Archive for the ‘Brian Davies’ Category

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Aquinas Proves Atheists Are Closer To God Than They Think

February 14, 2011

A Rublev Icon

I was zipping about the web recently and came across this little piece written back in 2007 by Brian Davies. I’ve been reading a lot of his stuff recently and preparing several pieces for posting on Paying Attention to the Sky. This is pithy and gives the atheists something to think about, which, God only knows, the poor souls need.

Brian Davies is an English Dominican. He is Professor of Philosophy at Fordham University, New York.

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Atheists make a great fuss about how God does not exist. This claim, they think, is at odds with what those who believe in God hold. But is it? What kind of God do the atheists have in mind? And can someone who believes in God not actually feel happy to say that God does not exist?

Ordinarily, of course, we think that something either exists or does not exist. So we say that the Eiffel Tower exists while the Colossus of Rhodes does not. And if, like some, we presume that belief in God is a scientific hypothesis, or that God is a top, invisible person, a celestial consciousness (with or without a beard) living alongside the Universe in time while learning about it from on high, then, presumably, He, too, either exists or does not exist, just like you and I. But there are other, and more traditional, ways of thinking about God.

Take, for example, what we find in the writings of St Thomas Aquinas. He never thought of God as an entity seriously comparable to what we find in the Universe. He took God to be the cause of everything real and imaginable to us, the cause of all natural kinds and their members, the reason why there is something rather than nothing. Aquinas, of course, realized that when we talk of God we are forced to make use of words we have come up with to name and describe what we find in the world in which we live.

And since he took people to be higher forms of being than anything else around us, he naturally ascribed to God what we most value in ourselves — such as intelligence. But Aquinas was equally keen to emphasize that God is not a creature, not a member of the world, not a being among beings, not, in this sense, an existing thing. God, he says, “is to be thought of as existing outside the realm of existents, as a cause from which pours forth everything that exists in all its variant forms”. For Aquinas, there is a serious sense in which it is true to assert that God does not exist. He would readily have agreed with Kierkegaard’s statement: “God does not exist, he is eternal.”

Or we can put it another way. There is a sense in which Aquinas holds that only God really exists. Creatures are there, right enough, but, for Aquinas, their being is derived or dependent. All that they are and do is God’s work in them. They have no reality from themselves. Creatures are temporal, finite, and caused to exist, while God is none of these things. Aquinas puts all this by saying that God’s existing does not differ from his substance, that God, and only God, exists by nature, that God is “subsistent being” while everything else “has” being — has it as given to it. You can find a similar line of thinking coming from St Anselm of Canterbury. God, he declares, is “the being who exists in a strict and absolute sense” since with Him there is nothing temporal and nothing received.

Traditionally speaking, therefore, it makes sense to say both that God does not exist and that only God exists, which means we should be careful when it comes to what we mean when we declare ourselves atheists or not. And there is surely a further sense in which all Jews, Muslims, and Christians can be thought of as atheists. For they do not believe there are any gods. They believe there is a Creator of all things visible and invisible, not that there is a class of gods to which the Creator belongs.

The first of the Ten Commandments tells us to have no gods. It effectively tells us to be atheists, to stop being interested in extremely powerful creatures and to focus instead on the unfathomable mystery behind and within the world that we can, to some extent, fathom. God the maker of all things cannot be a part of what He brings forth. He belongs to no category. He is not a god. There are no gods.

Seems you folks were right all along. My apologies;-)

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Aquinas on Being Human – Dr. Brian Davies, O.P.

February 11, 2011

The window above from the former Dominican priory chapel at Hawkesyard depicts the link between the Annunciation, the Cross and the Trinitarian life.

Brian Davies says in his book The Thought of Thomas Aquinas that writing about Aquinas always puts you in between two things because of his marvelous consistency, what he is saying about something affects what he is saying about something else – so the author is constantly using phrases as “We shall see…” or “As we have seen…”

We catch Dr. Davies in this midswim before he reflects on Aquinas notions of the human being. I could have cut it but it struck me as a good example of what the student of Aquinas is dealing with when he approaches him piecemeal (which we can’t help but do, I guess).

