the existence of these atoms was really distinct but not wholly distinct from their essences? That is, why couldn’t their existence be a proper part of their essence?
Let’s start by considering some things which are parts of essences: substantial form and primary matter. When we first learn about form and matter, they are said to correspond to actuality and potentiality — the indeterminacy of matter corresponds to its potential for being in different ways, and the determination of this matter by the form is an actualization of one of those potentials. But things get a little confusing, later, when we then learn that both form and matter are parts of an essence, and that essence is a sort of potentiality for existence. How is it possible that form is an actuality but part of a potentiality?
Fundamentally, this boils down to the fact that the form-matter distinction is orthogonal to the essence-existence distinction. In a composite being, there are these two overlapping real distinctions, each of which focuses on the actualization of a potential in different but complementary ways. The form-matter distinction captures what obtains when a material thing exists, while the essence-existence distinction captures whether this obtains in reality. Form accounts for the unity a material thing has with all other material things of the same kind, and matter distinguishes this instance of the kind from that instance of the kind. Existence accounts for the unity a thing has with all existing things, and essence distinguishes this existing thing from that existing thing.
To put this in more concrete terms, we can compare me, Sherlock Holmes, and the tree outside my house. Many people don’t know this about me, but I’m a composite of form and matter.2 Likewise, the tree is a composite of form and matter, although my form makes me a human while the tree’s form makes it a tree. Sherlock Holmes is also a composite of form and matter, since this is part of being a human, and he would have the same sort of form that I do. Now, in one sense I am more similar to Sherlock Holmes than to the tree, but in another sense I am more similar to the tree than to Sherlock Holmes. The difference lies in whether we consider things in terms of their form and matter, or in terms of their essence and existence: I am similar to Sherlock Holmes in virtue of our shared form which the tree does not have, and I am similar to the tree in virtue of our shared existence which Sherlock Holmes does not have.
The Sherlock Holmes case also lets us see how the actuality of form can be part of the potentiality of essence. Consider this question: does Sherlock Holmes’s substantial form actualize a potential in his primary matter? Well, in one sense of course it does, for if it didn’t then he wouldn’t be a human capable of sleuthing around London. But in another sense of course it does not, for if it did then he would be a real human rather than a fictional character. It’s the difference between these two senses that is captured by the actualization of an essence by its existence — form is always the actualization a potential of matter, but it’s when this actualization obtains in reality that this corresponds to the actualization of something’s essence by its existence.
Since the actualization of matter by form is what constitutes the existence of a composite thing, and since this actualization is contained in the essence of a thing, we could in some sense say that the “existence” of a thing is contained in its essence. But, as we’ve just seen, this will not help in the present case, because this doesn’t determine one way or the other whether the thing’s existence obtains in reality. The core of the problem is that an essence, of itself, is indifferent to whether it obtains in reality or not, which is why we can talk of the essence of Sherlock Holmes without falling into incoherence. This is the indifference that I’ve recently noted belongs to all potentials, and it is on account of this that we say essence is a potential.
But why couldn’t the existence which is the actualization of the essence (and accounts for it obtaining in reality) be a proper part of that essence? Because this would entail that the essence is capable of having multiple simultaneous existences, which is absurd. To see this, let A be the part of the essence which is also the thing’s existence and let B be the other part (or the collection of other parts). From this it follows that A is an actuality since existence is a sort of actuality, and B is a potentiality since it is the part of the thing’s essence that is not its existence. In order for B to exist, then, it would need to be actualized. The resulting actuality, call it A2, would need to be separate from A. Why? Because, as we’ve seen in our above discussions on the essence-existence and form-matter distinctions, actualities are distinguished from one another by reference to the potentials they are the actualizations of (or, in the special case, because one is an actualized potential and the other is a pure actuality). So, since A is not the actualization of B but A2 is, it follows that A and A2 are distinct actualities. But since A is stipulated to be the existence of the thing, and since A2 is the actualization of the essence of the thing, it follows that A and A2 are distinct existences of the same thing.
In fact, a parallel argument could be raised against any proposal that seeks to divide an essence into parts, whether they all be actualities, all potentials, or a mixture of the two. An essence must be a single potential or actuality. It might have parts in the sense we were considering earlier, but these are not parts in the sense we’re talking about now. That is, an essence can have parts in the sense that it is the potential for the existence of a composite thing, not in the sense that it itself is a composite thing.
Conclusion and further reading
In the course of these answers we’ve had to go through some pretty heavy Aristotelian metaphysics, hitting all the important distinctions and clarifying them as we go. Of course so much more can and has been said about each one, but I can’t hope to cover all of that in one blog post. So, Ante, I hope what I’ve said has at least helped you along the way a bit.
Non-Thomist contemporary philosophers have also taken exception to the modal essentialist proposal. See, for instance, Kit Fine’s “Essence and Modality.” For longer discussions on these issues, see Ross Inman’s Substantial Priority and David Oderberg’s Real Essentialism.↩
It’s funny because it’s true: the vast majority of the human population is not interested in philosophy and would have no idea what it even means to be a form-matter composite. Nor, as my housemate notes, does the vast majority of the human race know me at all.↩
A key thing to appreciate about potentials is that they are indifferent to what is actually the case. It’s because of this that they are able to play the role they do in accounting for the reality of change, together with actualities.
