Sensation, Understanding, and Epistemology in the Summa Theologica’s Treatise on Man

Please note that what follows is still subject to editing.

The Summa Theologica’s Treatise on Man[1] devotes considerable attention to explaining how it is human beings are capable of understanding, and this is necessarily intertwined with Thomas Aquinas’ theory of perception. A result of such discussion is an understanding of the Treatise’s epistemology. The current discourse shall begin by describing the theory of man presented in the Treatise. Having done this, discussion will turn to Aristotle, affectionately known as the Philosopher. Specifically, an epistemological link shall be shown to exist between Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics and Aquinas’ Treatise through the views on human understanding presented in each, a link that shall prove to bear considerable utility in understanding the latter text. After delineating the Aristotelian epistemology, the Thomistic theories of perception and understanding shall enlighten the Treatise’s epistemology, and all shall be concluded with a comparison of the two.

In order to understand what the Treatise on Man is about, it is fitting to establish what a man, or otherwise a human being, is. There is always the Aristotelian position that man is a “rational animal,” which is referenced later on, but the Treatise begins simply by stating that man “is composed of a spiritual and corporeal substance”[2] These, of course, are respectively the human soul and the human body. It sounds as if Aquinas is about to adopt a form of substance dualism in the way that Descartes eventually would, but the student of Aristotle knows that such is not the view of the Philosopher. To show that this is not the case, a distinction is drawn in how a thing is able to subsist. Thomas explains:

This particular thing may be taken in two senses. Firstly, for anything subsistent; secondly, for that which subsists, and is complete in a specific nature. The former sense excludes the inherence of an accident or of a material form; the latter excludes also the imperfection of the part, so that a hand can be called this particular thing, in the first sense, as being something subsistent; but not in the second, for in this sense, what is composed of body and soul is said to be this particular thing.[3]

It is the composite of body and soul that is the substance, human being. Neither the body nor the soul is a human being, as an atomist or a Platonist would respectively argue. That the composite is the human being Aquinas asserts repeatedly.[4] Still, Aquinas claims, “the nature of the human intellect is not only incorporeal, but it is also a substance.”[5] The intellectual soul is substance. According to the above distinction, the composite human being subsists in the second way, while the body and intellectual soul subsist in the first. The body and intellectual soul are not “complete in a specific nature,” but rather are parts of a composite that is, each being akin to a severed hand in terms of subsistence. The hands cannot subsist unless the substance of which they had been a part first existed, just as neither body nor soul may subsist unless the composite first subsist.

This becomes even clearer when it is put in to Aristotelian, hylomorphic terms of matter and form. Form actualizes matter, which is potentiality, and the soul is the form of the body. Aquinas says, “since the soul is united to the body as its form, it must necessarily be in the whole body, and in each part thereof.”[6] Without a form, matter is undifferentiated, and without matter, a form is not actualized, as a form must be actualized in matter. In this way, neither a soul nor a body can come to be on its own, but only as a composite, as the soul is actualized through the body.

This is true of the nutritive, sensitive, and intellectual souls that Aquinas has borrowed from Aristotle. These are such that whatever is sensible is also nutritive, and whatever is intellectual is also both sensible and nutritive, but the combination of these parts is but one soul. The mere nutritive soul belongs generally to plants, while the sensitive soul belongs to all animals, and the intellectual soul belongs to human beings: “the difference which constitutes man is rational, which is applied to man on account of his intellectual principle. Therefore the intellectual principle is the form of man.”[7] Additionally, “in man the sensitive soul, the intellectual soul, and the nutritive soul are numerically one soul.”[8] Man’s is differentiated by his intellectual principle, and it is also nutritive and sensitive.

The nutritive and sensitive souls are actualized entirely by the corporeal body, as Aquinas says, “one cannot sense without a body.”[9] The intellectual soul, however, possesses the powers of intellection and volition, and these are not realized corporeally but immaterially. In this way the intellectual soul persists after the corruption of the body as a substantial form, for “the substantial form makes a thing to exist absolutely.”[10] This is why human beings persist after death, but brute animals do not; the brute animals do not have any substantial form. Even the nutritive and sensitive principles persist in human beings, not actually, but virtually, that is in virtue of the persistence of the intellect: “the composite being destroyed, [the powers of the sensitive and nutritive parts] do not remain actually; but they remain virtually in the soul, as in their principle or root.”[11] Because the intellectual soul persists, all its parts persist.

It is important that Aquinas’ highly nuanced theory of mind be generally understood, since without it, it will not be possible to appreciate his theories of perception and intellection, which shall be treated below. First, however, some comments must be made on Aristotle. As stated above, the epistemology of the Treatise is best understood in light of Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics, specifically the notable final chapter on “how [the principles] become familiar and what is the state that becomes familiar with them.”[12] First principles are necessary in the epistemology of APo because it is from these that demonstration is possible, where demonstration is defined as “a scientific deduction; and by scientific I mean one in virtue of which, by having it, we understand something,” which Aristotle goes on to explain must “depend on things which are true and primitive and immediate and more familiar than and prior to and explanatory of the conclusion.”[13] A demonstration is therefore akin to a sound deduction, whose premises are true and whose inferences are valid. The first principles serve as the true premises that fulfill all those conditions listed above, so all valid inferences drawn from them are necessarily sound. The principles may be accurately described as the foundations of the APo epistemology, and so the aforementioned purpose of II.19 is of central importance.

