The Moral Core of Scotist Ethics

Previously, I discussed the introduction to Mary Beth Ingham’s The Harmony of Goodness, on the ethics of John Duns Scotus. Here I extensively quote and discuss her central chapter on moral goodness.

“Scotus inherited a framework of Stoic natural law and Augustinian eternal law from his immediate predecessors…. The created order is the direct result of divine choice; all nature and human nature have been established according to God’s will” (ibid).

Only a single sentence separates the two in the above quote, which seem to pull in opposite directions. The venerable tradition of natural law is usually seen as a family of views that hold core ethical values to be universal, inherent to human nature, and discoverable by reason. This is usually seen as incompatible with their depending directly on the will of God.

Like natural law, the eternal law in Augustine that she mentions is similarly supposed to be universal and unchangeable, in accordance with Augustine’s strong emphasis on separation of the eternal from the temporal. But at the same time, Augustine’s early work On Free Choice of the Will is the founding document for voluntarism in the Latin tradition. So the same tension is already present in Augustine. (Incidentally, On Free Choice of the Will was translated by the same Thomas Williams who translated the newer anthology of Scotus’s writings on ethics, and who has debated with Ingham about voluntarism in Scotus). And already the earliest Franciscan theologians sought to explicitly weave a modified view of natural law into their theological voluntarism (see also A Theology of Beauty?, Free Will as Love?). All this prefigures the ambiguity that we have recently begun to see in Scotus.

“To pursue and love the good is in fact to pursue God, the proper object of the human will. All this means that Scotus understands moral goodness according to an ancient paradigm: as the beautiful whole made up of an action and all the circumstances surrounding it” (p. 84).

This sort of perspective ought to be welcomed. The formulation here, though, seems crafted to remain agnostic on the question of Plato’s Euthyphro: Does God will a thing because it is good, or is it good because God wills it? The Platonic Socrates and Leibniz hold the former; the latter defines theological voluntarism.

“Deus diligendus est (God is to be loved) expresses theologically the first and fundamental principle of the moral domain. As Scotus explains, this principle belongs to natural law and admits of no exception” (p. 86).

With Plato, we ought to affirm that the Good is beautiful, and is to be loved. Any view that supports this (and I believe that includes the implicit views of most people) ought to be kindly received. The good, the beautiful, and the lovable constitute the free and generous poetic ground of religion. Darker views of a world dominated by sin and requiring commanding authority to achieve a semblance of goodness ought to be banished.

“The Good is to be loved” or “God is to be loved” is a very abstract kind of natural law. According to Ingham, Scotus holds that the first three of the ten Mosaic commandments — glossed by the Franciscans as “God is to be loved” — have an absolute status, whereas the other seven are metaphysically contingent on choices made by the Creator in instituting the order of the world. It is the absolute part that he associates with natural law.

Any substantive natural law limits the scope of voluntarism. But the meaning of voluntarism is precisely to assert that there is no such limit. But Scotus asserts the truth of voluntarism, and he asserts the existence of natural law. In this he is followed by Ockham.

“[T]he more perfect moral act is really a more intensely loving action. As primary moral principle, the command to love God above all grounds the body of knowledge called moral science. Here too, this body of knowledge is accessible to human reason and to the human will via the higher affection for justice…. Our human will is constituted to seek the good as known in a manner which is not necessitated by any external force. Our ability to control our own actions and to develop in self-mastery and self-determination is the foundation for moral living. In other words, persons who wish to pursue a moral life seek to love justly, in accord with an objective order. We want to love the highest good in the most perfect manner” (p. 87, emphasis in original).

The main substance of this seems right, and the universality at the end is to be commended. But in company with Aristotle, I prefer to speak neither of moral science nor of commands. What could be termed loving justly, in accordance with a broadly but not strictly objective order, is matter for wise judgment that can also be called free. No genuine seeking of the good by any being is necessitated by external force. It is a desire from within. We are attracted to the good. The affection for justice is as much of a motivator for humans as the desire for advantage and convenience.

“Accordingly, the human desire to love God is not limited to a narrow class of believers. In fact, all persons desire to love the highest good in an absolute manner” (p. 88).

This is a most welcome conclusion. It is a ground for the elimination of all sectarianism.

“There are two great commandments. Love for God constitutes the first commandment, love for neighbor the second” (p. 89). “The first command ‘God is to be loved’ is an analytic truth…. According to the present contingent order, we observe the command to love God through acts of love for our neighbor” (p. 90).

Notwithstanding the oddness of identifying commands with propositions, to speak of analytic truth here is consistent with calling it natural law.

“In his distinction between natural law narrowly understood … and more broadly construed … Scotus remains coherent without requiring narrow legalism. Exceptions are seen to be part of the moral landscape; we should not be surprised when we encounter them. Indeed, the natural and moral orders are woven with threads of particularity. Concrete situations require good judgment and right action” (pp. 93-94).

Yea, verily.

“Although Scotus’s discussions of the relationship of the law to the divine will appears to align him with a divine command tradition, in fact this is not the case. In contrast to a natural law tradition (where moral goodness depends upon rational discernment of the good as seen in the natures of things and their natural perfection), a divine command theory maintains that the foundation for moral living (both necessary and sufficient) rests entirely upon God’s commands” (p. 94).

I think she successfully makes the case that this is not a crude divine command theory, such as we might hear from some fundamentalists. But I expect that Ockham’s version would also not be a crude one. But it is Scotus and Ockham themselves who want to affirm that there is a kind of natural law layered on top of a subtler divine command theory.

“He identifies the first command (Love God) as a self-evident truth. It is true on the basis of the meaning of its terms, not on the basis of any ulterior proposition or command. Scotus explicitly argues, ‘if God is, then God is to be loved’, since God is, by definition, the highest Good. Moral actions are determined on the basis of the natural and rational recognition of the good.”

If we put aside the somewhat spoiling but possibly inessential references to command, otherwise this does not sound at all voluntaristic. Self-evidence is another notion that is perfectly valid when taken broadly, though it goes wrong when we attempt to take it too strictly. But excessive claims of self-evidence are a very different kind of error from voluntarism.

The question is whether any additional essential good is accomplished by also calling something (the object of ) a command, when we have already recognized it as an intrinsic good. Plato and Aristotle would say no.