I have the potential to sit down even when I am standing up, and it is this potential that I actualize when I do eventually sit down. If I did not have that potential, then I would not be able to actualize it in myself and therefore not be able to sit down. We can see this work itself in cases where things lack the relevant potentials: a rock depends on other things to move it because it does not have the potential for self-movement, a squirrel never actually thinks about the physical laws of the universe because it lacks any potential for rational thought, and a match never produces snow when struck because it does not have any corresponding potential for this.
I also retain the potential to sit down while I’m actually sitting down, since I can’t be actualizing a potential I don’t have. This can be missed because we sometimes speak of the potential to become actual in some way rather than the potential to be actual in some way, even though the latter is more fundamental. This ambiguity is not particularly surprising, since potentials are capacities for being actual in particular ways and we see this ambiguity in other examples of capacities: a one-liter bottle has the capacity for containing one liter of liquid even when full — since that’s exactly what it’s doing — it just doesn’t have the capacity for containing another liter of liquid. Similarly, if I’m currently sitting down I still have my potential to be sitting down, even if it is no longer the case that I can move to the state of sitting down.
Thus, the potential exists in me regardless of whether it is actualized or not, and so, as we said, the potential itself is indifferent to what is actually the case. It follows from this that every potential depends on some other actuality in order to be actualized from moment to moment, and in an indirect way it also depends on some other actuality in order to be unactualized. At any given moment, the existence of a potential cannot guarantee one way or the other what is actually the case — it can only determine what could be, not what is the case. And this can’t be addressed simply by adding another potential into the mix, because that will suffer from the same limitation. Rather, what is needed is an actuality which either actualizes the potential or indirectly unactualizes it by actualizing some other incompatible potential, as sitting down is incompatible with standing up. Of course, this other actuality could itself be an actualized potential, and so on, and so on.
The indifference of potentials is, I think, the core reason for why actualized potentials need to be continually actualized by some other actuality. On the face of it, however, the result that potentials depend on actualities in order to be continually actualized seems to be at odds with the Newtonian principle of inertia. Since inertia is a well-known phenomenon, and since it makes our result counter-intuitive, it’s worth considering this intuition in more detail. Inertia, Newton tells us, “is the power of resisting by which every body, so far as it is able, preserves in its state either of resting or of moving uniformly straight forward.”1 Applying this to the notion of potential we’ve been discussing, we may wonder why a potential needs to be continually actualized by some actuality in order to stay actualized. Making this a bit more precise, consider the following two conditions:
At time t, potential P exists.
At some earlier time t* < t, P was actualized by something else.
A little reflection will make clear that these are not sufficient to account for P’s being actualized at time t. If I was holding a book above the ground in order to actualize its potential to be a meter above the ground at time t*, but have since let it go, then by time t the book would be falling to the ground, and therefore the potential would no longer be actualized. Of course, this occurs because of the gravitational force applied by the earth on the book, and realizing this we might add a third condition to the two above:
At time t, potential P exists.
At some earlier time t* < t, P was actualized by something else.
Between t* and t, nothing actualizes a potential P* that is incompatible with P.
But while this addresses our previous example, this is still insufficient. An example that illustrates this from more recent physics is radioactive decay, wherein an unstable atom will spontaneously emit particles of its own accord, and thereby unactualize certain potentials within itself. More generally, any non-equilibrium state of a system will lead that system to change the set of potentials that are actualized within it as it tends toward an equilibrium state. Both of these involve potentials which are actualized in a way that is inherently temporary when left alone. Once we realize that such “transiently actualized potentials” exist, we recognize this behavior in everyday things around us without needing to defer to such complicated examples. For instance, the clicking of my fingers is an actualization of a potential that inherently becomes unactualized almost immediately. And a burning fire tends to go out as it uses up the combustible molecules in the wood.
You’ll notice, however, that none of these examples mention the motion of physical objects in straight lines. And that’s no coincidence, since inertia applies in those cases. The point of these examples is not to somehow disprove inertia, but rather to show the failure of a certain approach to questions of actuality and potentiality. Inertia is a very specific physical principle, which cannot be applied to such a general metaphysical notion as potentiality. Rather than trying to understand actuality and potentiality in terms of inertia, therefore, we should instead try to understand inertia in terms of actuality and potentiality. In doing so we will see how inertia is in no way at odds with our earlier conclusion about the actualization of potentials.
With this reorientation in hand, we can ask: what needs to be added to our three conditions in order to properly characterize inertial behaviors? We’ve said that a potential of itself is indifferent to what is actual. Since the continued actualization of a potential is not indifferent to what is actual, it follows that we should be looking for an actuality. And not just any actuality, but an actuality that is somehow ordered to maintaining the actualization of P:
At time t, potential P exists.