Studying Aquinas is a life-long pursuit. I’m happy I came to him on my own volition because the groans I’ve heard from students who haven’t more than demonstrate the dangers of the forced feeding that seems to go on in our Catholic seminaries and schools. Davies book is excellent BTW and I’m going to make the library copy I’m using now into a purchase at Amazon. And, no, I’m not going to buy if for $47 or whatever. Something nutty happens on Amazon when the publisher is running out of copies. I saw the hardcover for an Ed Feser book selling for $95 once. Look for the paperback or the used editions.

IN THE LAST CHAPTER I was trying to indicate what Aquinas says about the Trinity considered in itself. In the jargon of modern theology, I was concerned with his teaching on the `immanent Trinity’. But Aquinas also believes that the `immanent Trinity’ is the `economic trinity’. This thesis that `the immanent Trinity is the economic Trinity’ is something of a commonplace in modern discussions of the Trinity. [See John J. O'Donnell, SJ, The Mystery of the Triune God London, 1988, 36 f.] The God we experience in creation is fully God as God is outside of creation. “God for Us” = “God in Godself” This can be contrasted with Eastern Christianity where the God we experience in creation is not fully God as God is outside of Creation. There is more to God than what we experience in creation. “God in Godself” is more than “God for Us”

As readers of Aquinas will discover, it is not a new thesis. For he thinks that God both acts in the world and is present in it. Aquinas also believes in the Incarnation and the sending of the Spirit. So he says that we can speak, not just of processions in God, but also of sending or missions. The Son and the Spirit are sent. We are dealing here, says Aquinas, `with a new way of being present somewhere’ (Ia.43.1). The Son comes to be present in a new way by virtue of the Incarnation. The Spirit comes to be present by virtue of the life of Christ and its consequences. These missions are entirely temporal – they have to do with what has happened in the history of the world. That is why he holds that the Trinity matters to us. He does not see the doctrine of the Trinity as a complicated exercise in speculative celestial physics. He thinks of it as a wonderful truth which is full of implications for people. For he believes that the ‘Trinity is `economic’ in and for humanity, and that its significance lies in the fact that we may come to share in its life.

Before we can appreciate why Aquinas thinks this, however, we will need to look further at his understanding of people. We have already seen something of what that amounts to, but the picture that has so far emerged still needs to be added to. Aquinas maintains that we share in the life of the Trinity as human beings, and to grasp the implications of that notion we must first know what he thinks human beings are.

Me and My Body
Aquinas obviously thinks of people as created, and as part of a world held in existence by God. Because he thinks of them as having intellect and will, he also thinks of them as being in the image of God, to whom intellect and will can also be ascribed. But properly to grasp what Aquinas thinks people are, as well as to give his understanding a context, it will help if we bear in mind two major views representing opposite ends of the spectrum of opinion concerning the nature of people. The first is Dualism. The second is Physicalism.’

By `Dualism’ I mean the very influential theory classically expounded by Descartes in texts such as his Meditations on First Philosophy and still advocated by some philosophers. According to Descartes, people are composed of two distinct kinds of stuff: mental stuff and physical stuff, mind and body. These are connected and able to influence each other, but mind is radically distinct from body, and persons are identical with their minds, not their bodies. The real me is not my body; it is my mind, or, as Descartes sometimes says, my `soul’.

My essence consists solely in the fact that I am a thinking thing. It is true that I may have (or, to anticipate, that I certainly have) a body that is very closely joined to me. But nevertheless, on the one hand I have a clear and distinct idea of myself, in so far as I am simply a thinking, non-extended thing; and on the other I have a clear and distinct idea of body, in so far as this is simply an extended non-thinking thing. And accordingly, it is certain that I am really distinct from my body and can exist without it.
The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, trans. John. Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch (Cambridge, 1985), ii. 54.

Physicalism is really just the opposite of Descartes’ position. It holds that people are made up of one kind of stuff — matter of body — and that this includes all that we might call `mind’ or `mental states and processes’. A version of Physicalism is the so-called `Identity Theory’, which holds that mind and body are identical in that mental events or states are nothing but brain processes under another name. According to the Identity Theory, persons are identical with a set of physical states or events just as lightning is identical with electrical discharge, or just as the Morning Star is identical with the Evening Star.’

