You Are Gods: On Nature and Supernature

YOU ARE GODS

YOU ARE GODS

ON NATURE AND SUPER NATURE

DAVID BENTLEY HART

University of Notre Dame Press

Notre Dame, Indiana

Copyright © 2022 by David Bentley Hart

Published by the University of Notre Dame Press

Notre Dame, Indiana 46556

undpress.nd.edu

All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021948751

ISBN: 978-0-268-20193-7 (Hardback)

ISBN: 978-0-268-20194-4 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-268-20192-0 (WebPDF)

ISBN: 978-0-268-20195-1 (Epub)

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For Alfred Turnipseed

अयम् आत्मा ब्रह्म

ἀπεκρίθη αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς· οὐκ ἔστιν γεγραμμένον ἐν τῷ νόμῳ ὑμῶν ὅτι ἐγὼ εἶπα· θεοί ἐστε; εἰ ἐκείνους εἶπεν θεοὺς πρὸς οὓς ὁ λόγος τοῦ θεοῦ ἐγένετο, καὶ οὐ δύναται λυθῆναι ἡ γραφή, ὃν ὁ πατὴρ ἡγίασεν καὶ ἀπέστειλεν εἰς τὸν κόσμον ὑμεῖς λέγετε ὅτι βλασφημεῖς, ὅτι εἶπον·

υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ εἰμι;

———

[Jesus answered them, Is it not written in your Law ‘I said, You are gods?"’ If he called those to whom God’s Logos came ‘gods,’ and if scripture cannot be dissolved, do you then tell him whom the Father sanctified and sent out into the cosmos, ‘You blaspheme!’ just because I have said

‘I am the Son of God?’"]

—John 10:34–36

… ἀπεκρίθη αὐτοῖς καὶ εἶπεν οὐκ ἔρχεται ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ μετὰ παρατηρήσεως, ἰδοὺ ὧδε ἤ ἐκεῖ, ἰδοὺ γὰρ ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ ἐντὸς ὑμῶν ἐστιν.

———

[… he answered them and said, The Kingdom does not come as something one observes, nor will persons say, ‘Look: Here it is’ or ‘There it is’; for look: The Kingdom of God is inside of you.]

—Luke 17:20–21

CONTENTS

Introduction

ONE

Waking the Gods: Theosis as Reason’s Natural End

TWO

The Treasure of Delight: Nicholas of Cusa on Infinite Desire

THREE

That Judgment Whereby You Judge: Beauty and Discernment

FOUR

Pia Fraus: Our Words and God’s Truth

FIVE

Geist’s Kaleidoscope: Some Questions for Cyril O’Regan

SIX

The Chiasmus: The Created Supernatural and the Natural Divine

Notes

Index

INTRODUCTION

In recent years, the theological—and, more specifically, Roman Catholic—question of the supernatural has made an astonishing return from seeming oblivion. Until very recently indeed, most theologians with any knowledge of the question’s history had been working under the impression that the issue was more or less settled, and that the early modern theology of supernature and nature that had been briefly dominant in Catholic thought—the infamous two-tier system of manualist or commentary or second scholastic Thomism—had been decisively defeated by the far superior and more orthodox theologies of grace that had displaced it. Certainly, those two or three remarkable generations of systematic theologians who made the twentieth century one of the genuinely golden epochs of Roman Catholic thought seemed to have been able to accomplish as much as they did precisely because they had freed themselves from the desiccating atmosphere of that tradition. After all, as we had all been led to believe, the theological proposals of the manualist schools had been curious anomalies in the history of Christian thought, so alien to the whole of patristic tradition, and to most of the mediaeval, and so plainly irreconcilable with cardinal tenets of classical Christian thought and dogma, that they were incapable of producing theology of any particular range or substance, or of exercising much influence outside the small circle in which they had been gestated. Taken together, they appeared to constitute a depressingly sterile system, one that was eerily immune to any kind of enrichment or healthy development, inasmuch as any attempt at either could only expose its internal incoherence; at most, the system could be curated, defended, and endlessly reiterated by the small but indefatigable faction devoted to it.