At some earlier time t* < t, P was actualized by something else.
Between t* and t, nothing actualizes a potential P* that is incompatible with P.
Since t* until t, some actuality A maintains the actualization of P.
Importantly, this actuality doesn’t need to be something external to the thing whose potential we’re considering — as Newton said, inertia is in some sense the power of a body — it just won’t be the potential itself. We could call this actuality the “inertial actuality,” since it is the source of the inertial behavior. At the level of generality that we’re considering it here, inertial behaviors and actualities are not restricted to physical inertia. Just as there are many different ways that actuality and potentiality come to be in the world, so too there may be many different kinds of inertia. Nevertheless, we can characterize inertia in general in terms of another category, and use physical inertia as a paradigm case.
The category I have in mind is the Aristotelian form. Form and matter are two mutually intelligible categories, at least when it comes to material things. Generally speaking, matter is a substratum of some kind that is indeterminate of itself, and form is the determination of that substratum to one of the alternatives.2 In the case of physical things, matter is that which underlies all physical reality, and form is that which determines what kind of thing each physical thing is. It’s because matter is determined in a particular way that some physical things are trees, others are rocks, others sub-atomic particles, and so on. The indeterminacy of matter corresponds to its potential of being in different ways, and the determination of this matter by the form is an actualization of one of those potentials. Thus, a form, as an actuality, is a ready candidate for being an inertial actuality.
And indeed, the Aristotelian notion of form does well in accounting for physical inertia, both in terms of how Newton originally conceived of it (his rejection of the notion notwithstanding), and in terms of how physicists have conceived of it since. On this account, inertia as a feature common to forms of all physical things, as something that flows from the determination of matter regardless of the form that is doing the determination. Not only is form an actuality internal to a thing, but it is also common for forms to only partially determine matter, leaving it up to further forms to complete them. For instance, the primary (or substantial) form of a squirrel determines its underlying matter to be ordered in a certain kind of activity of life, but is indifferent to the exact details of that life, such as location, size, strength, and so on. These variables are provided by the primary form, to be fixed by secondary (or accidental) forms that augment the exact shape of that life at different times. Likewise, in the case of inertia, the primary form of any physical thing orders that thing in such a way as it maintains its rectilinear motion, but is indifferent as to exactly which inertial frame it’s in. This variable is provided by the primary form, but is fixed by other causes, which thereby impart the relevant secondary form of the precise rectilinear motion to be maintained.
Now, Aristotle knew that the primary forms of natural things would move them in the absence of some countervailing influence. His mistake was his particular conception of this motion: he thought that it was always ordered toward a specific place or in a specific direction, with light things inherently moving upward and heavy things inherently moving downward. The inadequacy of this particular conception of physical motion notwithstanding, his broader theory of forms is still a valuable tool in accounting for modern conceptions of physical inertia.
So, the primary forms of physical things are the inertial actualities that account for their physical inertial behavior. Moreover, we can flesh out the picture as follows. Every primary form of a physical thing will be the actualization of a potential in the matter underlying that physical thing. Applying our argument from the indifference of potentials, it follows that this form is actualized by some other actuality. And since this form is what grounds the existence of the physical thing in question, this other actuality must be the actuality of something else. But it’s not as though this cause will be some other perpetually-conjoined physical thing, since physical things only act on other pre-existing physical things, while this cause is sustaining the existence of the physical thing in question from moment to moment. The primary form a physical thing, then, is a metaphysical “threshold” of sorts, beyond which we move from physical actualities to non-physical actualities.
This leads us to another sort of inertia that is discussed in metaphysics, namely existential inertia. This refers to the inherent tendency of things to stay in existence in the absence of countervailing influences. In the terms of what we’ve been discussing, it’s the notion that once a physical thing has been brought into existence, we don’t need a “something else” to keep it in existence. There are, I think, two motivations that might be given for existential inertia, each problematic in their own way. First, we could motivate it by analogy to physical inertia. The problem with this, as we’ve seen above, is that such “inertial explanations” require an inertial actuality, and since we’re considering the actualization of a thing’s potential for existence, this further actuality cannot be something internal to that thing. Second, we could motivate it by generalizing the observation that the things we experience don’t require continually conjoined causes to keep them in existence. The problem with this is that it’s looking for the wrong sort of cause, not realizing that in talking about the cause of a thing’s continual being we’ve crossed that metaphysical threshold we just mentioned. We are not saying that this cause somehow acts on that thing, as if to presume that the thing somehow pre-exists the acting, but rather that by acting the cause actualizes the potential whereby the thing has existence from moment to moment in the first place. If this cause acts “on” anything, it’s on the thing’s constitutive principles, such as its form and matter, not the thing itself.
There is, however, something to be said for a qualified version of existential inertia: insofar as something is determined to exist, it is determined to continue existing. Thus, many things tend to preserve themselves in existence until they’re destroyed, or the underlying resources that they depend on run out. But this flows from the primary form of such things, and so as before if this form is an actualized potential then it will need a cause.