Returning now to how the first principles are known, Aristotle first eliminates the possibility of their being known innately, but rather they come to be known by some capacity, which is identified as perception. In order to explain this, Aristotle draws an analogy to the formation of a battle line following a rout. One soldier makes a stand, and others join him in support, and eventually “a position of strength is reached.”[14] After that, he explains:

when one of the undifferentiated things makes a stand, there is a primitive universal in the mind (for though one perceives a particular, perception is of the universal—e.g. of man but not of Callias the man); again a stand is made in these, until what has no parts and is universal stands—e.g. such and such an animal stands, until animal does, and so in this a stand is made in the same way. Thus it is clear that it is necessary for us to become familiar with the primitives by induction; for perception too instills the universal in this way.[15]

By perception of particulars or individuals, a universal begins to be formed until eventually, one is irrefutably understood. It likely sounds strange to think that the understanding of a universal should suddenly manifest following a certain set of perceptions; for example, Christopher Shields remarks, “there is something mysterious, even occult-sounding about Aristotle’s doctrine of nous [understanding] in the last chapter of the Posterior Analytics.”[16] Be that as it may, this is very near to Aquinas’ view, and in what follows a parallel will be drawn, showing that sensation and intellection in the Treatise allow for abstraction to a universal in exactly the way Aristotle describes above.

In the most general terms, sensation is for the purpose of receiving a phantasm, a “material image”[17] and “the likeness of an individual thing,[18] which can be abstracted to a universal in the intellect. Aquinas says, “sense is a passive power, and is naturally immuted by the exterior sensible,”[19] meaning that perception of the world is not an act of the senses, but is an act on the senses. He goes on to draw a distinction between natural and spiritual immutation. The former is exemplified by the immutation of heat into the thing heated, while the latter is exemplified by the immutation of the form of color into the pupil, whereby the pupil does not become colored. All the senses involve spiritual immutation, and all but sight involve natural immutation, also. If the sensory powers are actualized entirely in mater, how can it be that sensation involves a spiritual change? This has been the subject of some debate, which shall be related with all brevity.

The so-called “received interpretation” of D.W. Hamlyn, as Sheldon Cohen called it, put forth that the spiritual immutation was a non-physical change in the mind, a view that Cohen went on to challenge, arguing that in fact sensible forms are always received physically.[20] This position was challenged by John Haldane, who argued that both the Hamlyn and Cohen accounts were sufficiently meritorious as to imply contradiction on Aquinas’ part.[21] After this, Paul Hoffman claimed to settle the issue by arguing that Haldane had misunderstood Cohen as meaning that the physical reception of the forms meant it was a material reception, when in fact Cohen argued that it was the physical reception of immaterial forms. Hoffman proposed his own solution to the puzzle by arguing for the halfway state, meaning that there are different degrees between materiality and immateriality, and in this way spiritual immutation is possible in a corporeal organ.[22] Robert Pasnau challenges this view, himself arguing that Aquinas’ views on sensation can be construed in a way that is acceptable to the modern materialist, espousing a “semimaterialist” interpretation of Aquinas, which allows for “cognition to occur in wholly physical entities.”[23] This, however, has its opponents, such as Gabriele De Anna,[24] but at this point a sufficient summary of the main viewpoints on this subject has been given.

In light of the above views, it is worth noting that Aquinas elsewhere speaks of the spiritualization of the corporeal: “After the resurrection man will be like an angel, spiritualized in soul and body,”[25] and, “The empyrean heaven is the highest of corporeal places,” a fitting abode for angels.[26] What these texts indicate is, in fact, a gradation between corporeality and incorporeality, since corporeal creation is ruled from the empyrean heaven, and the increased spiritualization of soul and body at resurrection elevates man toward his final state in the empyrean heaven. These are but two texts, but they indicate that Hoffman’s discussion of gradation is likely on the right track. More persuasive, perhaps, is the sheer unity of body and soul necessitated by Aquinas’ Aristotelianism. Sensation, recall, is done by the composite of body and soul. It is realized in an entirely corporeal way, but only in virtue of the animal existing as a composite. Because an animal can be realized in an entirely physical way but still be ensouled by an immaterial form, a semimaterialist account also seems plausible; however, this reminder on no account makes the Hoffman view less plausible. Unfortunately, a detailed look at this particular debate is beyond the current scope.

