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An Incarnational Model of the Eucharist
 9781108425896, 9781108588560, 2017053515, 9781108441773

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An Incarnational Model of the Eucharist

The Eucharist is at the heart of Christian worship, and at the heart of the Eucharist are the curious phrases, ‘This is my body’ and ‘This is my blood’. James M. Arcadi offers a constructive proposal for understanding Christ’s presence in the Eucharist that draws on contemporary conceptual resources and is faithful to the history of interpretation. He locates his proposal along a spectrum of Eucharistic theories. Arcadi explores the motif of God’s presence related to divine omnipresence and special presence in holy places, which undergirds a biblical–theological proposal concerning Christ’s presence. Utilizing recent work in speech-act theory, Arcadi probes the acts of consecration and renaming in their biblical and liturgical contexts. A thorough examination of recent work in Christology leads to an action model of the Incarnation that borrows the notion of enabling externalism from philosophy of mind. These threads undergird an impanation model of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. James M. Arcadi is a Postdoctoral Research Fellow in the Analytic Theology project at Fuller Theological Seminary. From 2015–2017, he was a Research Fellow in the Jewish Philosophical Theology project at the Herzl Institute. His articles have appeared in Religious Studies, Topoi, Heythrop Journal, and Philosophy Compass. He is the co-editor for special issues of the journals TheoLogica and Open Theology.

Current Issues in Theolo gy General Editor: Iain Torrance Pro-Chancellor of the University of Aberdeen Editorial Advisory Board: David Ford University of Cambridge Bryan Spinks Yale University Kathryn Tanner Yale Divinity School There is a need among upper-undergraduate and graduate students of theology, as well as among Christian teachers and church professionals, for a series of short, focussed studies of particular key topics in theology written by prominent theologians. Current Issues in Theology meets this need. The books in the series are designed to provide a ‘state-of-the-art’ statement on the topic in question, engaging with contemporary thinking as well as providing original insights. The aim is to publish books which stand between the static monograph genre and the more immediate statement of a journal article, by authors who are questioning existing paradigms or rethinking perspectives. Other titles in the series: Holy Scripture John Webster The Just War Revisited Oliver O’Donovan Bodies and Souls, or Spirited Bodies? Nancey Murphy Christ and Horrors Marilyn McCord Adams Divinity and Humanity Oliver D. Crisp The Eucharist and Ecumenism George Hunsinger Christ the Key Kathryn Tanner Theology without Metaphysics Kevin W. Hector Reconsidering John Calvin Randall C. Zachman ‘God’s Presence Frances Young

James M. Arcadi Fuller Theological Seminary, California

An Incarnational Model of the Eucharist

University Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, NY 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 79 Anson Road, #06-04/06, Singapore 079906 Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781108425896 DOI: 10.1017/9781108588560 © James M. Arcadi 2018 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2018 Printed in the United States of America by Sheridan Books, Inc. A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Arcadi, James M., 1981– author. Title: An incarnational model of the Eucharist / James M. Arcadi, Fuller Theological Seminary, California. Description: New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018. | Series: Current issues in theology | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017053515 | ISBN 9781108425896 (hardback) | ISBN 9781108441773 (paperback) Subjects: LCSH: Lord’s Supper. | Jesus Christ – Presence. | Incarnation. Classification: LCC BV825.3.A73 2018 | DDC 234/.163–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017053515 ISBN 978-1-108-42589-6 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

For Alli

Contents

List of Tables Preface

page x xi

1

Discerning the Body of Christ Declarative Theology Some Conceptual Preliminaries A Spectrum of Views on the Eucharist A Preview of What is to Come

1 2 8 13 23

2

Known in the Breaking of Bread: A Biblical–Theological Foundation for the Eucharist A Little of ‘This’ Bread ǁ Cup Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’ ‘Because I Go to the Father, You Will See Me No Longer’ The Epistemology of Emmaus The Epistemology of the Eucharist Participating in the Bodily Presence of Christ

26 27 32 36 48 51 57 58

‘Holy to the Lord’: Speech-Acts, Consecration, and the Divine Presence Speech-Act Theory Alstonian exercitives Towards a Definition of Consecration The exercitive of Consecration Divine Presence: Omni- and Special

62 63 66 71 74 85

3

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Contents

4

5

6

viii

Refining Holiness Towards the Eucharist The Eucharistic exercitive of Consecration Eucharistic Ownership and Theophany

101 103 105 110

What’s in a (Re)Name? That Which We Call Bread, by Another Name Would Be Christ’s Body Singular Terms as Names The exercitive of Renaming The Eucharistic exercitive of Renaming Dual-Named Plantinga’s Boethian Compromise Bread and Body

111 113 117 120 128 130 139

Christology for the Eucharist The ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon Theological Methodology The Contemporary Family Tree The Three-Part, Concrete-Compositional Model and the Conciliar Tutelage Rogers’ Action Model of the Incarnation Instrumentalism in Thomas Ownership in Crisp Instrumentalism and Enabling Externalism First-Person Private Instrumental Ownership Conclusion Varieties of Impanation Corporeal Mode Models of the Eucharist The Three-Part, Concrete-Compositional Model of Christ and the Eucharist Types of Impanation A Specific Historical Survey Pertaining to Impanation Deficiencies of Hypostatic and Natural Impanation

142 143 148 152 165 170 174 179 180 186 190 193 194 196 199 216 231

Contents

7

Sacramental Impanation: An Incarnational Model of the Eucharist Sacramental Impanation, Enabling Externalism, and the Chalcedonian Tutelage Sacramental Impanation as a Variation on a Hunsingerian Theme Objections to Sacramental Impanation Some Benefits of Sacramental Impanation

240 241 250 258 274

Epilogue

282

Bibliography Index

291 303

ix

Tables

2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7

x

Bread/Cup action parallelism page 33 Bread/Cup grammatical parallelism – English 35 Bread/Cup grammatical parallelism – Greek 35 Bread/Cup grammatical parallelism – Greek transliterated 35 Last Supper/Emmaus action parallelism 54 Last Supper/Emmaus grammatical parallelism 54 Corinthians 10.16 participation relations 60

Preface

The history of Christian theological reflection has seen no shortage of attempts to explicate the curious words Christ uttered at the Last Supper. I do not pretend that this book will settle all the disputes pertaining to this doctrine in one fell swoop. However, by updating a neglected Eucharistic motif with contemporary conceptual resources, I propose a novel account of an incarnational model of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. This book, written for the glory of God and in service to God’s kingdom, has had a long gestation period and thus its birth is due to the contributions of many. This project began as my thesis at the University of Bristol. As such, I owe an unrepayable debt of gratitude to the conceptual midwifery of my doktorvater Oliver D. Crisp. I am also grateful for the comments and encouragement of my examiners, Gavin D’Costa and Alan Torrance. I am and will be forever grateful for Bonnie and Caleb Loring III, who provided financial and spiritual support for my research; very few of the concepts of this book would ever have been expressed had it not been for their magnanimity. Although my degree was from Bristol, the vast majority of the writing of this piece was undertaken in New England, where the institutions of Gordon College and Christ the Redeemer Anglican Church served as my academic and ecclesial homes. I am grateful for the hospitality and encouragement of Gordon faculty: Dan Russ, Tal Howard, Bruce Webb(†), and Jennifer Hevelone-Harper. My own sacramental life was nourished by serving alongside of the clergy of Christ the Redeemer, especially the Reverends Jürgen Liias, Timothy Clayton, and Brian Barry. Some of the ideas contained herein were xi

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tested in the fires of conversation with a small cadre of Crispians with whom no dialectical preamble was ever necessary: Jordan Wessling, Ben Arbour, Joshua Farris, and Mark Hamilton. These voices were joined more recently by J.  T. Turner, Christopher Woznicki, Jesse Gentile, and James Crocker. Various aspects of the research presented here have been supported by funding from the John Templeton Foundation mediated through various intermediaries, including the Analytic Theology project at Fuller Theological Seminary, the Center for Philosophy of Religion at the University of Notre Dame, the Jewish Philosophical Theology project at the Herzl Institute, and the Classical Theism project at the University of St. Thomas (Minnesota). I am grateful that these institutions have seen my research worthy of Sir John’s patronage. The Very Reverend Professor Sir Iain Torrance and Beatrice Rehl, as well as the rest of the staff at Cambridge University Press, have been helpful ushers in the process of moving this project along. I am also grateful to two anonymous reviewers for Cambridge whose comments have improved aspects of this work. Because of the long gestation period of this project, and because my thoughts always seems so tangled up with one another, piecemeal versions of the research expressed here have seen the light of publication in the following forms:  ‘A Theory of Consecration:  A Philosophical Exposition of a Biblical Phenomenon’, The Heythrop Journal 54.6 (2013):  913–925; ‘Impanation, Incarnation, and Enabling Externalism’, Religious Studies 51.1 (2015): 75–90; ‘Kryptic or Cryptic? The Divine Preconscious Model of the Incarnation as a Concrete-nature Christology’, Neue Zeitschrift für Systematische Theologie und Religionsphilosophie 58.2 (2016):  229–243; ‘Recent Philosophical Work on the Doctrine of the Eucharist’, Philosophy Compass 11.7 (2016):  402–412; ‘An Instrumental Explication of George Hunsinger’s Eucharistic Real Predication’ in Marking the Church: Essays in Ecclesiology, eds. Greg Peters and Matt Jenson (Eugene, OR:  Pickwick Publications, 2016), pp.  138–150; and ‘God xii

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Is Where God Acts: Reconceiving Divine Omnipresence’, Topoi 36.4 (2017):  631-639;. I  am grateful to the publishers for permission to reproduce these materials, as well as the review processes that have served to sharpen my thought. Finally, and foremost, I  am grateful to my family for the love, encouragement, and respites from writing they have offered me. The conscious lives of my children, Dominic, Clare, and Simeon, have always included my working on ‘daddy’s book’. My wife, Alli, has been a constant and steady source of inspiration. She has tirelessly managed her life, the lives of our children, and, at times, my life to provide me with the space adequate to the task. Her efforts have been great and it is to her that I dedicate this book.

xiii

1

Discerning the Body of Christ

The one who eats and drinks without discerning the body, eats and drinks judgement upon oneself. 1 Corinthians 11.29

In the course of his public ministry, Jesus Christ utters more than a few sentences that give the reader cause for pause. Even Christ’s audiences in the narratives of the Gospels are often left puzzled by his locutions. For instance, after clearing the Temple of moneychangers and merchants, Jesus declared, ‘Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.’1 To this his interlocutors respond, ‘It has taken forty-six years to build this temple, and you in three days will raise it up?’2 Or there is the vignette with poor Nicodemus, who takes Jesus’ instructions to be ‘born again’ to mean that Nicodemus has to literally climb back into his mother’s womb.3 Or there is the befuddled crowd at the synagogue at Capernaum who remark after one of Christ’s particularly challenging addresses, ‘This is a difficult statement, who can even understand it?’.4 Perhaps one of the most difficult sayings of Jesus  – and one of the most hotly contested sayings in the history of Christian theological reflection – occurs at the Last Supper before Jesus’ death. In this emotionally, spiritually, and theologically charged scene, just prior to his betrayal, passion, and crucifixion, Jesus clearly wishes 1 2 3 4

John 2.19. John 2.20. John 3.3–4. John 6.60.

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to communicate something deeply profound to his followers. In order to do so, Christ takes some bread, blesses it, breaks it, gives it to those at the table with him, and says, ‘This is my body.’ Then, similarly, he takes a cup of wine, passes it around to his disciples, and says, ‘This is my blood.’5 Only a moment’s reflection provokes the response that this is indeed a difficult statement, who can even understand it? My project here is to give a constructive proposal for how to understand those difficult statements. Many in the Church’s history have provided interpretations of those utterances. There has been a wide spectrum of views ranging from starkly literal interpretations to purely metaphoric explications of those phrases. In this chapter, I present a range of interpretive options with respect to those utterances; this presentation will serve to locate my own proposal on that spectrum. However, before wading into these interpretive options, I first note some aspects of my operating procedure in this project.

Declarative Theology This project attempts to be an instance of what some medieval theologians referred to as ‘declarative theology’. Although this mode of theologizing was the subject of much disagreement among these theologians, I  take declarative theology  – in the sense sketched in this section  – to be a helpful moniker for my approach to this topic. I here offer a description of declarative theology by way of a foray into some debates held in the fourteenth century. However, my purpose here is not to settle historical disputes, but simply to glean methodological insights from my theological progenitors. A distinction made and defended by the likes of Durandus of St.-Pourçain, Peter Aureoli, Godfrey of Fontaines, Gregory of Rimini, 5

2

Matthew 26.26–28, Mark 14.22–24, Luke 22.19-20, and 1 Corinthians 11.23–25.

Decl arative Theolo gy

and Peter of Candia is between declarative theology and deductive theology.6 Both types of theology refer to the manner of reasoning that is properly theological discourse. For instance, Durandus offers this definition of declarative theology (what he also calls ‘defensive’ or ‘persuasive’ theology): ‘a lasting quality of the soul by means of which the faith and those things handed down in Sacred Scripture are defended and clarified by using principles that we know better’.7 Deductive theology, on the other hand, is ‘a lasting quality of the soul by means of which it deduces further things from the articles of faith and the sayings of Sacred Scripture in the way that conclusions are deduced from principles’.8 Both types of theology focus on the teaching of Scripture and the articles of faith, but they differ with respect to where those components fit into theological arguments. By ‘articles of faith’, I take it that these theologians mean the first principles of the Christian religion as contained in Scripture, the Creed, and/or other authoritative sources for theological reflection.9 These first principles would include such propositions as that God exists, that God is triune, that Jesus Christ is God and a human, that God the Father Almighty is maker of heaven and earth, and so on. For 6

7

8 9

I am indebted to my former teacher Stephen F. Brown for bringing this distinction to my attention. In the historical material of this section, I largely follow his analysis in ‘Declarative Theology after Durandus: Its Re-presentation and Defense by Peter Aureoli’, in Philosophical Debates at Paris in the Early Fourteenth Century, eds. Stephen F. Brown, Thomas Dewender and Theo Kobusch (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp. 401–421; ‘Peter of Candia’s Hundred-Year “History” of the Theologian’s Role’, Medieval Philosophy and Theology 1 (1991): 156–190; ‘Medieval Theology’ in The Blackwell Companion to Modern Theology, ed. Gareth Jones (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), pp. 133–146. Durandus de Sancto Porciano, In I Sent. [A], prol. in Brown, ‘Declarative Theology’, p. 405. Ibid., p. 406. I include the last clause because I take it that these fourteenth-century theologians held the teaching of the Roman Catholic magisterium to be a locus of Christian first principles as well as Scripture and the Creed. However, I do not think that the methodology of declarative theology need take a position on just what the first principles are or where they are found. Thus, it can be utilized by Christian theologians of a variety of traditions.

3

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deductive theology, these propositions serve as premises in a theological argument wherein the conclusion is an extension of the content of theology. For example, a deductive theologian could perhaps make the following argument where (a) and (b) serve as premises that lead to conclusion (c): (a) God is indivisible, (b) anything composed of parts is divisible, thus (c) God is not composed of parts. Arguably, premise (a)  is a first principle contained in Scripture (perhaps the deductive theologian could point to the Shema as an expression of this premise). Premise (b) is derived from metaphysical reflection. The conjunction of (a) and (b) yields (c), that God is not composed of parts. This is just a rough argument for something like the doctrine of divine simplicity, but it is here only to illustrate the methodology. That God is not composed of parts is not stated explicitly in Scripture or in the Creed. But the deductive theologian beginning with the first principle regarding God’s unity, and then in adding another premise, deduces a theological conclusion. In distinction from deductive theology, according to Durandus, declarative theology inserts the aforementioned first-principle propositions as conclusions in theological arguments. A  declarative argument can be made utilizing similar components as the preceding example:  (a) any division of an entity diminishes that entity; (b) God cannot be diminished; thus (c) God is undividable. Here, the conclusion (c) of this argument is the same proposition as premise (a) of the preceding argument. In both, the proposition that God is undividable is a first principle, an article of faith, derived from Scripture. In the deductive theology example, this proposition functions as a premise in an argument for something like a doctrine of divine simplicity. In the declarative theology instance, this proposition is the conclusion of the argument. Thus, the distinction might be characterized as deductive theology argues from the first principles, whereas declarative theology argues to the first principles. However, it must be stressed that the declarative theological arguments are not intended to establish epistemic assent to the first 4

Decl arative Theolo gy

principles. Aureoli, the archetypal defender of declarative theology, is explicit that assent is due to faith alone, and faith is a gift from God. One believes that God is triune because one has the gift of faith, and this is the case for the theologian and the non-theologian alike. Thus, in describing the habit of theology, Aureoli says, ‘Every habit that makes something to be imagined better by the intellect without producing any assent is a declarative habit.’10 This theological practice does not produce assent to the truth of the article of faith, for that would make one’s faith dependent on the argument. However, the argument serves to help the possessor of faith to ‘imagine better’ that which that one already believes on account of faith. If one already believed the propositions of the articles of faith, it might seem that the arguments that declarative theology makes would be superfluous. In order to show why the possessor of faith would benefit from theological arguments, in his commentary on Peter Lombard’s Sentences Aureoli entertains four ways that one who had faith might misunderstand that which one believes. First, for instance, one might not understand the meaning of the terms used in an article of faith. That Jesus Christ is one person with two natures would be difficult to understand if one only had a rudimentary grasp of key terms such as ‘person’ or ‘natures’. Secondly, Aureoli imagines one who believes the articles of faith, but also comes across arguments against the faith, which produce confusion in this one’s mind. Thirdly, one might misunderstand the articles of faith because one ‘lacks examples, confirming arguments, or analogies related to’ belief.11 Fourthly, and finally, one might misunderstand because she does not have probable arguments to support or confirm what she already believes. The declarative theologian seeks to dispel these inhibitors to understanding. The result will be a theological methodology that ‘makes the believer imagine in a better and clearer way 10

11

Petrus Aureoli, Scriptum super primum Sententiarum, prooem., sect. 1, n. 112, ed. E. M Buytaert (St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 1952), p. 164, in Brown ‘Declarative Theology’, p. 414, emphasis added. Ibid.

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the things he believes, and yet it will not be what makes him believe, since he most firmly would already hold these things by faith’.12 The arguments of declarative theology are not intended to establish or create faith, rather they are intended to enable the one who already believes the articles of faith to do so better. Now, a quick caveat before proceeding: I do not think that one must be forced into a strict bifurcation between deductive and declarative theology. Stephen Brown describes Peter of Candia as one who offered a synthesis between these two modes of theologizing.13 Peter of Candia’s simple point is that these are not mutually exclusive tasks and theologians are called upon to perform both tasks at different times. I  am happy to accept this point, and thus accept the utility of deductive theology in certain contexts. However, I see my current project here as an instance of declarative theology. As such, I will be working to an article of faith as a conclusion, rather than extending a theological argument beyond an article of faith. As I see it, declarative theology is an instance of the theological motif of faith seeking understanding made famous by St. Anselm of Canterbury. The practitioner of this mode of theologizing starts with some notion that one believes by faith, and then seeks to understand that notion deeper through exploration, argumentation, and clarification. However, once understanding is in place, it is not as though faith has been dispensed with or superseded. Rather, as Aureoli described, that which is believed by faith can be held more deeply and more confidently – that is, more with faith, as the Latin root of confidence implies. Thus, in the face of the question, ‘Do you believe this consecrated piece of bread to be the body of Christ?’ my answer is the same as that of the man who responded to Jesus in Mark 9, ‘I believe, help my unbelief!’ And this is my operating procedure in this work.

12 13

6

Ibid., p. 415. See Brown, ‘Peter of Candia’, pp. 171–173.

Decl arative Theolo gy

Recall from the preceding that Durandus characterized declarative theology as a mode of argumentation by which the articles of faith are ‘defended and clarified by using principles we know better’.14 When we clarify and define terms, we do so using terms that we know better. When we offer simple analogies to explain complex ideas, we are using those things that we know better to explain those which we do not; or we are using those things our audiences know better to explain that which they do not. In the declarative theology of my medieval progenitors, this is where philosophy  – especially Aristotelian philosophy – comes in. I too will follow suit by pivoting at times to utilize philosophy as premises in the theological arguments to come. Whereas Durandus, Aureoli or Peter of Candia was likely to use sections of Aristotle’s Metaphysics or Ethics, I  will be drawing on such contemporary philosophical tools as speech-act theory from the philosophy of language, the Extended Mind Thesis from the philosophy of mind, dispositional properties from analytic metaphysics, and others. Thus, I follow a longstanding practice in the Christian theological tradition of utilizing the latest philosophy as a ‘handmaiden’ for my theological work.15 In this project, the Scriptural and liturgical utterances ‘This is my body’ and ‘This is my blood’, when spoken of a piece of consecrated bread and a measure of consecrated wine, are a given. The article of faith given by Scripture and the Christian liturgical tradition  – a first-principle proposition  – may simply be stated as This is the body of Christ, where the indexical ‘this’ refers to a consecrated and renamed piece of bread.16 This proposition, while being an article 14

15

16

Durandus de Sancto Porciano, In I Sent. [A], prol. in Brown, ‘Declarative Theology’, p. 405. The notion that philosophy is the handmaiden to theology can be traced to Clement of Alexandria. See Stromata I.5 in The Ante-Nicene Fathers: Translations of the Writings of the Fathers down to AD 325, vol. 2: Hermas, Tatian, Athenagoras, Theophilus, Clement of Alexandria, eds. Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1979), p. 305. The phenomena of consecration and renaming will receive a full treatment in Chapters 3 and 4, respectively.

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of faith, then, is the conclusion to the argument of this monograph. Again, like Aureoli, I do not intend assent to the article of faith that I  am investigating to be dependent upon the philosophical premises in the argument. Rather, these tools that we ‘know better’ are employed to clarify, explain, and defend this article of faith. The article is accepted on faith; my hope for this project is merely that the article will be ‘imagined better’ as faith seeks understanding.

Some Conceptual Preliminaries With my declarative theological methodology stated, I move in this next section to describe some of my conceptual presuppositions, both hermeneutical and philosophical. I do not contend for these preliminary assumptions, but I think I stand on the firm footing of others who commend these preliminary notions. First, I discuss my approach to the canonical text of Scripture and its relation to the liturgical tradition of the Church in doing constructive Eucharistic theology. This is followed by a preliminary discussion of definitions of some philosophical terms. Hermeneutical Preliminaries My posture towards the Scriptures is to take them as a coherent, consistent, and canonical whole. Despite the attempts of some scholars to get behind the text of the New Testament to reconstruct the historical event of Christ’s words at the Last Supper, my project need not rest on that attempt. It is sufficient for a constructive Eucharistic theology to take the biblical material as a given. I also take the liturgical tradition of the Church to be a significant component of the material that Eucharistic theology attempts to account for. My project is not merely to exegete a biblical account of the Eucharist, nor to merely reflect on the practice of the Eucharist in the tradition of the Church, but to see these two as aspects of the total data set 8

S o m e C o n c e p t ua l Pre l i m i na ri e s

with which a thorough Eucharistic theology needs to reckon. I think John Zizioulas expresses some of these concerns well: ‘[E]verything the New Testament tells us about the Eucharist is inseparably linked to the Church’s experience of this act’.17 Both Scripture and the liturgy are constituents of the material from which reflections on the Eucharist spring. Not only are these two – Scripture and liturgy – givens in this project, I am attempting to read Scripture with the Church’s liturgical tradition. For instance, in the next chapter I will elicit themes from John 13–16 to set a conceptual backdrop for the institution of the Eucharist that comes in the Synoptic Gospels. John 13–16, according to the narrative itself, occurs on the evening before Christ’s crucifixion. The institution narratives of the Synoptics, according to their narratives, also occur on the evening before Christ’s crucifixion. The liturgical tradition has not seen these events in conflict, but has instead liturgically commemorated both the actions and teaching of John 13–16 along with the institution of the Eucharist. This liturgical reading of the events before Christ’s passion is most clearly seen in Holy/Maundy Thursday liturgies. The very term ‘maundy’ comes from the Latin of John 13.34: ‘A new command (mandatum) I give to you . . .’ and many Maundy Thursday liturgies include a washing of feet ceremony, repeating Christ’s actions in John 13.4–12. Yet, this liturgy pivots to commemorate the institution of the Eucharist – Scriptural material that comes not in in the chapters following John 16, but in the Synoptics and Paul. Within the Anglican branch of the Church, the lectionary tradition reflects both these commemorations. The Anglican Church in North American (ACNA) and The Episcopal Church (TEC) lectionaries both instruct the Gospel reading for Maundy Thursday to be either John 13.1–15 (the washing of the disciples’ feet) or Luke 22.14–30 (the Lucan account of the institution of the Lord’s Supper). This is 17

John D. Zizioulas, The Eucharistic Communion and the World, ed. Luke Ben Tallon (London: T&T Clark, 2011), p. 1.