Isaac Newton, The Principia (def 3), cited in Thomas McLaughlin, “Nature and Inertia.”↩
See my discussion on the threefold whole for an extensive discussion on form and matter. To see that these general definitions extend beyond simple physical objects, consider the following examples. The matter of a wooden table is the underlying wood, since it is indeterminate between various ways of being used, and the form of the table is how the wood is cut up into pieces and structured together in a particular way. The matter of my action of punching something is the motion of my arm, since the same motion is present in different actions, and the form of my action is my intention to damage something. The matter of a person educated in some field is the person considered without regard to their education, and the form is their educatedness or uneducatedness.↩
In the conversation on divine simplicity over at the Theopolis Institute, Mullins’ most recent response draws attention to the three premises that are “only affirmed by proponents of divine simplicity”:
All of God’s actions are identical to each other such that there is only one divine act.
God’s act to give grace is identical to God’s one divine act.
God’s one divine act is identical to God’s existence.
After which come the following steps:
Therefore, God’s one divine act is absolutely necessary.
If God’s one divine act is absolutely necessary, then God’s act to give grace is absolutely necessary.
Therefore, God’s act to give grace is absolutely necessary.
This implication is problematic for Christians because we hold that God is free to withhold grace if he chooses, which means his act of giving grace cannot be necessary.
But, while proponents of divine simplicity do indeed affirm (9)–(11), we reject (13) and therefore reject the conclusion in (14). In order to see how this works, it would be good to consider a parallel argument involving a more familiar situation. Imagine that whenever Alice is put in some circumstance C she must choose between two options, A and B. Assuming that Alice has libertarian free will, in some possible worlds she will choose A and in other possible worlds she will choose B. Supposing that in the actual world she chooses A, we have the following argument:
Alice’s choice of A is identical to her choice between A and B.
Alice necessarily chooses between A and B in circumstance C.
Therefore Alice necessarily chooses A in circumstance C.
Now, (3) is false on our supposition about Alice’s free will. The problem with this argument is that (1) is ambiguous. If the identity in view is necessary (that is, if “Alice’s choice of A” is a rigid designator for “Alice’s choice between A and B”), then the argument is valid but the premise is obviously false. If, on the other hand, the identity in view is world-relative (that is, if it is just making a claim about the actual world), then the premise is true but the argument is invalid by virtue of committing a modal scope fallacy.
To give a common example of this fallacy, consider the following argument which is a direct parallel of our choice argument:
The number of planets in our solar system is identical to eight.
Eight is necessarily greater than seven.
Therefore the number of planets in our solar system is necessarily greater than seven.
The first premise of this planet argument suffers the same ambiguity and pitfalls as the first premise of the choice argument. The reason for this in the choice argument comes down to the nature of libertarian choice: the same act of choosing can amount in different choices in different worlds.
But there is a subtle and interesting response lurking in the vicinity. In libertarian choices, the response goes, the choice between A and B is a deliberative act which consists in Alice weighing the reasons for preferring A over B up against the reasons for preferring B over A, while the choice of A is the resultant act of Alice pursuing A. Thus, despite initial appearances, the choices are not identical acts, but are two distinct acts, one of which causes the other in a non-deterministic way. In God’s case, however, we have one act rather than two, and so the parallel doesn’t work.
Does such a response rebuff our objection? I don’t think so, for it still grants that there is indeterminism in the deliberative act, which is sufficient for our purposes. With this we can reframe the choice argument as follows:
The act that causes Alice to pursue A is identical to her deliberative act.
Alice necessarily engages in her deliberative act in circumstance C.
Therefore, Alice necessarily engages in the act that causes her to pursue A in circumstance C.
We see here the same problems with the identity in premise (1), despite granting the distinction introduced by the response.
But can we just ignore Alice’s second act of pursuing A? Here we must appreciate an important difference between God’s choices and ours. Alice’s pursuit of A does not belong to her choosing per se, but rather to the execution of the choice she had already made in her deliberative act. Humans need this additional step because our actions find their expression through our bodies — we need to move somewhere, communicate something, start a new thought process, or something else. But God needs no additional act of execution, he acts without need for mediation — he does not need to work through a body and does not depend on other things to bring about his effects. God’s one divine act consists of him choosing which world to actualize based on the the contrastive reasons for preferring each world over the alternatives, including factors such as whether to create anything or not, and whether to give grace or not. This is analogous to Alice’s deliberative act, although without any need for actual deliberation, since God is immediately aware of the all the relevant reasons and does not need to weigh them up successively. And because God is not limited like we are, this one act immediately produces its effects rather than requiring a follow-up act to bring it about.
So, proponents of divine simplicity should reject premise (13) of Mullins’ argument because the identities in premises (9)–(11), while true, are not sufficient to do the work he needs them to do.
I am very much struggling how to combine a presentist account of time (like the A-theory for example) and the view that God is outside of time, in a Thomistic sense.
I would be very thankful for your help, since it seems to me that I am hitting a wall regarding this issue, since I cannot accept a B-theory of time, but at the same time the view of St. Thomas regarding God’s eternity is much more plausible than the other philosophical alternatives (especially open theism!).