Whatever the best interpretation of Aquinas may be, the fact that phantasms are received in the sense organs from sensible objects is established, and this is what really matters from an epistemological perspective. Thus the senses are said to receive phantasms, and “corporeal phantasms...are in corporeal organs.”[27] Through the phantasms of individual forms, it is eventually becomes possible to have understanding. According to Aquinas, the intellect is dependent upon phantasms in order to achieve understanding, and so he avers, “we must needs say that our intellect understands material things by abstracting from the phantasms.”[28] Intellection, however, involves two parts. There exist both an active intellect and a passive intellect in the soul. The passive intellect is in potentiality with respect to intelligible species, while the active intellect “is the cause of the universal, by abstracting it from matter,”[29] or in other words, it is the cause of the intelligible species, which it abstracts from phantasms. The intelligible species must be abstracted because sensible forms are not intelligible.[30] Additionally, “the object of our intellect in its present state is the quiddity of a material thing, which it abstracts from the phantasms,”[31] but a phantasm is a form existing immaterially by some combination of natural and spiritual immutation in the sense organ, which means that it is a differentiated and individualized, numerically distinct.[32] For such a thing to be understood intellectually, the active intellect must discern the quiddity from the individual, and that is abstraction to the intelligible species that is received into the passive intellect.

Abstraction itself requires that “the things which belong to the species of a material thing…can be thought of apart from the individualizing principles which do not belong to the notion of the species.”[33] Abstraction may be done from the particular to the universal and likewise from the phantasm to the intelligible species, and it is done by the active intellect. Once the active intellect has established a universal or intelligible species in the passive intellect, one is said to understand; however, it is also possible to misunderstand. In that event, the abstraction of a quiddity from a material thing is misunderstood as something else, for example abstracting the quiddity of a human being from what is in fact a sculpture. This can happen by some deficiency in the sense organs, such as farsightedness, or perhaps by inadequate experience of things of the intelligible species abstracted. If the latter is the case, then it makes sense that an individual who has only ever experienced one or two phantasms of something should not have a perfect grasp of its quiddity and cannot be said to understand perfectly, perhaps attributing certain accidents to the quiddity that necessarily do not belong.

By way of example if you see an individual Jabberwock, then the sensible form of that individual Jabberwock will be received into your sense organs as a phantasm. Abstraction from that phantasm will then be made by the active intellect, and an intelligible species, a universal Jabberwock, will then be received into the passive intellect. Still, having seen only one thing with this quiddity, it is not plausible to think that the quiddity will be perfectly understood; however, repeated experiences of various Jabberwocks and their respective phantasms do lead to a perfect understanding of the quiddity of the Jabberwock.

This should be quite familiar to the student of Aristotle, as is clear form a bit of replacement and interpolation, as indicated by boldness.

A single phantasm makes a stand, there is a primitive universal in the mind (for though one perceives a particular, intellection is of the universal—e.g. of man (an intelligible species) but not of Callias the man); again a stand is made in these phantasms, until what has no parts and is universal stands (is abstracted)—e.g. such and such an animal stands, until animal does, and so in this a stand (an abstraction) is made in the same way. Thus it is clear that it is necessary for us to become familiar with the primitives by induction; for intellection too instills the universal in this way.

Aquinas’ epistemology in the Treatise on Man is aptly described as a more robust version of the epistemology of the Posterior Analytics. Aquinas makes a plethora of comments to that effect, of which one specific example will suffice, but reference to other relevant texts is provided: “intellectual knowledge in some degree arises from sensible knowledge: and, because sense has singular and individual things for its object, and intellect has the universal for its object, it follows that our knowledge of the former comes before our knowledge of the latter.”[34] In both cases, sensation of the particular gives rise to the understanding of the universal, and eventually to infallible understanding of the universal.

It has been argued that Aquinas’ epistemology in the Summa Theologica’s Treatise on Man can be interpreted as an expansion of the APo II.19 epistemology of Aristotle, which can easily be construed as being empiricist and foundationalist, as the foundations of knowledge for both Aquinas and Aristotle are known empirically, and as both explicitly argue, not innately. Of course, it should come as no surprise that the theories of a devoted Aristotelian and Aristotle himself agree in this way.

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[1] It might rightly be asked why only one text should be analyzed in discussing Aquinas’ views. The purpose is historical. Because Aquinas’ work was written over time, analysis of one text at a time does not attempt to find a single theory sensation, understanding, or epistemology to be representative of Aquinas; rather, interpretation by text allows for analysis within a single argumentative framework, and if each text is interpreted by itself, they may be compared to see if a comprehensive view exists. So, in that vein, here is a section of the Summa Theologica.

[2] St. Thomas Aquinas. Summa Theologica. Fathers of the English Dominican Province, tr. Ave Maria Press, Notre Dame, IN: 1948. Bk. I, Q75

[3] Ibid. Q75a2ad1. This particular thing might be taken to mean primary substance, as in Cat. 5, 2a13-18

[4] Ibid. Q75aa3-5

[5] Ibid. Q75a2 sed contra, See also Q79a1an1

[6] Ibid. Q76a8

[7] Ibid. Q76a1

[8] Ibid. Q76a3, See also Q77a4, Q78a1

[9] Ibid. Q76a1, See also Q75a3ad3, Q77a5, Q85a1, Q101a2

[10] Ibid. Q77a6, See also Q75a7

[11] Ibid. Q77a8, See also Q76a5ad2, Q89a7

[12] APo II.19, 99b17-18

[13] Ibid. I.2, 71a18-22

[14] Ibid. II.19, 100a10-14. The analogy is especially forceful when one thinks of the Greek phalanx.

[15] Ibid. 100a15-100b5.