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Discerning the B ody of Christ

in conjunction with the Epistle reading being the Pauline account of the institution narrative from 1 Corinthians 11 (verses 23–26[27– 34] in ACNA and verses 23–26[27–32] in TEC). Likewise, Common Worship of the Church of England includes the same Epistle reading (only verses 23–26) and the only Gospel option as John 13.1–17, 31b35. The Orthodox Church in America is, I think, representative of the Eastern tradition in its lectionary choices. At the Vespers and Divine Liturgy of the Great and Holy Thursday, a composite Gospel reading is offered combining Matthew 26.1–20; John 13.3–17 (the foot washing); Matthew 26.21–39 (the Lord’s Supper institution); Luke 22.43–45; Matthew 26.40–27.2. This follows an Epistle reading of 1 Corinthians 11.23–32 (Paul’s discussion of the Lord’s Supper). My point in highlighting these lectionary nuances is to show that the liturgical traditions of Eastern and Western churches have had no trouble reading the scenes in John 13–16 as relating to the same events that the Synoptics and Paul describe as the institution of the Lord’s Supper. That the Fourth Gospel does not specifically contain a vignette introducing the Lord’s Supper has not prevented the Church from reading the Synoptic Eucharistic institution narratives in light of the Johannine Last Supper narrative. With respect to John 13–16 as a commentary on the Synoptic portrayal of the institution of the Lord’s Supper, Zizioulas writes, ‘It is even more instructive to look at the long speech of Christ to the disciples the night before his passion. In the Fourth Gospel this discourse takes the place of what might be called the “commentary on the meal” in the synoptic accounts.’18 One could certainly argue the tradition should not have done this – and that Zizioulas is wrong – but my modus operandi is simply to accept this liturgical tradition as a given, and thus see it as warrant for my biblical-theological move to read John 13–16 as a conceptual backdrop for the institution of the Eucharist that occurs in the Synoptics.

18

Ibid., p. 8.

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S o m e C o n c e p t ua l Pre l i m i na ri e s

Philosophical Preliminaries My exposition of the metaphysical status of the body of Christ will utilize some of the categories and terminology gleaned from such contemporary analytic philosophers as Richard Swinburne, J.  P. Moreland, William Lane Craig, Peter van Inwagen, Michael Loux, and E.  J. Lowe, among others.19 For example, let us consider an ordinary physical object, say, a tree. If I say, ‘tree’, I have named an object. In fact, I have named an object outside of my window, about eight feet from where I  sit. Simply saying, ‘tree’, is the telling of a simple and basic story. To tell the story of the tree more fully, I could expand my account by saying: The tree is outside my window, about eight feet from where I currently sit. This tree has a brown covering on the outside, what we normally call ‘bark’. This tree has various branches and twigs that emerge from the trunk and on these branches and twigs are leaves. This being late fall, however, these leaves are sparsely distributed around the tree and are of a dark brown-orange colour.

As I  tell this expanded version of the tree story, we are able to imagine the tree better. The tree is an individual thing, what I will call a substance. As a substance, it is concrete – that is, not abstract – and particular. But as I tell my expanded story of the tree, I do so by discussing features of the tree. These features, attributes, or characteristics I  will call properties. Properties are, to quote Moreland, ‘a universal construed as a multiply exemplifiable abstract entity that is a numerically identical constituent in each of its instances’.20 19

20

Richard Swinburne, The Christian God (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994); J. P. Moreland, Universals (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2001); J. P. Moreland and William Lane Craig, Philosophical Foundations for a Christian Worldview (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2003); Peter van Inwagen, Metaphysics (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1993); E. J. Lowe, A Survey of Metaphysics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Michael Loux, Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction, 2nd edn. (London: Routledge, 2003). Moreland, Universals, p. 74.

11

Discerning the B ody of Christ

Unpacking this definition, we see that a property is a universal feature that an object possesses that other objects can possess as well. For instance, I noted that our tree has brown bark on it. ‘Brown’ is a property that the tree has, but of course we find the abstract universal property ‘brown’ in many locations, tied to many substances, all the time. For instance, an American football is brown, chocolate pudding is brown, the dirt in my garden is brown; many objects possess the property brown. Brown is a multiexemplified and multiexemplifiable entity. When I wish to tell a fuller story about an object, I begin to note its properties; that is, I begin to predicate properties of this substance. Substances are property-bearers. For a substance to exist, it must exemplify at least one property. If a substance’s last and final property passes out of existence, then the substance goes with it. A further distinction about the nature of the relationship of properties to substances needs to be made, and this is to note the fact that some of the properties that a substance possesses it does so essentially and some it possesses accidentally. Essential properties are those that a substance could not fail to have. That is, it would not be the substance it is if it did not exemplify properties that were essential to it. Accidental properties, on the other hand, are properties that a substance could have or might not have without affecting the status of the substance. For example, our tree has the accidental property of being leaved. Clearly, in the full of summer, this tree is in possession of a vast number of leaves, at that time it is leaved. Yet, in the dead of winter – after Jack Frost has done his work – the tree is no longer in possession of leaves and thus has lost the property of being leaved. A tree can have leaves or not; the property of being leaved is one that is accidental to the tree. What might be an essential property of the tree? Surely, there are many, but one obvious one would be being a plant. Being a plant is an essential property of the tree outside my window. If that tree ceased to be a plant, it would cease to be a tree. I also employ the modifier sensible on some properties. Sensible properties are those properties of a substance that are empirically perceivable, or at least potentially so. Thus, the roughness 12

A Spectrum of Views on the Eucharist

of the tree’s bark is a sensible property of the tree. The magnanimity of the benefactor is not a sensible property of the benefactor. With some of these preliminary terminological considerations in place, I can now move to present and clarify some of the models that have been adduced in the tradition to explain Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. First, however, I offer a caveat about the definitions and concepts employed in this effort. I am aware that the preceding discussion is not the only metaphysical picture on offer. There are many other possible ontologies that I will not be utilizing. Further, it might be the case that some views on the metaphysics of the Eucharist are more at home in particular ontologies.21 For instance, the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation has traditionally been exposited utilizing Aristotelian substance metaphysics. Moreover, it might be the case that a particular theorist would balk at a certain ontology because of antecedent commitments to a particular theory of the Eucharist, or vice versa. My purpose in this project, however, is not to argue for the metaphysical necessity of my proposal, nor is it to argue for the metaphysical impossibility of all other views. Rather, as an instance of declarative theology, I am simply making a theological case for a particular way of understanding the Scriptural and liturgical given that the consecrated bread and wine are the body and blood of Christ. So, with this caveat in place, I now move to present a number of possible explications of the presence of Christ in the Eucharist.

A Spectrum of Views on the Eucharist In this section, I survey a range of options regarding the status of the presence of Christ’s body and blood in the Eucharist. My purpose 21

For how one might understand Christ’s presence in the Eucharist given an Idealist ontological framework, see my ‘Idealism and Participating in the Body of Christ’ in Idealism and Christian Theology, eds. Joshua R. Farris and S. Mark Hamilton, Idealism and Christianity vol. 1 (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016), pp. 197–216.

13

Discerning the B ody of Christ

is not to settle longstanding historical disputes over various figures’ views on the Eucharist. I  am not attempting to delineate between heresy and orthodoxy nor to make a proclamation as to which theologian is definitively in which category. This project is not primarily concerned with historical inquiry, but I do want to be able to locate my proposal among those traditionally offered. Accordingly, what I present here is a spectrum of conceptual positions on the issue of the presence with some plausible historical adherents to those views. These various conceptual positions can be located on a spectrum of sorts, with more realist versions on the, say, left, and less realist on the right. On this spectrum, I delineate three major families of exposition of the presence of Christ in the Eucharist, based upon what I term the mode of presence.22 Mode refers to the ontological status of the body and blood of Christ, whether there is an explanation of the substantial presence of Christ in the elements or not. Within each mode family are various manners. Manner refers to the specific nuances of explication that an individual viewpoint within a mode employs. Here is a brief introduction of the three modes, followed by a detailed exposition of the major manners within each mode. I term the three mode families the Corporeal Mode, the Pneumatic Mode, and the No Non-Normal Mode, and I define them as follows.23 On the far-left (realist) side of the spectrum is the first family of modes, the Corporeal Mode. This mode states that at the consecration of the elements, the substances of Christ’s body and blood become present in some fashion related to the consecrated elements. The manners within this mode vary due to what the manner might 22

23

I use the preposition ‘in’ in the phrase ‘the presence of Christ in the Eucharist’ loosely except where specifically noted. Depending upon the specific explication of the mode of Christ’s presence, ‘in’ might indicate a spectrum of localizations, e.g., in the bread; in the Eucharistic ceremony; in the hearts of the faithful; in the administration of the elements; etc. For a discussion of these categories with examples from recent philosophical literature, see my ‘Recent Philosophical Work on the Doctrine of the Eucharist’, Philosophy Compass 11.7 (2016): 402–412.

14

A Spectrum of Views on the Eucharist

say about the consecrated elements, how the elements are related to the body and blood of Christ, and what the process might be for the substantial presence of Christ arriving at the location of the consecrated elements. Moving to the right from the Corporeal Mode is the Pneumatic Mode of the presence family of views. These views hold that Christ becomes present in a non-substantial way. The manners within this mode differ on the role that the elements play and what role the body of Christ plays in the benefits that accrue to the recipient of the Eucharist. Finally, on the far right (non-realist) side are views that fall under the No Non-Normal presence family of views. These views state that in the Eucharist Christ is no more present or no more especially present than he is in his normal presence in the universe. Thus, if a No Non-Normal Mode theorist thought that Christ enjoyed the attribute of being omnipresent, than that theorist would hold that Christ is present everywhere in the universe. His presence in the Eucharist, on this view, would be no different from his presence at any other location. The Corporeal Mode I subdivide each mode into specific manners that are differentiated by certain nuances of explication. Within the Corporeal Mode, on the farthest left – the most realist conceptual position – is what I term the Capernite manner. This view holds that (a) Christ is substantially present, (b) the sensible properties of Christ’s body and blood are present, (c) the bread and wine are no longer substantially present, and (d) the sensible properties of bread and wine are no longer present. The idea is that the bread and wine are transformed into hunks of flesh and cups of blood in substance and sensible properties. In reality, the Capernite conceptual position is merely a hypothetical position. The name comes from the befuddled audience of Christ’s discourse in John 6, who seemed to have thought that Christ was 15

Discerning the B ody of Christ

asking them to eat his body and drink his blood substance, sensible properties, and all. To my knowledge, no one in the tradition has actually defended this view, although it was a pejorative term used during the Reformation of those who held to any substantial presence of Christ in the Eucharist. For our purposes, this view occupies a conceptual position as a bookend to one side of the spectrum of possible understandings of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. The next two segments of the Corporeal Mode fall under what I call the Roman manner. This manner can be subdivided into Romanannihilation and Roman-transubstantiation. Roman-annihilation holds that (a) Christ is substantially present, (b) the bread and wine are no longer substantially present, and (c)  the substances of the bread and wine are annihilated when the substance of Christ’s body or blood arrives. In distinction, Roman-transubstantiation holds likewise to (a) and (b) here – that Christ is substantially present and the bread and wine no longer are – but offers a different (c), namely that the substances of bread and wine are converted into the substances of Christ’s body and blood. Thus, these two views only differ in their explanation of how the change from bread to body or wine to blood occurs. Roman-transubstantiation is the official position of the Roman Catholic Church, especially as noted at the Councils of Lateran IV (1215), Constance (1414–1418), and Trent (1545–1563). Romanannihilation was a position some medieval theologians entertained as they sought to exposit the Roman Catholic Church’s official position.24 Both of these views entail that there is a separation of substance from sensible properties that occurs at the Eucharist. Both the body of Christ and the bread, to pick one element, are divided along substance/sensible properties lines. For the body of Christ, the substance arrives at the location of the bread, but none of its sensible properties do. For the bread, its substance is removed, while all of its sensible properties remain. These views might be termed 24

See, for instance, Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae (ST) IIIa.75.3.

16

A Spectrum of Views on the Eucharist

‘real presence/real absence’ views, for it is not enough on the Roman views for Christ to be substantially present; this must be accompanied by the absence of the bread. If, however, the presence of the substance of the bread is maintained, then one becomes a member of the next manner on the spectrum, what I term the German manner. Like the Roman manner, the German manner can be subdivided into two species, what I call German-Wittenberg25 and German-Nuremberg.26 Both German views share with the Roman manner that (a) Christ is substantially present. But they differ from the Roman view, and share with one another, (b) the bread and wine continue to be substantially present. The German views diverge from one another with respect to the relation between the substantially present bread and the substantially present body of Christ. German-Wittenberg holds to (c) the body and blood of Christ are ‘in, with, and under’ the bread and wine. Whereas the German-Nuremberg view holds its own version of (c), that a union obtains between Christ’s body/blood and the bread/wine modelled on the Incarnation. The difference between these views is that the German-Nuremberg view attempts a more robust explication of the union between Christ’s body/blood and the bread/wine than does the German-Wittenberg perspective. At 25

26

I do not necessarily intend this as a description of Martin Luther’s view. I do think the Wittenberg model fits well with the Wittenberg Reformer’s theology, hence the name. For some of Luther’s discussions of the Eucharist, see ‘The Blessed Sacrament of the Body of Christ’ in vol. 35, pp. 742–758 and ‘The Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ – against the Fanatics’ in vol. 36, pp. 482–523 in Works (St. Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1955). The best commentary on Luther’s view of the Eucharist is still Hermann Sasse, This is My Body: Luther’s Contention for the Real Presence in the Sacrament of the Altar (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Publishing House, 1959). So named in honour of the Reformer Andreas Osiander, who was born in Gunzenhausen and died in Königsberg, but his most productive period was in Nuremberg. Osiander’s writings on the Eucharist are sparse and occasional, yet reflect this model of the Eucharist. For discussion, see David Steinmetz, Reformers in the Wings: From Geiler Von Kaysersberg to Theodore Beza, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 67–69.

17

Discerning the B ody of Christ

times, what I call the German-Wittenberg view has been referred to in the tradition as ‘consubstantiation’, while the German-Nuremberg view has been called ‘impanation’. Both of these terms have also carried some conceptual baggage. I  am not interested in defending particular terms, I am interested in the states of affairs those terms denote. Thus, as I later defend the German-Nuremberg model, I am comfortable labelling this view as ‘impanation’, as long as that term is understood to simply denote the conjunction of the GermanNuremberg (a)–(c). The German views do not hold to any change occurring in the bread; the bread continues with its substance and sensible properties as it always has, albeit now standing in a new relation to the body of Christ. On the German-Wittenberg position, like the views in the Roman manner, there occurs a separation of the body of Christ from its sensible properties. For this view states that Christ is substantially present, but that substance is not sensibly perceived. The German-Nuremberg view, at least as I will exposit it later on, does not need to posit a separation of substance from sensible properties. Rather, on this view the body of Christ assumes the bread in such a manner that the sensible properties of the bread become the sensible properties of part of the body of Christ. This is discussed in much greater detail in subsequent chapters. The Pneumatic Mode I turn now to a survey of the Pneumatic Mode.27 As noted in the preceding, I  will offer a view on the presence of Christ that falls under the Corporeal Mode, so I am most interested in comparison of that view with other Corporeal Mode manners. Still, for the sake of locating my constructive proposal on the spectrum of Eucharistic

27

I derive the terms instrumentalism, parallelism, and memorialism for three of the locations on the Eucharistic spectrum from B. A. Gerrish, ‘The Lord’s Supper in the Reformed Confessions’, Theology Today 23 (1966): 224–243.

18

A Spectrum of Views on the Eucharist

presence options, a discussion of the Pneumatic Mode and No NonNormal Mode manners will be helpful. Continuing with the city theme for denoting locations on the Eucharistic spectrum, the first Pneumatic Mode manner is what I call Antwerp-transignification.28 This view states that although the bread is still sensibly present, and although the body of Christ is not sensibly present, the object is no longer bread, but in fact the body of Christ.29 Edward Schillebeeckx attempted to exposit the Council of Trent’s determinations regarding Roman-transubstantiation, but without doing so by means of an Aristotelian substance metaphysic. Schillebeeckx takes it that what is important for Romantransubstantiation is that the consecrated object is no longer bread, but is the body of Christ. Starting from a phenomenological metaphysical position, objects just are what people take them to be or are what is conventionally determined. Thus, if a person or institution deems an object to be some particular thing, it is that thing. However, I take this to be a Pneumatic Mode view, for, on my definition of substance, Christ is not substantially present in the Eucharist on Antwerp-transignification. Corporeal Mode views hold that there is some ontological connection between the consecrated object 28

29

Named in honour of Edward Schillebeeckx, who was born in Antwerp, Belgium. His view on the Eucharist can be found in The Eucharist (London: Burns & Oates, 2005). In addition to Schillebeeckx, recent articulations of this perspective are in Michael Dummett, ‘The Intelligibility of Eucharistic Doctrine’, in The Rationality of Religious Belief: Essays in Honour of Basil Mitchell, eds. William Abraham and Stephen Holtzer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 231–261; H. E. Baber, ‘Eucharist: Metaphysical Miracle or Institutional Fact?’, International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 74.3 (2013): 333–352; and ‘The Real Presence’, Religious Studies 49.1 (2013): 19–33. One recent – and hard to categorize – article proffers a view of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist that makes use of notions of omnipresence and second-personal shared attention to proffer that the bread and wine are icons, of sorts, of Christ. The authors note an affinity of their position with a traditionally Lutheran view of the presence (my German-Wittenberg). Yet, despite their demurral from explicitly aligning with this view, I find the model adduced to be most harmonious with the Antwerp-transignification position on my Eucharistic spectrum. See Joshua Cockayne et al., ‘Experiencing the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist’, Journal of Analytic Theology 5 (2017): 175–196.

19

Discerning the B ody of Christ

and the body of Christ. The Antwerp-transignification model does not require this kind of connection and is thus unable to support a substantial presence of Christ’s body or blood in the consecrated elements. The next conceptual position on the Eucharistic spectrum within the Pneumatic Mode is what I call Geneva-instrumentalism.30 This view states that the faithful are nourished by the body and blood of Christ, and this feeding is effected by the consumption of the bread and wine. I am tentative about calling this explicitly the view of John Calvin, for that is a source of no small amount of controversy among those who claim to be his theological descendants. As I understand this conceptual position, the body and blood of Christ are a source of spiritual benefit for Christians. Some connection, by the power of the Holy Spirit, is made between the souls of Christians and the actual body of Christ. The Eucharist is a unique opportunity for the Holy Spirit to bring about this connection. Thus, the bread and wine become instruments used by the Holy Spirit to intensify the connection between the faithful and the body and blood of Christ. Linguistically, Calvin categorized the dominical words, ‘This is my body’, as an instance of metonymy, whereby the bread and wine are somehow related to the body and blood of Christ, but are not actually or substantially the body and blood of Christ.31 A further step to the right on the spectrum is Canterburyparallelism, so named for Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of 30

31

One might call this broadly the view of John Calvin; however, the seeds of this perspective can be traced to Martin Bucer and were also expressed by Peter Martyr Vermigli. Calvin’s views can be found in the Institutes IV.17 (see John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Ford Lewis Battles, ed. John T. McNeill, The Library of Christian Classics vol. 21, Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1960). For commentary, see B. A. Gerrish, Grace and Gratitude: The Eucharistic Theology of John Calvin (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1993); Keith A. Mathison, Given for You: Reclaiming Calvin’s Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper (Phillipsburg, NJ: P&R Publishing, 2002). See, for instance, Institutes of the Christian Religion, IV.17.21.

20

A Spectrum of Views on the Eucharist

Canterbury.32 This view states that in an analogous manner as one eats the bread and wine, so does the soul feed on the body and blood of Christ. Cranmer’s view on the parallelism of the Eucharist is evident in a repeated ‘as . . . so . . .’ formula used throughout his polemical works on the Eucharist. The formula comes into play in statements like the following:  ‘as outwardly we eat the bread and drink the wine with our mouths, so inwardly by faith we spiritually eat the very flesh and drink the very blood of Christ’.33 Where Canterbury-parallelism differs from Geneva-instrumentalism is in the way in which the bread and wine operate in the Eucharist. For the Geneva-instrumental position, the bread and wine are themselves used by the Holy Spirit to bring about a spiritual feeding, but for Canterbury-parallelism, the elements are less significant. Cranmer even states that if one cannot receive the bread or wine – perhaps due to illness  – that person is merely to think deeply on the fact that Christ feeds that person spiritually and that person can receive the same benefits. This parallelism can be most poignantly seen in the words of the liturgy Cranmer composed for the 1552 Second Edwardian Prayer Book. The minister is to hand the consecrated bread to the faithful and say, ‘Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith, and with

32

33

I do not intend to insinuate that all Anglican Eucharistic theology or even the Eucharistic theology of the Anglican prayer books is in this manner. Cranmer’s views can be found in his 1550 A Defence of the True and Catholic Doctrine of the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Our Saviour Christ and his 1551 Answer unto a Crafty and Sophistical Cavillation Devised by Stephan Gardyner, both of which can be found in The Remains of Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1833). For discussion of Cranmer’s view, see Peter Newman Brooks, Thomas Cranmer’s Doctrine of the Eucharist: An Essay in Historical Development (New York: Seabury Press, 1965). But for some corrections to Brooks’ errors, see my ‘ “And Feed on Him in Thy Heart”: The Development of Thomas Cranmer’s View of Christ’s Presence in the Eucharist’ (master’s dissertation, Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, 2010). Cranmer, Remains, vol. II, p. 324.