For those unfamiliar with the relevant terms, we begin by briefly explaining what the A-theory and B-theory are, how they relate to presentism, and what this has to do with God’s eternity.
The distinction between A- and B-theory of time was introduced to analytic philosophy by McTaggart in his paper The Unreality of Time. Briefly, the A-theory of time holds that there is some objectively privileged moment of time we call the present, relative to which other moments of time can be categorized into past and future (called the A-series). By saying it is objectively privileged we mean that the fact of which moment is present is not a matter of perspective, but is rather a feature of reality prior to any considerations from us. The B-theory, by contrast, denies that there is such an objectively privileged moment of time, and holds that the only relations between moments are those of earlier than and later than (called the B-series). We can still speak of the present, but it must always be understood from the perspective of a particular moment under consideration. The most we can say, for instance, is that from the perspective of the 3rd of March 2018, the 2nd of March is in the past and the 4th is in the future.
Each of these theories has a number of models, which are concrete proposals for the nature of time that satisfy the requirements of the theory. Confusingly, these models are also sometimes called “theories.” A-theoretic models include presentism, which holds that only the present moment of time is real, while the past moments were once real and the future moments have not yet become real; the spotlight theory, which holds that all moments of time are equally real but only one ever has the property of “presentness”, which leads to us visualizing time as a spotlight gradually moving over a fixed timeline; and the growing block theory, which holds that once a moment is real is stays real, resulting in all past moments being equally real and forming a “block” of time, with the present being on the edge of this ever-growing block. B-theoretic models include four-dimensionalism, which treats time like a sort of spatial dimension, holding that objects have temporal parts spread across the fourth dimension of time just like they have spatial parts spread across the first three dimensions of space; and eternalism, which we will here take to be the model that all moments of time are equally real without any having the status of being objectively present, but not necessarily construed as temporal parts of objects either.
As for God’s eternity, the Thomistic view is that eternity and time represent fundamentally different modes of being. Eternity is not merely about existing without beginning or end, since this would be consistent with existing in time as long as we stipulate that (1) either time itself has no beginning or end or (2) God entered time upon creation.1 The Thomistic view can be seen as a consequence of Boethius’ definition of eternity, which says that it is “the complete possession, all at once, of illimitable life.” Such an existence is incompatible with being in time, since temporal existence requires that we have our life bit by bit rather than having all of it at once. Accordingly, God’s eternity means that he must be outside of time, and the problem of eternity has to do with the relationship between an eternal God and his temporal creation.
Thomistic and analytic approaches to time
Now, for us Thomists who are familiar with the analytic distinction between A- and B-theory, it is natural to wonder how it applies to God’s eternity and his relation to time. What is not always realized, however, is that there is an important difference between the Thomistic and analytic approaches to questions of time. The Thomistic approach is Aristotelian, and therefore starts with an analysis of change. Aristotle starts by asking questions like whether change is possible and what it consists in, and considers examples like that of a person becoming educated and an object moving location. By contrast, the analytic approach — by which I mean the approach of those in the analytic tradition broadly following McTaggart — starts with the ontology of the passage of time. The main point at issue in the debate over A- and B-theory is whether the passage of time “flows” from past to future. On the A-theory it flows as the present moves from moment to moment, while on the B-theory it is in some sense static.
We saw the analytic approach in action during our discussion on McTaggart’s paper, wherein he switches between questions about changes to reality (which is change in the everyday sense of the word) and questions about changes to the time series, as if these were interchangeable. On the Thomistic approach, time is just the measure of change,2 and it makes little sense to speak of the time series itself changing, as if this could be decoupled from the change to reality which it measures. Indeed, from a Thomistic perspective the analytic approach can seem to treat time as a sort of quasi-substance, which is certainly the impression one gets from McTaggart’s talk of moments of time merging into one another or changing properties.
We can illustrate the difference between the two approaches by considering how they would attempt to answer the question of whether temporal becoming is an objective feature of reality.
For the Thomist, temporal becoming is the feature of things when they change, as when an uneducated person becomes educated or a physical object moves from one place to another. Every change involves a coming-to-be of what was not before, and in this case the becoming is of things and in time. Given this sense of temporal becoming, we can determine whether it is an objective by determining whether change is real. And since change is evident to our experience, all we need is an account of it that shows its possibility, and therefore that our experience of it need not be an illusion.
On the analytic approach, things are less clear, because temporal becoming sometimes takes on a different sense and because the two senses are not always clearly distinguished. It’s difficult to avoid talking about changes to everyday things like people and physical objects, but with a primary concern for the ontology of time this talk gets mixed up with talk about changes to the passage of time itself.3 We are no longer simply interested in whether someone who is uneducated can become educated in the future, but also whether that future moment itself is something that can become present. This is not simply a becoming in time, but a becoming of time itself. The result is the conflation of temporal becoming with the A-theory, since only the A-theory involves the passage of time being in flux. Given this sense of temporal becoming, in order to determine whether it is objective we need to determine whether the A-theory is true, and that our experience of the passage of time itself (which is much less evident than our experience of change) is not an illusion.