[16] Shields, Christopher. Aristotle. Routledge, New York: 2007. pg 132

[17] ST I Q84a1 sed contra

[18] Ibid. Q84a7ad2

[19] Ibid. Q78a3

[20] Cohen, Sheldon. “Thomas Aquinas on the Immaterial Reception of Sensible Forms.” The Philosophical Review, Vol. 91, No. 2 (Apr., 1982), pp. 193-209

[21] Haldane, John. “Aquinas on Sense Perception.” The Philosophical Review, Vol. 92, No. 2 (Apr., 1983) pp.233-239

[22] Hoffman, Paul. “St. Thomas Aquinas on the Halfway State of Sensible Being.” The Philosophical Review. Vol. 99, No. 1 (Jan., 1990), pp. 73-92

[23] Pasnau, Robert. Theories of Cognition in the Later Middle Ages. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge: 1997. Pg. 36

[24] De Anna, Gabriele. “Sensible Forms and Semimaterialism.” The Review of Metaphysics, Vol. 54, No. 1(Sep., 2000), pp. 43-63.

[25] ST I Q98a2an1

[26] Ibid. Q102a2ad1

[27] Ibid. Q89a1

[28] Ibid. Q85a1, See also Q76a2, Q76a5ad4, Q86a2an2, Q89a1,2,4-7

[29] Ibid. Q79a5ad2, See also Q79a3ad3, Q79a4, 9

[30] Ibid. Q84a4ad2

[31] Ibid. Q85a8, See also Q85a6

[32] Ibid. Q76a2ad3, Q85a7ad3

[33] Ibid. Q85a1ad1

[34] Ibid. Q85a3, See also Q75a5, Q78a4, Q79a3ad3, a5ad3, a8-9, Q84a1 sed contra, a7, Q85a1ad1, a2, 6, Q86a1, Q89a2, Q89a6

Respectability and the Promise of Superdupervenience: Comments on Horgan's "From Supervenience to Superdupervenience"

Superdupervenience as we know it was introduced by Terence Horgan (1993), though in a footnote he attributes the word itself to Bill Lycan (1986). As Horgan defines it, superdupervenience is “ontological supervenience that is robustly explainable in a materialistically acceptable way” (566). This definition is notable for its addition of the requirement that supervenience be “robustly explainable,” which Horgan says is necessary if ontological supervenience is to have materialistic “respectability.” This is never precisely defined, but the idea seems clear enough. A reasonable account of respectability in Horgan’s sense would seem simply to be the difference between supervenience and superdupervenience, but that is just explainablity. Respectability and explainability cannot be the same, however, since respectability is conferred by a “robust explanation;” it is not the explanation itself. Horgan’s favored example for a non-respectable materialism is G.E. Moore’s moral non-naturalism, and he cites J.L. Mackie’s criticism thereof in order to explain the contention, that is the non-respectability. In short, the trouble is that a non-respectable relation, such as the “supervenience” required by something like Moore’s moral non-naturalism, is not anything “in the world.” A respectable relation, then, should be explainable in the world, and here we have what Horgan calls superdupervenience.

The utility of superdupervenience hinges on the notion of materialistic respectability. If respectability is not useful, then superdupervenience is not useful. It is explainability that confers respectability, and it is explainability that differentiates supervenience and superdupervenience. Without respectability, explainability is not useful, and if explainability is not useful, there is no use for superdupervenience. We will be left just withsupervenience,[1] for better or for worse. Let the following clarify what has just been said:

P1 A relation is materialistically respectable if and only if it is robustly explainable.

P2 Supervenience is not in itself robustly explainable.

P3 Superdupervenience is by definition robustly explainable supervenience.

C1 Therefore, superdupervenience is materialistically respectable supervenience

C2 Therefore, materialistic respectability is not useful if and only if robust explainability is not useful.

C3 Therefore, if materialistic respectability is not useful, then superdupervenience is not useful.

C4 Therefore, if materialistic respectability is not useful, then supervenience may still be useful.

C4 leaves us with the possible utility of supervenience, still saddled with the problems superdupervenience was intended to solve, but only if either respectability or explainability turn out to be useless or unimportant.[2] The big problem with mere supervenience is that without explanation it is unacceptably sui generis to be “materialistically respectable.” Superdupervenience must therefore be considered within materialism, which shall now be done. Thus, it is for the sake of supervenience in a materialistic metaphysics (since this is not necessarily problematic for the non-materialist) that superdupervenience is invoked, as is clear from the very opening of Horgan’s paper.

If this is true, then, for materialism, mere supervenience might be considered useless or unimportant, and the implications of this for C4 are clear. If the additional premise “Supervenience is useful if and only if superdupervenience is useful” is taken into account, then C4 reads, “Therefore, if materialistic respectability is not useful, then supervenience is not useful.” At this point in the argument, superdupervenience is the only thing giving supervenience any utility at all, since superdupervenience requires supervenience by definition, but perhaps it is not clear that “Useful(supervenience) iff Useful(superdupervenience),” for materialism, of course. The “only if” clause is obviously true, since superdupervenience contains supervenience in its definition. The “if” clause comes from the very objection that superdupervenience seeks to resolve: supervenience is unacceptably sui generis and obscure and so forth, and hence not materialistically respectable. Of course, the biconditional holds only if superdupervenience is the only possible solution to the problem, but this just means that robust explanation is the only possible solution, which can only be true if robust explanation is the one and only sufficient condition for materialistic respectability. By saying that robust explainability confers materialistic respectability (in the relevant sense, anyway), it is admitted that robust explanation is the one and only sufficient condition thereof, and so robust explanation is assumed to be the only solution to the problem of supervenience’s materialistic non-respectability. Since robust explanation is the only solution, then superdupervenience is the only solution, so, “If Useful(supervenience) then Useful(superdupervenience).” Thus, “Useful(supervenience) iff Useful(superdupervenience).” Hence C4 shall read as I have claimed, since the necessary premise follows from Horgan’s definitions, assuming I have rendered them properly.