It seemed only natural, therefore, to suppose that, once something better, fuller, finer, and more rational had come along (call it la nouvelle théologie or ressourcement or the patristic restoration or even the Eastward turn), nothing as morbidly barren, impoverished, and unattractive as the manualist tradition would ever again have the power or allure to inspire any sane soul’s allegiance. Why, after all, would anyone want to set aside the lush, velvety, heady wines of Catholicism’s magnificent twentieth-century theological renaissance to quaff the thin, acrid waters of Wormwood from a rusting tin cup? Why, in particular, would today’s students of Thomas want to retreat from the repristinated figure of modern research—an inheritor of the fathers and a truly mediaeval metaphysician possessed of genuine synthetic genius—to recover the caricature produced by manualism, which spoke in an attenuated early modern language of causality, presumed an early modern vision of desacralized nature, and practiced an early modern style of propositional logic? Surely the whole sordid episode of commentary Thomism could now be written off as a closed chapter in theological history, a curious anecdote that had briefly interrupted the authentic narrative of Catholic dogma and theology. Alas, it was not so. Die Wiederkehr des Verdrängten is a law as much of institutional as of personal psychology. And so now this once seemingly very dead tradition is enjoying a revival (or, better, recrudescence) in certain traditionalist Catholic sects, most especially here in America, where some odd perversity of our national temperament forbids us from ever allowing any ideological project or alliance, no matter how diseased, to die with dignity.

Why this has happened I cannot really guess. It turns out that all those prejudices that those who came after the perceived fall of the twotierist systems were taught to hold, when examined closely and scrupulously, are not mere prejudices at all, but simple statements of fact. So the system’s return is an altogether shocking reversal of all expectations, rather as if some adventurer long thought dead and buried (or eaten, or frozen, or drowned) in some unknown and far-flung quarter of the uncharted wilds—one who has been pronounced legally deceased, whose estate has already been apportioned to his heirs, and whose wife of many years is now wed to another man—were suddenly to appear at the door of his old home, gray and gaunt and marked by the ravages of time and misfortune, but very much alive and adamantly demanding the restoration of everything he has lost in his absence. In either case, that of the obsolete theological system or that of the truant adventurer, the return has come too late in the day to be a cause of much rejoicing; the newer generations of theologians, the heirs of the estate, the widow secundum legem, even some older theologians formed in the abandoned system, or even some of the forgotten explorer’s lifelong friends—all of them are more likely to find the new situation far more of a predicament than a blessing. I tend to think that the current enthusiasm for early modern Thomism is a matter for psychological or sociological investigation rather than something that can be explained in terms of logic or of some genuine spiritual imperative. But I cannot say that this is so with perfect confidence, since I cannot enter imaginatively into minds that find, say, Garrigou-Lagrange’s books deeply moving, or even vaguely palatable. The whole phenomenon must remain a mystery to me, one whose more occult causes will forever be veiled from my eyes behind a curtain of Baroque fustian (or perhaps sickly puce).

If, by the way, my language to this point seems a bit weighted toward one side of the debate, I can only assure readers that my motives are entirely sincere and disinterested. I am not Roman Catholic, after all, and so none of this concerns me personally; and, really, the future of Catholic theology is of no consequence to me at all. The topic interests me only insofar as it raises issues of a more general kind regarding the contents of Christian faith. Precisely because I regard the two-tier understanding of nature and supernature as irreparably defective, and in fact among the most defective understandings of Christianity imaginable—in many ways the diametric opposite of everything the Christian story has to say about reality and about the relation of creation to God and about the person of Christ—the unwelcome return of this superannuated vagabond provokes me just enough to make me want to advance an altogether different picture. Perhaps I cannot lay the ghost of two-tierism, or exorcise it from modern theological discourse. But I can, at the very least, take advantage of the moment.

The essays collected here were all written within a relatively short span, each for a particular occasion, but all in pursuit of much the same intellectual quarry. Each in its way addresses the topic of the natural supernatural, and all were shaped by the same stream of reflections. The first, Waking the Gods, was originally delivered in somewhat different form at Fordham University for the Patterson Triennial Conference, Faith, Reason, and Theosis, in June 2019; the original version of the lecture is printed in Faith, Reason, and Theosis, ed. Aristotle Papanikolaou and George Demacopoulos (New York: Fordham University Press, 2022). Its relevance for this volume is obvious, as it lays out both the issue of the supernatural and the incorrigible logical flaws in the two-tier position. The second, The Treasure of Delight, was delivered at the University of Notre Dame at the conference Cusanus Today in September 2019. It rather seamlessly resumes one of the principal themes of the preceding essay: to wit, the impossibility of any spiritual nature resting content in a merely natural end. The third, That Judgment Whereby You Judge, was delivered at Holy Cross Seminary and Hellenic College as the annual Florovsky Lecture of the Orthodox Theological Society of America in October 2018. Its relevance here is that it is an exercise in erasing any hard and fast partition between the worldly experience of transcendental values and the eschatological experience of divine judgment. The fourth, "Pia Fraus," was an address for a private society devoted to philosophical ethics delivered in December 2018, though I have revised it here; the original version was published in the Spring 2019 issue of Renovatio, the wonderful journal published by Zaytuna College. It is (hence its relevance here) a meditation on both the unbroken continuity and the continuous brokenness of our natural labor to act in accord with our supernatural vocation toward transcendental ends—or, rather, on the way in which natural law is always subordinate to a supernatural vocation that is at once its foundation and an apocalyptic force that, for spiritual natures, must of necessity subvert it continually.