With these theories in mind, as good a way as any of describing Aquinas’s position on what people amount to is to say that he adopts a position midway between the extremes of Dualism and Physicalism. He denies that people are essentially incorporeal. So he is not a Dualist. But neither does he think that people are nothing but collections of physical processes. So he is not a Physicalist either. For him, people are composite individuals.

Aquinas’s teaching on the nature of the human person is close to that of Aristotle’s De anima. Aristotle thought that people are not two things, mind and body, but complex unities both mental and physical. Those who think of people as made up of two things often speak of them as being composed of body plus soul. Aristotle, however, rejects this way of talking. For him, people are ensouled bodies. `We can’, he says, `wholly dismiss as unnecessary the question whether the body and soul are one: it is as meaningless as to ask whether the wax and the shape given to it by the stamp are one.

And such is Aquinas’s position. He agrees that we can speak about people by means of the words `soul’ and `body’. But he does not think of people as bodies plus souls. He holds that we are mental/physical units, where ‘mental’ and `physical’ are not simply reducible to each other. He says that a human being is `a compound whose substance is both spiritual and corporeal’. He thinks that to speak of us having souls is dust to assert that we are substances of that kind.

In the Latin of Aquinas, the word translated as `soul’ is anima, which means `that which animates’ or `that which gives life’. When he speaks of `soul’, therefore, Aquinas means something like `principle of life’. `Inquiry into the nature of the soul’, he writes, `presupposes an understanding of the soul as the root principle of life in living things within our experience. According to him, anything alive has a soul. And his view is that people are bodies of a certain kind, bodies with a certain kind of life (soul). Commenting on Aristotle, therefore, he explains:

There had been much uncertainty about the way the soul and body are conjoined. Some had supposed a sort of medium connecting the two together by a sort of bond. But the difficulty can be set aside now that it has been shown that the soul is the form of the body. As Aristotle says, there is no more reason to ask whether soul and body make one thing than to ask the same about the wax and the impression sealed on it, or about any other matter and its form. For, as is shown in the Metaphysics, Book VIII, form is directly related to matter as the actuality of matter; once matter actually is it is informed … Therefore, just as the body gets its being from the soul, as from its form, so too it makes a unity with this soul to which it is immediately related.
In Aristotelis librum De anima commentarium 2.I.234

The key words here are `the soul is the form of the body’. By `form’, Aquinas means `substantial form’. In the passage just quoted, therefore, he is saying that in the case of living things (in the case of things with souls) the principle of life (the soul) is what we get as we get the things with all their essential features or characteristics. The soul, for him, is the form of the body in the sense that living bodies of certain kinds have a principle of life.

So people, for Aquinas, are living things of a certain kind. But what kind of things are they? They are, says Aquinas, animals — living creatures of flesh and blood, things more like dogs and cats than sticks and stones. This means that much that is true of non-human animals is also true of people. They are, for instance, capable of physical movement. And they have biological characteristics. They have the capacity to grow and reproduce. They have the need and capacity to eat. These characteristics are not, for Aquinas, optional extras which people can take up and discard. They are essential elements in the make-up of a human being. And they are very much bound up with what is physical or material.

This line of thinking, of course, immediately sets Aquinas apart from writers like Descartes. Descartes maintains that I am my mind and that my body is something I have or something to which I am connected. For Aquinas, however, my body is not to be distinguished from me in this way.

For as it belongs to the very conception of `this human being’ that there should be this soul, flesh and bone, so it belongs to the very conception of `human being’ that there be soul, flesh and bone. For the substance of a species has to contain whatever belongs in general to every one of the individuals comprising that species.
Summa theologiae Ia 75.4

At several points in his writings Aquinas directly refers to the thesis that people are essentially substances different from bodies on which they act (a view which he ascribes to Plato). But he rejects it quite strongly.