“A second implication of this vision relates to the ecumenical dimension of this moral approach. By identifying a first, self-evident principle for moral living, Scotus escapes moral sectarianism and remains a thinker whose ideas are strong enough to be attractive to traditions other than Judeo-Christian. His moral presentation of law neither requires adherence to Christianity nor to any specific Christian revelation” (pp. 94-95).

These are consequences we ought to expect from a point of view that recognizes the existence of any natural moral law, even (or perhaps especially) a very abstract one like Scotus is advocating.

“Scotus removes any reference to necessary fulfillment (a transcendent teleology) in an eternal reward from moral discussion and focuses his attention on the concrete act and agent seen, here and now, in all their particularity as morally beautiful. The morally good act is not judged insofar as it is a means to a pre-determined end. Rather, it constitutes an artistic whole within which harmony and proportion exist among its several elements. Likewise, the morally mature person imitates divine creativity in judging what is morally beautiful, in producing beautiful acts and a beautiful character” (pp. 97-98).

The morally good act is not to be viewed as a means to obtain a future reward, but as an intrinsic good in itself. The criteria for human goodness are to be found here in earthly life, thoughtful inquiry, and attitudes of caring concern. Belief in specific propositions about sin and reward does not add to moral goodness.

“Ordinatio I, distinction 17 offers us the classic text for Scotus’s elaboration of moral goodness as it is linked to judgments of beauty.”

[quote from Scotus:] “one could say that just as beauty is not some absolute quality in a beautiful body, but a combination of all that is in harmony with such a body (such as size, figure, and color), and a combination of all aspects (that pertain to all that is agreeable to such a body and are in harmony with one another), so the moral goodness of an act is a kind of decoration it has, including a combination of due proportion to all to which it should be proportioned (such as potency, object, end, time, place, and manner), and this especially as right reason dictates” (p. 98).

This is the centerpiece of her case. Though so far at least it is only a single passage, moral goodness is here very clearly identified by Scotus with a kind of beauty. I do find it odd to refer to it as a decoration, though. This makes it sound like a superficial addition. I think the goodness of an act is essential to what act it is.

“The Ordinatio I, distinction 17 definition of moral goodness as ‘the harmony of all circumstances [belonging to an act] in accord with right reason’ blends mutuality, virtue, consequences, and principle within an aesthetic model.”

“When Scotus refers to all the circumstances which belong to an act, he appeals to Aristotle’s discussion in the Nicomachean Ethics. The morally good act admits of several converging factors: goal, object, intention, time, place, manner and consequences” (p. 100, brackets in original).

I can only applaud when Scotus explicitly invokes the Nicomachean Ethics here. Others might insert ugly talk about sin at this juncture. And again, this part does not seem at all voluntaristic.

“The appropriate course of action must be determined by the operation of right reasoning. For example, while lying is wrong, telling the truth is not always appropriate. Sometimes ‘telling the whole truth’ would do more harm than good. The morally mature person is capable of determining when the truth should be told, and to what degree the truth should be told” (ibid).

Scotus according to Ingham seems to be saying, God commands us to use good judgment. With that sort of claim and that sort of command, I have no issue.

“The most fundamental dimension of goodness in a moral act relates to its objective quality. By objective, Scotus means directing attention to the object of the action. For example, in the proposition ‘tell the truth’, truth is the object of the action. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’ is an objectively good act because persons (both you and your neighbor) are worthy of love. ‘Protect life’ is a moral command, because living beings have value. Every moral action has a natural objective dimension which can be identified if we reflect on what is being done and to whom. Scotus assumes that this sort of objective identification of goodness belongs to common sense reasoning. Everyone, he states, knows who they are and what they are doing. Anyone who has lived more than several decades comes to the realization that some things are better than others, if only as a result of living with the consequences of our actions” (p. 101).

The sense of “objective” here seems close to that which it has in contemporary common speech, but this might be misleading. Scotus was one of the originators — possibly the originator — of the philosophical use of the terms object, objective, objectivity, etc. But it is generally accepted that this group of terms and the correlated one of subject, subjective, subjectivity have — in a way, at least — undergone a 180 degree reversal in meaning. For “objective” in Scotus is said of things present to the mind, while “subjective” is said of the thing itself. This is a fascinating piece of history.

Ingham’s text above notably does not distinguish between the meaning of the terms in Scotus and their common meaning in present-day English. I think this is possible because at a connotative level they are not far apart, even though Scotus speaks of an objectivity of things present to the intellect, and we speak of an objectivity of things in the world.

What is “in the intellect” in Scotus’s sense is not “subjective” in our sense. This probably also has to do with the Augustinian sense of interiority as an opening onto a kind of universality, rather than something private to us. Outer things meanwhile we apprehend only through the medium of sense perception, imagination, and emotion. In this context it makes sense to regard intellect as a source of objectivity.

We could also associate this talk of objectivity with the realism commonly attributed to Scotus. It should be remarked too that any kind of realism also seems to push back against voluntarist tendencies, insofar as the real is granted some status independent of us.

“But this initial objective dimension does not exhaust the moral beauty of the action. In addition, there is the free quality of an act chosen by someone. In other words, I might tell the truth or love my neighbor simply because someone in authority has told me to do so. These acts would be objectively good but they would not be the result of my own free choice: they would not enhance my moral character” (ibid).

Intent is not the only thing we attend to in considering acts from a moral point of view, but it seems an inalienable part of it.

“Moral objects are human goods which can be identified by reflection on what it means to be human” (ibid).

“Because we are rational, we seek reasonable explanations for human behavior, explanations which exhibit consistency, coherence, and rationality. In addition, everyone desires goodness, even though we can be mistaken about all the consequences of certain actions seen to be good…. Thus, the truth and the good (either real or apparent) are significant moral objects: they are human goods. Indeed, truth and goodness are the two most fundamental moral objects: they respond to our human aspirations which express themselves in activities of knowing and loving” (p. 102).

Calling the truth and the good human goods seems promising.

“Conscious intent to perform a moral action is essential to the morally good act. It is not just doing what good people do, it is acting as good people act, when and where they act, and for the same reason that good people act. In the truly moral action, character is joined to performance, motivation to action, in the here and now” (p. 103, emphasis in original).