All this is to point to one conclusion. If one is to be a materialist and materialistic respectability is a useful concept, then superdupervenience is the only hope for supervenience, which is useless on its own. The problem is that “respectability” is not as clear a concept as one should like, and so it might be that some definitional finagling might be able to deftly dodge such a strong conclusion. It might, for example, be less closely tied to robust explainability than I have rendered it here, but I have tried to render Horgan’s meaning accurately. How that might be done is not obvious to me. One might also deny that supervenience as sui generis is respectful, after all, but in doing that, respectability would still probably need some definitional modification. One could also deny that “respectability” is meaningful, useful, important, etc. and thereby dodge the problem altogether, but if the denier is a materialist, Horgan shall likely quote Mackie and explain just how queer such a thing in a materialist ontology would be.

Superdupervenience is supposed to answer the problem presented by the concept of respectability, and if superdupervenience is possible, it appears to do just that. If respectability is not a chimera, then superdupervenience is a great hope for any materialist seeking to avoid reductionism, especially with respect to mind. Even if it is a chimera, then mere supervenience might still be useful. Because of superdupervenience, reductionism does not necessarily result for the materialist who accepts the concept of material respectability. Thus, Horgan asks a trio of questions which, if answerable, allow for a superdupervenient account, and these are the standpoint question, the target question, and the resource question, which respectively boil down to what sort of facts are needed, what specific facts are they, and do adequate explanatory resources exist for a superdupervenient account? Putting superdupervenience to work shall thus determine its usability, because if Horgan is right, that determines the usability of supervenience itself, and regardless of Horgan’s accuracy it is certainly true that the utility of a superdupervenience, which includes supervenience, certainly means that supervenience is useful, just not by itself, only alongside robust explanation.

Work Cited

Horgan, Terence. “From Supervenience to Superdupervenience: Meeting the Demands of a Material World.” Mind, New Series, vol. 102, issue 408 (Oct. 1993), pg. 555-586.

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[1] For clarification, this discussion is about ontological supervenience, following Horgan.

[2] One might alternately phrase the argument in terms of importance rather than usefulness. I consider them to be approximately equal for my purposes. The argument may also be framed in terms of possibility and in terms of robust explainability in C3 and C4, which is allowed because of the biconditional in P1. This leads to the conclusion that if supervenience is not robustly explainable, then superdupervenience is not possible. The same claim can be made with respectability, of course. Such is largely analytic in superdupervenience so defined, though.

Alchemy

In dealing with the subject of alchemy, it is important to avoid two extremes in interpretation. On the one hand, the view of alchemy as a purely mystical or psychological pursuit is to be avoided, and so too is the opposed view that alchemy is a simply material pursuit, being a precursor to modern chemistry. Both of these extremes have their virtues, and they both have been well defended, but in fact, a better view is more of a composite. Alchemy is best seen as both a material pursuit and as a mystical pursuit, each of which received different degrees of emphasis from different alchemists and different schools of alchemy. Such a view approximately follows the suggestion of Lawrence Principe and William Newman in their "Some Problems with the Historiography of Alchemy," who, having criticized various interpretations of alchemy, say, “A factor common to these interpretation is their tendency to separate alchemy from ‘science’ or natural philosophy” (Secrets of Nature 417) and, “A common failing of the interpretations critiqued in this chapter is the depiction of alchemy as a uniform and constant monolith” (419). Here, then, it behooves us to consider alchemy in terms of general, but not necessarily universally consistent elements, in much the way that an decent depiction of Gnosticism may be provided in general themes, but in both cases, a complete understanding requires a detailed look at the individual instantiations of the phenomenon, which will not by any account be done here.

It seems appropriate to consider the material element of alchemy first, since if anything can be attributed to alchemists across the spectrum, belief in the transmutability of metals is an excellent candidate. First, though, it is important to consider the philosophical and scientific framework that gave rise to such a belief. The most obvious candidate by which to explain the transmutability of metals is Aristotelian hylomorphism, in which the distinction between matter and form play a central role. For Aristotle, matter is identified with potentiality, and it is actualized by form, as we read in his Physics (191b27-29) and his Metaphysics (1050a15-16). Thus the matter that is actualized as your body could just as well be actualized as that of Queen Elizabeth or even a wall at Buckingham Palace. This also meant that the matter that made lead could just as well be actualized as gold, and so we have the perennial alchemical fascination with the transmutation of base metals into gold.