Plato and his followers asserted that the intellectual soul is not united to the body as form to matter, but only as mover to movable, for Plato said that the soul is in the body `as a sailor in a ship’. Thus the union of soul and body would only be by contact of power. . . But this doctrine seems not to fit the facts.
Summa contra gentiles, 2.57

In Aquinas’ view, if our souls moved our bodies as sailors move ships, our souls and our bodies would be distinct things and could not make up one thing distinct in its own right. We would be an amalgam or a collection of things rather than a unity. He adds that if we are souls using bodies, then we are essentially immaterial, which is not the case. We are `sensible and natural realities’ and cannot, therefore, be essentially immaterial.

So Aquinas is clearly not a dualist. But nor is he what I have called a `physicalist’. For, according to him, people (unlike other animals) have intellect (or understanding) and will, which means that they are rational animals able to comprehend, think, love, and choose. From what we have just seen, it will be evident that Aquinas takes the human body to be an essential element in human life. He thinks that being a human person is being a bodily animal. But he also holds that understanding and willing are not physical processes. And this leads him, without espousing Descartes’ position, to speak of people as having both soul and body. It also leads him to hold that the soul can survive the death of the body.

Soul and Body
I say that Aquinas speaks of people as having both soul and body, and this might seem puzzling since I have also said that he does not believe that people are two distinct things: soul and body. But, though he denies that they are two distinct things, he still feels obliged to distinguish between what is true of people and what is true of bodies. That is because he holds that the human soul cannot he something corporeal, though it must be something subsisting.

In arguing for the non-corporeal nature of the human soul, Aquinas begins by reminding us what anima means — i.e. `that which makes living things live’. And, with that understanding in mind, he contends that soul cannot be something bodily. There must, he says, be some principle of life which distinguishes living things from non-living things, and this cannot be a body. Why not? Because, Aquinas continues, if it were a body it would follow that any material thing would be living, which is simply not the case. A body, therefore, is alive not just because it is a body. It is alive because of a principle of life which is not a body.

It is obvious that not every principle of vital activity is a soul. Otherwise the eye would he a soul, since it is a principle of sight; and so with the other organs of the soul. What we call the soul is the root principle of life. Now though something corporeal can be some sort of principle of life, as the heart is for animals, nevertheless a body cannot be the root principle of life. For it is obvious that to be the principle of life, or that which is alive, does not belong to any bodily thing from the mere fact of its being a body; otherwise every bodily thing would be alive or a life-source. Consequently any particular body that is alive, or even indeed a source of life, is so from being a body of such-and-such a kind. Now whatever is actually such, as distinct from not-such, has this from some principle which we call its actuating principle. Therefore a soul, as the primary principle of life, is not a body but that which actuates a body.
Summa theologiae Ia 75.1

In other words, the difference between, say, me and my pen is that I am not just a body. I am a living body. And that which makes me this cannot itself be a body since, if bodily things are alive just by being bodies, then all bodies would be alive, including my pen.

But why say that the human soul is something subsisting? The main point made by Aquinas in reply to this question is that the human animal has powers or functions which are not simply bodily, even though they depend on bodily ones. Aquinas maintains that knowledge comes about as the forms of things are received immaterially. When Fred has knowledge, there is more to Fred than what can be seen, touched, weighed, and so on. As Aquinas puts it, there is intellect or intellectual life, and it is by virtue of this that Fred is the kind of thing he is (a rational animal). Aquinas calls this `that by virtue of which Fred is the kind of thing he is’ Fred’s `soul’. So he can say that Fred is bodily but also that Fred is (or has) both body and soul. The two cannot be torn apart in any way that would leave Fred intact. But they can be distinguished from each other, and the soul of Fred can therefore be thought of as something subsisting immaterially.

The principle of the act of understanding, which is called the human soul, must of necessity be some kind of incorporeal and subsistent principle. For it is obvious that the understanding of people enables them to know the natures of all bodily things. But what can in this way take in things must have nothing of their nature in its own, for the form that was in it by nature would obstruct knowledge of anything else. For example, we observe how the tongue of someone sick with fever and bitter infection cannot perceive anything sweet, for everything tastes sour. Accordingly, if the intellectual principle had in it the physical nature of any bodily thing, it would be unable to know all bodies. Each of them has its own determinate nature. Impossible, therefore, that the principle of understanding be something bodily. And in the same way it is impossible for it to understand through and in a bodily organ, for the determinate nature of that bodily organ would prevent knowledge of all bodies. Thus if you had a color filter over the eye, and had a glass vessel of the same color, it would not matter what you poured into the glass, it would always appear the same color. The principle of understanding, therefore, which is called mind or intellect, has its own activity in which body takes no intrinsic part. But nothing can act of itself unless it subsists in its own right. For only what actually exists acts, and its manner of acting follows its manner of being. So it is that we do not say that heat heats, but that something hot heats. Consequently the human soul, which is called an intellect or mind, is something incorporeal and subsisting.
Summa theologiae Ia 75.2