I would just say intent here. Scotus lived long before the Cambridge Platonist Cudworth, who coined the English term “consciousness”, and Locke, who popularized it. It might be argued that something like this is implicit in Augustine — who clearly does at least partially anticipate Descartes’s cogito ergo sum. But at the very least, there is a clear difference between explicitly saying something and arguably implying it.

“Loving motivation depends upon the natural goodness of the act, upon its objective appropriateness. I cannot perform any act I please out of love; I can only perform good acts out of love…. Thus, the orders of love depend upon orders of natural and moral goodness. A key implication of this analysis is the way in which Scotus avoids a moral theory based solely on love” (p. 105).

This is important on both counts. There is no such thing as lovingly demeaning someone. Love is not an empty criterion.

“[quote from Scotus:] “… For no sin should be left unpunished anywhere if there is one ruler of the universe and he is just…” (p. 108).

This one is much less auspicious. What happened to mercy and charity? Shouldn’t they always be in sight?

“Law is neither impersonal nor necessary. On the contrary, it is very personal, highly creative and brilliantly executed by the symphony of nature…. When we pay attention to and imitate the goodness of nature, we have the foundation for our own creativity” (ibid).

This is an important point, but it is really about juridical interpretation as a practice. Law as such — i.e., viewed in terms of its content — is “impersonal”. But a good jurist like Averroes exercises mercy and charity in applying the law (conservatives claimed that his sentencing was too lenient).

“In De Primo Principio, for example, Scotus analyzes the concept ens infinitum [infinite being]. This is the philosopher’s name for God…. We know this as possible, he asserts, because when we bring the terms together, we notice no dissonance” (ibid).

She calls infinite being the philosopher’s name for God. This is a non-Biblical designation, and perhaps philosophical in that very diffuse sense. But in stricter terms, it is Scotus’s new non-Biblical name for God, which would not be accepted by Plato or Aristotle. This usage of “philosopher’s” goes against the commonly accepted usage in Scotus’s time, which is derived from the Arabic (the “philosophers” implementing various combinations of Plato and Aristotle were all finitist).

“There is nothing in the terms themselves which would make them mutually exclusive. Thus ens infinitum is possible and, if possible, necessary” (p. 109).

The basis of this argument is the claim that some contentful truths can be derived solely from the principle of non-contradiction. This is a modern “rationalist” notion, favored, e.g., by the Wolffians who were the most immediate target of Kant’s critique. An infinity of being is not claimed by Plato or Aristotle or anyone else before Scotus, except perhaps Lucretius and other atomists.

“While such an aesthetic approach to moral goodness might appear odd to us today, this relationship of the mind to beauty has a long philosophical history. Plato’s Symposium celebrates the rational search for wisdom as the ascent to beauty. Augustine echoes Plato in his hymn to God as that Beauty he had longed for (Confessions X, 27)” (p. 109).

For better or worse, aesthetic approaches to ethics were adopted by the Romantics. The Romantic version came to be sharply criticized by Hegel, after his juvenile period. On this matter, my sympathies are divided.

“With his rejection of an objective or pre-determined external goal for human moral reflection available to natural reason alone, Scotus focuses his discussion upon the functioning moral agent. His is a theory of moral praxis, here and now. The object of moral reflection is not, he states, an abstract excellence but the perfection of the human person” (p. 112).

Aristotle focuses his discussion on what might be called the deliberating moral agent, although the provenance of this use of “agent” is medieval and not Aristotelian in the proper sense.

“Scotus’s critique of natural teleology was not, for all that, a rejection of happiness as the goal of moral living. Rather, he sought to reframe moral living around the happy life, understood to be the fruit of the harmonic relationship between the two affections of the will. It is, as I have argued elsewhere, the replacement of Aristotelian teleology with Stoic teleology” (ibid).

It is with the Stoics that teleology came to be associated with the exercise of divine providence. Though he speaks of it with reverence, Aristotle’s first cause is the beautiful and loved telos or good end to which beings are attracted. It is not a personified being that exercises providence, or directly or specifically addresses current states of affairs in the world.

“Proper and appropriate moral decision-making is itself the goal of human action. It is not simply a question of choosing, but of choosing well and ‘rejoicing, loving and hating rightly’ ” (p. 116).

This itself seems well and proper. As soon as we are concerned with doing anything well or rightly, we have left the terrain of voluntarism and command and obedience. There is also an argument that good obedience, if taken seriously, requires more than mere obedience. This has an air of partial plausibility, but only at the cost of paradox — as soon as we raise the question of obeying well, it is no longer obedience that enables us to obey.

“Finally, Scotus’s presentation of moral goodness underscores the personal and intentionally relational aspects of moral living. It emphasizes goodness to be enhanced by the operation of deliberative human reasoning and charitable human desire” (ibid).

It seems that Scotus himself does apply this terminology of relation. This is the pros ti (toward what) of Aristotle’s Categories, which became relatio in Latin, and also seems to play a role in Scotus’s theology of the Trinity. The modern mathematical notion of relation, to which Pierce made major contributions, treats is as a predicate that is (equally or symmetrically) abstracted from the relata or things that are related, whereas “toward what” has a constitutive asymmetry. The mutuality that Ingham attributes to the Scotist conception of the Trinity is also not fully symmetrical in the way that Hegelian mutual recognition explicitly is.

“This is a person-centered, not principle-centered moral paradigm…. The ability to make moral decisions in difficult circumstances comes as a result of moral training and experience. Drawn toward beauty, the moral person seeks to enhance both beauty of character and beauty of action. The central moral imperatives of love for God and neighbor are both accessible to natural reasoning and available to the will through the affection for justice. Proper reflection on the significant aspects of human nature, such as intellection and love, reveal those actions which promote fundamental human goods. These goods are not limited to the Christian tradition but belong to all persons of good will: truth, peace and harmony…. Finally, at the highest level of goodness within human action, we become co-creators and co-artists, co-musicians with God, whose ear is delicately attuned to the music of the human heart” (pp. 116-117).

Scotus’s Voluntarism

In what began as a due diligence exercise, I had begun to wonder if I should be swayed by the arguments of Wolter and Ingham on the issue of Scotus’s voluntarism.