Now there is the methodological question of how such a transmutation could be accomplished, especially considering the technological limitations placed necessarily on the alchemists. A very important process of transmutation came in two stages. The first sought to change some base metal into prime matter (or something near enough), which was supposed to be undifferentiated, formless matter, and hence pure potentiality. Of course, the obvious thing to do with prime matter is to give it a valuable form, that of gold. This first stage was certainly the simpler of the two, as it was perfectly possible to create what many an alchemist believed to be prime matter. One had only to soak a base metal in certain solutions, many of which would now be designated as sulfide solutions, and it would lose its differentiating qualities and become a black sludge. This was supposed to be very close to prime matter, lacking any color, since black was considered to be the privation of color, and lacking any apparent spatial form. This prime matter, then, was subjected to the second stage of transmutation, which in effect sought to imitate the formation of gold in the earth in order to actualize the properties of gold in the base metal. For this process to make any sense at all, however, attention must be given to certain other alchemical ideas, and then this second stage may be adequately described.

Another idea of Aristotle common among alchemists was the vapor theory found in the Meteorology (378c). On this hypothesis, metals originate from exhalations of the two vapors, one moist and the other dry, in the earth. Many alchemists carried this further. Metals are conceived by the union of these vapors in the earth, and there they progress through gestation from the basest metal, lead, to gold. Here we see some Neo-Platonic influence, applying the cosmic gradation of being to a gradation of metals, of which there were believed to be seven, which in turn carried astrological associations with the seven planets: lead, tin, iron, copper, mercury, silver (which is associated with the moon, or Luna), and gold (which is associated with the sun, or Sol). The maturation of metals in this way was a teleological view about the perfectibility of metals, which is perhaps the clearest manifestation of the hierarchical thinking that permeated alchemical thinking. In addition to the Neo-Platonic hierarchy, we can also get a glimpse into the analogical thinking that is quite common to alchemists. There is first the reproductive view of the vapors copulating to create the metals, and in addition we see the concept of the earth as a mother to the metals, being pregnant with them through the gestation that perfects them into gold, ascending the Neo-Platonic hierarchy.

Calling forth another analogy, it should make sense that the second stage of transmutation involved imitating the conditions of the earth’s womb in a laboratory-like setting in order to bring about the desired change. Taylor’s The Alchemists details four necessary conditions for gestation and hence transmutation: “a seed, a soil, the breath of life from heaven and the gentle fostering warmth” (18), which are surely derived from Aristotle. The near-prime matter is the soil in which the seed of gold is planted under the proper astrological influences kept warm by a constant fire. All this is quite analogous to the growth of vegetation, including the fact that this “seed of gold” and not gold itself was required. This second stage of transmutation, from obtaining this “seed” to ensuring that the “breath of life from heaven,” made the alchemical enterprise of transmutation far from a resounding success, and those claiming to have had success in some degree or other tended to follow the traditional writing style of the alchemist: symbol upon symbol upon allegory. That alchemical writing is esoteric and opaque is certainly no secret.

Regarding such symbolism allegory, though, we can see the spiritual and psychological sides to alchemy. First and foremost, there are the common Christian allegories that we can easily see in the latter description of transmutation. The base metal with which the alchemist begins is the human soul, tainted by sin and hence imperfect. Just as the base metal is destroyed, the “old man” (Rom. 6.6) is put to death in Christ. The second stage of transmutation corresponds to resurrection. The prime matter is perfected into gold, and so the soul’s resurrection in Christ brings it to perfection. Alternately, we may simply see the correlation to Christ’s resurrection into his glorified body. Historically, such assertions regarding alchemy were common in the West, especially providing an important apologetic for such a practice as alchemy in the context of medieval Catholicism. Alchemy was not presented as a greedy pursuit, a charge easily leveled against an individual who spends his time trying to make gold, and especially not as fraudulence, two charges that Chaucer memorably leveled in “The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale;” rather, alchemy was a spiritual pursuit by which the alchemist could draw closer to God (or more Neo-Platonically, the One), along the lines Chaucer seems to draw in the “Second Nun’s Tale,” thus differentiating between material and spiritual alchemy. Indeed, both were obviously practiced throughout the history of alchemy, but as was said in the beginning, the degree to which either was practiced is rather dependent on what individual alchemist or alchemical school is under investigation, and that a view of extremes does not accurately capture the broad historical landscape of alchemy.

This distinction, however, is often argued to have at last been realized in the nineteenth century, when modern chemistry took off with the physical side of alchemy, while mysticism and occultism retained the spiritual view of the subject. Certainly, there is some truth in this, as can be shown in the occult-influenced psychological readings of alchemical texts and symbolism by Carl Jung. If indeed such a split occurred, then we can trace on the one hand the development of modern chemistry from alchemy, just as well as we can trace Jungian analysis of alchemy through nineteenth century occultism directly into the psychological picture of the field. For Jung, “alchemists were concerned less with chemical reactions than with psychic states taking place within the practitioner” ("Some Problems" 402). Instead, an alchemist was “projecting” the content of his unconscious mind, his “shadow” onto the matter with which he worked, and the esoteric writings of the alchemists with their symbolism, supposedly involving archetypal images, are in fact “irruptions” of the collective unconscious. On the Jungian scheme, it is important to note that the material processes involved in alchemical practice are totally irrelevant, and any attempt to decipher what alchemical texts might be referring to in that regard is to be avoided. Indeed, says Jung, if such a correlation can be drawn, then the alchemist must be a “bad alchemist,” since he is describing chemistry in an obscure way rather than his psyche (403). Jung’s view, of course, is beset with problem after problem, from various assumptions involving Jung’s occult background to outright error (being able to draw unacceptable, legitimate chemical descriptions from some of Jung’s favorite examples of genuine alchemy) and even dishonesty (the Solar Phallus Man) among Jung’s examples (404-405). The important thing, though, is that Jung’s view is a continuation of the mystical tradition, especially in light of his comments likening the psychoanalyst to the alchemist, to be placed alongside the parallel chemical tradition in alchemy.