Aquinas does not mean that the human soul is a distinct thing in its own right. His notion that it subsists does not entail that it is a complete and self-contained entity, as, for example, Descartes thought the soul to be. For Aquinas, my human soul subsists because I have an intellectual life which cannot be reduced to what is simply bodily. It does not subsist as something with its own life apart from me, any more than my left hand does, or my right eye. Both of these can be spoken of as things, but they are really parts of me. We do not say `My left hand feels’ or `My right eve sees’; rather we say `I feel with my left hand’ and `I see with my right eye’. And Aquinas thinks that something similar should be said about my soul. I have intellect and will by my soul. But it is not my soul which understands and wills. I do.

We might add that there is a further significant aspect of Aquinas’ thinking which distinguishes him from Descartes and the kind of dualism represented by him. According to Descartes (and to many of his philosophical successors) there is a problem when it comes to knowing the material world, but none when it comes to knowing the self. On his account, I know myself better than anything else. And I know myself as something non-bodily, as mind distinct from body, as a spiritual, non-material substance. This I do by introspection. The Cartesian view of persons typically lays stress on the importance of self-consciousness. According to Aquinas, however, there is no such thing as direct human self-knowledge, where the object known is something incorporeal. His view is that we come to knowledge of things as we encounter material objects and receive forms intentionally. And one of the things he takes this to mean is that we come to self-knowledge as (so to speak) we live a bodily life.

Since it is connatural for our intellect in the present life to look to material, sensible things, as said before, it follows that our intellect understands itself according as it is made actual by species abstracted from sensible realities by the light of the agent intellect.
Summa theologiae Ia 87.1

We come to know ourselves as we come to know about other things — by abstracting from sense experience. Or, in Aquinas’s words: `While the soul is joined to the body it understands by turning to sense images; it cannot even understand itself except in that it comes to be actually understanding through a species abstracted from sense images. (Summa theologiae Ia 98.2)

This, of course, entails that there will be considerable room for error when it comes to understanding what a person is. On Descartes’ model, persons are directly present to themselves and there is no room for error concerning what they arc. Just as I can look at a red patch and describe it accurately by gazing on it and describing what I see, so I can gaze on my (incorporeal) self and state what I see. For Aquinas, however, knowing what people are is the fruit of research. We have to learn what we are.

`Mere presence,’ he writes, ‘is not sufficient, and a diligent, subtle inquiry is needed. Many, for this reason, are simply ignorant of the soul’s nature and many are positively mistaken about it’
Summa theologiae Ia 87.1

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Talking About God – Brian Davies

February 3, 2011

Professor Brian Davies

In our last post Professor Davies was discussing verification and falsification as it pertained to God. After disposing of a few arguments he asked, well, if we are to speak of God, HOW do we speak of God. He continues on:

‘I love you’, says the lady. ‘Do you really mean that?’, asks her boy friend. ‘No’, the lady replies. The boy friend is speechless, and not without reason. The lady seems to be saying nothing significant. What she gives with one hand she takes back with the other.

Some people have felt that those who believe in God are rather like the lady just referred to, and, in their view, this means that belief in God raises an insurmountable problem for anyone who supposes that one can reasonably be asked to look at any defense of the view that there actually is a God.

This problem derives from two facts. The first is that God is typically spoken of as if He could be compared with various things with which we are already familiar. The second is that God is typically said to be very different from anything that comes within the range of our experience. On the one hand, God is said to be, for example, good or wise. On the other, He is said to be unique in a very strong sense and our talk of Him, so it is said, fails to do Him justice. God is good, but not in the way that anything else is. God is wise, but not in the way that Solomon was wise.