There has been a significant dispute about this among recent scholars of Duns Scotus. The received view has been that Scotus is a radical voluntarist about both God’s will and human will. In the late 20th century, however, Wolter and Ingham both argued that this presumption is refuted by Scotus’s approach to ethics, about which I knew nothing until very recently. And it seems beyond dispute that however we explain it, Scotus’s ethics involve criteria of love and right reason and interpretation of situations, and do not stress simple obedience.

But voluntarism as I understand it is radical by definition, because it is the doctrine that whatever appearances we may encounter, the way things really are is really determined exclusively by divine and/or human will. In the early 20th century, C. R. S. Harris reportedly concluded that there is an unresolved antinomy in Scotus, between his voluntarist theology and psychology on the one hand, and his rational ethics on the other. More recently Thomas Williams, the translator/editor of the newer anthology of Scotus’s ethical writings, has argued in numerous journal articles that Scotus is a radical voluntarist after all, and that there is a deep systematic consistency in his work. In this he is supported by Richard Cross, another leading contemporary scholar of Scotus. Williams says

“Scotus is notorious for occasionally making statements that, on their face at least, smack of voluntarism, but there has been a lively debate about whether Scotus is really a voluntarist after all. Now the debate is not over whether Scotus lays great emphasis on the role of the divine will with respect to the moral law. No one could sensibly deny that he does, and if such an emphasis constitutes voluntarism, then no one could sensibly deny that Scotus is a voluntarist. As I am using the word, however, voluntarism is the view that (i) the goodness of almost all things, as well as the rightness of almost all acts, depends wholly on the divine will and (ii) what God wills with respect to those things and those acts is not in turn to be explained by reference to the divine intellect, human nature, or anything else. This is the view that Scotus’s critics decry and his defenders disclaim. Thus, his critics have seized on these passages and accused Scotus of believing that the moral law depends simply on ‘the arbitrary will of God.’ His most sympathetic interpreters, however, have devoted great ingenuity to showing that Scotus did not mean anything unpalatable by these statements.”

“What the critics and defenders apparently have in common is the view that voluntarism is an implausible and even discreditable doctrine. Interpreters who read Scotus as a voluntarist intend thereby to damn his moral views; interpreters sympathetic to his moral views feel compelled to mitigate his voluntarism. I wish to argue for a different approach. I agree with his defenders that Scotus’s moral philosophy ought to be taken seriously. But I think the best way to take any philosopher’s view seriously is to let him speak for himself, not to decide in advance that he must not have held a view that we find implausible.”

“Let me suggest an analogy that will make my position clearer. Very nearly everyone finds immaterialism implausible, paradoxical, and utterly untenable. But we would hardly be taking Berkeley seriously if we insisted on denying that he was really an immaterialist. We can take him very seriously indeed, examine what he says and what reasons he gives, and then, if we cannot bear to follow him into immaterialism, reluctantly part company with him” (“The Unmitigated Scotus” (1998)).

This analogy could be a good one. Williams pretty much exactly captures my attitude toward Berkeley.

“Scotus was as convinced of his brand of voluntarism as Berkeley was convinced of his brand of immaterialism. He asserts it outright. He gives arguments for it. He cheerfully embraces the very conclusions from which his defenders have tried to save him. I propose to take a fresh look at what Scotus says, to marshall the textual evidence and present Scotus’s arguments. And since many interpreters have tried to mitigate Scotus’s apparent voluntarism, I shall also deal in some detail with the best of the mitigating interpretations and show why it fails. Perhaps my readers, having examined what Scotus says and what reasons he gives, will not wish to follow him into voluntarism, and will reluctantly (or otherwise) part company with him. But we will at least have taken an unprejudiced look at the unmitigated Scotus” (ibid).

A Harmony of Goodness

The title is from Mary Beth Ingham, The Harmony of Goodness: Mutuality and Moral Living According to John Duns Scotus (1996; 2nd ed. 2012). Until very recently, my limited sense of Scotus was based only on the remarks of philosophers engaged in other work, who were themselves mainly responding to summary accounts of his views, which did not even mention a distinctive approach to ethics. This early book of Ingham’s, which fills that gap, is said to have contributed significantly to a recent revival of interest in Scotus. Ingham historically situates Scotus’s ethics within a larger context of practical concerns within the Franciscan tradition. Though her starting point is quite different from mine, I am impressed by the amount of common ground I am finding with her conclusions.

“Scotus’s spiritual tradition, with the primacy of love and the goal of ordered loving, affects his thinking in three important areas: the centrality of freedom as self-mastery, the role of the divine desire and creativity, and practical reasoning as an aesthetic act of moral discernment…. Within his Franciscan spiritual vision, we discover here a unified moral vision whose central experience is the beauty of the created order, whose inspiration is divine creative and abundant love, and whose fulfillment is found in building loving and inclusive relationships. It is only in this way that we promote the common good” (pp. 5-6, emphasis in original throughout).

A bit later, she will sketch a deep historical trinitarian basis for the way love is used here, but at the outset, to my ear, her Scotist-inflected view of mutuality recalls the mutuality of Aristotelian friendship described in the Nicomachean Ethics. She will also cite “friendship love” as the highest form of love, which has a surprisingly Aristotelian sound. (It may have a more specific Franciscan basis as well, of which I have yet to learn.) I also think of the very young Hegel’s Romantically inflected emphasis on love, which later grew into his more Aristotelian mature theory of mutual recognition.

Creationist views that emphasize raw power I find utterly alien. But with those whose practical import is to emphasize goodness and beauty in ordinary worldly being, I can find common ground. Divine goodness — especially when linked to a sense of beauty — many others before me have found to be a compelling metaphor. And at least since Avicenna if not since Plotinus, there have been major philosophers who aimed at a kind of reconciliation between philosophy and the traditions of monotheistic theology, which developed only after the time of Plato and Aristotle.

Ingham continues in the conclusion of her preface to the second edition, “My more recent discovery of Stoic and monastic influences on the medieval Franciscans, and my growing awareness of the importance of Franciscan Christian humanism have helped me reframe Scotus’s emphasis on the will to a deeper defense of the rationality of love. The central image of the morally mature person is the trained artisan whose self-mastery holds the key to enlightened tranquility and peace of heart. Here is that person whose presence, along with her actions, are transformative of the world around her. Here is the life of Christian praxis, fully realized” (p. 6).