21

Discerning the B ody of Christ

thanksgiving.’ Where does the feeding take place? In the heart, and it occurs along with or in addition to, but not brought about by, the physical taking and eating. The No Non-Normal Mode On my taxonomy, the Pneumatic Mode falls between the Corporeal Mode on one side and the No Non-Normal Mode on the other. For the Corporeal Mode, the elements play a vital role in bringing about what each manner says about the presence of Christ. For the Pneumatic Mode, the emphasis is less on the presence in the elements, and more on the spiritual realities that occur in the recipients. For the No Non-Normal Mode  – within which I  distinguish two manners – the elements are of little concern. For the Zurich-memorialist, the Eucharist is an opportunity for the faithful to intensify their thoughts about Christ. For those who might see themselves as the Eucharistic theological ancestors of Ulrich Zwingli, the Eucharist is not really about the presence of Christ in the elements as much as it is about the presence of Christ on the minds of the faithful.34 This is not to say that the Eucharist is unimportant or even a tangential aspect of Christianity. An adherent to the Zurich-memorialist perspective could endorse the notion that participation in the Eucharistic liturgies is a vital aspect of what it means to be a Christian. It would just be that the potential benefits of the Eucharist are not to be found in any metaphysical state of affairs related to the bread and the wine. Rather, perhaps like a good sermon, scriptural meditation, or personal prayer, the Eucharist is one of those instances where the faithful recall the work

34

As with almost any interpretation of a theologian’s view, it is up for conversation as to whether Zwingli himself endorsed memorialism, even if his followers have. See W. P. Stephens, The Theology of Huldrych Zwingli (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986); Ulrich Zwingli and Heinrich Bullinger, Zwingli and Bullinger: Selected Translations with Introductions and Notes (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1953).

22

A Preview of What Is to Come

of Christ and their relationship to him. The action of the Eucharist is all in the mind, even though it could still be held that this is an important Christian action. Finally for the No Non-Normal Mode  – and rounding out the far-right of my Eucharistic spectrum  – is the conceptual position of Philadelphia-adeipnonism. A  view associated with the Friends Church and Salvation Army, this view holds that one need not  – or even ought not  – participate in the Eucharist at all.35 Not only did Christ not do anything metaphysically noteworthy at the Last Supper, he did not intend it to be repeated. This position is certainly hard to square with the experience of the vast majority of Christians across time, location, and culture. It is, however, something of a conceptual bookend to the Capernite manner. Yet, unlike the Capernite position, it is not merely hypothetical.

A Preview of What is to Come I here offer a brief sketch of the chapters to come. This monograph is primarily interested in the linguistic and metaphysical realities that help to explain and clarify what Christ meant – and what ministers standing in persona Christi mean  – when the phrases ‘This is my body’ or ‘This is the body of Christ’ are uttered of consecrated pieces of bread. The Eucharist is a multifaceted, if not infinitely facetted doctrine, and this monograph is not an exhaustive discussion of all aspects of the Eucharist. However, the metaphysical realities of the Eucharist have been some of the most controversial aspects of the doctrine in the history of Christian theological reflection. The constructive analysis of the Eucharist is an attempt to add some clarity

35

See, for instance, the Friends’ perspective: www.firstfriendswhittier.org/welcome/ sacraments.html; or for the Salvationist position, see www.waterbeachsalvationarmy .org.uk/what-to-know-more/why-does-the-salvation-army-not-baptise-or-holdcommunion/.

23

Discerning the B ody of Christ

to those controversies as well as provide a foundation for deductive theologies that could discuss the innumerable other aspects of the Eucharist. In the next chapter, I establish some of the linguistic realities of these controversial phrases by attending to a close reading of these words during the Last Supper, a survey of some options for understanding these words, and a theological interpretation of relevant Scriptural passages that sets a conceptual backdrop for Christ’s difficult words. Chapter 3 is an investigation of the phenomenon of consecration and how this phenomenon relates to the divine presence at particular locations. The relation of the divine presence to specific locations raises some particular challenges – and opportunities – for discussions of divine omnipresence, a theory of which is included in this chapter. Once we have an understanding of how the bread and wine are consecrated, we can begin an investigation of what those curious phrases mean. I follow George Hunsinger’s discussion of real predication by syntactical equivalence from his The Eucharist and Ecumenism and show how real predication is an instance of renaming. That is, Christ gave another name to the consecrated bread and wine. After the consecration, the bread can be referred to both as ‘bread’ and as ‘the body of Christ’. I  argue that this is a similar linguistic state of affairs as we find in the situation of the Incarnation, given Chalcedonian Christology. Hence, the next move is to apply a metaphysical picture that is consistent with the Chalcedonian guidelines regarding Christology to the Eucharist. Accordingly, Chapter  5 is a discussion of the metaphysics of the Incarnation tutored by the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon and inspired by the contemporary analytic discussion of the Incarnation. Chapter 6 presents impanation, the German-Nuremberg theory of the Eucharist. I delineate three versions of impanation and situate these versions in the context of some historical antecedents. Finally, Chapter  7 presents what I take to be the most helpful exposition of Christ’s presence in the

24

A Preview of What Is to Come

Eucharist. This is a Chalcedonian Christology–inspired version of the German-Nuremberg manner of a Corporeal Mode exposition of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist that I term ‘Sacramental Impanation’. Finally, the Epilogue systematically integrates the various threads of the argument.

25

2

Known in the Breaking of Bread: A Biblical–Theological Foundation for the Eucharist

O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen. Collect for Wednesday in Easter Week

This chapter offers a biblical foundation for understanding the Eucharist. As my declarative project is to make sense of a biblical– liturgical given, a thorough examination of the relevant biblical material is needed. First, a caveat: I do not think that a particular metaphysical explication of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist can be read off the page of the institution narratives from the Synoptics or 1 Corinthians. That is, I think that the biblical data in these passages are metaphysically underdetermined. I do not think it is possible – and the history of interpretation corroborates this claim – to come to the phrases ‘This is my body’ or ‘This is my blood’ with no prior theological-philosophical commitment or predisposition to arrive at a purely objective or neutral reading of those words and thus to determine necessarily where they reside on the spectrum of views delineated in the previous chapter. Hence, my constructive proposal merely needs to be consonant with the words on the page. Yet, I will make the case throughout this monograph that when one considers other issues – when one enlarges the Eucharistic data set, so to speak  – my project makes good sense of the expanded material. Therefore, this chapter should not be seen as an attempt to solve all the exegetical issues of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist, but rather 26

A Lit tle of ‘This’

should be seen as laying an exegetical and biblical–theological foundation for the constructive project that continues through the remaining five chapters. In this chapter, I  begin with a close reading of the dominical words that Christ uttered at the Last Supper.1 This will even take the form of a grammatical analysis that addresses some key curiosities of Christ’s utterances. I will proceed outward by concentric circles to next introduce the analysis of these phrases that George Hunsinger offers in his The Eucharist and Ecumenism.2 This is in the hopes of situating discussions of the semantics of the Eucharist within an ecumenical approach to them. I conclude this section with a presentation of Hunsinger’s constructive proposal – a linguistic proposal that will set the tone for my constructive work to come. From here I continue moving outward to examine the dominical words in their canonical-narrative context, highlighting both the context of the Last Supper and the first post-resurrection commemoration of the Last Supper. Then, I will return to the centre of the mystery by reengaging the difficult statements in light of the analysis. The result of this analysis shows that these words of Jesus are to help his followers know that he is present with them, even though it is not immediately apparent that he is sensibly so. Finally, I relate Paul’s commentary on the Eucharist from 1 Corinthians 10.16 to corroborate these themes.

A Little of ‘This’ The words under investigation are called by many names: the dominical words, the words of institution, the words of interpretation. They 1

2

I assume that an analysis of Christ’s words similarly apply to ministers standing in persona Christi at liturgies of the Eucharist. It will be clear through this work that my concern is not just what Christ meant, but what goes on Sunday by Sunday in liturgies of the Eucharist. George Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism: Let Us Keep the Feast (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008).

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Known in the Breaking of Bread

are those brief phrases that Christ utters about a piece of bread and a cup of wine, ‘This is my body’ and ‘This is my blood’. The confusion and debate centres simply around just what Christ means when he utters those phrases. What is he trying to communicate? Why do these words seemingly predicate his body of bread and his blood of wine? There seems no better place to start an analysis of these phrases than with the very first word. The history of exegesis of the dominical words has focused largely on the word ‘is’; just what sort of an ‘is’ does Jesus intend to use? This is an important question, yet the business about ‘this’ appears to be equally perplexing. For, on a close read of the phrase, ‘This is my body’, it is not immediately clear to what the pronoun refers. Upon reading the phrase in English, one naturally assumes that the antecedent to the pronoun is the nearest previous noun, ‘bread’. However, for the reader of the Greek text of the dominical words, this conclusion is not so easily attained. For, the fact of the matter is that ‘this’ (touto) is a pronoun in the neuter gender, but the most obvious candidate for an antecedent is ‘bread’ (arton), a masculine-gendered noun. This, of course, is not a problem one often encounters in a minimally gender-inflected language such as English. Are we then to think Christ confused in his utterance, or that Paul and the Gospel writers had not progressed very far in their mastery of Greek syntax? I do not think we need to accept a confusion explanation. Let us assume that the Gospel writers were not confused about the use of pronouns and instead strive to charitably understand the intentions of the writers with respect to touto. There are two live grammatical options to account for the antecedent of touto. The first gives touto a conceptual antecedent.3 To quote a leading Greek grammar, ‘The neuter of ουτος is routinely used to refer to a phrase or clause. In such cases, the thing referred to is not a specific noun or substantive.’4 3

4

So Ulrich Luz, Matthew 21–28: A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), p. 381. Daniel B. Wallace, Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1996), p. 333.

28

A Lit tle of ‘This’

To apply this to the sentence in question, ‘this’ refers to the whole process of taking, blessing, breaking, and giving bread that Jesus performs prior to his locution. Hence, ‘this is my body’ means when one takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to others to take and eat, that is the body of Jesus. As Luz comments, ‘If this [explication of touto] is right, then there cannot be anything like an identity between bread and body; it is rather that the event of breaking bread, distributing, and eating relates to Jesus’ body.’5 This is, a non-nominal antecedent, a conceptual antecedent. There is a second live option to explain the gender incongruity of touto and arton. On this construal, the antecedent of the pronoun is indeed arton – as is the intuitive English read – but the gender of the pronoun has shifted to match that of the predicate nominative ‘body’ (to soma) by way of inverse attraction. Wallace comments, ‘on rare occasions there is a gender shift between antecedent and pronoun, the pronoun is almost always caught between two nouns of different gender. One is the antecedent; the other is the predicate nominative.’6 Christ’s locution in full is, ‘touto estin to sōma mou’ (‘This is my body’), with the predicate nominative, to sōma, being a neuter noun. The grammatical idea of inverse attraction states that due to the presence of a predicate noun of a different gender than the pronominal antecedent, and the presence of the copula, even though the actual antecedent of touto is masculine, touto has taken the neuter gender of to sōma. Thus, the meaning of ‘This is my body’ is the sense one gets 5 6

Luz, Matthew 21–28: A Commentary, p. 378, emphasis original. Wallace, Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics, p. 334. Likewise, William Arndt et al., A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature: A Translation and Adaptation of the Fourth Revised and Augmented Edition of Walter Bauer’s Griechisch-Deutsches Wörterbuch Zu Den Schriften Des Neuen Testaments Und Der Übrigen Urchristlichen Literatur (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1979), p. 132: ‘A pronoun subject may be made to agree with the predicate noun’; also, p. 136, commenting on 1 Corinthians 10:16: ‘the acc. τον αρτον vs. 16 is by attraction to the rel. ον‘. So also, I. Howard Marshall, ‘τουτο, referring to the bread (masc.) is neuter by assimilation to the predicate’: The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Exeter: Paternoster Press, 1978), p. 802.

29

Known in the Breaking of Bread

when reading the passage in English; that is, ‘this’ means ‘the hunk of bread in my hand and the pieces of bread that I am passing around to you,’ and, moreover, those objects (this hunk + pieces of bread) are ‘my body’. What, then, is the consequence for the to be verb, given the inverse attraction explanation of touto? A conceptual antecedent interpretation of touto surely wreaks havoc on theories of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist that fall into the category of the Corporeal Mode. Recall that this mode advocates that Christ’s substantial presence in some way is attached to the elements. On the conceptual explanation of touto, Christ did not connect his body to bread at all; rather, Christ linked his body with an event. Bread plays an important role in that event, but not as Christ’s body. The bread is just one player in a series of actions that relate to Christ’s body. Yet, a substance is a different ontological category from an event. Thus, a conceptual interpretation could not square with a substantial connection between Christ’s body and the subject of the pronoun. In fact, a conceptual explanation of touto would seem to trouble most of the Pneumatic Mode theories as well. For even though these theories do not draw an ontological connection between the bread and the body of Christ, they still wish to make some connection in the Eucharist between the bread or wine – not some event – and the body or blood of Christ. Thus, a No NonNormal Mode means of explaining the Eucharist works best with a conceptual touto. Continuing this line of analysis, if we turn to the term that has proved more contentious in the history of the exegesis of this passage, ‘is’, we will see that a conceptual explanation of touto has implications for how one understands the to be verb. The two main sides of the debate over the interpretation of ‘is’ (estin) have pit literal interpretations against representational interpretations. To illustrate this distinction, suppose I were to utter the phrase, ‘This is my pen’. The meaning of the to be verb is significantly different were I to point to a ballpoint pen sitting on my desk or a painting of the very same pen on my wall. I mean something literal when I point to the pen on 30

A Lit tle of ‘This’

my desk. Indeed, I intend to say something about the essence of the object on my desk, that it is a pen, and mine at that. When I point to the painting of the pen on the wall, I mean something not literal, or, at least, less literal. The painting of the pen is a representation of a writing utensil that I own. The painting is not the thing in itself, but rather represents that thing. In applying this distinction to our current pericope, the consequences of a conceptual interpretation of touto is a categorization of estin as representational. It pushes the bounds of common sense to hold that a complex event is literally a body. However, a representational understanding of estin could easily do the work of supporting the link between a body and an event. Consider the event of someone holding two fingers out on both hands in the ‘victory’ sign and shaking them at about shoulder height. Many Americans would not hesitate to see this event as representing the thirty-seventh president of the United States, Richard Nixon. Someone pointing to the gesticulating imitator saying, ‘That is Nixon,’ would mean that by performing those gestures – by enacting a certain event – the actor was representing Nixon. In a similar fashion, on a conceptual interpretation of touto with a representational categorization of estin, one could hold that Christ intends to use a series of events (taking, blessing, breaking, giving bread) to represent his body. Thus, with respect to the grammar of ‘This is my body’, a decision made about pronoun agreement has consequences for decisions made about the to be verb. For if the pronoun stands in for a conceptual antecedent, the to be verb carries representational – rather than literal – force. And this, in turn, determines which mode on the spectrum one ought to adopt. Regarding the inverse attraction interpretation of touto, it seems that either a literal is or an is of representation is an equally open option. ‘This bread’ could be literally ‘my body’, or ‘this bread’ could represent ‘my body’ (in some fashion or other). In summary, for this section, a conceptual touto requires a representational estin while a touto of inverse attraction could support either a literal or representational estin. How, then, is one to adjudicate between these two 31

Known in the Breaking of Bread

touto options? I  suggest that attending to the parallel relationship of the cup words with the bread words leads one to a literal understanding of estin and an inverse attraction reading of touto.

Bread ǁ Cup The move in this section is to show the parallel nature of the cup words and the bread words, in order to make a case for the proper interpretation of the term touto in the bread words. First, I  will show that ‘this’ with respect to the cup clearly has ‘cup’ as its antecedent. A  strong sense of the parallel between the cup words and bread words then indicates that ‘this’ with respect to the bread words ought to likewise be understood as referring specifically to the bread and not the event. Following this, I use the recent analysis of George Hunsinger to set out a range of interpretive possibilities regarding the relation between the pronouns and their direct objects. There are slight differences between the accounts of the dominical words as presented in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke and Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. These differences have not prevented the liturgical tradition from distilling the various portrayals of the Last Supper into a more or less consistent liturgical form of the words of institution. I will here follow a liturgically informed, canonical approach and focus on what is common to all accounts of the dominical words. Thus, the following is a unified presentation of Christ’s actions and words at the scene in question during the Last Supper: Jesus took bread, gave thanks,7 broke and gave it to his disciples, and said, ‘Take,8 this is my body.’ 7

8

Matthew and Mark have ‘blessing’, as does Luke in the Emmaus narrative. It is likely that the idea behind this blessing is the common blessing of God for the provision of bread (‘Blessed are you, Lord, God of the universe who brings forth bread from the earth’), thus functionally equivalent to ‘giving thanks’. Note that Matthew adds ‘eat’ (fagete), as do the liturgies in the broad catholic liturgical tradition.

32

Bread ǁ Cup Table 2.1. Bread/Cup action parallelism Actor/speaker

Action

Jesus

Taking, giving thanks, breaking/ Take, this is my body giving bread Taking, giving thanks, giving a Drink, this is my blood of cup of wine the new covenant

Jesus

Saying

Jesus took a cup, gave thanks, gave it to his disciples, and said, ‘Drink, this is my blood of the new covenant.’

The parallel between the bread actions and words and those of the cup actions and words ought to be apparent. Table 2.1 portrays the parallelism between the bread actions/words and those of the cup. These phrases enjoy a degree of parallelism with one another. Strictly speaking with respect to a geometric definition of ‘parallel’, there can be no degree of parallelism; ‘parallel’ just means two lines on a plane that never intersect. But in regard to concepts, actions, or events, there can be greater or lesser – stronger or weaker – intensities of similarity. What Table  2.1’s presentation of the dominical actions and words shows is a very strong degree of parallelism. Yet, one might note an apparent incongruity in the actions. For the bread action contains the ‘breaking’ of the bread with no prima facie corresponding action vis-à-vis the cup. Does this diminish the intensity of the parallel? No, for analysing the action pragmatically, the act of breaking is implicit in the act of giving. That is, in the narrative Christ takes a loaf of bread in his hands and he intends for each of the participants at the table to eat some of that loaf. He could satisfy this intention in any number of ways. For instance, he could pass the loaf around and tell each person to pull off their own piece; he could hold the loaf out to each person and tell each person to pull off one’s own piece; he could hold the loaf out to each person and tell each person to take a bite out of it; or, as the narrative reads, he could pull off pieces himself and pass those 33

Known in the Breaking of Bread

around. The act of moving an object (or part of an object) from a location in one’s hands to a location in another’s hands is generally, and obviously, an instance of giving. In some circumstances, that need not involve breaking (e.g., if I were to give each of the students in my classroom individually wrapped pieces of candy); in other situations, the most pragmatic way to achieve the intended end is through breaking the object prior to distribution. In the latter instance, one still has a giving action, but it is a slightly more complex giving action than occurs when one does not give a whole object. The breaking of the bread is thus a component of the giving of the bread, and thus the parallelism between bread words and cup words can be maintained. However, one might argue that the act breaking-of-bread does more conceptual work in the overall narrative than simply being a component of distribution. For, on this interpretation, the breaking of the bread foreshadows the abuse Christ’s physical human body will undergo in the following twenty-four hours: his rough handling by his arrestors; his scourging by Pilate’s soldiers; and, ultimately, his death by crucifixion. Thus, does not something extra happen to the bread that does not happen to the cup, and, therefore, weaken the parallelism? This argument can be met in one of two ways. On the one hand, it is clear in the course of the narrative that Jesus breaks the bread prior to interpreting it. Even if one wanted to see a strong substantial identity between the bread and Christ’s body, this does not take place until Christ performs the identification by saying, ‘This is my body’. Hence, on a strictly chronological read of the actions, the bread is not Christ’s body at the moment of the breaking, and the parallelism is intact. This particular argument against parallelism can be met in a second way, though. For even if it is granted that the breaking of the bread foreshadows the abuse of Christ’s physical human body, it does not take much further conceptual work to conceive of the cup actions as likewise foreshadowing this abuse. As the Synoptics describe the cup, they refer to it as the blood that is ‘poured out’, 34

Bread ǁ Cup Table 2.2. Bread/Cup grammatical parallelism – English Subject Verb Direct Imperative Pronoun Copula Possessive Predicate object nom. Jesus Jesus

gave bread? take gave cup drink

this this

is is

my my

body blood

Table 2.3. Bread/Cup grammatical parallelism – Greek Subject Verb

Direct object

Imperative Pronoun Copula Predicate Possessive nom.

Ιησους εδωκενa αρτον? λαβετε Ιησους εδωκεν ποτηριον πιετε a

τουτο τουτο

εστιν εστιν

το σωμα μου το αιμα μου

dous in Matthew.

Table 2.4. Bread/Cup grammatical parallelism – Greek

transliterated Subject Verb

Iēsous Iēsous

Direct object

Imperative Pronoun Copula Predicate Possessive nom.

edōken arton? labete edōken potērion piete

touto touto

estin estin

to sōma to aima

Mou mou

‘shed’, or ‘spilled’.9 Shed blood, spilled blood, blood that is poured out all relate to a conceptual image whereby violence is done to some physical body to bring about the shedding. Accordingly, regardless of how one reads the act of breaking, the actions concerning the cup stand in a strong parallel relation to the bread actions. What Christ does with the bread is parallel to what he does with the cup. While engaged in a very close reading of this scene, one can discern the parallel between the bread and the cup even on the grammatical level, as shown in Tables 2.2 through 2.4. 9

ekchynnomenon.

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Known in the Breaking of Bread

It seems quite clear that these two phrases and actions stand in parallel to one another. The narratives even use the same parts of speech for both the bread words and the cup words. Christ performs similar speech actions in both bread and cup words. In both Christ commands (‘take’ and ‘drink’), he refers (‘this’), and he interprets the element as some aspect of his self (‘is my body’ and ‘is my blood’). Thus, the narratives present the bread and the cup as parallels to one another. The parallel is so strong that we are warranted in using one to explain the other; that is, where the cup is clearer regarding the meaning of its interpretation, it can be used to clarify uncertainties regarding the bread. Consequently, close attention to the cup words reveals no similar gender-agreement issues as the bread words possess. With respect to the cup, Christ says, ‘touto estin to aima mou’,10 where touto is in the neuter gender and to potērion is as well, and is thus the natural antecedent of the pronoun. Further, in Paul’s account, Jesus even says, ‘touto to potērion ē kainē diathēkē estin . . .’ making even more explicit that ‘cup’ is the noun to which the pronoun refers. Thus, upon the weight of the parallelism, I  conclude that in the bread words the antecedent of touto is arton, with the gender incongruity based upon inverse attraction. Accordingly, when one reads the dominical words in English, the grammar works accurately to convey the Greek terminology; it just takes quite a bit more underlying work in the Greek grammar to be able read the phrase as such with confidence.

Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’ With the final form of the dominical words in place, I now turn to consider the interpretive work of George Hunsinger. In this section, I will utilize some of the linguistic analysis he presents as representative of the tradition of Christian theological interpretation resulting 10

In Matthew and Mark’s account.

36

Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’

in an endorsement of his proffered solution. This will only be a preliminary solution to understanding the Eucharistic words, but it will provide a basis from which further analysis and construction can proceed. In his text, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, Hunsinger presents a possible route for Christian unity, a route for ecumenical convergence to the point of Eucharistic sharing. Hunsinger’s work will not be the final word on ecumenically motivated Eucharistic theology, but it does present a possible prelude to many Christian bodies sharing the feast of the Eucharist. Here I present some of the main claims that Hunsinger makes with respect to an ecumenical ‘irreducible minimum’ for understanding the dominical words in the context of the liturgy. I follow this by adding greater linguistic clarification of Hunsinger’s analysis.11 Hunsinger’s Preliminary Analysis of the Dominical Words There have been various attempts by theologians to analyse the sentence ‘This is my body’. A specific linguistic difficulty for the analysis is the relation between the various components of the sentence and the relation that these components have to the physical and metaphysical reality encountered in the Eucharistic liturgy. Hunsinger presents an analysis of three of the prominent families of answers to the question of the relation of the terms ‘this’ to ‘my body’. It must be noted that there are likely variations and nuances within these families of exegesis, but Hunsinger intends his analysis to present the major characteristics of these families. As Hunsinger explicates it, the traditional Roman Catholic answer to the question of the linguistic relation of ‘this’ to ‘my body’ cannot be addressed without first describing the Roman Catholic position on the metaphysical dynamics of the consecrated elements. 11

I note here that the analysis pivots to consider the dominical words in the context of the liturgy. It is an assumption of my project that the dominical words in the narratives of Scripture and in the context of liturgical rites attempt to express the same notions.