Of course, what these dual offspring of the alchemists, chemistry and spiritualism, mean is that alchemy was neither just a precursor to chemistry nor mere mystical nonsense, but rather it was composed of some well-developed natural philosophies as well as a set of unique brands of spiritual or otherwise mystical thinking, though this is stated rather pluralistically. Following the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, being faced by the onslaught of the Enlightenment and especially Newtonian science, at which time historians have had much trouble differentiating between alchemy and chemistry, what we have in reality seems to be a rather different distinction. This period is not to be read as the transition from alchemy to chemistry, and certainly during this transition it is fruitless to try to differentiate rigidly between alchemists and chemists, but rather this is better viewed as the splintering of alchemy into an absolute divide between its varieties, and the alchemists of this age simply reflected the transitional phase, making classification difficult. This is the most appealing way to view alchemy in general: a pluralistic gradation of two intertwined traditions of material science and spiritualism, which split absolutely by the nineteenth century. This is why it is so important to look closely at alchemists in order to get past such a vague definition—pluralism alone demands it.

General Bibliography

Aristotle. The Complete Works of Aristotle. Revised Oxford Translation. Jonathan Barnes, ed. Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey: 1984.

Taylor, F. Sherwood. The Alchemists. Barnes and Noble Books, New York: 2004.

Principe, Lawrence and William Newman. "Some Problems with the Historiography of Alchemy." Secrets of Nature. William Newman and Anthony Grafton, eds. The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts: 2006.

Eliminative Materialism

Eliminative Materialism with respect to mind is the idea that all psychology is explainable by neurology, and hence that psychology will be eliminated as a science and replaced by mere neurology. Thus, rather than speak of participation in the Eucharist as somehow following from some Christian belief, we speak entirely in terms of neuroscience. Some people, such as Paul and Patricia Churchland, are quite convinced that psychological descriptions will be replaced by neurological ones soon enough. To that I respond, keep dreaming...wait...never mind...or...drat...never have certain neural configurations...

Let's try again. I really respond, keep on having that neural activity that will help develop neuroscientific explanations to eliminate psychological ones. Only then will we abandon belief in such meaningless psychobabble...I mean...only then will our neural activity cease to produce psychological explanations for what is really just neural activity. That's what you desire, right? No...wait...that's what your neural activity induces you to explain, right?

Why should I believe this is true? Ah, but there I go again...why should my neural activity bring me to assert the truth of Eliminative Materialism?

General Revelation with a History of Ideas: or Ontogeny Recapitulates Phylogeny

The following was a response to a question on general revelation, most of which probably has little or nothing to do with the question. Having completed it, I thought it would be quite at home here.

I like to begin where Chesterton does: with evil. An individual, looking around this world, cannot help but identify the pervasive evil around all around. If this individual is honest, so too will he or she identify the evil within the self. We are beings inflicting evil on a world which, as a result, is quite full of evil.

At the same time, no one can look around and miss the good that is everywhere. Trees are good. The natural world can be quite beautiful. Food can be delicious. Why is that? Not only that, but also I am capable of good and of seeing good, as are these others like me. We are beings who witness and reflect goodness in and from a world that is full of good.

Many people stop there. We call them Dualists, in the Manichean sense of the word. We see Dualism all over the landscape of human thought, from Platonism to Gnosticism to Zoroastrianism to Buddhism (in a nuanced way) to Paganism (think Celtic myths about the seasons) and beyond.

Others manage to see that evil is not an entity in the world, but rather a degradation of what is good. All God's creations are good, after all, and Creation is very good. Evil is not an entity in itself, but the result of Creation's not being what it was meant to be because man, the gardener, failed to be who he was supposed to be. That is an aside, though. All we have so far seen is that evil does not exist except as dependent on the good, where the good is not flourishing as it should.

There are many who reach this conclusion. They come in many varieties, but generally they are the sort of people who believe in the perfectibility of man and the world. It is a noble enterprise, except that it is futile and destructive. Progressives of the latter century fit this profile quite well. Positivists could be the exemplar of this way of thinking. The belief that we can progress in scientific knowledge to obtain a complete theoretical understanding of the universe, thereby solving all mankind's ills is rooted in this idea that the world is basically good (it is), it is tainted by evil (it is), and it can be restored (it can be). The fatal error is the idea that we can do it ourselves. It is, however, perfectly natural for us to believe that we can restore ourselves and our world. We were created to care for it, after all.