Here, then, is the problem. If one says that God is very different from anything else, can one really talk significantly about Him at all? How can one say that God is good or wise but not in the sense that ordinary good and wise things are? Is there not a real dilemma here for those who believe in God? Are they not caught between the stools of meaninglessness and misrepresentation?

Negation And Analogy
Defenders of belief in God have not been unaware of the force of such questions and they have consequently tried to say how one can talk significantly about God without also misrepresenting Him. In particular they have frequently appealed to the importance of negation and analogy.

The appeal to negation is easy to understand and is best thought of as an attempt to prevent people from misrepresenting God. It emphasizes the unknowability of God and argues that though one can talk significantly about God one can only do so by saying what God is not. A notable advocate of negation is Maimonides (1135-1204), who writes as follows:

There is no necessity at all for you to use positive attributes of God with the view of magnifying Him in your thoughts … I will give you … some illustrations, in order that you may better understand the propriety of forming as many negative attributes as possible, and the impropriety of ascribing to God any positive attributes. A person may know for certain that a `ship’ is in existence, but he may not know to what object that name is applied, whether to a substance or to an accident; a second person then learns that a ship is not an accident; a third, that it is not a mineral; a fourth, that it is not a plant growing in the earth; a fifth, that it is not a body whose parts are joined together by nature; a sixth, that it is not a flat object like boards or doors; a seventh, that it is not a sphere; an eighth, that it is not pointed; a ninth, that it is not round shaped; nor equilateral; a tenth, that it is not solid. It is clear that this tenth person has almost arrived at the correct notion of a `ship’ by the foregoing negative attributes…. In the same manner you will come nearer to the knowledge and comprehension of God by the negative attributes… I do not merely declare that he who affirms attributes of God has not sufficient knowledge concerning the Creator … but I say that he unconsciously loses his belief in God.’

So much, then, for the notion of talking about God by means of negation. Historically speaking, however, it is analogy that has most interested those who agree that even a unique God can be spoken about significantly. In this connection it is even possible to speak about `the theory of analogy’. In order to say what that is, it will help if I go back to the problem with which we started and introduce some new terminology.

It seems that words applied to God cannot bear exactly the same senses when they are applied to God and to creatures. But must there not be something similar said when, for example, it is said both that some man is good and that God is good? To put it another way, can one only apply a word to God and to other things either univocally or equivocally? To apply a word univocally to two things is to say that they are exactly the same in some respect, that the word means the same in both its applications. Thus I might say that Paris and Rome are both cities, and here I would be using the word `city’ univocally. To apply words equivocally, however, is to use the same words in completely different senses. We would be using the word `bat’ equivocally if we used it to refer both to the little furry mammals and to the things used by cricketers.

Now according to the theory of analogy, there is a third way of applying the same word to different things, and this fact is important when we are thinking about the way in which one may talk about God. The idea is that one can use words analogically. The analogical use of words is supposed to lie somewhere between the univocal and the equivocal.

We can see the theory of analogy classically applied to God in the work until Thomas Aquinas (1224/5 – 1274) who explicitly raises the question, `Are words used univocally or equivocally of God and creatures?’ His answer runs as follows.

The same term cannot be applied to God and creatures univocally. When, for example, we call creatures ‘wise’ we are saying that they possess a certain attribute. And when we say this we have to allow that the attribute in question is distinct from other attributes and even from the fact of there being anything to possess it. In the case of God, however, we cannot distinguish his attributes from each other; nor can we distinguish them from his very existence (in Aquinas’s language, from his esse). So we have to agree that when an attribute is ascribed to God, when it is said, for example, ‘God is wise’, what the attribute word ‘signifies in God is not confined to the meaning of our word but goes beyond it. Hence it is clear that the word “wise” is not used in the same sense of God and man, and the same is true of all other words, so they cannot be used univocally of God and creatures.

On the other hand, words applied to God cannot always be used equivocally. As Aquinas puts it, if we always used words equivocally when talking about God, ‘we could never argue from statements about creatures to statements about God.’