37

Known in the Breaking of Bread

On my terminology, the Roman Catholic position is a Corporeal Mode explication of the Roman manner, which I  call Romantransubstantiation. As stated in the last chapter, the bread is no longer metaphysically present at the location where it once was, even if its sensible properties remain present there. In conjunction, the body of Christ comes to occupy the place where the bread once was, and where the bread empirical features continue. This theory requires that at the arrival of the body of Christ, none of the sensible properties of that body come along with it. Hunsinger rightly sees this complicated metaphysical story as giving rise to a complicated linguistic picture. He states that syntactically ‘this’ stands in a relation of identity with ‘body’.12 Yet, Hunsinger avers, the relation seems to be less like identity and more like that of ‘container and contained’.13 He goes on, ‘In the eucharist the bread kept its local dimensionality while losing its substance, whereas the body kept its substance while losing its local dimensionality.’14 What this amounts to linguistically, on Hunsinger’s analysis, is that the demonstrative pronoun ‘this’ and ‘body’ are syntactically identical. Whereas metaphysically, on Hunsinger’s analysis, the sensible properties of the bread contained the substance of the body of Christ – but none of the sensible properties of Christ’s body. Despite his clear analysis and the virtue of holding together the linguistic and metaphysical aspects of an explication of Roman-transubstantiation, I  am not sure Hunsinger’s examination is correct in its presentation of the Roman perspective on the linguistic dynamics of the sentence, ‘This is my body’; at least not according to the nuance offered by Thomas Aquinas. Before discussing Thomas’ view of the linguistic situation in the words of institution, it is important to note that on Thomas’ view the conversion of the bread into Christ’s body occurs at the end of

12 13 14

Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, p. 57. Ibid. Ibid.

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Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’

the utterance of the phrase ‘This is my body’.15 In Summa Theologiae IIIa.78.5, Thomas asks about the truth of the utterance ‘This is my body’, and he specifically focuses on the meaning of the word ‘this’.16 Because for Thomas the words of institution bring about a conversion of the bread into the body of Christ, and because this conversion is not achieved until the utterance is complete, the meaning of ‘this’ is complicated. For Thomas, ‘this’ does not function as a demonstrative pronoun, as I  described it previously; rather, the ‘this’ in the utterance is a bound variable referring only to the general notion of that-which-stands-under-the-sensible-properties of the object in Christ’s hand. At the beginning of the utterance, the ‘that’ in the that-which-stands-under-the-sensible-properties refers to bread, whereas at the end of the utterance the ‘that’ refers to the body of Christ. Let me offer an example to get at Thomas’ meaning. Suppose I place a circular mat on the ground outside my classroom on the first day of classes. I gather some students around and tell them that anyone who stands on this mat, by standing on the mat, becomes my student for the duration of the term. Tim steps onto the mat and thereby becomes my student. I point over towards Tim and start to utter, ‘This is my student’. Except, as I am uttering this sentence, Tim steps off the mat and Sue steps on. On Thomas’ view, when I uttered the word ‘this’, I  uttered the pronoun as a bound variable, which refers to every person who steps on the mat. Even though I  began the utterance with Tim on the mat and by the time I completed the sentence Sue was on the mat, my use of ‘this’ did not change, and the sentence was an apt expression of a true proposition. All that changed was the person who stood in for the bound variable ‘every person’, so both Tim and Sue ought to be thought of as my students. 15

16

See ST IIIa.75.7 ad 1, for instance, ‘the last instant of pronouncing the words is the first instant in which Christ’s body is in the sacrament’. Thomas Aquinas, The Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas, trans. the Fathers of the English Dominican Province (1920), Online edition, newadvent.org. Thomas offers a similar discussion in his commentary on 1 Corinthians 11.23–25.

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Known in the Breaking of Bread

Thus, on the Roman view as presented by Thomas it is not the case that ‘this’ and ‘my body’ are identical simplicater. Rather, ‘this’ is identical to that-which-stands-under-the-sensible-properties, which at the beginning of the utterance is identical to bread and at the end of the utterance is identical to the body of Christ (which is of course aptly referred to by Christ by the singular term ‘my body’). So, ‘this’ can only be considered as identical to ‘my body’ once the conversation has been complete and ‘my body’ aptly designates that-which-stands-under-the-sensible-properties. Here is a brief summary of this section. I  first showed Hunsinger’s description of the Roman perspective on the words of institution. I then clarified this description by recourse to Thomas’ discussion. Now I  offer this evaluation of this discussion of the linguistic situation of the Roman view:  it is unnecessarily complicated and seems to be the kind of linguistic state of affairs one would only come to should they have already had metaphysical commitments. Of course, as Thomas thought, Roman Catholics do have a commitment to the metaphysics of the Romantransubstantiation view. So it is not surprising that a complicated linguistic explanation would emerge from an exotic metaphysical explication of the Eucharist. However, I do not feel compelled to adopt such a metaphysical starting point. Thus, I  am happy to adopt a more simple understanding of the ‘this’ in ‘This is my body’. As I argued in the previous section, I think it is easy to see ‘this’ not as a bound variable but as a demonstrative pronoun with ‘bread’ from the previous sentence as its antecedent. This is a simple instance of the anaphoric use of the demonstrative pronoun, which I  think is the most common way to use pronouns. Suppose I utter the sentences, ‘Sue is my student. She is very studious and her written work is exemplary.’ The anaphoric use of pronouns in the preceding sentence prevents the stilted-sounding repetition of ‘Sue is my student. Sue is very studious and Sue’s written work is exemplary.’ In like manner, I understand: 40

Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’ Jesus took bread, gave thanks, broke and gave it to his disciples, and said, ‘Take, this is my body.’

to include a number of instances of anaphora: Jesus took bread, gave thanks [for the bread], broke [the bread] and gave [the bread] to his disciples, and said, ‘Take [this bread], this [bread] is my body.’

Filling in these instance of ‘bread’ is not illegitimate and indeed helps to avoid confusion. However, it is awfully stilted and redundant. Thus, it would seem aesthetically pleasing to simply preserve the locution, ‘This is my body’ where by ‘this’ we mean ‘this bread’. Furthermore, if Thomas’ view were apt then it would be the case that after the utterance of the sentence, ‘This is my body’, it would no longer be appropriate to refer to the object in Christ’s hands as ‘bread’ for the object is no longer bread. Yet, in Paul’s commentary on the Last Supper found in 1 Corinthians, he continues to use the term ‘bread’ to refer to that object. In 1 Corinthians 11.23–25, Paul recounts the scene from the Last Supper including Christ’s utterance of ‘This is my body’. Nevertheless, quick on the heels of this is reference to the object in question as ‘bread’: ‘For as often as you eat this bread (ton arton touton)’.17 ‘Whoever, therefore, eats the bread (ton arton)’.18 ‘Let a person examine himself then and so eat of the bread (tou artou)’.19

Thus, it seems that Paul too finds the pronoun ‘this’ in ‘This is my body’ to have been an anaphoric demonstrative pronoun that means, in this context, ‘this bread’.20 17 18 19

20

1 Corinthians 11.26. 1 Corinthians 11.27. 1 Corinthians 11.28. For this argument, see Thomas Cranmer, Defence of the True and Catholic Doctrine of the Sacrament, in Writings of the Rev. Dr. Thomas Cranmer (London: Religious Tract Society, 1831), p. 82. I imagine the defender of Roman manner views will want to circumvent this portrayal. ‘Paul did not intend to refer to the substance of bread, he was just talking

41

Known in the Breaking of Bread

We can now move out of a discussion of the Roman perspective, and follow Hunsinger’s analysis of the linguistic aspects of other modes and manners of explication. As we conceive of expositions of the metaphysics of the Eucharist as on a spectrum with the Capernite manner on the left end and Philadelphia-adeipnonism on the other, then the next step from Roman-transubstantiation to the right are the German manners. Martin Luther is, for Hunsinger, the representative of the German group, although as I have shown there is more conceptual room within the German manner than simply Luther’s position. On Hunsinger’s analysis of the linguistic features of Luther’s view, the relation of ‘this’ to ‘body’ in the dominical words would be something akin to synecdoche. Hunsinger comments, ‘ “This” would apparently be related to “my body” as . . . a part can be put for the whole in which it is included.’21 For an example of synecdoche, suppose I said, ‘Check out my wheels!’ when I wished to draw someone’s attention to my car. However, Hunsinger thinks that Luther wants to go beyond a ‘part for whole’ locution and instead hold to a ‘dialectical identity’. Dialectical identity is the relation of identity and difference between two complete wholes. ‘ “Bread” and “body” [or “this” and “body”] would be two ways of looking at one integral reality.’22 A third option Hunsinger explores for understanding the relation between the terms ‘this’ and ‘body’ in the dominical sentence is that offered by Calvin. According to Hunsinger’s Calvin, the sentence is a metonymy, ‘A metonymy uses the name of one thing for

21 22

about the sensible properties of the object that appeared as bread but was really Christ’s body!’ Once a commitment is made to a complicated and exotic metaphysical story, complicated and exotic linguistic analyses are sure to follow. But my project here is not to show the metaphysical or logical impossibility of Roman manner views. Rather, I will simply be adopting a straightforward and simple interpretation of the linguistic state of affairs and then offering as straightforward and simple (and Christologically informed) a metaphysical explication as I can. Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, p. 54. Ibid.

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Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’

something else with which it is associated.’23 For instance, this linguistic phenomenon occurs when one refers to the ruling monarch as ‘the crown’. On this construal, according to Hunsinger’s presentation, ‘the word this would be related to the word “body” by a process of association . . . “bread” and “body” would in some sense be external to one another’.24 Metonymy is a slippery linguistic category, and Hunsinger notes that at times it is possible to read a more intimate relation of participation, not just association, into the term. For instance, suppose when the sheriff walks into the saloon in the old west, someone might say, ‘It’s the law!’ because the sheriff participates in the legal system of the town. With these three traditional linguistic options on the table, Hunsinger enters his own contribution to understanding the dominical words. This is the view that Hunsinger finds most promising for his ecumenical proposal. I quote him here at length: There is arguably an irreducible minimum . . . [that] pertains to the liturgical use of the statement ‘This is my body’. Ecumenically it is not enough to interpret it either as ‘This signifies my body’ or as ‘This contains my body’ . . . it must be possible for all traditions to assert – without equivocation – at the level of first-order discourse as found in the liturgy, that the relation of ‘This bread’ to ‘my body’ is actually one of real predication.25

Real predication works something like this. When the minister refers to a consecrated piece of bread, the minister aptly says, ‘this is the body of Christ’, and the minister must do so really. That is, on this proposal, one cannot use the dominical words with scare quotes, this is not the ‘body of Christ’, Christ did not say this is my ‘body’ (and by ‘body’ I mean, ‘not my body’). Consequently, we have to ask the faithful, when holding a piece of communion bread, ‘is

23 24 25

Ibid., p. 55. Ibid. Ibid., p. 60.

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this the body of Christ?’. If the answer is ‘no’, then real predication has not obtained and Eucharistic sharing is not possible. If, however, the catechizing minister points to the piece of communion bread and asks, ‘is this the body of Christ?’ and the respondent says, ‘yes’, then real predication has obtained and, on Hunsinger’s proposal, a step towards Eucharistic sharing has been taken. This is the linguistic proposal that I will be advancing in my constructive work. However, I do not think that real predication necessarily entails a specific metaphysical explication of the Eucharist, although I will certainly be advancing what I think is the best explication. Hunsinger’s linguistic proposal targets metaphysical explications near the centre of my spectrum. Those on the No Non-Normal Mode edge of the spectrum probably would not refer to the bread as ‘the body of Christ’ simply on the level of first-order discourse. But those in the Corporeal and Pneumatic Modes surely could. Whether those in the Pneumatic Mode family actually would use this phrase in this manner is a different issue. This is the theological family to which Hunsinger targets his proposal. Those in the Roman manner, however, would be uncomfortable with the continued use of the term ‘this bread’. On the official Roman Catholic doctrine, after the consecration the bread is no longer present on the altar. This is in fact just what John Wyclif was posthumously condemned for holding by the Council of Constance in 1418. However, if Hunsingerian real predication is to obtain, if the bread is real, so is the body; if the body is real, so is the bread. I take Hunsinger’s notion of ‘real predication’ to entail the following. At, and after, the words of institution have been uttered regarding a piece or pieces of bread and some measure of wine, one may refer to the bread as ‘the body of Christ’ and the wine as ‘the blood of Christ’. Real predication is merely a thesis about a linguistic phenomenon and says nothing about the underlying metaphysical state of affairs that makes these predications true. Suppose someone were to walk into the Upper Room after Christ’s utterance of the words of institution, pointed at the bread in his hand or the wine in the cup, 44

Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’

and asked, ‘What is this?’. A disciple could properly say, ‘the body of Christ’, or ‘the blood of Christ’. Hunsinger is attempting to rule out, as an ecumenical option, translating ‘This is my body’ to ‘This signifies my body’ or ‘This contains my body’.26 Rather, Hunsinger wants to affirm, with the Wittenberg Concord of 1536, ‘Through the sacramental union the bread is the body of Christ.’27 Hunsinger’s Syntactical Equivalence I find Hunsinger’s notion of real predication – his ecumenical ‘irreducible minimum’  – to be the most straightforward and simple way of understanding the linguistic features of the words of institution. In this section, I will add some greater clarity to Hunsinger’s theory. There are at least three possible routes for giving a further account of real predication. I call these routes the identity route, the epiphany route, and the equivalence route. Let us follow these routes to see which will provide a greater understanding of Hunsinger’s proposal. The first route is the identity route. Hunsingerian real predication might be understood to entail that the dominical words make an identity statement:  ‘This bread is my body’, or, ‘This bread is the body of Christ.’ Real predication as identity statement is such that ‘this bread’ is identical to ‘the body of Christ’. On the simplest explanations of identity, an object is only identical with itself, a = a. But strict identity of this sort is usually neither illuminating nor interesting. However, we language users make identity statements that are interesting and occasionally illuminating, as in the sentence:  ‘Hesperus is Phosphorous’ or ‘Samuel Clemens is Mark Twain’. It might not have been clear to the ancients that the first star visible in the evening and the last star visible in the morning were in fact the same object, and thus once one learns that ‘Hesperus is 26 27

Ibid. Ibid.

45

Known in the Breaking of Bread

Phosphorous’ and ‘Phosphorous is Hesperus’, one is in fact illuminated by this interesting sentence. When a speaker predicates ‘Hesperus’ of Venus and ‘Phosphorous’ of Venus, one is able to achieve the sentence ‘Hesperus is Phosphorous’. But one is only able to do so because the object in question is self-identical, and so the different terms refer to one and the same object. As philosopher W. V. O. Quine once observed, ‘what are identical are the objects with themselves and not the names with one another; the names stand in the statement of identity, but it is the named objects that are identified’.28 So when we have a sentence in the form of a statement of identity like, ‘This bread is the body of Christ’, are we to suppose that we simply have one object that is referred to by two names? If an identity statement read of real predication is accurate, then we are only talking about one object. ‘This bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ both refer to one and only one object in the cosmos. It is unclear to me, however, how an identity read of real predication is possible, for this would entail that the predicates of one side of the identity statement are apt of the other. Yet, to say of the body of Christ, ‘it is in heaven’, does not seem to be proper of ‘this bread’, which is so very clearly right there on the altar. Likewise, to say of the bread, ‘it is two inches tall and weighs 1 ounce’ does not seem to be an apt predication of ‘the body of Christ’. Therefore, a strict identity of the predications ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ does not seem the most plausible explication of real predication. The second possible route for understanding real predication I  call the epiphany route in honour of Alexander Schmemann. With respect to this possible explication of real predication, I quote Schmemann from his article ‘Sacrament and Symbol’, contained as an appendix to For the Life of the World:

28

W. V. O. Quine, Methods of Logic, rev. edn (New York, NY: Holt, Rinehart and Winston Inc., 1959), p. 209.

46

Hunsinger’s ‘Real Predication’ In the early tradition . . . the relationship between the sign in the symbol (A)  and that which it ‘signifies’ (B)  is neither a merely semantic one (A means B), nor causal (A is the cause of B), nor representative (A represents B). We called this relationship an epiphany ‘A is B’ means that the whole of A expresses, communicates, reveals, manifests the ‘reality’ of B (although not necessarily the whole of it) without, however, losing its own ontological reality.29

This seems a more plausible read of real predication than simple identification. We still have two things, ‘This bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’; but the bread manifests the body of Christ. The whole of the bread, maintaining its ontological reality, expresses and participates in the body of Christ. However, the trouble with this view is that it is not entirely clear what this participation relation is. Do we need to universalize the body of Christ so that it can be multiply instantiated in various particulars? Need we divide Christ’s body into non-empirical universal properties that can be instantiated in bread particulars without the body being empirically present? This view might save us the bread, but it is not clear how it really gets us the body that makes the predication ‘the body of Christ’ real. If we can find a more plausible understanding of real predication, that would be preferable. Finally, the third manner of explicating real predication is one that Hunsinger himself suggests. He writes, ‘a real predication of syntactical equivalence must be possible regardless of how it is explained’.30 The notion of syntactical equivalence here is that both terms play a similar syntactical role of picking out the object of the predication. ‘This is bread’ and ‘This is the body of Christ’, where ‘bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ both serve as apt predicates of ‘this’. Further, the terms ‘this’, ‘bread’, and ‘the body of Christ’ all refer to one thing. The distinction between this view and the ‘identity statement’ view is 29

30

Alexander Schmemann, For the Life of the World: Sacraments and Orthodoxy (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1988), p. 141. Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, p. 60.

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Known in the Breaking of Bread

that on that view ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ were identical and identical in all their predicates. The syntactical equivalence view merely says that these terms are real predicates of one thing, but not that those predicates themselves are strictly identical. The previous sections analysed the Eucharistic words on a very micro level, attending to the very words and grammatical constructions themselves. As Hunsinger has shown, there is a range of interpretive options that exegetes can take at this micro, grammatical level. Further on in this monograph, after a few more foundational levels have been laid, I will explicate a Eucharistic metaphysical state of affairs that underpins Hunsinger’s notion of real predication by syntactical equivalence. Nevertheless, there are many conceptual layers that need to be laid down first before I can make that interpretive move. One conceptual layer that is the focus of the next section of this chapter is to place the Eucharist in a biblical–theological context. Thus, I will be zooming out in the next section to look at Christ’s curious words in the narrative contexts surrounding the utterance of those words.

‘Because I Go to the Father, You Will See Me No Longer’ John 13–16 presents Jesus’ last evening with his disciples before his death.31 As I described in the previous chapter, the Christian liturgical tradition  – especially Maundy Thursday liturgies  – has read these chapters of John as providing a canonical-narrative and conceptual context for the institution of the Eucharist found in the Synoptics and Paul. My purpose in examining these chapters from the Fourth Gospel is to highlight the theme of Christ’s immanent 31

On the Fourth Gospel’s account being that same Passover meal described in the Synoptics, see Andreas Köstenberger, ‘Was the Last Supper a Passover Meal?’ in The Lord’s Supper: Remembering and Proclaiming Christ until He Comes, eds. Thomas R. Schreiner and Matthew R. Crawford (Nashville, TN: B&H Academic, 2010), pp. 6–30.

48

‘Because I Go to the Father, You Will See Me No Longer’

departure from the disciples while yet maintaining presence with them. Theories on the metaphysics of the Eucharist are typically theories about the metaphysics of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. I  want to show here that there is biblical precedent for focus on Christ’s presence. In interpreting this section of John, we must keep firmly in mind its narrative setting within the Fourth Gospel. 13.31–33 provides the impetus for the remaining discourse through chapter 17. Christ already indicated in 12.23 that, ‘the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified’, which marked that the specific acts for which he came to earth were at hand. Moreover, Christ repeats this announcement in 13.31 with even more immediate temporality. The dramatic scenes of the foot washing and the revealing of the betrayer to the Beloved Disciple have passed. The tension is still heightened, however, when Christ says, hearkening back to 12.23, ‘Now is the Son of Man glorified, and God is glorified in him.’ With the recognition of the magnitude of these present moments in his mind, Christ says in 13.33, ‘Little children (teknia), yet a little while I am with you.’ Teknia32 shows the tenderness which Christ feels for his disciples at this tumultuous time when he says, ‘Where I am going you cannot come.’33 Christ’s ‘going’ is the theme that informs the rest of the discourse.34 Following Christ’s statements in 13.33, the distressed state of the disciples highlights both the leitmotif of Christ’s immanent departure and his desire to encourage his disciples. Both Peter35 and

32

33

34

35

Teknia is used only here in John, never in the Synoptic Gospels, though it is an oftrepeated title in 1 John (2.1, 12, 28; 3.7, 18; 4.4; 5.21). It appears that, using Culpepper’s terminology, 13.33 constitutes both an ‘internal analepsis’, with 7.33–34, and an ‘external prolepsis’, with Jesus’ ultimate going to the Father. See R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1987), p. 57. Between 13.33 and 16.33, Jesus uses forms of ypagō five more times (13.36; 14.4, 28; 16.5, 10); apelthō twice (16.7); and poreuō six times (14.2, 3, 12, 28; 16.7, 28). 13.36.

49

Known in the Breaking of Bread

Thomas36 attempt to probe further the meaning of Christ’s leaving. Carson, in demonstrating the ability of 16.5 to comport with 13.36 and 14.5, describes these petitions as, ‘a protest; the unspoken question is “Why are you leaving me?” ’37 Thus, it is not the knowledge of the destination of Jesus’ exodus that the disciples desire, but alleviation of their current distress. The questions of Philip38 and Judas (not Iscariot)39 show continuing confusion on the part of the disciples regarding Christ’s going. Christ himself testifies to the disciples’ distress when he references their grief40 and urges them, ‘do not let your hearts be troubled’.41 Christ attempts to give comfort to his disciples by giving them such assurances as that he goes to prepare a place for them,42 that he will send the Paraclete so as not to leave them as orphans,43 and by issuing them his peace.44 Thus, to counter the disciples’ distress at his departure, Christ offers consolation and comfort. However, despite these comfortable words, Christ offers a different type of encouragement in his portrayal of the brutal reality of the disciples’ impending persecution.45 With their leader no longer present, the disciples will not be able to enjoy the ability to avoid the brunt of the religious persecution previously directed towards Christ.46 Yet, they are still to keep Jesus’ commandments and abide in his love.47 Thompson comments, ‘Jesus’ last words and prayer reassure the disciples of his presence in spite of his absence. His 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

14.5. D. A. Carson, The Gospel According to John (Leicester: InterVarsity Press, 1991), p. 533. 13.8. 14.22. lypē 16.6, 20ff. 14.1, 27. 14.2. 14.16, 18. 14.27. 15.18–25 and 16.1-4a. Carson, John, p. 532. 15.10.