Of course I welcome the de-emphasis in regard to will. The vocabulary of self-mastery probably comes from the Roman Stoic Seneca, whose influence on the Franciscans she will document later on. Self-mastery is the least objectionable form of mastery, for which I nonetheless try to find other words in light of Hegel’s critique as expounded by Brandom. The connection of ethical being to beauty in the whole of life still seems profoundly right to me, even though Hegel also legitimately criticizes the Romantic ideal of the beautiful soul.

Morality properly speaking is indeed a kind of maturity of a human, for which the common early modern reduction to obedience to sovereign authority is a poor substitute.

Personal presence and praxis are not in my preferred vocabulary, because they seem to put a sort of rose-colored fog around crisper Platonic and Aristotelian hermeneutic principles, but they do both in a sense refer to ethically relevant realities, even if only in a diminished way.

Ingham will also expound a Scotist critique of what I regard as the post-Aristotelian Stoic-Epicurean-Skeptical Hellenistic paradigm of medicine for the soul. This turns out to have significant points in common with the critique of the medical model that Nussbaum in hindsight attributes to Aristotle.

“A significant spokesperson for this moral vision of relational love and generous living is the man known as the Subtle Doctor, John Duns Scotus. Writing after the Condemnations of 1277 (Paris) and 1284 (Oxford), Scotus pursued a relentless analysis of the legacy of Greek thought available to Latin thinkers at the close of the thirteenth century…. This rethinking involved a serious and critical rejection of the naturalist and necessitarian worldview which had emerged from the Arab philosophers” (pp. 7-8).

“Generous living” recalls the cardinal Aristotelian virtue of magnanimity, though I suppose that Ingham is thinking of Christian charity.

I appreciate the explicit drawing out of a notion of “relational” love from trinitarian perichoresis or mutual inherence. She draws attention to Scotus’s emphasis on the notion of a deeply “relational” native affection for justice in the soul, which, following Anselm, he contrasts with the affection for possession or convenience that generalizes possessive “love”.

The affection for justice can also be read as recalling Plato’s deliberately provocative suggestion that all beings should be understood as in some sense desiring the ultimate Good. The latter stands in contrast to the modern ideology of possessive individualism that was already germinating in the Greek Sophists, who were so sharply criticized by Plato and Aristotle (a criticism that also grounds Hegel’s repugnance toward the status of all Roman citizens as chattels of the sovereign Emperor).

“Scotus possesses several qualities which make him attractive. As a Franciscan, he is deeply committed to the value of creation and to our relationship with all that exists. As a theologian, he exhibits very positive attitudes toward women, both in the inclusive imagery he uses when speaking of God and his focus on Mary as sinless model of human perfection. As a medieval writer, he is aware of the dangers of the original sin tradition within Latin Christianity…. Scotus rejects out out of hand the famous argument of Anselm, in which the Bishop of Canterbury places the Incarnation within the context of payment for the sin of Adam and Eve…. There is no repayment of an infinite debt for which Jesus had to be born or to be sacrificed” (p. 9).

Scotus is a leading defender of the immaculate conception of Mary. I don’t have opinions on issues of this sort, but a de-emphasis on sin in favor of more affirmative values is certainly to be welcomed. This is a very significant distinction, which could support recovery of a positive valuation of finite things in general. But even if it does not depend on original sin, Incarnation still poses serious difficulties.

“Scotus moves beyond a binary presentation of issues and seeks to harmonize various aspects of a situation, so as to discover the truth beneath the differing positions. His is an approach which is reconciling: bringing together internal and external realms, human and divine activity, natural and graced living. In Scotus we discover an integrated presentation of what human really might mean” (p. 10).

The general practice of seriously airing arguments pro and con on any topic — perhaps derived from Abelard’s initially controversial Sic et Non — is an attractive dimension of scholasticism that the Enlightenment’s wholesale dismissals do not appropriately attend to.

Ingham develops a guiding metaphor of the harmonious sound of a wind chime in her presentation of Scotus in this book.

“The harmony of musical sounds coming from a wind chime is not a tune that one could whistle. It is a quiet song created by the fragility of the figures, the balance of the pieces and the harmony of their interaction…. I have chosen this image because Scotus offers, in my view, an aesthetic paradigm within which to consider the contours of moral living…. Part of my own reading of Scotus has been informed by his concern to speak of the morally good act as a beautiful work of art or as a beautifully executed performance, and of the moral agent as a formed artist” (p. 11).

In her metaphor, the central part of a wind chime that strikes the others and creates a beautiful sound corresponds to the will. But the wind chime metaphor overall does not seem at all voluntarist.

“The ability to choose freely, after proper deliberation, constitutes the uniquely human quality of moral living” (p. 12).

Ingham here reinserts the Aristotelian practical coupling of choice with deliberation that Scotus seems at a theoretical level to explicitly repudiate in favor of a categorical, undialectical, absolutist insistence on free will. Clearly she is arguing that Scotus himself in ethical contexts restores a more balanced view, and that Scotus does in fact generally commend more balanced views in practical matters. She also points out that Scotus says theology is ultimately a practical discipline and not a theoretical one. This seems right as far as it goes, though Scotus also seems to insist, contrary to Aristotle, that there is is such a thing as a practical science.

“[T]he spiritual tradition within which he writes… sees human living as an ongoing process of divinization within which human and divine persons work together to produce goodness, within which there is no rift between the natural and so-called supernatural realms” (p. 13).

Taking up and extending Aristotle’s orientation of the human toward divinization at the end of the Nicomachean Ethics, Plotinus directly challenges us to become godlike, and in effect says to a theistic reader that this is what God would want for us. Meister Eckhart holds such an orientation to be compatible with Christianity. The stakes are high here, because Christianity has often categorically rejected such a goal, equating it with Luciferan pride. Ingham seems to be saying that Franciscan humanism and Scotus in particular also have a more moderate stance on this question.

“As one might imagine, the integration of Aristotelian philosophy into Christianity was not an easy matter…. Study of Aristotle was not favorably received by the theologians…. As early as 1215, public lectures on the Metaphysics and De Anima were forbidden. Even Thomas Aquinas, with his sympathetic reading of Aristotle, did not escape posthumous condemnation in 1277 (Paris) and again in 1284 (Oxford)” (p. 16).