Aquinas thus concludes that ‘words are used of God and creatures in an analogical way.’ Here Aquinas distinguishes two kinds of analogical language. On the one hand, we can apply a word, W, to two things, A and B, because of some relationship in which A and B stand to some other thing to which we can also apply W. Thus we can call a diet and a complexion ‘healthy’, and we can call a man ‘healthy’. The diet is healthy because it causes a man to be healthy; the complexion is healthy because it is a symptom of health. We can also apply the same word to two things because they have some relation to each other. Thus we can call a diet and a man ‘healthy’ because the diet causes the man to be healthy. In the case of God, Aquinas concludes, terms are applied analogically because of some relation between God and creatures. And the relation which Aquinas has in mind is causal. Perfections that creatures have can be said to exist in God in that He is the cause of creatures.

In this way some words are used neither univocally nor purely equivocally  of God and creatures, but analogically, for we cannot speak of God at all except in the language we use of creatures, and so whatever is said both of God and creatures is said in virtue of the order that creatures have to God as to their source and cause in which all perfections of things pre-exist transcendently.

Negation, Analogy And God
What, then, shall we say of all this? Does the appeal to negation and analogy serve to allay the doubt that reasons for belief in God are just not worth looking at? Given the way that people talk of God, is the question of His existence a real non-starter? Are writers like Maimonides and Aquinas simply wasting our time?

In fairness to Maimonides and to those who agree with him it ought at least to be said that talking of God by means of negation has some justification once one reflects on the way in which God has been understood within the Judaeo-Christian tradition. God has regularly been thought of as the Creator, as the source of all things. As Aquinas puts it, `The word “God” signifies the divine nature: it is used to mean something that is above all that is, and that is the source of all things and is distinct from them all. This is how those that use it mean it to be used.’
To talk of God can readily be regarded as to talk about whatever it is that all particular beings depend on in so far as they exist, in so far as they are there rather than not there, in so far, indeed, as there is anywhere for them to be. And this point, which is certainly obscure, also seems important. For once we agree that God is the source of all things, it seems plausible to conclude that he cannot himself be a thing and that saying that God is not this and not that is the only alternative open to us if we are not to talk out-and-out nonsense about God. We cannot literally mean that the Creator is a this or a that.

But the position that one can talk significantly about God only by means of negations is still difficult to defend. Here there are at least two points to note:

The first concerns the claim that it is possible to approach some understanding of God simply by saying what God is not. Maimonides evidently thinks that this claim is true; but the reverse is the case. For only saying what something is not gives no indication of what it actually is, and if one can only say what God is not, one cannot understand Him at all. Suppose I say that there is something in my room, and suppose I reject every suggestion you make as to what is actually there. In that case, you will get no idea at all about what is in my room. Going back to the quotation from Maimonides above, it is simply unreasonable to say that someone who has all the negations mentioned in it `has almost arrived at the correct notion of a “ship”. He could equally well be thinking of a wardrobe.

The second point is that people who talk about God do not normally want to talk about Him only in negations. They usually want to say that some things are definitely true of him. It has been suggested that one can understand talk of God in such a way that it should always be construed as talk of something else. In this way it has been urged that what look like positive statements about God are really nothing of the kind. But this suggestion does not seem to square with a great deal that is said about God. When, for example, people who believe in God say that he is good, they normally mean that God really is good and not that something is true of some being other than God.

If a rigid reliance on negation is not without its drawbacks, the theory of analogy is more promising. For there is a lot to be said for the view that the same word can be applied to different things neither univocally nor equivocally. This point can be illustrated by quoting a useful passage at the beginning of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations.

Consider for example the proceedings that we call ‘games’. I mean board-games, card-games, ball-games, Olympic Games, and so on. What is common to them all? — Don’t say: ‘There must be something common, or they would not be called “games” ‘ — but look and see whether there is anything common to them all. — For if you look at them you will not see something that is common to all, but similarities, relationships, and a whole series of them at that. To repeat: don’t think, but look! — Look for example at board-games, with their multifarious relationships. Now pass to card-games; here you find many correspondences with the first group, but many common features drop out, and others appear. When we pass next to ball-games, much that is common is retained, but much is lost. — Are they all ‘amusing’? Compare chess with noughts and crosses. Or is there always winning and losing, or competition between players? Think of patience…. And we can go through the Horny, many other groups of games in the same way; can see how similarities crop up and disappear.