50

The Epistemolo gy of Emmaus

absence is occasioned, first, by his death; second, by his departure to the Father. Yet he will be with the disciples, even if not as he was before.’48 This Johannine context of the Last Supper highlights the presence/absence concerns of Christ and the disciples better than the Synoptics do. John’s focus in this scene centres on the impending giving of the Holy Spirit. Undoubtedly, one of the roles of the Holy Spirit is to bring it about that Christ is still present. In fact, this is the same work the Eucharist does as Christ instituted it on this night. Let us hold the idea that just prior to the institution Christ was concerned to convey to his disciples the idea that he would be present with them and let us turn to an event just after Christ’s resurrection.

The Epistemology of Emmaus The institution of the Lord’s Supper and the Road to Emmaus vignette provide canonical-narrative bookends to the climactic events of the intervening period. What I  would like to do in this section is to examine the Road to Emmaus narrative found in Luke 24.13–35 as a paradigmatic celebration of the Eucharist. As we see the work that the Eucharist does in this passage, we will be able to reengage with the institution narrative to discern a similar theme. First, I  will set the Emmaus meal in its narrative context. Then I  will compare the series of actions at the meal that categorize it as a veridical Eucharist  – indeed, the very first post-resurrection Eucharist in Scripture. Finally, I will elucidate the epistemic effect of the Eucharist in this context before we return to see this theme displayed in the Last Supper. Luke’s narrative progresses at an excited pace from the institution of the Lord’s Supper in chapter 22 through the Emmaus account 48

Marianne Meye Thompson, John: A Commentary (Louisville, KY: Wesminster John Knox Press, 2015), p. 358.

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Known in the Breaking of Bread

in chapter 24. After the Last Supper, the Gospel writer records the events of Christ’s prayers in Gethsemane, his betrayal and trials, and ultimately his passion and crucifixion. There is a timely lull in the descriptions as the Lord is lowered from the cross and buried. Moreover, as the women who were to anoint Christ’s physical human body rested on the Sabbath in 23.56, so too does the narrative come to a quiet pause. But, 24.1 opens with, ‘but’; Christ has died, he is in the tomb, he is on the Holy Saturday Sabbath, but the narrative does not end there. Luke 24.2–7 describes the women’s arrival at the tomb, their perplexity at the entrance being open, their amazement at the lack of a body in the tomb, and the angels’ startling revelation of Christ’s resurrection. However, the reader of the narrative has not yet encountered the resurrected Jesus; he has not yet reappeared in the narrative. In fact, the reader is much like Peter, who hears the testimony of the women in 24.12 and ‘marvels’ at these things. Then, verse 13 marks a clear break from the previous section. Two of Christ’s disciples begin a journey from Jerusalem to Emmaus that same Easter day. They are leaving the heart of the action; they are leaving the main scene. If it were not for our following them in the narrative, we as readers would think that they would miss gaining any possible further knowledge illuminating the puzzle of the morning. Finally, in verse 15, we meet the resurrected Christ: ‘Jesus himself drew near’49 to the travellers. We the audience get inside information as to the identity of this new companion for the journey, but the narrator is quick to tell us in the next verse that the eyes of the two disciples were kept from coming to know him.50 In irony that borders on the comic, Christ asks these two what all the hubbub in Jerusalem was about – the very hubbub he caused. He chastises them in verse 25 for not believing the prophets regarding the Christ. This knowledge motif is important to understand the 49 50

Luke 24.15. Luke 24.16: Colloquially: ‘they had no idea it was him’. Marshall, notes the passive of krateō as indication of a divine action in prevention. Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, p. 893. See also Darrell L. Bock, Luke (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1994), p. 1910.

52

The Epistemolo gy of Emmaus

work the Eucharist does later in the passage. The two disciples did not ‘recognize’ him; the verb here includes the root gnō : they did not know him. Then in 25, they did not ‘believe’ (have faith in, trust) the words of the prophets when they spoke about the Christ. The disciples have a lack of knowledge; they are ignorant of the truth about Jesus. They are ignorant of two truths about Jesus: first, that he is right in front of them; and second, that the events of the past few days were all prophesied to occur. In the course of the next few verses, Christ eliminates both of these areas of ignorance. Jesus first addresses the second ignorance: ‘And beginning with Moses and from all the prophets, he interpreted to them everything in the Scriptures about himself.’51 One can imagine that on a seven-mile walk, Jesus would have had plenty of time to elucidate the writings of the prophets about him. However – here then is more irony – Christ is teaching the two disciples about himself without their knowing that it was he himself who was doing the teaching.52 We the readers are left wondering if the disciples might never know that Christ is with them when, in verse 28, Christ makes a move to go on farther past the town of Emmaus. Yet, the disciples implore him to stay and have a meal with them; and our minds are drawn back to the meal narrated just a few chapters previous. Before we get further with the narrative, let us compare the actions of the Emmaus meal with those bread actions from the Last Supper (see Table 2.5). Luke 24.30 states, ‘And when he had reclined [at the dinner table] with them, taking bread, he blessed it, and breaking it he gave it to them.’ Even on a brief glance, one notices similarities with the Last Supper. Marshall comments, ‘The language of [this] verse points irresistibly to the action of Jesus at the last supper.’53 The Emmaus meal contains the same series of actions

51 52

53

Luke 24.27. Bock, Luke, p. 1915: ‘The irony of the narrative is that they are in the midst of what they desired and what the others had not experienced.’ Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, p. 898.

53

Known in the Breaking of Bread Table 2.5. Last Supper/Emmaus action parallelism Last Supper Emmaus

Taking, giving thanks, breaking/giving bread Taking, blessing, breaking/giving bread

Table 2.6. Last Supper/Emmaus grammatical parallelism Lexical form Last Supper Iēsous Emmaus [Iēsous] Translation Jesus a b

c d e

f g h

lambanō labōna labōn taking

artos artonb arton bread

eulogeō eucharistēsasc ethlogēsenf blessed

klaō eklasend klasasg broke

didōmi edōkene epedidouh gave

Both aorist active participles, nominative singular masculine. Both accusative singular masculine nouns functioning as direct objects of the main and subsequent verbs. Aorist active participle, nominative singular masculine. Aorist active indicative verb. Aorist active indicative verb; recall dous (aorist active participles, nominative singular masculine) in Matthew. Aorist active indicative. Aorist active participle, nominative singular masculine. Imperfect active indicative verb.

by the lead actor, Christ, as he did at the Last Supper: take, bless, break, and give. As noted in Table 2.5, ‘blessing’ and ‘giving thanks’ are functional equivalents. Thus, even though in Luke’s institution narrative Jesus ‘gives thanks’ for the bread, Matthew and Mark have Jesus ‘blessing’ the bread as he does in Table 2.6 at Emmaus. Minor inflections aside, we have the exact same terminology used to describe the scene in Emmaus as in the Last Supper. At the very weakest, one must suppose that the Emmaus meal simply recalls the Last Supper. Yet, it seems a stronger connection is warranted to the point of seeing the Emmaus meal as the first instantiation of the ceremony Christ instituted a few days prior. 54

The Epistemolo gy of Emmaus

With this premise in place, we can move forward in the narrative of the Emmaus meal to analyse the effect of the meal on the disciples. Recall that the two disciples had two areas of ignorance in their minds: ignorance of the prophetic truths about the Christ and ignorance of Christ’s presence with them. On the road, Christ attempted to enlighten them with the truth concerning the writings from the Scriptures, now at the table, he dispenses with their other ignorance. One of the key features of the Emmaus account is the noetic effect of the ceremony of the meal. Upon Christ’s taking of the bread, blessing it, breaking, and giving it to the two disciples, ‘their eyes were opened and they recognized him’.54 They moved from a state of ignorance to a state of knowledge. Where they once did not know Christ in 24.16, now they do know him in 24.31. Now, what exactly did the disciples know? It seems that they recognized or were able to endorse cognitively the state of affairs of Christ’s being present to them. This particular state of affairs did not change, it was being instantiated from the moment Christ joined their journey. Rather, what changed was the epistemic access the disciples had to the truth of this situation.55 This shift brought about by the re-performance by Christ of his actions at the Last Supper.56 54

55

56

Luke 24.31, a ‘theological passive’ dianoigō indicates divine action in the opening of the eyes that mirrors the prevention of recognition in verse 16. Bock, Luke, p. 1920. To extend the application of this event to the original audience, John Nolland comments, ‘Luke wants to make the point that the Christians of his day were able to have the living Lord made known to them in the eucharist celebration in a manner that was at least analogous to the experience of the Emmaus disciples’. Luke. 18:35– 24:53, Word Biblical Commentary vol. 35c (Dallas, TX: Word Books, 1993), p. 1206. Augustine comments, ‘Where did the Lord wish to be recognized? In the breaking of bread. We’re all right, nothing to worry about – we break bread and we recognize the Lord. It was for our sake that he didn’t want to be recognized anywhere but there, because we weren’t going to see him in the flesh, and yet we were going to eat his flesh . . . The Lord’s absence is not an absence. Have faith, the one you cannot see is with you.’ Sermon 234.2–3, in Luke, Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture: New Testament, ed. Thomas Oden (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2003), pp. 378–9.

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Known in the Breaking of Bread

This noetic effect of the Eucharist is in fact just what the two disciples focus on in their relating of the events to the Jerusalem disciples in 24.35. ‘And they [the two disciples] explained what happened on the road and how he was known to them in the breaking of the bread.’ What ‘happened on the road’ was the interpretation Jesus gave of the meaning of the prophecies from the Hebrew Scriptures concerning himself; this functioned as clearing away one area of ignorance. The other area of ignorance, Christ’s presence right before them, was cleared away by the bread actions. At the breaking of the bread, the truth of the state of affairs ‘became known to them’. What was paramount in the Emmaus disciples’ minds as they told the events to the disciples in Jerusalem was certainly the truth about the resurrection  – ‘the Lord has risen indeed!’57 was their first utterance. Nevertheless, how they came to know this truth was equally worth communicating: they recognized him when he broke the bread; they knew he was with them in the Eucharist. Let me review the argument of this section. First, after noting the narrative context of the Road to Emmaus story, I  argued that the meal Jesus shares with the two disciples is a ceremonial reiteration of the Last Supper. Upon further analysis of the Emmaus meal, we saw that the key consequence of the meal was the enlightened epistemic state the disciples entered regarding the identity of Jesus. This, in fact, was an aspect of the events that they felt compelled to share with the Jerusalem disciples. Thus, with Emmaus as a paradigmatic explication of the work of the Eucharist, one ought to see that the real change that takes place at the Eucharist is both a metaphysical one in the elements and an epistemological one in the minds of the participants. Let us therefore reengage with the institution narrative to discern this theme.

57

Luke 24.34.

56

The Epistemolo gy of the Eucharist

The Epistemology of the Eucharist One of the key ideas that Christ was trying to communicate via the dominical words, among other themes, was the knowledge that Christ and the disciples were in one another’s presence. In the face of purported separation, there would be no real separation. Rather, there would be continued presence, unity, and in fact interpenetration between Christ and his followers. What was Christ trying to do with the bread and the wine? What did he mean when he uttered those difficult phrases? He was, among other things, wishing to establish a means by which those who were not in the presence of his natural body would nonetheless be in his presence. The Johannine context of the Last Supper makes clear that the primary concern of Christ was to comfort his disciples in the face of his impending departure. He wished to communicate to them that, although they would no longer see him,58 he would not be absent from them. In the Emmaus story, the breaking of bread brought about the awareness in the disciples that Christ was right there with them. They knew him – knew his presence with them – in the breaking of bread. One striking consequence of this awareness was the disappearance of Christ from their visual perception. What did Jesus do? Where did he go? The answers to these questions are not the concern of the narrative. Christ no longer needed to be visually perceptible in his natural human body; he was perceived by means of the bread. The breaking of the bread communicated to the Emmaus disciples that they had access to Christ even without the presence of his natural human body. As St. Augustine comments: The Lord Jesus was made known, and after being made known he appeared no more. He withdrew from them in the body, since he was held by them in faith. That indeed is why the Lord absented himself 58

John 16.10.

57

Known in the Breaking of Bread in the body from the whole Church, and ascended into heaven, for the building up of faith.59

Augustine describes the state of affairs as Christ’s presence with the Emmaus disciples being the same while walking on the road and in the celebration of the Eucharist. What changed was the manner of Christ’s sensible presence, but his presence was there all along. This, then, is the moral of Christ’s actions and words with the bread and the cup on the night before his death. Although Jesus was leaving his disciples, he would still remain with them in a no less real way. In order to demonstrate and communicate this truth, Jesus reinterpreted bread and wine to be his body and blood – his sensible presence. The bread and the wine were to serve as epistemological aids and, as will be shown later, metaphysical extensions of his sensible presence such that those who experienced them would rightly endorse the truth of Christ’s continued presence. However, we of course have not yet reached a metaphysical explication; this is still to come. What we do have at this point is motive for looking for a metaphysical explication that makes sense of both the linguistic features of the words of institution and the conceptual background of these key Gospel pericopes.

Participating in the Bodily Presence of Christ In the final section of this biblical–theological foundation chapter, I  want to move outside of the Gospels and attend to what might be conceived of as the first commentary on the Eucharist, the comments Paul makes in 1 Corinthians. I  have been using a final form of the Eucharistic institution as found in the Synoptics and 1 Corinthians 11. However, in 1 Corinthians 10, Paul makes a few brief comments not so much relating the events of the Last Supper, but 59

Sermon 235.4, in The Works of Saint Augustine: Sermons 230–272b on the Liturgical Seasons (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 1993), p. 42.

58

Participating in the B odily Presence of Christ

actually presenting a small slice of interpretive theology that draws out theological implications of the Eucharist. Whereas Paul’s discussion of the Eucharist in 1 Corinthians 11.23–25 reads more like exegesis, his comments in 1 Corinthians 10.16 are more like constructive theology. Paul’s comments are brief and he is not in this pericope stating clearly how Christ is present in the Eucharist. Nevertheless, I think the metaphysical story that will be developed in the rest of this monograph is harmonious with what Paul says in 1 Corinthian 10.16. Paul writes, ‘The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a participation in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a participation in the body of Christ?’. We must be clear that Paul does not say, ‘When you drink from the cup you participate in Christ’s blood’, nor ‘When you eat the bread you participate in Christ’s body’. Rather, Paul’s rhetorical questions can be restated as propositions in the form of: ‘The cup of blessing that we bless is a participation in the blood of Christ.’

and ‘The bread that we break is a participation in the body of Christ.’

He is quite clear that the participatory relation that obtains is between (a) the contents of the cup and (b) the blood of Christ and (a) the bread and (b) the body of Christ. Thus the terms of the relation are as shown in Table 2.7. Efforts to personalize the passage as just being about what occurs to the receiver of the Eucharist are out of place. Participants in the Eucharist receive the bread and wine, and that is important to Paul’s overall argument in this section, but this verse in particular is about the relation between the elements and the body and blood of Christ. What Paul does not tell us is just what the nature of the participation relation is, especially when both sides of the relation are concrete objects. The word translated as ‘participation’ is koinōnia, 59

Known in the Breaking of Bread Table 2.7. Corinthians 10.16 participation relations Term A

Relation

Term B

The cup of blessing The bread that we break

participation participation

The blood of Christ The body of Christ

which one dictionary states as having the basic meaning, ‘to share with someone in something’.60 It can be taken as fellowship, sharing, or participation. In this situation, clearly there is not a ‘someone’ that is sharing in something, but some things that are sharing in other things, where by ‘things’ I mean concrete particular objects. I do not think that I can settle here the interpretive issue as to just what Paul means in these questions. As one scholar puts it, ‘The literature on this passage is immense. As one might well expect, one’s own liturgical or nonliturgical [sic] tradition often colors this investigation.’61 However, I  simply want to present this passage as being one component of the biblical foundation upon which my constructive project rests. Hence, the manner in which the bread is in a participatory relationship with the body of Christ is here flagged, but left unapplied. Once the rest of the project is in place, I will show how my position makes interpretive sense of this passage, as well as the other key Eucharistic passages discussed in this chapter. This chapter argued that because of the parallel between the bread words and the cup words, there is good grammatical evidence for holding that the pronoun ‘this’ in ‘This is my body’ has ‘bread’ as its antecedent. Despite the possibility of understanding this sentence as an instance of syntactical identity or metonymy, I followed Hunsinger’s proposition that the dominical words ought to 60

61

Gerhard Kittel, Geoffrey William Bromiley, and Gerhard Friedrich, Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, vol. 3 (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1964), p. 804, in Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1987), p. 514. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, p. 513.

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Participating in the B odily Presence of Christ

be understood as an instance of real predication. Real predication is best understood along the lines of syntactical equivalence where both ‘bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ are apt predicates of the pronoun ‘this’. At this point, I have only laid a linguistic foundation for my constructive proposal. I then moved out from grammatical analysis to read the words of institution in their conceptual context. One important aspect of this larger conceptual context is the emphasis of the narratives on Christ’s presence. Both the Johannine Last Supper scene and the Road to Emmaus story draw out the epistemological implications of the Eucharist: that despite the appearance of Christ’s absence from his followers, he would still be present with them in the Eucharist. Finally, I tied this presence motif to Paul’s suggestive interpretation regarding the participation relation between the bread/wine and the body/blood of Christ. Yet the latter only serves as a biblical–theological foretaste of the fully orbed metaphysical explication to come. The next chapter continues to lay foundational conceptual layers to this end.

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3

‘Holy to the Lord’: Speech-Acts, Consecration, and the Divine Presence

Consecrate to me all the firstborn. Whatever is first to open the womb . . . is mine. Exodus 13.2

In order to understand what Christ means  – and what ministers standing in persona Christi mean  – when issuing the utterances ‘This is my body’ and ‘This is my blood’, I will focus on what speakers are doing when they make these utterances. By attending to the actions performed by way of these utterances, we can come to a deeper understanding of what they mean and how they can be of benefit to the hearers of these curious phrases. Many in the Christian tradition have long held that one thing that occurs during the Eucharist is the consecration of the bread and wine. This chapter is an exploration of the concept of consecration:  what it means, how it happens, what the relation is between consecrated objects and the divine presence, and what an analysis of a specifically Eucharistic consecration contributes to our understanding of the dominical phrases. In this chapter, I  use the tool of speech-act theory to explicate the phenomenon of consecration. First, I exposit some of the salient features of William Alston’s account of speech-act theory, honing in on those aspects that are particularly germane to instances of consecration. Next, I apply the Alstonian speech-act infrastructure to the first instance of consecration in Scripture, the consecration of the Sabbath day. This provides a general biblical-philosophical grounding for a notion of consecration that can be applied to the 62

Speech-Act Theory

specific instance of the Eucharistic consecration. Thirdly, I  note a connection in Scripture between consecrated objects and the divine presence. This connection picks up the presence theme from the last chapter and provides another layer to the biblical-philosophical notion of consecration that helps probe the nature of Christ’s presence in the consecrated bread and wine of the Eucharist. However, I note that there is a tension between divine presence taken as an instance of special divine presence and divine presence taken as general omnipresence. This tension is particularly troubling for the occupancy account of omnipresence that has been popular in recent philosophical theology. Thus, I  argue for a particular understanding of divine presence that fits desiderata for both omnipresence and special presence. This examination further sets the table for accounting for Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. Finally, I apply my analysis of consecration to the consecration of the bread and wine in the Eucharist.1

Speech-Act Theory No account of speech-act theory can start without mention of the programmatic William James Lectures given by J.  L. Austin.2 Although it may indeed be possible to trace ideas latent in speechact theory prior to Austin,3 these mid-twentieth-century lectures surely inaugurated a new area of study in the philosophy of language. 1

2

3

Some of the material in this chapter related to speech-acts and consecration is derived from my ‘A Theory of Consecration: A Philosophical Exposition of a Biblical Phenomenon’, Heythrop Journal 54.6 (2013): 75–90. A version of my discussion of omnipresence can be found in ‘God Is Where God Acts: Reconceiving Divine Omnipresence’, Topoi 36.4 (2017): 631–639. Later published as J. L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1955). See Barry Smith, ‘Towards a History of Speech Act Theory’, in Speech Acts, Meanings, and Intentions: Critical Approaches to the Philosophy of John R. Searle, ed. Armin Burkhardt (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990), pp. 29–61.

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Austin’s revolutionary idea was simply that utterances do more than just convey propositional content.4 Rather, actions are performed by way of utterances, and our utterances can be categorized according to the type of actions they perform. William Alston’s work attempts to advance the initial suggestions that Austin made. Instead of providing an overview of the distinctive aspects of Alston’s view, I sketch a few components of his account and then proceed to illustrate his perspective by utilizing it in an analysis of some speech-act phenomena. Alston divides speech-acts into three types. The first speech-act type is what he calls the Sentential Act.5 This act is simply the explicit sentence or sentence surrogate that a speaker utters. This act can typically be made clear by an oratio recta report.6 For example, suppose some speaker, Tom, utters the sentence: ‘The Firebirds won the game last night.’ The oratio recta report of this sentential act is, ‘Tom said, “The Firebirds won the game last night.” ’ A  second speechact – which is at the heart of Alston’s theory of speech-acts – is the Illocutionary Act. The illocutionary act makes clear the content of a speaker’s utterance, and can be presented as an oratio obliqua report.7 For example, suppose Tom utters, ‘Ouch!’. The sentential act in this case – as presented by an oratio recta report – is simply, ‘Tom said, “Ouch!” ’ However, the illocutionary act expressed by an oratio obliqua report is something like, ‘Tom expressed that he was in pain.’ ‘Ouch’ as a pure sentential act carries very little content. But when examined as an illocutionary act, the content becomes explicit. The pivotal feature of Alston’s account of illocutionary acts 4

5

6

7

For the purposes of this discussion, I take oral and written communication to be sufficiently similar so as not to distinguish between the two. One may simply substitute ‘author’ and its cognates for ‘speaker’ as well as ‘written words’ for ‘utterances’ and the like. William Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2000), p. 28. John Searle, ‘Austin on Locutionary and Illocutionary Acts’, Philosophical Review 77.4 (1968): 410. Ibid., p. 26.

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is the normative element that Alston observes speakers participating in. For Alston, to accurately describe a speaker’s performance of an illocutionary act is to accurately state that the speaker is ‘taking responsibility for the satisfaction of a condition’.8 As the notion of taking responsibility is naturally understood normatively, speakers are liable to denunciation if the relevant condition(s) for the illocutionary act are not satisfied. This is the core of Alston’s theory of illocutionary acts. The question hearers and interpreters need to ask is, ‘What sorts of things did a speaker take responsibility for in the utterance of her sentence?’ Finally, I note the third speech-act type, Perlocutionary Acts, which corresponds to the effect that an utterance had on an audience.9 As mentioned, illocutionary acts are at the centre of Alston’s theory, and we will thus spend the most time with this speech-act. Like Austin and Searle before him, Alston subdivides illocutionary acts into five illocutionary act types. I  list them here with some representative verbs: Assertives: Asserting, acknowledging, remarking, and so on Directives: Ordering, requesting, suggesting, and so on Commissives: Promising, contracting, betting, and so on Exercitives: Adjourning, appointing, nominating, and so on Expressives: Thanking, congratulating, expressing delight, and so on10 In Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning, Alston gives a thorough exposition of each of the illocutionary act types. I  find acts of consecration to fall most neatly into the exercitive category of

8 9

10

Ibid., p. 54. For illustration’s sake, perhaps a few perlocutionary acts based upon the sentential act of ‘Ouch!’ could be a hearer expressing sympathy, a hearer gasping, or a hearer offering to get an ice pack. It should be clear that perlocutionary acts do not affect the meaning of the illocutionary act. Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning, p. 3.