So these two approaches give us two senses of the notion of temporal becoming, namely becoming in time and becoming of time. The former arises from considerations of change in the Aristotelian sense, as when an uneducated person becomes educated, and a physical object changes place. The latter arises from considerations of how the moments of time itself might change, as when a future moment takes on “presentness.”
The compatibility of (Aristotelian) change with B-theory, and its irrelevance
The upshot of all of this is that the analytic debate over theories of time is irrelevant to Aristotelian and Thomistic concerns. Both A-theorists and B-theorists recognize the reality of time with its peculiar feature of being ordered according to before and after, which is all the Aristotelian needs. As Aquinas said, “time is nothing else than the reckoning of before and after in movement” (ST I Q53 A3 corp).
Failure to recognize the different senses of temporal becoming has led some to conflate views they shouldn’t.4 The B-theory, for instance, is sometimes labeled “Parmenidean,” as if these two views are even remotely similar. Parmenides denied the existence of any distinctions in reality whatsoever, which leads to the denial of change and therefore the denial of any meaningful distinction between before and after. But the B-theory presupposes a distinction between before and after, since this is built into the relations earlier-than and later-than.
Another claim is that the B-theory excludes the possibility of change, and is therefore at odds with the Aristotelian commitment to its reality. Why does the B-theory preclude change? Well, the argument goes, if all moments of time are equally real, then the earlier moments when someone is uneducated are equally as real as the later moments when they are educated, and so they never become educated. But this clearly equivocates the two sense of becoming we’ve been discussing. The Aristotelian concern is whether someone who is uneducated at some time t1 can become educated by some later time t2, not whether t1 and t2 can somehow change their properties of “presentness.” All the Aristotelian needs is that a person can persist through time while varying in their educatedness, which the B-theory happily provides. What the B-theory does not provide — but which is irrelevant to the Aristotelian — is that this happens together with a change to the moments of time themselves. Again, the Aristotelian is concerned with becoming in time, not becoming of time.
Once we recognize the difference between Aristotelian temporal becoming and analytic temporal becoming, we can see that Thomists can happily hold to either the A- or B-theory. The analytic debate just isn’t something we have a stake in. But here’s the kicker: this doesn’t help us in any way with the problem of eternity! It is tempting to think that the B-theory would give us an automatic explanation of the relationship between the eternal God and his temporal creation, but it doesn’t. Why? Because at the end of the day, the B-theory is still a theory about time.
Let me explain.
We’ve said that time is the reckoning of before and after in the process of change, but what we haven’t mentioned is that before and after can be reckoned to something on account of a change to something else. This is an instance of what’s been called “Cambridge change,” which Feser describes as follows:
Here, building on a distinction famously made by Peter Geach, we need to differentiate between real properties and mere “Cambridge properties.” For example, for Socrates to grow hair is a real change in him, the acquisition by him of a real property. But for Socrates to become shorter than Plato, not because Socrates’ height has changed but only because Plato has grown taller, is not a real change in Socrates but what Geach called a mere “Cambridge change,” and therefore involves the acquisition of a mere “Cambridge property.”
There’s a certain ambiguity in this that we’ll discuss later, but for now consider the example he gives. Socrates remains the same height while Plato grows, and on account of this we can reckon before and after for Socrates: before he was taller than Plato and afterwards he was shorter than Plato. Thus, there’s a sense in which the change of other things can bring us along with them through time. Since this results from our being able to reckon before and after through changes to things in time, and since both the A- and the B-theory give us this, this will apply on both theories.
The real problem of God’s eternity, then, isn’t about whether the nature of time is such that all moments are equally real, but about how our movement through time doesn’t bring God along with us. And since this happens for both A- and B-theories of time, neither of them is capable of solving the problem.
Starting over with relations
Rather than a theory of time, what we need is a theory of relations. The reason Plato brings Socrates along with him through time is that Socrates is really related to Plato in some respect. In the above example it is that they are really related in regards to their height, but it could equally have been their relative location, color, age, or whatever. Conversely, if Socrates were not really related to Plato with respect to some feature of Plato that changes, then there would be no way of reckoning before and after for Socrates in terms of a change in Plato.
Aquinas worked out a detailed theory of relations, and we will summarize the relevant parts here. First, relations are divided into real relations, which obtain in reality prior to any consideration by an intellect, and logical relations, which result from such consideration. Socrates being taller than Plato is a real relation, but Socrates being to the left of Plato is logical since it is dependent upon how one considers their relative positions. When something has a real relation to another thing we say that it is “really related” to it. In English, the word “really” is often used to mean “truly” — as when we say something “really happened” — but in our present case “really” just indicates the nature of the relation. Socrates being to the left of Plato is not a real relation, but it is nevertheless true that Socrates is to the left of Plato.