What Wittgenstein brings out very clearly is that at least one word can significantly be used in different but related senses. And, following the clue offered by his example, we can quickly come to see that many words can significantly be used in this way. Take, for instance, ‘good’. You can have good food and good books, not to mention good people, good wine, and a good night’s sleep. Or again, there is Aquinas’s illustration, the word ‘healthy’. As Aquinas says, a man can be healthy, and so can a complexion or a diet. In saying that a man, a complexion, and a diet are healthy one is not saying that they are exactly alike in some respect. But nor is one saying that they are different as mammalian bats are different from wooden ones.

It seems wrong, then, to hold that the same words must always bear exactly the same meaning or be used on some occasions in ways that are non-significant and therefore that nobody can talk significantly about God since words applied to him do not mean exactly what they do when applied to other things. To put it another way, the problem raised at the beginning of this chapter is not obviously insurmountable; just because people do not apply words to God and to creatures either univocally or equivocally it does not follow that they cannot talk about God in any significant way. That is what the theory of analogy is basically saying, and in this it is surely right.

But we are still left with a difficulty. Even if we grant that the univocal/ equivocal distinction can be supplemented, we can still ask why particular words are used in talking about God and whether they are capable of being used significantly. We may accept that the word `game’ can be used to describe things which do not have a common feature, but we would also agree that not just anything can be called a game. Rescuing a drowning child is not a game; nor is performing a surgical operation. So there is still a general problem for talk about God. Some reason must be given for choosing the terms which are actually applied to God. This point is nicely put by Patrick Sherry who suggests that:

It is not just a matter of saying that there must be some grounds for ascribing perfections to God. We must also insist that if we ascribe the same terms to God and creatures, then there must be a connection between the relevant criteria of evidence and truth. Thus the grounds for ascribing terms like `love’, `father’, `exist’ and `life’ must bear some relationship to the grounds used for our normal everyday application of these terms. Similarly, even if `God created the world’ expresses a unique relationship, its truth conditions must bear some resemblance to our familiar uses of terms like `make’ or `depends on’ (which is not to say that we must expect to be able to verify the doctrine of Creation empirically here and now).

So the terms used in talking about God must be justified in some way if they are not to appear arbitrary and empty of meaning. But the question is, can they be? Aquinas, for example, thought that they can. He held that one can come to a knowledge of God and one can significantly apply to God words which apply to creatures because there is some positive reason for doing so. But is Aquinas right in adopting this position? Could anybody be right in adopting it?

At this stage in the discussion it is difficult to say, for we have not yet touched on any particular reasons for believing in God and affirming anything of him. For the moment, however, this does not matter. In this chapter we have been asking whether reasons for belief in God are even worth looking at in view of some things that are said of him. For all we have seen so far, the answer is Yes.

Even from what we have seen already, it should be clear enough that people who believe in God seem committed to thinking of Him as something decidedly out of the ordinary. Some would say that he is essentially mysterious. But does this mean that he could not exist? And does it mean that there could never be reasons for belief in God?

Affirmative answers have been offered to both these questions. It has been suggested that if God is really mysterious, then we cannot understand exactly what is being said when he is talked about, in which case it is nonsense to affirm his existence. It has also been said that if God is really mysterious, then it is pointless to try and find reasons for holding that he exists.

But these views are not very plausible. One does not have to know exactly what a word means in order to have some understanding of it or in order to use it significantly. I may not know what a volcano is exactly, but I can still talk sensibly about volcanoes. And I can reasonably say that Jones has malaria without being clear as to what exactly I am saying. In other words, I can wield words significantly without being able to define them. As Peter Geach puts it, `I certainly could not define either “oak-tree” or “elephant”; but this does not destroy my right to assert that no oak-tree is an elephant. This point does nothing to show that there is a God, but it does suggest that in order to speak meaningfully about God it is not necessary that one should understand exactly the import of one’s statements about him. It may not be possible to define God; one may not be able fully to comprehend him. But this does not mean that one cannot significantly talk about him; nor does it prevent one from asking whether he is there in the first place.

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