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illocutionary acts, and hence the next section offers a presentation of this specific illocutionary act type.11

Alstonian EXERCITIVES The exercitive type of illocutionary act contains those speechacts where, simply put, ‘saying so is making so’. That is, some conventional effect is brought about just by uttering a sentence. Austin defines this type of illocutionary act as such:  ‘It is a decision that something is to be so, as distinct from a judgment that it is so.’12 On this Alston glosses, ‘it is the bringing into being of a certain state of affairs, rather than the “recording” of a pre-existing state of affairs’.13 Let me offer this brief illustration of the preceding quotations on the distinction between the ‘decision’ that so versus the ‘judgment’ that so or on Alstonian terms the ‘bringing into being’ versus ‘recording’ a ‘pre-existing’ state of affairs. Here I can tell two different stories with the same sentential act, but different illocutionary acts. Suppose a person with relevant authority shatters a champagne bottle on the prow of a newly constructed ship and says, ‘This is the Flying Dutchman.’ This is a case of making so; the ship has at that point become the Flying Dutchman. However, suppose Tom and Matt board the ship a few minutes later, and Matt asks Tom (no doubt with trepidation), ‘What is this ship?’ to which Tom replies, ‘This is the Flying Dutchman.’ This latter 11

12 13

I am not here arguing that consecration must only be thought of as an exercitive illocutionary act. Further, as I will elucidate in the next chapter, speakers can perform more than one illocutionary act by way of one sentential act. So one might think of an act of consecration as including the performance of multiple illocutionary acts. However, I think the following discussion will show that acts of consecration are best at home within an exercitive schema and thus ought to at least include an exercitive illocutionary act as one of the constituents of a fully orbed conceptual analysis of consecration. Austin, How to Do Things with Words, p. 155. Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning, p. 86.

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Alstonian exercitives

story includes an illocutionary act performed by Tom that records a description of a pre-existing state of affairs – namely that the ship is the Flying Dutchman. Consequently, on the former case the utterance brought it about that the ship’s name was the Flying Dutchman, the latter utterance of the same sentential act did not bring this into being. With this distinction between making-so and recording-so in hand – a distinction between exercitives and assertives – I now proceed to analyse Alston’s account of the exercitive category of illocutionary acts. Alston describes this category as, ‘verbal exercises of authority, verbal ways of altering the “social status” of something, an act that is made possible by one’s social or institutional role or status’.14 He also presents a schema as a general formula, so to speak, that can be used to show specific instances of exercitive illocutionary acts. This schema makes use of the following abbreviations that serve as placeholders for variables in specific exercitive instances: U – ‘utterer’, the speaker or issuer of an illocutionary act S – ‘sentence’ or sentential act performed by the utterer R – ‘take responsibility for,’ also found as R’d for ‘took responsibility for,’ and R’ing for ‘taking responsibility for’ And here is the schema with attendant conditions: U O’d in uttering S (where ‘O’ is a term for purporting to be producing a particular conventional effect, E) iff in uttering S, U R’d that: 1. 2. 3. 4.

14

15

Conceptually necessary conditions for E are satisfied. U has the authority to produce E. Conditions are appropriate for the exercise of that authority. By uttering S, U is bringing about E.15

Ibid., p. 34. Some additional verbs which fall into this illocutionary act category may be pardon, name, bequeath, sentence, hire, fire, and approve. Ibid., p. 313.

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When a speaker performs an exercitive illocutionary act, the speaker brings about some state of affairs in the world. For instance, suppose in a parliamentary meeting the call is issued for a candidate to be nominated for an open position. Matt might say, ‘I nominate Tom for the open position.’ In this instance, not only did Matt utter a sentence related to nominating Tom, but simply by uttering that sentence, he performed the action of nominating Tom for the open position. We can fit this case into the exercitive schema like so: U – Matt O – nominated E – the nomination of Tom for an open position S – ‘I nominate Tom for the open position.’ Thus, Matt nominated Tom for the open position in uttering, ‘I nominate Tom for the open position.’

Condition (4) is key – and in some ways is the heart of the exercitive illocutionary act – for in uttering the sentence that he did, Matt executed the purported activity. All Matt had to do to perform the action of nominating Tom was to utter the sentence in the appropriate context, ‘I nominate Tom for the open position’; no further acts were required on the part of Matt.16 Of course, in order for a veridical nomination to actually occur, conditions (1)–(3) also must obtain. The satisfaction of these conditions are what Matt takes responsibility for in uttering his sentence in the manner and time that he did. In order to verify the satisfaction 16

There are possibly some exercitive illocutionary acts that do require an accompanying non-verbal action in order for the conventional effect to be truly brought about. For instance, if a runner slides into home plate and the umpire calls, ‘Safe!’ without his arms extended, great confusion on the baseball diamond would ensue. But this seems to be because the conventions of baseball are more stringent that the conventions of society. I can hire someone for a job just by saying, ‘You’re hired!’ without shaking that person’s hand. This might be conventionally odd, but I doubt my new hire would dispute the actuality of the hiring.

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Alstonian exercitives

of these conditions, we have to tell an expanded story about the context of Matt’s utterance. Condition (1), pertaining to necessary conceptual conditions, is satisfied by such components as the existence of Tom, the rules of the parliamentary meeting, the availability of the position, the possibility that Tom might be able to fulfil the obligations of the position, and possibly others. On condition (2), Matt had to be present at and a member of the meeting. Condition (3) is satisfied by the antecedent call for nominations at that point in the meeting. Thus, for our story about Matt, Tom, and the nomination, Matt’s exercitive speech-act made it such that Tom was nominated for the position. It is important to note that not all of those conditions need to actually obtain in order for Matt to have performed the illocutionary act of nominating. Rather, all that is required for the illocutionary act to occur is for Matt to take responsibility for those conditions being satisfied. If one of those conditions were not satisfied in the situation, and yet Matt thought that they were – took responsibility for it being the case that they were – then Matt would still have performed the illocutionary act of nominating. However, an instance wherein Matt took responsibility for the satisfaction of conditions (1)–(4), but the conditions were not actually satisfied would rather be called purporting to nominate.17 This is indicative of Alston’s desire to wholly locate illocutionary acts in the normative status of the speaker. Suppose Matt merely thought that the chairperson had opened the floor for nominations, but this had not actually occurred. When, then, Matt spoke the sentence in question (‘I nominate Tom for the open position’), Tom was not actually nominated, because the context was not right (on condition 3). How do we characterize Matt’s sentential act in this instance? Is it still an illocutionary act and an exercitive illocutionary act at that? On

17

Note Alston’s inclusion of this in his parenthetical explanation, ‘where ‘O’ is a term for purporting to be producing a particular conventional effect’. Ibid., p. 313, emphasis added.

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Alston’s view, it indeed was, for Matt took responsibility for all the necessary conditions. Because of the fact that one or more of the conditions were not met in reality, then we say that Matt has spoken improperly or wrongly, and that he was culpable for that error (note, of course, the normative language). In analysing a statement to determine if a speaker is performing an exercitive illocutionary act, it is helpful for a speaker to actually use a performative verb in the sentence uttered. Hence, when Matt nominates Tom by saying, ‘I nominate Tom,’ we easily note that an exercitive illocutionary act has been here performed. However, this is not a necessary condition for a veridical exercitive to occur. Consider the situation where in the context of a parliamentary meeting, the chairperson asks Matt directly, ‘Whom do you wish to nominate for the open position?’. To which Matt simply responds, ‘Tom.’ Taken as merely a sentential act, the hearer has very little indication as to what type of illocutionary act has been performed. But taken in context, it is clear that Matt has performed the exercitive illocutionary act of nominating Tom for the open position. Failing to use the verb ‘nominate’ in his sentential act does not translate into a failure to perform the action of nominating. Previously, we saw how the same sentential act can be used to perform two different illocutionary acts; this case illustrates how the same illocutionary act can be performed by two different sentential acts. For on the first story, Matt says, ‘I nominate Tom for the open position’, and in the second story, Matt simply says, ‘Tom’. Clearly, on the level of sentential act these are different. But, given the relevant context, and given the conditions of the exercitive schema, on the level of illocutionary act, these utterances are equivalent. Moreover, the schema allows for the fact that one need not even utter an audible sentence in order to perform a speech-act.18 For, again telling a bit of a background story, suppose the call was issued for nominations in 18

Perhaps ‘communicative act’ would be more apt, but, for good or for ill, ‘speech-act’ is the term in the literature.

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Towards a Definition of Consecration

the meeting. Matt, perhaps stricken with laryngitis, points directly at Tom. That gesture, issued at the appropriate time, would count as a sentence surrogate, would be a sentential act, and would perform the same illocutionary act as the spoken sentence, ‘I nominate Tom for the open position.’ The preceding discussion of illocutionary acts and the exercitive category of them begins to set the conceptual table for a treatment of the act of consecration that occurs in the Eucharist. In order to apply this discussion to the act of consecration, I need to fill in a few key definitional components in order to apply the general schema to the specific instance of consecration. Recall that Alston’s exercitive schema includes the placeholders ‘O’ and ‘E’, where ‘O is a term for purporting to be producing a particular conventional effect, E’.19 In order to fit the act of consecration into this, we need a helpful definition of consecration to fill out the schema for this specific instance. The next section makes this move, followed by a section specifically on the exercitive of consecration.

Towards a Definition of Consecration I take Thomas Cranmer’s definition of consecration to be a helpful and traditionally attested one. I do not mean this to be an endorsement of all Cranmer says about consecration, but I  do think that upon reflection one would find this to be an adequate description of the phenomenon; plus, like his liturgies, Cranmer just says this well. He writes, ‘Consecration is the separation of any thing from a profane and worldly use into a spiritual and godly use.’20 This definition holds that consecration is primarily an act of distinguishing or of setting apart. One member of a class is singled out from others in 19 20

Ibid., p. 313. Cranmer, ‘The Answer of Thomas Archbishop of Canterbury, &c. Against the False Calumniations of Dr. Richard Smyth’, in The Remains of Thomas Cranmer, vol. 2, p. 413.

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that class. A second conceptual component to the definition holds that this separation is not a mere separation, but rather is separation for a purpose, for a use. Cranmer notes that consecrated objects first have a profane or worldly use, but then are distinguished from others in that class for a spiritual use. Objects in their natural state do not naturally have a spiritual use, but possess a certain kind of potentiality for spiritual use. Later in this chapter, I will highlight that one specific spiritual and godly use of consecrated object is for them to be a locus of God’s presence. So, a holy object is one that God uses to be uniquely present in the world. However, more discussion of God’s presence and omnipresence must be had before this concept of godly use can be deployed. In Scripture, many objects are consecrated. Objects as diverse as people, land, and the breast of a ram21 are the subject of consecration. Typically, however, the kinds of objects that undergo consecration are artefacts (incense, vestments, an altar, etc.). Changes in use for artefacts are typically an easy phenomenon to account for, for artefacts are often understood to be individual objects that are in fact identified by their use. For example, suppose I have a wine bottle filled with Chianti. The wine bottle is a particular artefact. If, after the wine has been drunk, I clean the bottle and stick a candle in the mouth; then the bottle is no longer being used to hold wine, but is being used as a candleholder and could properly be referred to as such. The names we attached to artefacts – be they based on a particular use of that artefact or otherwise – are not arbitrary, but they are conventional. There is an artefactual use that is termed by certain names we language-users use. I wish my account of consecration to be grounded in Scriptural phenomena, so what follows for the rest of this section is a testing of Cranmer’s definition as it may or may not fit the Scriptural data. When looking to provide a definition for a term, one can easily fall into a dictionary loop. For instance, the Hebrew term qodesh is often 21

Exodus 29.27.

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Towards a Definition of Consecration

translated in verb form into English as ‘to consecrate, sanctify, or make holy’, and, in noun form as ‘holy’. But to look in a standard English dictionary to define ‘consecrate’, one gets ‘to make holy’; one then looks up ‘holy’ and gets ‘dedicated or consecrated’, and the loop proves not all that helpful. I here distil Cranmer’s definition of consecration to make a provisional, but easier to work with, definition to test against Scriptural instances. To ‘consecrate’ is to set apart an object for a Godly use. An act of consecration results in an object being given a veridical status as ‘holy’, which I define as an object that has been set apart for a Godly use. In order to test these definitions, I turn to look at the first instance of the use of the term qodesh in the Hebrew Scriptures. This first use occurs in – what I believe to be – the first instance of consecration in Scripture. The first instance of consecration in Scripture occurs at the consecration of the seventh day of creation, which results in the establishment of the Sabbath. Genesis 2.3 reads, ‘So God blessed the seventh day and consecrated it, because on it God rested from all his work that he had done in creation.’22 One of the key aspects of the provisional definition is the act of separation, distinguishing, or setting apart. In the Sabbath consecration, one day is distinguished out of the seven days of the creation week. Each day described in the creation narrative has a distinction – God creates certain aspects of the cosmos on certain days. However, the seventh day is the only one that is specifically acted upon. Yet, simply by virtue of the fact that God does something to this day is not sufficient for consecration. The narrative could have read, ‘So God elongated the seventh day to 25 hours . . .’, at which point the seventh day would certainly have been distinguished from the other days, but would not have been

22

Translation my own based on the Masoretic Text. A terminological note, as I indicated previously, qodesh in verb form is typically defined as ‘to make holy’, and in English we tend to use terms such as ‘consecrate’ or ‘sanctify’ for ‘to make holy’. At times, English-users also use ‘to bless’ for ‘to make holy’, but I would like to reserve that term for a weaker version of holy making.

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consecrated. Thus, separation is a necessary but not sufficient condition for consecration. What turns mere separation into a necessary and sufficient condition, in accordance with the working definition, is that the separation occurs to give the object a particular use, a particular Godly use. In this case, God does separate the seventh day for a Godly use, the use being God’s own rest. I offer here a few other passages from the Hebrew Scriptures that support the twin key conceptual aspects of the consecration definition: separation and use. Leviticus 10.10: ‘You are to distinguish between holy and common, and between the unclean and the clean.’ Those objects that are holy are to be conceptually different from those that are not. Exodus 29.33, in the context of instructions to the priests: ‘They shall eat those things with which atonement was made at their ordination and consecration, but an outsider shall not eat of them, because they are holy.’ This passage mentions consecration, but this refers to the consecration of the priests. That is important in its own right, but I  want to highlight that God categorizes as holy the food that was part of the atonement ceremony. It seems that it is because the food was used in a particularly Godly way (the atonement at the ordination) that it is separated from consumption by outsiders.

The EXERCITIVE of Consecration Having surveyed the first instance of the Hebrew term qodesh to corroborate our provisional definition of consecration, I  now use this definition to fill in Alston’s exercitive illocutionary act schema to arrive at the exercitive illocutionary act of consecration. I need to add a small component to Alston’s exercitive schema in order to make it work for consecration. Because consecrations include some direct object – some thing that is consecrated – I add the variable X for the object that undergoes consecration. A strict plugging in of variables looks like this: 74

The exercitive of Consecration

U – a consecrator O – consecrates X – an object S – consecratory sentence E – consecration So: A consecrator consecrates an object, X, in uttering a consecratory sentence (where consecrates is a term for purporting to be producing a particular conventional effect of consecration) iff in uttering a consecratory sentence, the consecrator R’d that: (and then follows the conditions).

But, this strict application is riddled with redundancy. This can be avoided by the following formulation, which is the final form of the exercitive of consecration: A consecrator sets apart X for a Godly use in uttering S iff in uttering S the consecrator R’d that: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Conceptually necessary conditions for consecration are satisfied. The consecrator has the authority to produce consecration. Conditions are appropriate for the exercise of that authority. By uttering S, the consecrator is bringing about consecration.

This is a general schema for analysing particular instances of consecration. Our understanding of the schema is incomplete, however, because conditions (1)–(4) are yet to be exposited. In what follows, I will apply this general schema for the illocutionary act of consecration to the specific instance of the Genesis 2.3 consecration of the seventh day of the creation week. In so doing, I will explicate these conditions. At first glance, it might seem be relatively easy to fill in terms for Alston’s variables: U – God O – consecrates 75

‘Holy to the Lord’

X – the seventh day of the creation week S –? E – the setting apart of the seventh day of the creation week for spiritual rest The glaring omission in the preceding is obviously the fact that Genesis 2.3 contains no record of the specific speech-act that was made by God at the moment of consecration. Nevertheless, Alston’s theory accounts for sentence surrogates functioning as nonutterance speech-acts, so God does not have to actually say anything in the narrative in order for there to have been a speech-act in the narrative. However, I think Genesis 2.3 can be taken as consisting of an oratio obliqua report for the illocutionary act that brought about consecration, which is just the mechanism Alston uses when attempting to categorize illocutionary acts. Just because we are unsure what an oratio recta report would be in this instance – we are unaware of a sentential act – does not mean that we cannot judge a veridical illocutionary act to have occurred. Hence, when Genesis 2.3a says, ‘God blessed the seventh day and consecrated it . . .’, this entails that God did something to bring about the consecrating, and this action can be analysed according to the illocutionary act guidelines. So, with the ‘S’ accounted for in this instance of consecration, I  turn to an exposition of the exercitive of consecration conditions (1)–(4), both in the general form and by illustration from the Genesis 2.3 instance.

Condition (1): Conceptually Necessary Conditions for Consecration Are Satisfied What kinds of concepts are necessary for a consecration, given our definition and illustration? I  think the primary necessary concept would be the notion that objects can have either a natural or Godly use. Without this conceptual distinction in place and the concept that objects potentially have the property of being used in this 76

The exercitive of Consecration

manner, no separations of objects for a Godly use could obtain. If one did not believe in God’s existence, or if the linguistic community in which the attempted consecration took place did not believe in God’s existence, it is difficult to see how an object could have a Godly use for that individual or in that community. An agnostic about God’s existence might translate a ‘Godly use’ into a ‘Godly use, if God were to exist’, or a ‘Godly use according to the conception of God that theists tend to have’. At the very least, one can grant that the narrative under examination includes God. Secondly, a conceptual condition in this regard would be the nonvagueness of X, the object of consecration, with respect to other members of X’s kind. This is not to say that X must be a physical object or even a concrete object; a day can be consecrated, and it is not entirely clear what the necessary and sufficient conditions for a day might be. Rather, X must be a distinguishable particular of X’s kind in order for it to be able to undergo a separation from its kind. For instance, suppose someone standing on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean wanted to consecrate some segment of the water. It would be very difficult to partition off just a segment of an ocean to say that this particular section was conceptually different from any other section.23 This principle is seen more easily with clearly defined physical objects. For instance, if the breast of a ram were to be consecrated, it is clear that this breast is being distinguished from the other 23

I am not here arguing for the impossibility of consecrating a segment of the ocean, an instance of this nature would require a longer story about how one could specifically demarcate the segment. Perhaps one inserts a giant metal vat into the segment of the ocean so that the ‘consecrated’ water could not get out. Or perhaps one could make an argument for the distinguishing of a particular region whose members can change while still maintaining its distinguished status (‘the region between the shore and this buoy as far south as that jetty and as far north as the pier is consecrated, any water that leaves this region becomes unconsecrated, and any water that enters the region becomes consecrated’). This is not impossible, it just seems a bit more tricky. Further, this is not an argument against the consecration of a kind as opposed to an instance of that kind. It seems that one could perhaps consecrate all the pink roses in a garden, such that any member to enter that category receives consecration, whereas no white roses do.

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breast of the ram, or from the liver of the ram, or from the breast of a dove, or from all the other breasts of all the other rams to have ever existed, and so on. In sum, it seems that conceptually necessary conditions for consecration would be beliefs about the possibility of an object having a Godly use, including beliefs about the existence of God and a specific enough conception of X to allow for that X to undergo distinguishing from other members of X’s kind. In exposition of Genesis 2.3, these conceptual conditions play out as follows. First, if one grants the existence of God and God’s ability to interact with the world, it seems easy to grant that an object could be used for a particular Godly purpose. Since the preceding chapter of Genesis is just about God’s interaction with the world, it does not seem hard to suppose that the linguistic community in which the consecration was to take place would be open to this idea. Secondly, a day seems to be a sufficiently non-vague object of consecration. In fact, again looking to the immediate narrative context, Genesis 1.5 has God calling the darkness ‘night’ and the light ‘day’. Further, the text even indicates with a repeated formula, ‘there was evening and there was morning, the [n] day’.24 Thus, the ‘necessary conceptual conditions’ seem to pan out for the consecration of the seventh day of the creation week. Condition (2): The Consecrator Has the Authority to Produce Consecration Recall that on Alston’s account of illocutionary acts, the focus is on what an utterer takes responsibility for in issuing her utterance. It might be the case that an utterer took responsibility for the satisfaction of a condition that in reality did not obtain, at which point we would say the utterer attempted the illocutionary act but it did not actually occur. This seems particularly important to note for Condition (2) in exercitive illocutionary acts where the authority 24

Genesis 1.5, 8, 13, 19, 23, 31.

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to produce the conventional effect is dependent upon the linguistic community in which the utterance was made. For example, to pick up an illustration from earlier in this chapter, suppose at the christening of a ship some random uncouth member of the audience threw a champagne bottle at the prow of the ship and yelled, ‘This is the Nincompoop!’ It is very unlikely that the audience would hold the naming to have obtained, for the utterer did not have authority to name.25 This condition is helpful to have in consecration situations to ward off something like a magic spell version of consecration. In that version, it would be the words themselves that have the power to bring about the conventional change in the object of consecration. Despite support from fantasy novels, this notion runs counter to intuitions about how language works. The causal chain, so to speak, goes from speakers to objects through sentences. The causal chain does not originate in the sentence itself.26 Therefore, in order for a veridical consecration to occur, the consecrator has to have the relevant authority to consecrate. In Genesis 2.3, this condition is satisfied by definition, for the consecrator here is God. What do I mean by this being by definition? Suppose I invent a term, ‘consejames’, which covers the concept of separating something to be used in accordance with my desires. Thus, to ‘consejames’ something is to set apart an object for a jamesly use, and ‘jamesly’ is the adjective form of James Arcadi. In order to bring about a veridical consejamesion, it would have to be done in accordance with my nature, perhaps in accordance with my will, certainly at least in accordance with my personality. For example, suppose Matt gets a California state flag, he consejames it by some 25

26

And we would say the speaker attempted to name or purported to name the ship . . . or perhaps attempted to execute a sophomoric joke! It might be the case, however, that a particular linguistic community could hold that all speakers in the community have the authority to utter magic spell words to bring about changes in objects. My point would still hold in this case that the causal chain still moves from utterer to object through the words; it is just that the authority has been generalized to all speakers in the community.