Now, a relation between two things is not some separate reality floating outside of those things, but is instead grounded in them. When we have some relation R between A and B, it is therefore technically more precise to speak of R as a pair of relations, R1 from A to B and R2 from B to A. Socrates is taller than Plato (R1) and Plato is shorter than Socrates (R2). Each relation has a foundation in the thing it relates from, and this foundation grounds how that thing relates to others. For instance, Socrates has a certain height H, by virtue of which he will be shorter than things with heights taller than H and taller than things with heights shorter than H. This generic relational fact comes to be “resolved” to one of the alternatives when considered with respect to a particular individual: Plato has a height shorter than H, and so Socrates is taller than Plato. Notice that since the relation from Socrates to Plato will depend on both their heights it can change without Socrates ever changing, as when Plato changes his height while Socrates remains the same. It is this change in the relation from Socrates to Plato that brings Socrates through time when Plato changes.
We can also talk about the type of relation, which is derived from the type of its foundation: the taller-than relation is based on height while the brighter-than relation is based on color. In addition to the foundation in A, a real relation from A to B requires something in B of the relevant type, which we might call the relation’s co-foundation. It makes little sense, for instance, to say that Socrates is taller or shorter than an immaterial angel, since a relation of height from Socrates to another thing requires that that thing have a height as well. There is no co-foundation of the relevant type in the angel.
We say that the co-foundation must be of a “relevant” type rather than the “same” type because sameness is not always required. The height relation is an example that requires the co-foundation to be the same type, but consider what happens when I come to know a material object. In this case I take on its form in my mind, which serves as the foundation for a real relation from me to it and which has the object’s own form in itself as the co-foundation. But these two forms have different types: the form in my mind is intentional while the form in the object is entitative; the form in my mind does not turn my mind into that object whereas the form in the object’s matter does.
Knowledge is also an example of what is called a non-mutual relation. We have said that my real relation to the object has its foundation in the intentional form in my mind and its co-foundation in the entitative form in the object. This works because of the intentional form by its very nature refers to the object of the intention. But the entitative form is about constitution rather than reference, and so does not refer back to the intentional form in my mind. It can serve as the foundation of relations to other things by comparison to their entitative forms, but that’s about it. This means that there is no corresponding real relation from the object to me that has its entitative form as foundation and the intentional form in my mind as co-foundation. This asymmetry in foundation and co-foundation is what makes the relation non-mutual. When a real relation from A to B is can be turned into a real relation from B to A simply by flipping the foundation and co-foundation, then that relation is mutual.
If this were not complicated enough, consider what happens with active and passive powers. Here we have an agent with an active power (ability to influence others) and a patient with a passive power (capacity to be influenced by others), and when the agent actually does influence the patient then we have action and passion. The active power of an agent is grounded in some actuality (actual feature) of the agent, like motion, size, intentions, and so on. Any relation that arises from the active power, then, will have this ground as its foundation, which will determine which co-foundations are relevant. The passive power of a patient is slightly different in that it is grounded in the potential of the patient to be influenced in a particular way. This potential will be the foundation of the relations that arise from the passive power, and the co-foundations will be any actuality that can actualize it.
There is an important asymmetry here, in that the conditions for an agent to really relate to the patient are different from the conditions of the patient to really relate to the agent. For a patient, all that is needed is something capable of actualizing it, but for the agent, the conditions will depend on the ground of the active power. It could happen, then, that a patient is really related to an agent by a non-mutual relation. Consider, for instance, a saw cutting through wood. We might say that the active power of the saw is grounded in the sharpness of its serrated blade, while the passive power of the wood has to do with its potentiality for being split. Certainly there is a real relation from the wood to the saw because of this passive power, but as for the active power the wood is not really comparable in terms of sharpness or serratedness. The wood is really related to the saw, then, with a non-mutual relation. Of course there are other real relations between the two that have to do with active and passive powers and which are mutual. The saw might be used to push the piece of wood, for instance, in which case the ground of the active power (the motion of the saw) has a relevant co-foundation in the wood (the motion of the wood).
The problem of eternity
With this we can state the Thomistic answer to the problem of eternity: God is not really related to creation, and is therefore not brought through time by our changes.
This arises from applying what we’ve said about relations to the nature of God. For Thomists, God is a being of pure actuality, with no potentiality in him whatsoever. This makes him radically unlike anything else in reality, all other things being made up of a combination of potentiality and actuality. Furthermore, since potentiality is what allows for the diversity of actuality within a thing, it follows that God’s purely actual substance is the only possible foundation for real relations from him to others. But since pure actuality is so different to anything else in existence, it follows that there can be no relevant co-foundation to this purely actual foundation, and that therefore God cannot be really related to anything else.
Creation is still really related to God, mind you, but this relation is non-mutual. We are really related to God by virtue of our dependence on him for our being, and by virtue of being ordered toward him as the ultimate final end (cf. ST I Q44). Both of these arise from us being patients of God’s activity, and it is because of the potentialities in us that we can be really related to him — although pure actuality might be very different from us, it is nevertheless capable of actualizing all the potentials in us. Conversely, since God has no potentiality in himself there can be no chance of him really relating to us by virtue of us acting on him in some way.