“[Scotus] takes great pains to defend another’s position with the best arguments available and he answers these arguments methodically. This type of openness is rare in any thinker, and all the more surprising when one is dealing with a non-Christian opponent” (p. 17).

“I have chosen to present Scotus’s moral paradigm not as a defense of the primacy of freedom in moral living, but rather as an appeal for the harmony of goodness and as an expression of mutuality at all levels of human living. To a great extent, this is because I find love to be more central than freedom in his texts (ibid).

“Scotus emphasizes freedom because the highest form of love (love of friendship) is, by definition, a love that cannot be coerced or demanded…. This purest and best love is mutual; it entails reciprocity and produces communion…. The entire journey of human living, from internal choices to external actions, culminates in a relation of mutuality with God and with all persons” (p. 18).

A Theology of Beauty?

My understanding of Scotus and his historical significance might be headed for a major shift. [For the beginning of a resolution, see here.]

This kind of change of mind is not unprecedented. I used to read Kant and Hegel’s valorizations of freedom as sophisticated apologetics for some kind of voluntarism. But across many posts, we have seen that better readings of Kant and Hegel can eliminate such worries (see especially Hegel on Willing.) Very recently, I’ve been starting to wonder if what by general consensus is called the “voluntarism” of Scotus might also be read in some other way.

What is called “voluntarism” in the Latin theological tradition has to do with a relatively narrow debate about the priority of “will” and intellect. The will involved in this case is not any definite will, but rather an alleged power of free decision, where “free” is supposed to mean completely unconstrained. Theologians have often wanted to deny that God was subject to any constraint. But is it “constraint” to recognize the better reason? I think not, and many theologians seem also to agree.

Then too, in a scholastic context, those who like Aquinas are called “intellectualist” rather than voluntarist also defended the existence of liberum arbitrium, which technically includes a so-called “freedom” to cleave to the worse reason, or to any arbitrary fancy. But a common argument, also repeated in many variations, is that God’s “absolute” freedom — in effect a freedom to choose the worse — is never really exercised. There is still intense disagreement on this non-exercise means, as also occurs in the debate on absolute versus ordained power.

The pragmatist might advise us that a power that is never exercised does not in any meaningful sense exist. But as we have seen recently, Charles Pierce, the originator of pragmatism, vigorously rejected the reduction of reality to facts. Reality for Pierce is characterized by true — and in principle testable — conditional statements about what “would be” the case if this or that.

Aristotelian potentiality and actuality are often misread as power and fact, which completely loses the valuational significance that they acquire over the course of the argument of Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Pierce too seems to follow this diminished reading. But this does not prevent him from making the valid point that scholastic talk about “powers” already goes beyond talk about present fact. In this way it is a good thing, even if (as I would add) it is also deeply tied to non-Aristotelian assumptions about the predominance of “efficient” causality.

Scotus does seem to argue that God in a supernatural way really exercises both absolute power and absolute freedom, and that humans making practical decisions do also in fact exercise absolute freedom. But in recognizing that he makes these claims, we still have to consider what these assertions mean in the total context of his thought, and what other countervailing tendencies there may be that need to be taken into account.

In the case of Aquinas, in spite of many divergences from Aristotle on important points, there is still a substantial extent to which he also defends many good Aristotelian positions that have been sharply contested by some conservative theologians. Overall I think Aquinas played a progressive historical role, by inventing and promoting an Aristotle whose texts mainstream opinion in the Church could allow to be read sympathetically, and thus no longer felt the need to ban. This is in spite of my disagreement on numerous matters of interpretation. Augustine has of course never been mistaken for an Aristotelian, but he too played a historically progressive role by taking philosophical thought seriously and making it theologically respectable.

These achievements of broad respectability — for Aristotle, and/or for philosophy in general — had the immense value of leaving open the possibility that others could read the philosophical texts in an even more sympathetic way. I therefore tend to read Aquinas (and scholasticism in general) in a sympathetic way, even though I harp on various matters of interpretation.

I have been feeling the deep irony that some of what I write nowadays, if taken out of context, could be misunderstood as professing a kind of dogmatic Aristotelianism. While I have always regarded Aristotle’s works with interest and sympathy, the degree of that sympathy and the strength of that interest have increased greatly over the years, as I have gradually overcome prejudicial judgments that I had too uncritically accepted, from the contemporary world’s widely diffused bias against Aristotle.

In any case, from my recent investigations it is beginning to appear that Scotus’s actual writings touching on ethics and natural-philosophical topics do not really at all sound like the working out of the consequences of a radical voluntarism. I do still think that Scotus’s theory of synchronic contingency — as it has been called in recent years — goes way too far in opposing the determinist bias attributed to the Arabic Aristotelians. But the most substantial account yet available of Scotus’s general attitude toward Aristotelian natural philosophy — Richard Cross’s The Physics of Duns Scotus (1999) — says in the front matter that when addressing natural-philosophical questions, Scotus never primarily relies on theological arguments, but only uses them in a secondary and corroborating way. This is actually true of many of the scholastics.

There is a new collection of Scotus’s ethical writings (Williams 2017), which seems to have largely superseded the Wolter 1996 collection mentioned recently. The most substantial secondary work on Scotus’s ethics seems to be Mary Beth Ingham, The Harmony of Goodness: Mutuality and Moral Living According to John Duns Scotus (1996; 2nd ed. 2012). She speaks of Scotus’s “moral vision of relational love and generous living” (p. 7) as rooted in a broader Franciscan emphasis on the beauty of Creation. In her view, Scotist ethics develops and builds on a Franciscan theological aesthetics. Ingham’s account opens up perspectives on Scotus’s ethics that seem far closer to the ethical themes in Aristotle and Hegel than I ever expected,

The case for the existence and importance of such a Franciscan theological aesthetics gains additional support from The Beauty of the Trinity: A reading of the Summa Halensis (2022) by Justin Coyle. He argues that the main document of early Franciscan theology gives beauty a central place in its account of the Trinity that has been little recognized. Schumacher and Bychkow’s A Reader in Early Franciscan Theology: The Summa Halensis (also 2022) translates selections from this same work, which had multiple authors, the most prominent of whom were Alexander of Hales (d. 1245) and John of La Rochelle (also d. 1245). Along with Roger Bacon, Alexander and John are the most prominent of the Franciscan predecessors of Scotus, whom Boulnois partially credits for some of the innovations that have been attributed solely to Scotus.