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speech-act (‘I hereby consejames this flag!’), and then he hangs it on the wall of his office in support of the Golden State. This would be perfectly in line with a jamesly use, because I  actually have a California state flag on the wall of my office. Or, suppose I receive a new pen, I really like this pen and I do not want to use it, I just want to put it on my bookshelf to admire. I, as consejameser, could consejames the pen and use it for a jamesly use by putting it on my bookshelf to admire. When I am the consejameser, by definition anything that I consejames will be for a jamesly use. This story is apposite for consecrations performed by God. If God always acts in accordance with God’s nature, then any use of any object by God will be a Godly use. Further, to satisfy Condition (2), in any instance where God is the consecrator, the consecrator has the authority to consecrate. Hence, in Genesis 2.3, where the consecrator is God, Condition (2) for the consecration illocutionary act is satisfied. However, what of situations where the consecrator is not God? What is the relevant authority in those instances?27 In my estimation, approaching the latter question from a philosophy of language perspective, a consecrator derives authority from the linguistic community in which the consecratory speech-acts are performed. One might think that the authority to consecrate comes from God himself. However, it is clear  – with some level of redundancy  – that linguistic conventions obtain only in linguistic communities in which the conventions obtain. That is, just in virtue of the fact that a linguistic convention is in play for a particular community, that convention is a convention for that community. Those who are able to bring about conventions in a linguistic community are those whom the community recognizes as having the authority to establish conventions, and the community bestows that authority upon 27

One area of dispute in the Christian tradition with respect to Eucharistic theology has been who can lead the rite such that it is a valid or actual Eucharist. These next few paragraphs are as close as I wish to come to a theory of ordination in this volume. I hope my overall account of the Eucharist and the specific discussion here is consistent with a range of perspectives on ordination.

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such individuals – intentionally or not. This might have the flavour of a posteriori reasoning, but communities recognize individuals as authoritatively able to establish or change conventions just in those instances in which the change in question passes into convention. Hence, the authority in a linguistic community regarding linguistic conventions resides in the community itself and is only then by extension granted to individuals who attempt to exercise that authority. Yet, that exercise of authority over linguistic conventions only obtains if the conventions come into regular use . . . that is, become conventions. Here is an illustration of the preceding discussion. In the United States, mobile telephones that operate on the cell tower system are referred to a ‘cell phones’.28 It might be the case that some member of the American linguistic community (or a subset community) decides that ‘cell phone’ is just too cumbersome to utter and starts referring to the item in question as a ‘handy’.29 An individual cannot simply by fiat change the convention of her linguistic community. But if the community in question sets forth this individual as the cell-phonename-changer, agrees to follow this individual’s stipulation of a new name, and then, most crucially, actually starts using ‘handy’ to refer to the object formerly known as ‘cell phone’, then this conventional effect would obtain and the cell-phone-name-changer would be said to have had the relevant authority to produce the conventional change of name. In a similar manner  – in application to consecration  – authority for producing consecrations lies with the linguistic community and is only granted by extension to the consecrator. However, this authority does not give a consecrator or a linguistic community free reign to go about ‘consecrating’ anything for any purpose  – a close tie to God must be maintained in veridical consecrations. Recall that the consecration is the separation or setting apart of some object for a Godly use. The use simply must be in accord with 28 29

At least at the time of writing this in the early twenty-first century. A common term in German-speaking linguistic communities.

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God’s nature. No matter how much the community agreed or how much they propagated a convention, a consecration just does not obtain if the object is not put to a Godly use. Moreover, God determines Godly use, either explicitly or in virtue of being consonant with God’s nature. In the same way that a consejameser does not need my explicit prompting or instruction to consejames, all that is needed is that the consejameser consejameses an object for a jamesly use. Consecrations only occur in accordance with God’s nature, but they need not occur as a result of a specific divine instigation. Despite the fact that the conventional authority of a linguistic community resides in the community itself, communities interested in consecration (especially Christian communities that engage in the Eucharist) seek to have God as a member of their community. Given God’s status as the measure by which consecrations are veridical, any consecrating community, in order to function properly, will bestow upon God the ultimate authority over convention – at the very least with respect to consecrations. By extension, it would naturally be a best practice of the community that if God were to establish someone as a consecratory authority for that community, the community would ratify God’s choice. It is, therefore, a sufficient but not necessary condition of consecratory authority for God to set up an individual to be the consecratory authority for that community. Nevertheless, it is still a necessary condition that the community accept that authority. Of course, a linguistic community may purport to have God as a member of that community, but if they reject the one whom God has set as an authority in that community, this is as good as rejecting God’s authority in the community and thereby ejecting God from the community. Condition (3): Conditions Are Appropriate for the Exercise of That Authority The first two conditions discussed are internal conditions; Condition (3) is an external condition. That is, Conditions (1) and (2) refer to a 82

The exercitive of Consecration

number of conceptual conditions that must be in place before a possible consecration can occur. Whereas Condition (3) targets the setting, environment, and timing of the issuing of the sentence. Recall from the previous illustration Matt’s attempting to nominate Tom for the open position in the parliamentary meeting. Matt could succumb to a timing error by performing his illocutionary act prior to the start of the meeting, at a time when the floor was not open for nominations, or after the nomination period was closed. Condition (3) specifies that it is not enough for someone to have the authority to perform an exercitive illocutionary act; the utterance has to be made in the appropriate context. Once more, for consecrations where God is the consecrator, this condition is satisfied by definition. Due to the vastness of God’s wisdom and God’s undoubtedly impeccable timing, any time God exercises God’s authority would be an appropriate time for an exercise of divine authority. One might see how in fallible human speakers this condition might not obtain, but it is hard to see how God could fail to satisfy this condition. Nevertheless, we can spell out for the Genesis 2.3 instance some conditions with respect to the appropriateness of God’s act of consecration of the Sabbath. For instance, it makes sense that the seventh day had already been created; it would be difficult to imagine consecrating a not yet existent object. Further, in God’s previous utterances in Genesis 1, God had been speaking in exercitive and directive-type illocutionary acts, as opposed to simply describing things in simple assertive terms, thus the audience has been prepared for a consecratory utterance at this time. Condition (4): By Uttering S, the Consecrator Is Bringing about Consecration This condition is an attempt to locate the causal medium for the conventional change in the consecratory utterance. The causal chain starts with the consecrator, but it passes through some sentence in order for the effect to reach the consecrated object. This might seem 83

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like splitting hairs, but we can tell a story for why this is an apropos condition to state explicitly. Suppose Matt is the chair of a parliamentary meeting, that lots of good business has been conducted, and that the meeting is drawing to a close. All Matt has to do is adjourn the meeting and the meeting is over. As the conceptual conditions are in place (the linguistic community knows what a parliamentary meeting is and how it is run) and Matt has authority to end the meeting, the conditions are appropriate, Matt takes responsibility for all this and says, ‘Blah blah blah!’. At this point, the only thing that would occur would be a great deal of confusion in the members of the meeting. Condition (4)  reminds us that speakers can take responsibility for all they want, but if they do not take responsibility for their utterances bringing about the conventional change they intend to bring about, they would not be producing an exercitive illocutionary act, and would not be bringing about the desired conventional change. For God in the Genesis 2.3 instance, I noted that we are unsure of the sentential act, but that verse 3 serves as an oratio obliqua report that some sentential act was performed that brought about the illocutionary act consecration. Whatever that sentence was, it was sufficient to bring about the oratio obliqua report that the consecration occurred. One might also appeal to the Sabbath tradition, perhaps even the third commandment, to show that these conditions obtained and an exercitive of consecration was instantiated in this case. The preceding has provided a biblical-philosophical foundation for understanding acts of consecration. Alston’s account of exercitive illocutionary acts, in conjunction with a Cranmer-inspired definition of consecration, helps to elicit conditions for a veridical consecration. This infrastructure was tested on the first instance of consecration in Scripture. Thus, the foundation is being carefully laid for an application of this infrastructure to the Eucharist. However, before coming specifically to the Eucharist, I  want to extend the notion of the ‘Godly use’ for which objects are consecrated. There 84

Divine Presence: Omni- and Special

is not, so far as I can tell, one sole use for which God employs holy objects.30 But it is the case that in some acts of consecration the primary use of the object is to be a locus of divine presence.

Divine Presence: Omni- and Special To this point I have described that objects are consecrated for some Godly use. One important use by God of objects that is especially germane to my constructive Eucharistic project is the use of an object to be the locus of a theophany. Theophanies are those instances when God manifests Godself for a particular purpose. However, one’s conception of God’s being present at a particular location – as in a theophany– might be troubled by also conceiving of God’s general omnipresence, a staple of classical conceptions of God. In establishing a foundation for conceiving of Eucharistic manifestations of Christ, the next section explores the Hebrew Scriptures to probe the relations among consecration, holiness, and the divine presence. By attending to key narratives of the Hebrew Scriptures, I  proffer an account of God’s presence that is able to countenance God’s omnipresence and God’s special presence. There are twin puzzles that accounts of omnipresence must reckon with if they are to be faithful to Scriptural religion. The first puzzle is such that the notion of God being omnipresent might seem to be in conflict with another staple conception of God, that of God being immaterial. For, if ‘location’ denotes a specific region of space (or spacetime), and space is a material entity, then it might seem impossible for an immaterial God to be in any real sense related to a – or any – location. I will call this the ‘immateriality puzzle’. The second puzzle is based upon the experience of the faithful practitioners of

30

One might be able to see all divine use of objects as a sort of divine action, and further divine action can be construed as necessarily revelatory. However, I am not sure that one can see the final cause of all consecrations as thus necessarily revelatory.

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Scriptural religion. For the faithful occasionally report God as being more in certain places and at certain times in a manner of greater intensity than his presence at other times and places. These are locations where for the faithful God shows up – so to speak – and where God’s presence is felt more intensely. But if God is everywhere, how can it be that God could be more any ‘where’? I will call this second puzzle the ‘intensity puzzle’. One’s ability to address these twin puzzles, and thus give an account of God’s presence generally and in special instances, is severely compromised given a particular conception of God’s presence as an occupancy relation that has been popular in recent philosophical theology. Rather, I  argue that in order to address these twin presence puzzles we ought to conceive of God’s presence in the cosmos not as occupancy but as action. That is, God is where God acts. This argument will proceed as follows. First, I will offer some biblical data for God’s presence. Next, I will present the occupancy account of omnipresence that Hud Hudson proposes with some critical commentary. This will then lead to a constructive examination of paradigmatic divine presence passages in the Hebrew Scriptures, the exposition of which will show Scripture as training our minds to conceive of God’s presence as God’s action. Biblical Data for Omnipresence The Hebrew Scriptures offer a rich and varied presentation of the nature of God. Rarely is this done in simple propositional terms; rather, we are asked to enter into narrative and poetic contexts to intuit God’s attributes. A few such passages offer specific support to the notion that God enjoys the attribute of being everywhere present. For instance, in Psalm 139, the psalmist seems to praise God for being in all places when he writes: Where shall I go from your Spirit? / Or where shall I flee from your presence?

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Divine Presence: Omni- and Special If I ascend to heaven, you are there! / If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! If I take the wings of the morning / and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, / and your right hand shall hold me.31

That God is in all places is of great comfort to the psalmist for there is no place where he can flee from God’s watchful presence and guidance. If we were to ask a question of the poem like, ‘What state of affairs would evoke in the psalmist the feeling that he cannot flee from God’s presence?’, God’s possessing the attribute of omnipresence would fit that bill. Of course, that is not the only possible state of affairs. The Spirit of God could be attached to the psalmist’s shoulder, and thus go wherever the poet goes. But this does not fit the entirety of the poem. The psalmist is clearly in awe of God’s immensity and ability to be anywhere the psalmist can conceive. Thus, the pedagogical impact of taking an attitudinal stance like that of the psalmist is to likewise think that there is no place in the cosmos that one could go where God is not. Similarly, in the context of God telling Jeremiah that God knows all about various false prophets who have been operating in the name of the God of Israel, Jeremiah includes this conversation with God: ‘Am I  a God who is near’, declares the LORD, ‘And not a God far off ? Can a man hide himself in hiding places, so I do not see him?’ declares the LORD. ‘Do I not fill the heavens and the earth?’ declares the LORD.32

In this narrative, God encourages Jeremiah to conceive of God as being both here and everywhere. This of course is in the context of Jeremiah having developed some unhelpful epistemic practices, 31 32

Psalm 139.7-10. Jeremiah 23.23–24.

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such as doubting God’s presence in certain locations, like the location Jeremiah found himself. God here attempts to change Jeremiah’s habits so that he might take comfort in the God who was present to him. Finally, for this section, Solomon offers this reflection in his prayer at the dedication of the Temple: ‘heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, how much less this house which I have built!’33 This view is interestingly echoed in Isaiah, when God utters, ‘Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. Where then is a house you could build for me?’34 These utterances occur in the context of narratives that have God’s presence as an underlying theme. A temple or a house of worship might have the unintended effect of encouraging the participants in that religion to conceive of God as only located in that temple. Indeed, some of Israel’s neighbours in the Ancient Near East had just these epistemic habits; their gods were only located in the idol or temple of the god. Thus, in relation to the God of Israel, the people might likewise have been tempted to form the beliefs and habits associated with God being only located at a certain place. In these stories, where a house dedicated to the worship of God is discussed, it becomes incumbent upon Solomon and God to attempt to stave off ideas that God is only located there and not everywhere. These passages and others have trained the minds of their audiences to conceive of God as possessing the attribute of omnipresence, and this conception has passed quite readily into the traditional conception of God. The Occupancy Account of Omnipresence The narratives and poems of the Hebrew Scriptures commend the practice of conceiving of God as being present everywhere. Yet, given the immateriality puzzle and the intensity puzzle, we might still wonder how we are to think about how God is present. Hud 33 34

1 Kings 8.27. Isaiah 66.1.

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Hudson has provided one of the more sophisticated treatments of divine omnipresence in recent philosophical theology.35 There is much to commend in his article. Let me offer a brief summary before I probe with my critique. Hudson sets up omnipresence as a standard feature of traditional Western theism wherein ‘God is said to enjoy the attribute of being everywhere present.’36 This he takes to entail that God possess the relation ‘being present at’ to every place.37 Hudson asserts his position as a ‘literal occupation account of omnipresence’,38 which entails that God is wholly and entirely located in the cosmos as a whole and in all possible subregions of the cosmos. He then describes some ‘occupation relations’ drawing on his monograph The Metaphysics of Hyperspace, in which he also interacts with the work of Josh Parsons on location. Hudson offers these definitions and distinctions:39 ‘x is entirely located at r’ =df x is located at r and there is no region of spacetime disjoint from r at which x is located. ‘x is wholly located at r’ =df x is located at r and there is no proper part of x not located at r. ‘x entends’ =df x is an object that is wholly and entirely located at a non-point-sized region, r, and for each proper subregion of r, r*, x is wholly located at r*.40 35

36

37 38 39

40

Hud Hudson, ‘Omnipresence’, in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophical Theology, eds. Thomas P. Flint and Michael C. Rea (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 199–216. Ibid., p. 199. For a similar line of inquiry, see Alexander Pruss, ‘Omnipresence, Multilocation, the Real Presence and Time Travel’, Journal of Analytic Theology 1 (2013): 60–73. Further discussion with a survey of historical material in the Christian philosophical tradition can be found in Ross Inman, ‘Omnipresence and the Location of the Immaterial’, in Oxford Studies in Philosophy of Religion, ed. Jonathan Kvanvig, vol. 8 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). Hudson, ‘Omnipresence’, p. 199. Ibid., p. 205. Let me note that early in the article Hudson commits himself to four-dimensionalism, thus the term ‘spacetime’. Ibid., p. 206. See also Hud Hudson, The Metaphysics of Hyperspace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), chapter 4; Josh Parsons, ‘Entension, or How It Could Happen

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The term ‘entends’ will sound familiar for those up to speed on philosophy of time discussions. Here, ‘entending’ in spatial discussions is akin to ‘enduring’ in temporal discussions. Of course, these terms are plays on the word ‘extend’, which means being located in multiple places, either wholly or partly.41 I currently am an object that is located in multiple places; I thus bear the relation ‘being present at’ to multiple locations. Part of me is down near the floor, part of me is a few feet above the floor, part of me is tapping away at keys on a keyboard. Entension is such that the same object is wholly and entirely multiply located. After working through these location definitions, Hudson makes the move to apply this reasoning to God. Thus, regarding the divine nature, Hudson characterizes the occupancy account of omnipresence as ‘ubiquitous entension’.42 Hudson writes, ‘to entend is to be wholly and entirely located at some non-point-sized region (in the case of omnipresence, at the maximally inclusive region) and to be wholly located at each of that region’s proper subregions (in the case of omnipresence, at every other region there is)’.43 Implicit in this account is another traditional position of classical theism, that God is a mereological simple. God has no parts, so all of God is wherever any of God is. God literally occupies the cosmos by being wholly and entirely located at every region and every subregion via entension. Despite the appeal of Hudson’s account, it is unable to solve the twin presence puzzles regarding immateriality and intensity. With respect to the immateriality puzzle, Hudson himself hints at the fact that his account of divine omnipresence may not square with the intuitions that motivate the immateriality puzzle. Hudson offers a statement of this worry and his response:

41 42 43

Than an Object Is Wholly Located in Each of Many Places’ (St. Andrews: University of St. Andrews, 2003) and ‘Theories of Location’ in Oxford Studies in Metaphysics, ed. Dean Zimmerman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 201–32. Parsons, ‘Entension’, p. 1. Hudson, ‘Omnipresence’, p. 209. Ibid., p. 210.

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Divine Presence: Omni- and Special How can something occupy a region and fail to have a body? My own view of the matter is that anything that occupies a region is a material object, and that the occupier inherits the shape, size, dimensionality, topology, and boundaries of the region in which it is entirely located. Anyone similarly attracted to the simple occupancy analysis of ‘material object’ and these related theses has a bullet to bite if he wants to endorse an entension-based reading of omnipresence, for God will then exemplify the shape, size, dimensionality, topology, and boundaries of whatever is the most inclusive shape . . . it will seem that some kind of embodiment will turn out to be an unavoidable cost of the present hypothesis.44

The unavoidable cost of Hudson’s view is to conceive of God as a material object. It should be noted that Hudson here does not suggest a limited form of embodiment as some classical theists or some panentheists have suggested.45 Rather, Hudson is explicit that his view of presence – and thus omnipresence – entails that God is a material object. The view in question here does not even posit some sort of God–world embodiment relation akin to the mind–body relation so familiar in discussions of philosophy of mind.46 Rather, because a material object is that which occupies some region, and on Hudson’s view God occupies the region of the entire cosmos (and each subregion), then God is material.

44 45

46

Ibid., pp. 210–211. For a classical theist embrace of limited embodiment, see Richard Swinburne, The Coherence of Theism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), pp. 102–104. For discussion of panentheism, see the work of Philip Clayton, especially Panentheism: The Other God of the Philosophers (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2006) or some of the essays in Andrei A. Buckareff and Yujin Nagasawa, eds., Alternative Concepts of God: Essays on the Metaphysics of the Divine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). See, for instance, E. J. Lowe, An Introduction to the Philosophy of Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 37, where he conceives of embodiment as ‘a unique kind of relationship in its own right, one which can be reduced neither to a mere causal relationship, nor to identity, nor to composition’.

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Clearly, then, the immateriality puzzle collapses. There is no puzzle to solve for how an immaterial God could be located at material places, since on this conception God is not immaterial. Yet, this seems akin to solving a puzzle by sweeping all the pieces off the table onto the floor. Surely there is no longer an incomplete puzzle on the table, but we would hardly say the puzzle has been solved. Further, it is difficult to square this conception of God with other data from Scripture and the traditions that take Scripture to guide thinking about God. The Hebrew Scriptures continually describe God as spirit. For instance, we have the already mentioned passage from Psalm  139, which links God’s presence to God being spirit: Where shall I go from your Spirit? / Or where shall I flee from your presence?

Likewise, Psalm 51 includes this connection between God as spirit and God’s presence: Cast me now away from your presence / And take not your holy Spirit from me.

One could also point to the prohibition against making images as evidence against God’s materiality, God cannot be materially depicted because God is not material.47 This, in fact, is what the escapees from Egypt attempted to do while Moses was atop the mountain, to physically portray the god who had taken them out of captivity.48 In this vein, Jewish philosopher Lenn Goodman comments on the charge of atheism levelled against Jews from the ancient Romans, ‘The Jews were atheists not just in their God’s exclusivity but in his incorporeality.’49 Thus, a theory of God’s omnipresence that entailed 47 48 49

Exodus 20.4. Exodus 32.4; see also Deuteronomy 4.15–19. Lenn E. Goodman, The God of Abraham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 31.

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God being a material object would not seem to be tenable from a biblical-philosophical perspective. Likewise, a brief excursus into this history of Christian theology shows similar unease with a conception of God as material. For instance, the second-century Christian theologian Theophilus writes that God is ‘by no means to be confined in a place; for it he were, then the place confining him would be greater than he; for that which contains is greater than that which is contained. For God is not contained, but is himself the place of all.’50 Now, Hudson might be able to nuance his position to get out of Theophilus’ accusation. For Hudson might say that if the ‘most inclusive region’ is co-extensive with God, then God is not properly contained by that region; rather, they share their boundary. Further, he might argue that because God is infinite and the most inclusive region is infinite, it is not conceptually possible for containment to obtain.51 Still, another second-century Father, Clement of Alexandria, writes, ‘God is not in darkness or in place, but above both space and time, and qualities of objects. Therefore neither is he at any time in a [particular] place, either as containing it or as being contained, either by limitation or by section.’52 For Clement, God’s non-bodiliness is due to his being beyond space. Further, one sees similar sentiments in the Reformation confessions. Article 1 of the Church of England’s Thirty-Nine Articles states God is ‘without body, parts, or passions’; so too does the Augsburg Confession assert that God is ‘without body’; the Westminster Catechism affirms the immateriality of God when it teaches that ‘God is a Spirit’. The understanding of God’s presence that I sketch in this chapter accounts for God’s ability to be

50

51 52

Theophilus, ‘To Autolycus’, in Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 2 (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1979), p. 95. He gestures towards this move on p. 210. Clement of Alexandria, ‘Stromata’, in Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 2 (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1979), p. 348.

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at a location, while still being beyond location in the sense expressed by Scripture and the subsequent tradition.53 Like the immateriality puzzle stumps the occupancy account of omnipresence, neither is it able to solve the intensity puzzle. For if God ubiquitously entends all locations in the cosmos, then there is not a coherent way to explicate greater concentrations of God’s presence, as the experience of the faithful indicates. If God is all at every location, he cannot be more at any location. Yet if this is the case, then it makes no sense for the faithful to utter anything like, ‘God is there,’ in any sense other than a truism.54 And the ability to utter this seems to be an important part of the tradition. For instance, the narrative of Elijah’s experience of God’s presence from the book of 1 Kings seems to capture this sentiment. After Elijah had routed the prophets of Baal, fled the threats of Jezebel, and retreated to a wilderness cave, verses 9–13 capture a vignette of Elijah’s encounter with the presence of God. I pick up the narrative in 1 Kings 19.9-13: [Elijah] came to a cave and lodged in it. And behold, the word of the LORD came to him, and he said to him, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’ He said, ‘I have been very jealous for the LORD, the God of hosts. For the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword, and I, even I  only, am left, and they seek my life, to take it away.’ And he said, ‘Go out and stand on the mount before the LORD.’ And behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the 53

54

Further reflections and arguments against divine materiality can be found in Charles Taliaferro, ‘Incorporeality’, in A Companion to Philosophy of Religion, eds. Charles Taliaferro, Paul Draper, and Philip L. Quinn (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), pp. 271–278; and William J. Wainwright, ‘God’s Body’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 42.3 (1974): 470–481. It might ‘make sense’ for the faithful to say this because they are in a different psychological state to be sensitive to the divine presence that ubiquitously entends, but the thrust of the narratives seem to push against a purely psychological explication of the intensity of God’s presence.