Not only does God’s pure actuality exclude real relations from him to us or our acting on him, but it also excludes the possibility of change within him. All change involves the actualization of a potential, after all, and so without a potential there is no possibility of change. This notwithstanding, he is the source of all actualizations of potentials, including all instances of change. Thus God is called the Unmoved Mover, or Unchanged Changer, or more generally the Unactualized Actualizer. It might sound a bit strange to say that something could cause change without itself changing, since in our experience these tend to coincide. But it is a consequence of the fact that action and passion arise by an actuality of an agent actualizing a potential of a patient.5 This does not require that the agent’s actuality itself be the actualization of a potential, even if that happens with all the material agents we experience in the world.
Now, we might wonder why God would not be really related to us by virtue of knowing us. God is omniscient, after all, and earlier we mentioned that a knower is really related to the object of their knowledge. Here we must again appreciate the difference between God and ourselves. We come to know things outside ourselves through inquiry and exploration, by means of which we acquire the intentional version of its form in our mind. The entitative form in the object stands as a measure to our conception of it, and it is to the extent that our conception fulfills this measure that it is said to be true or accurate. With God, things look very different. His act of knowing reality is the same act whereby he creates and sustains everything in reality, and so he has no need of inquiry or exploration. He does not discover anything and has no need to acquire new knowledge by means of taking on the intentional forms of things. Since it is by his activity that all things continue to have their being, and since his act of knowing is the same as this activity, it also follows that God’s knowledge is measure of things rather than the other way around. All of this means that God’s knowledge does not make him really related to us like our knowledge makes us really related to the objects of our knowledge.
So, God does not change and is not really related to things that change. This means that there is no way of reckoning before and after for him and that therefore he is not in time. This notwithstanding, he is still the creator and sustainer of everything, and by virtue of this we are really related to him. Just as God is an unchanged changer, so too is he the non-temporal cause of things in time. We must remember, of course, that being really related to something is not the same as being truly related to it. Despite not being really related to us, God is still truly related to us as Lord, Creator, Knower, and so on; it’s just that these true relations are based on logical relations from him to us rather than mutual real relations between him and us.
Now before we conclude, we said earlier that there is an ambiguity in the notion of Cambridge change, and we are finally in a position to see why. Sometimes Cambridge change is proposed as a solution to the problem of God’s eternity, but of itself this is insufficient. To say that God only undergoes Cambridge change is to say that he does not undergo any change within himself. This is fine so far as it goes, but it doesn’t explain why he isn’t brought through time by changes to other things — as we saw in the example of Plato and Socrates we used to introduce Cambridge change. This further step requires the approach we’ve outlined in this post. The upshot of this is that either we should say (1) that God doesn’t even undergo Cambridge change, or (2) that Cambridge change must be divided into instances that bring us along through time and instances that don’t. In this second option, the two species of Cambridge change are distinguished by whether there are the relevant real relations in place or not.
Conclusion and further reading
So, Ante, thanks for the question and sorry for taking so long to reply. As I see it, the Thomistic approach to time is largely indifferent to the analytic debate over A-theory and B-theory, and the problem of eternity is not caused or solved by embracing either of these. What we need for a solution is an account of when and why things are brought through time, and an explanation for why this does not apply to God. To this end, the Thomistic account of relations provides us with a promising start. I hope what I’ve managed to outline here helps.
On the topic of relations, Mark Henninger’s Aquinas on the Ontological Status of Relations and David Svoboda’s Aquinas on Real Relation are both excellent discussions on the account of relations laid out by Aquinas. From Aquinas himself, perhaps the most important place to start is his discussion in question 7 of the De Potentia, especially articles 9–11. His discussions on God’s knowledge through his substance and the divine relations in the Summa Theologica are also noteworthy, since they push the account of relations to its limits when applying it to God.
More broadly, Edward Feser’s Classical Theism Roundup is a great resource for thinking through issues like eternity. Moreover, while I think Thomists don’t have a stake in the analytic debate between A-theory and B-theory, that is not to say that we don’t have interesting contributions to make. A case in point is Elliot Polsky’s Thomistic Special Relativity, which provides a three-dimensionalist account of length contraction and time dilation using a Thomistic framework that is different from other A-theoretic approaches I’ve seen.
I’m not the only one who sees this. According to the SEP article on Being and Becoming in Modern Physics, “What emerges from the McTaggart literature is, first of all, a tendency to identify the existence of passage or temporal becoming with the existence of the A-series (that is, to think of becoming as events changing their properties of pastness, presentness or nowness, and futurity) and hence the tendency for debates about the existence of passage to focus on the merits or incoherence of the A-series rather than examining alternative accounts of becoming.” Note that the “events” mentioned in the parenthesis should be taken to mean “event-slices,” since an event in the everyday sense is something that spans multiple moments of time, and not all slices of it will be present (or past, or future) simultaneously. Again, this is a usage that we see in McTaggart’s paper.↩