Free Will as Love?

I was surprised and intrigued to learn that Augustine in various works seems to more or less identify will with love. Of course it is not surprising that a Christian theologian would write about love. I count 65 occurrences of the word “love” in Augustine’s famous early treatise On the Free Choice of the Will. But my quick scan of all 65 passages did not find this identification. Nor is this identification mentioned in the introduction to the Cambridge edition, or in a great many discussions of free will by other writers who mention Augustine. I have confirmed, however, that this surprising identification of will with love does appear in a number of Augustine’s other works, and is considered by some to be an important theme. I first encountered this identification of will with love quite recently, in secondary literature on Scotus. Then I found references back to Augustine.

Scotus reportedly makes this identification too. He also seems to hold that all virtue is virtue of the will. I think of virtue more generally as virtue of something like character or emotional disposition. Once a separate faculty of will and decision is posited in the human, I can see how it might seem plausible to locate virtue in the will. But I don’t think there is such a separate faculty, and Plato and Aristotle did not think so either.

We make judgments and decisions based on varying combinations of thinking and feeling. The particular drift or orientation of our judgments and decisions could reasonably be described as some definite will, but this does not justify the assumption that choice and decision should be attributed to a separate faculty that is independent of all our thinking and feeling, as well as of all external circumstance.

What is clear is that we want some things, and don’t want others. Plato and Aristotle call this desire. Our desires count as ours by Aristotle’s criterion of willingness. We are responsible for the whole of our desire, even though there are things we desire without choosing to do so. There is a whole spectrum of desires, some of which are ethically beneficial and highly rational, while others may be completely irrational and ethically harmful.

Greek philosophers may attribute some things to love that some moderns attribute to will. In this vein, we may be said to “love” all that we prefer or seek. Some of Augustine’s references to love have a rather similar sound.

In any case, Augustine and Scotus both emphasize the role of love in their trinitarian theology. Sometimes this is called an ordered love, to distinguish it from animal passion. This ordered love is what they call caritas, or charity. One of Boulnois’s numerous books on Scotus that is out of print and expensive has a title that translates to The Rigor of Charity. An introductory book on Scotus by Thomas Ward is called Ordered by Love. If there is a non-evil voluntarism, this emphasis on love might help explain it.

I believe that in recent browsing I saw a passage in Scotus arguing that the best love, which he calls theologically meritorious, is freely given with no thought of advantage, and therefore the will is free. Unlike all the other arguments for free will that put it in the register of power and efficient causality, love freely given is something I too hold dear.

Voluntarism

I think most people understand believing in free will simply as believing that humans are able to make genuine choices. This is entirely unobjectionable.

It is a very different matter to claim that the will is innately unconditionally free. That is what I call voluntarism, and “free will in the strong sense”.

This is different from the way the term “voluntarism” is used in the secondary literature on medieval philosophy. There it means the view that there is a separate faculty for choosing that is called will, and that this will is prior to intellect, in the sense of being able to overrule what our intellect tells us is true or right. In this view, will governs intellect rather than being governed by it. It is in this sense, for example, that Aquinas is called an “intellectualist” and not a voluntarist, because he holds that the will is governed by intellect, even though he also defends liberum arbitrium, or free will in the strong sense. (There is a separate question about how to understand complex views like this, which include contrasting elements. My simple answer is that we should give them the benefit of the doubt.)

Leaving aside the expanded concept of responsibility that Brandom recommends in A Spirit of Trust, I hold that moral responsibility is well explained by Aristotle. Aristotle says we are responsible for all “willing” actions, but not for “unwilling” ones. It really is no harder than that.

In ordinary life, without any philosophy, we already distinguish willing actions from unwilling or unintended ones that happen as a result of coercion or ignorance. These distinctions of willingness from unwillingness apply at the level of particular actions. Some things we do willingly, others we do not.

This distinction between willing and unwilling could not even possibly be a matter of metaphysical or anthropological truth, because metaphysical and anthropological conclusions are both too general to support this kind of distinction. A metaphysical or anthropological account could only give us ways of generalizing about action or human action as such. But we do not have responsibility in particular cases because of some general metaphysical or anthropological truth. Rather, we have responsibility in particular cases because of what is true in those cases.

We should notice that Aristotle’s whole discussion of willing and unwilling actions — and of choice — not only does not assume, but does not even mention a separate faculty called “will”, unless this has been introduced by a translator. Moreover, meaningful discussion of any definite will or intent revolves around its particular content, not its source. Meanwhile, the source of choice is well described by Aristotle as “either intellect fused with desire, or desire fused with thinking, and such a source is a human being” (Nicomachean Ethics, Sachs tr., p.104; see also Free Will in Aristotle?)

People should be broadly forgiven for having been brought up with the pervasive inflated language about free will, even though a more precise analysis shows it is not really needed to explain or justify the claim we want to defend: that humans are able to make genuine choices.

This is true especially because there is a whole family of old (largely 19th-century) clichés about free will and determinism that tend to force discussion of these topics into very narrow channels. “Free will” and “determinism” are commonly taken to be two opposite extremes. Either everything is determined in advance, or nothing is. Then we are told that in order to avoid the evils of a total determinism, the only alternative is to believe that we are not determined at all. This is a false dichotomy.

Historically, it was Augustine who coined the original Latin term liberum arbitrium, and he is often credited with originating the notion of what I call “free will in the strong sense”. Boulnois mentions the commentator Alexander of Aphrodisias (2nd-3rd century CE) as an important precursor.

Theological voluntarism is closely bound up what I have called strong omnipotence, for which the earliest source I know is Philo of Alexandria (1st century BCE to 1st CE). Some form of omnipotence is at least verbally affirmed by nearly all later authorities in all three monotheistic traditions. It is even more pervasive than free will in the strong sense. But again, most of those same authorities make other statements which seem to indicate that they do not at all mean really to endorse the extreme consequences that follow from strong omnipotence, or from free will in the strong sense. We should apply a good measure of interpretive charity in these cases.