The fifth essay, "Geist’s Kaleidoscope," is something of a complicated case. In its original form, it was written for a Festschrift in honor of Cyril O’Regan, one of the great Anglophone Catholic scholars and thinkers of our time, and someone from whom there is always something more to learn, and someone I revere as a friend and as an intellectual force. While both my admiration and my sympathy for O’Regan’s project is enormous, this piece does touch upon one of the technical areas where I am in some disagreement with him—the genealogical question, that is, of the haunted narrative of German idealism and its relation (which to my mind is nearly nonexistent, in both fact and principle) to ancient gnosticism. The essay functions here, however, to advance this collection’s theme by calling into question a number of conventional theological positions regarding the differences between the Christianity of the New Testament and that of the early gnostic schools, as well as certain conventional approaches to the relation between dogmatic tradition and divine revelation. The purpose of doing this, moreover, is not to try to arrive at a particular formulation of the proper reading of the theological record, but rather to call attention to a number of contradictions in the conceptual configurations we habitually assume when thinking about the orthodox understanding of nature and supernature. It seems clearly to be the case, for instance, that what we think of as the gnostic denigration of the created order is an exaggeration of a real qualified or provisional dualism in the New Testament, and as such is in many ways a more authentic continuation of early Christian understanding of a fallen creation than is, say, the two-tier Thomistic theology of pure nature. According to Christian scripture, we live in the aftermath of an intrinsically divine reality’s alienation from its source, not in an order of nature that is the direct work of God’s creative will, perfectly innocent in itself, into which we were precipitated from the unnatural superelevation accorded us by an extraordinary grace at the inception of humanity’s spiritual history. At the same time, it seems to me that this gnostic exaggeration of the story of the spiritual fall is the absolute opposite (and certainly not the obscure origin) of those modern theologies that—in appropriating various diluted or simplified forms of German idealist thought—have wanted to see the alienation of nature and history as in fact the dialectical achievement of the divine identity. Far from opening the door to theogonic narratives analogous to those of German idealism, the early gnostic theologies sealed the truly divine off from creation so absolutely as not even to allow room for any true theophany in the material world. And, far from constituting a return of a gnostic impulse, those modern theologies deep-dyed in German idealism represent a final oblivion of precisely that element of gnostic suspicion that is closest to the sensibility of the New Testament.

It even seems correct to say that the great failure of the gnostic theological imagination is its exaggeration of the estrangement of creation from the truly supernatural (God in se)—which results not, mercifully, in a concept of pure nature, but which does result, every bit as incoherently, in a concept of a reality truly extrinsic and alien to God and therefore beyond all redemption, even through the sorcery of superelevating grace. At the same time, the great virtue of this vision is that it preserves a proper sense that whatever possesses a supernatural destiny must be supernatural—must be divine—naturally, while anything truly outside the sphere of this natural divinity (were any such thing possible) could never be joined to God. It is no less correct, however, to say that the great failure of theologies inspired by German idealist tradition is the tendency to understand this primordial inseparability of the natural and the supernatural in the terms of the former: to confine the supernatural, in fact, to the limits of what is, in some sense, a mere negative capacity of nature and history—the necessary dependency of the divine on the not-divine in order to achieve its full expression and spiritual finality. And, conversely, the great virtue of this vision—paradoxically, perhaps—is precisely the same as that of the gnostic vision: the recognition that whatsoever enters into the life of the divine must always already have been divine. More to the point, the gnostic vision, despite all its limitations, and despite its ontological and metaphysical naïvetés, is nonetheless nearer to the spirit of the New Testament than any theology that would make room for an autonomous sphere of nature in itself apart from fallenness, or for human nature in itself apart from humanity’s supernatural ground and ultimate divine vocation; at the same time, it is also nearer to the New Testament than any theology that would turn the fallenness of creation into a moment within the mystery of the divine, or accord it any probationary or dialectical meaning in itself.

The sixth essay, consisting as it does in a series of theses rather than an argument, defies summary here. It is something of a contrapuntal composition, and rather clumsily fugal at that, and the various themes combined within it have appeared and reappeared in my work with some frequency over the years. Here, perhaps, the implications of some of those themes are unfolded more explicitly than has been the case in the past. But I must leave the essay (if that is what it is) to speak—or fail to speak—for itself.

A friend has suggested to me that I might have subtitled this collection Studies in Vedantic Christianity. I have no objection in principle, though I suspect that to have done so would have provoked so much preliminary consternation and suspicion from some readers as to render the essays incapable of having any effect upon them. And, after all, I might just as well have characterized the position defended in these pages as Neoplatonic Christianity, since that says more or less the same thing. I have refrained from doing that as well, though, chiefly because, to my mind, the phrase constitutes something