Many people eventually realize that they cannot fix themselves and be who they were meant to be, and similarly they determine that it is beyond the capacity of human beings to restore this world themselves. After all, as long as human beings cannot make themselves good, how can they make the world to be good? It is a true and logical conclusion, we cannot. It has certainly been a function of the Law to demonstrate completely and directly how this can never be. What is a person to do, having reached this conclusion with or without the specific revelation of the Law?

Many, I believe, become Legalists of various stripes. Supposing one has the Law, it would be natural to seek out salvation through adherence to it. We see this in Pharisaic and Rabbinic Judaism, for the latter, especially as messianism lost favor following the disastrous Bar Kokhba Revolt of the AD 130s. Similar behavior will even crop up within Christianity, as we know well. Without the Law, one might wind up with any number of philosophies that settle for this unstable state of affairs. These people invent act-oriented ethical theories, such as Kantianism and Act Utilitarianism. Kantian ethics are absolutist, deontological ethics, which demand specific duties from every individual, as a rational being, according to the categorical imperative. Utilitarianism is a teleological ethical theory that derives rightness from various hedonic calculations about the consequences of an act. In both cases, good and evil are given, and both theories inform one how to do good, but neither has anything to say about how to be good, or more accurately, how to become good. This is why virtue ethics, which dominated the pre-Enlightenment West, are far superior to these modernist ethical theories. Virtue ethics, rather than being deontological or teleological, are character-based. They are ethical in the true sense of the word "ethos," which has to do with lifestyle and character, not duties and consequences. When duties and consequences do factor into virtue ethics, it is always in the interest of developing character, that is, becoming good in the long term by doing good in the short term. Alone, virtue ethics fall in among the company of the Positivists. With Christianity, they take on a framework in which they make sense. This has been a tangent, so I will conclude with another statement of my point. Legalism is a natural response to the realization that human beings cannot perfect the world on their own. It is a way to live well in a world full of evil, without necessarily dealing with the problem of evil. Kantianism and Utilitarianism serve as prime examples of this way of thinking.

Others who do not become Legalists, I suppose, become Existentialists. They do this because no one really wants to become a Nihilist. Of course, Existentialism can never escape the lurking shadow of Nihilism, and any honest Existentialist should eventually become a Nihilist, and any honest Nihilist should probably commit suicide or simply sigh, "Why even bother with killing myself?" Existentialism, after all, is supposed to answer why we should bother doing anything. A true Nihilist, I suspect, passively dies of thirst. For Nihilism, good and evil cease to be meaningful terms, and in Existentialism, the meaning is simply made up. It is a reaction of the opposite extreme of that presented by Legalism. Rather than live with good and evil, deny them any significance. In neither case is evil dealt with, and that is the point. It is tolerated, and that is unacceptable.

There is another conclusion that may be reached here, however. First, though, we must realize something about goodness, and this is where Romans 1.20-21 becomes so important. One can conclude that the world just exists, but that is counter-intuitive. Not only does its goodness bear as an imprint the nature of its creator, the sheer frivolousness of some goods (like taste and color) bear the imprint of a personality. It is natural to conclude that there is a creative source behind our world, and that is why the overwhelming majority of people who have ever lived have held belief in some kind of creator, or at least a source of this essential goodness. Having reached the point to conclude that the world is basically good, but it is degraded by evil, and it can be made good, but we humans, being affected by the degradation of evil cannot achieve this ourselves, but some creative power stands behind the goodness of the world, it is quite conceivable that the attributes revealed by Creation can lead to the belief that the same power will do something about the evil.

Christianity tells the story of how this happened. Jesus, God incarnate, came as a human to be what human beings failed to be, and in his death and resurrection, defeated evil and death itself, thereby making the restoration of Creation possible, by the power and grace of God. We could never do this ourselves, but now we are able to participate in this restoration, beginning now in the context of the Kingdom. This, too, is where virtue ethics fit in, as the means by which the restoration of an individual begins in the community of the church alongside the Holy Spirit. At the last, all of this fits with the idea that creation is a reflection of the goodness of God, and human beings as creations are supposed to reflect the goodness of creation back to God, and as image bearers of God are supposed to reflect the goodness of God onto creation.

Now, all of this ties into the issue of general revelation in some very clear ways. In the case described, we see how it is possible to grasp the general idea of Christianity in the absence of specific revelation of Christianity. At the same time, we should identify how difficult this is, for we see how many other directions may take hold of us, even when we are very much on the right track. This is why the spreading of the Gospel is so important, and at the same time this is why the answer it provides is so universal.

It is important to point out, though, that assuming God would find the faith of such a person who reaches a conclusion like the one described above acceptable, much like the case of Abraham (who did have the benefit specific revelation, though), neither that person nor Abraham has been saved except by what Jesus did. The resurrection of Jesus is the central moment of history, and nothing is restored except because of that event. Someone who might be saved without knowledge of Jesus is still saved by Jesus, and that is the point! One might also turn here to God's middle knowledge of all counterfactuals (as in, had this person heard the Gospel, how would he or she have responded) to make a more developed case, but for that, I had better just reference William Lane Craig.