More Work on Scotus

My initial motivation for the recent series on Boulnois’s Being and Representation had to do with large-scale, second-order, “historiographical” interpretation of the history of philosophy. More particularly, I wanted to draw attention to this work because it provides abundant evidence for a much more specific medieval and early modern counter-story to Heidegger’s sweeping claims to implicate Plato and Aristotle as well as Hegel in a wrong turn of metaphysics that is supposed to lead to technological domination and general evil. One of the distinctive features of Boulnois’s account is his highlighting of the novel theory of “objective being” in Duns Scotus.

As someone who much appreciates Aristotle’s view that being is “said in many ways”, I naturally have severe doubts about Scotus’s thesis of the univocity of being, though I don’t think it makes Scotus an apostle of secularism, as some have apparently been claiming in recent years. But on this issue, an interesting challenge is posed by Andrew Lazella’s The Singular Voice of Being: John Duns Scotus and Ultimate Difference (2019). Lazella makes a serious argument that Scotus puts difference before identity in the order of the constitution of things. If this is borne out, it would radically change the profile of the univocity claim.

I’m even starting to temper my very severe misgivings about Scotus’s theological and anthropological voluntarism. Franciscan scholar Allan Wolter’s translated volume Duns Scotus on the Will & Morality (1st ed. 1986) presents Scotus as in practice emphasizing a criterion of “right reason” in ethical matters, and as promoting Anselm’s thesis that the human soul is moved by an affectio justitiae or “affection for justice” as well as by a natural affection for the advantageous. It shows Scotus foregrounding Aristotelian phronesis or open-ended practical judgment in ethical matters. While I don’t much care for the narrowing latinization of the latter as prudentia or “prudence”, William Frank’s preface to this volume likens Scotist ethics in general to the “aesthetic judgment of a creative artist” (p. xiii). Not Scotus but William of Ockham is apparently the chief source of “divine command theory”, which reduces virtue to obedience.

There is a recent translation of the important Third Distinction of Scotus’s Ordinatio volume I as On Being and Cognition (2016) by John van den Bercken. Duns Scotus’s Theory of Cognition (2014) by Richard Cross pursues the same topics across the whole body of Scotus’s work. Voluntarism seems to play essentially no role in either of these. Cross incidentally says that both Scotus and Aquinas held that we have only inferential knowledge of Aristotelian substance. My Brandomian inferentialist ears perked up at this.

Another of Allan Wolter’s translated volumes is A Treatise on Potency and Act, which was a late addition to Scotus’s incomplete Questions on the Metaphysics of Aristotle, dealing with Book Theta. This work rather inauspiciously promotes a view of these matters as revolving around active and passive powers, in a context of efficient causality. But as such, it could make an interesting historiographical case study.

Scotist Controversies

There is a conservative religious-political viewpoint or movement called Radical Orthodoxy, led by Anglican theologians John Milbank and Catherine Pickstock, which wants to blame all the ills of modernity on the univocity of being promoted by the medieval Franciscan theologian John Duns Scotus. Supposedly, the Scotist univocity of being is responsible for the very idea of the secular. Among the authorities they cite in support of this historical claim are the great French Thomist scholar Etienne Gilson, who contrasted the bad “essentialism” of Scotus with the good “existentialism” of Aquinas, and Olivier Boulnois, who has documented the role of Scotus in re-founding metaphysics as a “science” of ontology independent of Aristotle in the Latin-speaking world.

While I am very far from being an unequivocal defender of Scotus, and indeed worry quite a lot myself about the evils of voluntarism, I find myself sympathizing with the Franciscans on these historical claims. The point that I wanted to make in the recent series on Boulnois’s Being and Representation was that there are very specific and explicit medieval Latin sources for the “metaphysical” wrong turn that Heidegger claimed was endemic to Western philosophy as a whole, going all the way back to Plato and Aristotle.

Pierce-Scotus Redux

I recently covered John Boler’s 1963 book on Pierce and Duns Scotus. Scholastic Realism: A Key to Understanding Pierce’s Philosophy (2018) by Paniel Reyes Cardenas revisits this territory. It benefits from the newer, chronological edition of Pierce’s works that is still being published.

Cardenas argues that Pierce’s interest in Scotus extends across Pierce’s entire career, and provides ample evidence for this, with abundant quotations that I found quite interesting. He says he wants to assert a stronger or broader influence of Scotus on Pierce than the limited one found by Boler.

Nonetheless, he still locates their connection on the realism-nominalism axis. Several pages are devoted entirely to Scotus, mentioning basic themes like haeccity and univocity. But although he gives a richer picture of Pierce, Cardenas ultimately has less to say about Scotus than Boler did. Boler was also a Scotus scholar, and published quite a few other articles entirely devoted to Scotus.

Tychism, Synechism

Pierce invented quite a lot of exotic terminology. “Tychism” (from Greek tyche or chance) is his name for the claim that there is real indetermination in the world. On a philosophical level, Pierce defends the irreducibility of chance. He did some of the early work in probability theory. Moreover, he seems to want to explain cosmological order as an emergent product of evolution from primordial indetermination. He valorizes evolution, and believes in historical Progress.

“Synechism” (Greek “with-having”) seems to be an even more comprehensive scheme, of which Tychism is said to be a part. It asserts not only the irreducible reality but the primacy of continuity over discreteness everywhere. This is related to his relational logic, in which all distinction in what is said is analyzed as part of the verb. Pierce very reasonably understands a grammatical subject as a hypostatization of second-order relations. Synechism draws on the mathematical theory of the continuum and, according to Pierce, on the Aristotelian notion of potentiality.

Synechism was supposed to be the basis of a new Scientific Metaphysics that would be a posteriori rather than a priori. This was apparently a major influence on Whitehead’s process metaphysics, which proposed to replace traditional “Aristotelian substance” with process.

I worry about radical indeterminism, though I don’t think that is what either Pierce or Whitehead intended. I don’t find an emphasis on continuity to be very helpful in matters of historical interpretation, where it is really the differences that matter. Historical Progress sometimes happens locally, but cannot be counted upon.

I like where he is going with the priority of the verb and the deflationary view of nouns, though I would give the place of honor to adverbial expressions. But from what I can tell, Pierce seems to have a pretty linear view of time, including historical time. Pierce and Whitehead both seem to have a rather thin — basically factual — view of actuality. Their evolutionary quasi-teleology is tied up with linear time and a future factual state of affairs.