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Divine Presence: Omni- and Special mountains and broke in pieces the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper. And when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. And behold, there came a voice to him and said, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’

First, I might note that this pericope is bookended by questions pertaining to location and presence (‘What are you doing here [poh]?’). This flags the reader to attend to issues related to presence. Although it is Elijah’s location that God calls the reader’s attention to, God’s location becomes the leitmotif throughout the vignette. Second, in the episode, once Elijah follows God’s command to go onto a mountain, the passage describes the Lord as ‘passing by (ober)’. A specific location is delineated for where the Lord was. Then what follows is a series of physical phenomena that is expressly declared as not the location of God: ‘the Lord was not in the wind . . . the Lord was not in the earthquake . . . the Lord was not in the fire.’ If God is omnipresent, these statements are patently false. Or perhaps if these statements are apt descriptions of God’s relation to those locales, then God is not omnipresent. Or perhaps, this narrative and others in the Hebrew Scriptures train us to think of God’s presence as a degreed attribute. God can be more in certain locales than others. But if this latter is the case, then the occupancy account of omnipresence cannot countenance this and the intensity puzzle is not solved. Perhaps Hudson is not concerned with staying within the mainstream of Scriptural theism. I am not arguing that Hudson’s account of omnipresence – and thus God – is logically impossible or incoherent. Rather, I am simply arguing that the picture of God that one develops when being tutored by the Scriptures is not one where God turns out to be a material object or ubiquitously entends. I  proffer that attention to the manner in which God is described in the 95

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narratives as being at specific locations helps us to conceive of how to think about God’s presence at all locations. Omnipresence as Action in Instances of Special Presence As I indicated, I think the way to move forward in a constructive manner is to note how the narratives of the Hebrew Scriptures attune our minds to conceive of God’s presence at a location as an instance of divine action at that location. In order to construct this, I here examine key instances where God is said to be more present than usual. In order to satisfy the intensity puzzle, the narratives of the Hebrew Scriptures commend us to think of theophanies as occurring in a degreed manner. There can be more or less intense theophanies – strong theophanies and weak theophanies.55 I show that the presence-as-action motif accounts for the whole spectrum of types of divine presence: from weak theophany to strong theophany to omnipresence. The distinction between strong and weak theophanies can be readily seen in one of the most important theophanies in the narratives of the Hebrew Scripture, that of the appearance of God to Moses in the Unburnt Bush. In Exodus 3, Moses is tending flocks in the desert of Horeb when he sees a bush that is on fire but is not burning up; naturally, he investigates the phenomenon. At this point, verse 4 states, ‘God called to him out of the midst of the bush and said, “Moses, Moses!” ’56 This location, the middle of the Unburnt Bush, is a particular theophanic concentration of the divine presence, a strong theophany. Yet, God then says, in verse 5, ‘Do not come near here; take off your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’57 The ground around the bush is weakly theophanic, there is 55

56 57

On theophanies and their covenantal structure, see Jeffrey Niehaus, God at Sinai: Covenant and Theophany in the Bible and Ancient Near East (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1995). Exodus 3.4. Exodus 3.5.

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a greater concentration of divine presence at that region than there is at, say, a rock or bush a few metres away, but less of a concentration than is enjoyed by the region of ‘the midst of the bush.’ This concentration of divine presence is a concentration of divine activity. God is at the location of the middle of the bush because God is acting at the location of the middle of the bush: speaking to Moses, causing fire to appear, preventing the bush from being consumed by the flame, and so on. Moreover, the ground around the bush becomes holy because of its close proximity to a particular location of divine action. The divine activity causes the ground around the bush to change, to become ‘holy’ (qodesh). This is a weaker action than occurs at the strong theophanic location, but is nonetheless an action. The divine presence radiates out from the centre of action to the surrounding physical plane. Further, the adjective used to describe the ground as ‘holy’, qodesh, is often used to describe instances of radiating, or weakly theophanic, presence-as-action. These themes of divine presence as divine action and the reverberating nature of the action seem also to occur at another important theophanic location: the Mercy Seat above the Ark of the Covenant. Exodus 25 conveys a number of God’s instructions to the Israelites for the construction of their worship space. Included in this are instructions for making the Ark of the Covenant, containing this description: You shall make a mercy seat of pure gold. Two cubits and a half shall be its length, and a cubit and a half its breadth. And you shall make two cherubim of gold; of hammered work shall you make them, on the two ends of the mercy seat . . . And you shall put the mercy seat on the top of the ark . . . there I will meet with you, and from above the mercy seat, from between the two cherubim that are on the ark of the testimony, I will speak with you about all that I will give you in commandment for the people of Israel.58

58

Exodus 25.17-18, 21a, 22, emphasis added.

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God seems to be saying, colloquially, ‘I’ll be there.’ Right between the gold cherubim, just above the Ark, God says that he will be present in a special way. God’s description of his presence here is due to the fact that God will be acting at that particular location. That location will be the locus for meeting with God, God will speak from there, God will command from there, God will be there as God acts there. As with the Unburnt Bush and the ground around it, God’s presence-as-activity radiates out from the Mercy Seat. Uzzah’s death in 2 Samuel 6 is an indication that the very Ark itself became a locus for divine activity.59 Typically, the Ark rested in the ‘Holy of Holies’, which was more holy than the ‘Holy Place’. Moreover, the radiating holiness continues to the Court and then the perimeter of the Tabernacle itself. In sum, this meditation on these theophanic passages shows that divine special presence is a particular concentration of divine action and that concentration of divine activity can be greater or lesser and can radiate from a centre of action. As noted, the meaning of the noun form of qodesh is ‘holy’ and holy objects, such as the ground around the Unburnt Bush and the locations around the Mercy Seat, become holy due to the concentration of divine presence at a location of divine action. Moreover, in verb form qodesh receives the translation of ‘to consecrate’ or ‘to sanctify’, that is, basically, ‘to make holy’. If we attend to the practice of making holy, we will also see the notion of divine presence-asaction in play as well. This theme emerges by focusing on certain other passages in Exodus. For instance, the end of Exodus 29 records God’s instructions for establishing the practice of daily offerings at the tabernacle. After stating the details of the components of the offering, God says:

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2 Samuel 6.6–7: ‘And when they came to the threshing floor of Nacon, Uzzah put out his hand to the ark of God and took hold of it, for the oxen stumbled. And the anger of the LORD was kindled against Uzzah, and God struck him down there because of his error, and he died there beside the ark of God.’ See the prohibition of touching the Ark in Numbers 4.15.

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Divine Presence: Omni- and Special It shall be a regular burnt offering throughout your generations at the entrance of the tent of meeting before the LORD, where I will meet with you, to speak to you there. There I will meet with the people of Israel, and it shall be sanctified by my glory. I will consecrate [qadash] the tent of meeting and the altar.60

We see here some familiar themes. First, God indicates a particular location where his presence will be, and his presence will be for the purpose of specific actions:  meeting with and speaking to the people. Secondly, God’s presence will be holy making such that the region where his presence will be will be consecrated.61 The process is such that God will act at a location entails God will be present at that location, and God’s presence consecrates that location such that, ultimately, that location becomes holy. The notion of radiating holiness also emerges from attention to consecration. Recall that holiness is not just at the location of divine activity, but there is a ripple effect extending to the regions that encompass that location. For instance, God’s instructions to Moses regarding some of the tabernacle accoutrements (the burnt offering altar, the utensils, the basin, etc.) includes this description: ‘You shall consecrate them, that they may be most holy. Whatever touches them will become holy.’62 These items become holy themselves and they are somehow able to transmit their holiness to other items. On my construal, it must be the case that God indicates that as these holy objects will be locations of God’s activity, so too will locations these items come in contact with become locations of divine activity. To extend the theme just a bit further, God even indicates that humans themselves might play a role in bringing about these

60 61

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Exodus 29.42–44, emphasis added. On God’s glory (kabod) as his identity/presence/self, cf. Deut. 5.24; Ex. 33.13, 16.10, inter alia. Exodus 30.29. Note also the degreed holiness that the divine action theory of presence accounts for more easily than the occupancy account. On the touching of holy items, see also Leviticus 6.18, 27.

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instances of theophanic presence-as-action. Exodus 40.9–10 includes these divine instructions: Then you shall take the anointing oil and anoint the tabernacle and all that is in it, and consecrate it and all its furniture, so that it may become holy. You shall also anoint the altar of burnt offering and all its utensils, and consecrate the altar, so that the altar may become most holy.

In this instance, there is a human cooperative element in making a location qodesh. As we saw in the previous passages, the altar and the tabernacle are loci of divine meeting (even interaction) and thus divine action and divine presence. Presence as Action and the Twin Presence Puzzles The narratives surveyed teach that God is present at a location because God is acting at that location. According to these vignettes, we are to attune our minds to God being located at a location because of God’s activity at that location. But since the narratives and poems discussed at the outset teach that God is located everywhere, we ought to combine these observations to come to hold that God is located at all locations because God acts at all locations. With respect to the immateriality puzzle, the narratives surveyed might not actually have a very satisfying answer. They do not give clear indication how God who is immaterial interacts with material locations; they only take it for granted that God does so. If it were in fact impossible for an immaterial God to interact at material locations, then none of the narratives or poems presented would make any sense. This indicates that those who attuned their minds to the manner of thinking implicit in the narratives will indeed conceive of God as acting on and interacting with the material world. Any pursuit of how God does this must keep this conception as necessary. On the intensity puzzle, these narratives clearly imply that God is able to act more or less in certain locations. This will allow the statements of the faithful 100

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(‘God is there’) to be expressions of the recognition of a particular concentration of divine activity, rather than the expression of a psychological state. The theorist who take seriously the tutoring of the narratives of the Hebrew Scriptures will conceive of God’s omnipresence as God’s action, thus avoiding the pitfalls of the occupancy account of omnipresence.

Refining Holiness In the discussion to this point, I have pursued an analysis of consecration characterized as a kind of speech-act. This analysis has allowed me to elicit some of the necessary and sufficient conditions for veridical consecrations and some correlated concepts. In the previous section, I pursued the analysis by highlighting the theophanic nature of some instances of consecration as well as the theophanic nature of holiness. Consecrated objects, holy objects, are a locus of divine presence. I here extend the analysis to show that that holiness can be construed as a specific relation of ownership that obtains between an object and God. It is a standard conception in Christian theology that God, as the creator of the universe, has ultimate possession of all the objects in the cosmos. Because God made everything, everything belongs to God. However, due to the limited stewardship role that God gave to humanity after the creation of the first parents, physical objects belong to humans in a derived or stewardship sense. This is how I  can say that, on one level, a particular physical object  – say, my California state flag  – belongs to me. A  real ownership relation obtains between me and that object. Yet, at the same time, because all things are ultimately from God, my ownership of that object is derived from God’s ultimate ownership of that object. The lord/vassal analogy from the feudal system is somewhat appropriate here. A lord owns a certain parcel of land, but he allows the vassal to work the land, live on the land, sell some of the produce of the land, all the 101

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while maintaining the right to the land itself. Whereas God owns all objects, humans use those objects for their own ends (a flag is used for decoration, an apple used for consumption, a computer used to write a book, etc.). At times, however, a lord might take back the parcel of land, kick the vassal off, and use the land for whatever purpose he likes. Yet, it might also be the case where the lord just tells the vassal what to do with the land (‘plant beans here, plant corn to the north, and graze the sheep there!’). In this sense, the land is still properly said to be adhering to the lord’s use, even if the vassal is the instrument for bringing about this use. This is how I  understand the kind of ownership that obtains between God and a consecrated object. That consecrated object now belongs to God in a stronger sense than it did prior to consecration, and the human ownership of that object is now weaker than it was prior to consecration. In fact, I  can refine my definition of consecration to reflect this nuance. Whereas before I defined ‘consecrate’ as to set apart an object for a Godly use, a refined version of this definition – specifying the ownership relation inherent in consecration – is to set apart an object for God’s use.63 And the definition of ‘holy’ is an object that has been set apart for God’s use. Consecration is the setting apart of an object for God’s use. This strengthens the relation between object and God. For on the adverbial ‘Godly’ in the previous definition, the use only had to be harmonious or consonant with God’s nature. But on the possessive relation between ‘God’ and ‘use’, the object actually becomes owned or possessed by God in a manner that goes beyond God’s general right to ownership of the cosmos. The connection between consecration, being holy, and being the possession of God is made at various places in Scripture. For instance, Exodus 13.2 states, ‘Consecrate to me all the firstborn. Whatever is the first to open the womb among the people of Israel,

63

I do not think I have to revise my discussion of the conditions of exercitive of consecration based upon this refined definition. If anything, this just adds weight to the notion of ‘Godly use’ proffered in that section.

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both of man and of beast, is mine.’ Here consecration is a precursor to ownership. Further, there is a repeated phrase of items being ‘holy to the Lord’.64 This does not seem to mean that the item is holy from God’s perspective; rather, it is the case that the holiness is due to the fact that the item is given to, or dedicated to, or belongs to God. Quite simply, holy objects are God’s objects. Even our notion of the Sabbath is such that this ‘holy day’65 is the ‘Lord’s Day’. Of the seven days of the week, God has a particular ownership of the Sabbath. Holy objects are God’s objects. With Moses at the Unburnt Bush, he had to take off his sandals because he was standing on holy ground, that is to say, God told Moses to take off his sandals because he was standing on God’s ground. God’s ownership of the consecrated object entails God establishing the use of the object, and that the object’s use is no longer to be determined by the human agent. For instance, under normal circumstances, one could take a measure of cloth that did not belong to anyone and pretty much do whatever one liked with it: use it as a tablecloth, cut it up and sew it into curtains, throw it in the trash. Yet, once that object has been consecrated as a holy garment, it belongs to God, and its use is now God’s prerogative.66 The breast of the ram normally could be used by humans for any purpose, but once it is consecrated and becomes holy, it is God’s and it is up to God to determine its use.

Towards the Eucharist This section segues from omnipresence to the Eucharist. Here I  want to indicate how this biblical-philosophical motif of divine 64

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Exodus 28.36; 30.10, 37; 31.15; 35.2; 39.30; Leviticus 19.8; 23.20; 27.28; 27.30; 27.32; Numbers 8.8; Deuteronomy 7.6; 14.2, 21; 26.29; Joshua 6.19; 2 Chronicles 35.3; Ezra 8.28; Nehemiah 8.9; Isaiah 23.18; Jeremiah 2.3; Zechariah 14.20, 21. Exodus 20.8: ‘Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.’ Exodus 40.13.

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presence as action has application to Eucharistic theology. The broad tradition of interpretation of the Eucharist includes some notion that the Eucharist is a certain kind of theophany. Most specifically, it is a Chirstophany, but the application of one kind of appearance to this other should be possible. Further, since I  take Chalcedonian Christology as a starting point in this book, Christophanies are simply theophanies. In his account of omnipresence, Hudson makes some suggestive comments that Christ’s presence in the Eucharist might be seen as a sort of occupancy relation employing the reasoning of entension, and that this would be a way of maintaining Christ’s presence as both wholly in heaven and wholly in the elements. However, for the sake of symmetry, consistency, and – I think – accuracy, if one takes divine presence to be a matter of activity, one will be inclined to pursue this theme in the Eucharist as well. Thus, the consecrated objects of bread and wine are specific loci of divine activity and thus loci of divine presence as well. Further, if the leitmotif of radiating holiness continues in the Eucharist, there could be important implications for Eucharistic practice and piety. For let us suppose that the consecrated elements of bread and wine are particular loci of theophanic/christophanic activity. Let us further suppose that radiating holiness is a standard feature of theophanic activity, as it was in the instances of the Unburnt Bush and Mercy Seat.67 This would seem to provide good warrant for careful and deliberate interaction with the elements. It would not at all be illegitimate to think that the use of special vessels, linens, and other liturgical accoutrements would aid in facilitating the sort of care that the elements deserve. In this sphere, there might be a question of how long the divine presence-as-activity endures at the theophanic location of the consecrated elements. A  simple

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We could add, if needed, the aforementioned observation on Exodus 40.9–10 that humans at times cooperate with God in consecration as would be the case in Eucharistic consecrations.

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response inspired by my line of reasoning would be that the special presence endures as long as the divine activity endures. If the divine activity at the location of the bread and wine slips back into a simple, fundamental sustaining-in-existence action, then the presence does as well. But if it is the fact that the bread and wine continue to be loci of special divine theophanic activity, even well after their initial consecration for this purpose, then the presence endures as well. On either score, the practical upshot is that great care and deliberateness ought to be observed with all those locations that might be within the sphere of the radiating holiness of the elements. Further, on the theme of radiating holiness, it becomes all the more striking that Christians are asked to consume these holy objects. I can think of no more intimate interaction with a location of theophanic activity than actually taking that location into one’s body and thereby making one’s body a locus of radiating divine activity. One would need to take some caution in spelling out just what the nature of the radiation is for human consumers. Yet, perhaps in a similar fashion as the ground around the Unburnt Bush and the locations around the Mercy Seat/Ark of the Covenant/ Holy of Holies grew in their holiness, it seems fitting that human consumers of the Eucharistic elements might also grow in holiness because of their consumption of the bread and wine.

The Eucharistic EXERCITIVE of Consecration The preceding conceptual work sets the table for a turn to the Eucharist. The elements of bread and wine are consecrated, made holy, and thus become owned by God (Christ who is God) and become a specific location of divine presence. This section analyses how the dominical words can be construed as an instance of the speech-act of consecration. Hence, I  offer the Eucharistic exercitive of consecration, which utilizes the exercitive of consecration schema from above. First, recall that schema: 105

‘Holy to the Lord’ A consecrator sets apart X for a Godly use in uttering S iff in uttering S the consecrator R’d that: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Conceptually necessary conditions for consecration are satisfied. The consecrator has the authority to produce consecration. Conditions are appropriate for the exercise of that authority. By uttering S, the consecrator is bringing about consecration.

In application of this schema to the Eucharistic instance of consecration, and the role that the dominical words play in that act, we have: Christ consecrated bread in uttering, ‘This is my body’ (where ‘consecrated’ is a term for purporting to be producing the conventional effect of separating setting apart an object for God’s use) iff in uttering, ‘This is my body,’ Christ took responsibility that 1. 2. 3. 4.

Conceptually necessary conditions for consecrating are satisfied. Christ has the authority to consecrate. Conditions are appropriate for the exercise of that authority. By uttering, ‘This is my body,’ Christ brought about the consecration of the bread.68

With this specific schema in hand, and in light of the preceding discussion of the consecration of the seventh day of the creation week, I turn to exposit Conditions (1)–(4) for this speech-act. Condition (1): Conceptually Necessary Conditions for Consecration Are Satisfied This condition is satisfied due to the fact that Christ was speaking in a linguistic community that took consecration to be possible. By this, of course, I mean that this community was such that they held that objects could be used either by humans or by God. Further, since the disciples certainly believed in God, that prerequisite belief 68

The focus here is on the bread words, but a parallel analysis could be had for the wine words.

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was satisfied. As much of our preceding reasoning explicated the nature of consecration in its Hebrew Scriptures formulation, this community for whom the Hebrew Scriptures were normative would have been comfortable with the actions that Christ performed. Secondly, Christ satisfies the condition of the non-vagueness of the object of consecration. As the argument of the last chapter made clear, the narrative indicates that Christ took a piece of bread from the table. That act, in and of itself, separated the bread from the other objects before the perception of the disciples. Moreover, Christ clearly indicated the object of consecration when he said, ‘This’. We use this demonstrative pronoun when we want to specify an object that is close at hand – or in hand, in Christ’s case. Thus, the conceptual conditions of having beliefs that an object can be used by God and the non-vague indication of the object of consecration are both satisfied in Christ’s utterance. Condition (2): The Consecrator Has the Authority to Produce Consecration The question under this heading is did Christ take responsibility for having the authority to consecrate? Only a moment’s reflection on the narrative of the Gospels indicates that he clearly did. I think this can be exposited on two levels, the two levels of the two natures of Christ – which Chalcedonian Christology proffers.69 First, with respect to the divine nature of Christ, and in application of our previous reasoning where God is the consecrator, Christ satisfies this condition by definition. Recall that we reasoned that all purported consecrations performed by God automatically satisfied Condition (2) because God has the complete prerogative to establish God’s use of objects. By extension, with Christ being God and bread being an object, Christ has authority to consecrate the bread for his use. This 69

Again, I am assuming Chalcedonian Christology here, a fuller discussion of which will come in Chapter 5.

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is not to say that every time Christ used an object he automatically consecrated it, for having authority to consecrate is just one component of a veridical consecration speech-act. But in instances of consecration, Condition (2) is satisfied by definition due to Christ’s divine nature. Second, on the human side, Christ was certainly the authority figure for the linguistic community of the disciples. He was their rabbi, they had followed him around Palestine for the better part of three years, he taught, and they listened. Christ’s role in the institution narrative was such that he was the leader of the Passover celebration that the disciples were having. Now, just because one is a leader in a community does not necessarily entail that one has the power to change the conventions of that community. Being an authority in the community is necessary for bringing about conventional effects, even if being a leader does not necessarily entail that the leader will bring about conventional effects; the leader could just refrain from attempting. However, on the interpretation being proffered here, Christ does indeed take the responsibility. Of course, when a consecrator is not God, that is, Christ qua human, a consecration will only obtain if it is done in harmony with the divine nature. Here is where Christ’s hypostatic union comes into play, for as a human consecrator his act is in accord with the divine nature. Therefore, Christ satisfies Condition (2) by definition with respect to his divine nature, but also, with respect to his human nature, he satisfies the condition by consecrating the object for God’s use. Christ the God-man has this condition covered. Condition (3): Conditions Are Appropriate for the Exercise of That Authority The linguistic community in which Christ made his utterance had the conceptual background for the separation of an object for God’s use. Christ sufficiently indicated the bread and wine as the objects

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of consecration. Christ as God and as man was a fitting authority for this community, and Christ took responsibility for this being fulfilled. In addition, the conditions were right for him to make this utterance. First, as God, his timing would have been divinely appropriate. But even beyond this, the setting of the Passover meal was especially fitting. This meal commemorated one of the great consecrations in the history of Israel, that of the firstborn. Further, the items used in the meal were already in some sense distinguished from food used at ordinary meals. We might say they were ripe for investment with meaning, ready for consecration. Thus, this condition was satisfied as well. Condition (4): By Uttering S, the Consecrator Is Bringing about Consecration Finally, we come to the condition that locates the causal medium for consecration in the utterance Jesus made. Now, a case could be made that a number of the actions that Christ performed just prior to the utterance of the dominical words contributed to the obtaining of consecration. I do not think the Gospel writers merely filled in interesting detail when they describe Jesus taking, blessing, and breaking the bread prior to making his utterance. These manual actions set the scene for the utterance that ultimately brings about the consecration. Thus, I hold that the utterances that Christ made brought about the consecration of the bread and the wine. This analysis fits well with the trajectory of consecration that I sketched from the Hebrew Scriptures data. Christ satisfies the condition of taking responsibility for the satisfaction of the various conditions for the exercitive of consecration, which gives us the resultant Eucharistic exercitive of consecration. Next, I pick up the threads of theophany and divine ownership of consecrated objects as applied to the Eucharistic consecration.

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Eucharistic Ownership and Theophany If my explication of this utterance of Christ is apt, and we can see the words of institution as a token of consecration, this entails that the objects of consecration, the bread and the wine, become God’s. Those elements become holy in the sense that they are God’s. No longer do members of the linguistic community sitting at the Eucharist have the prerogative to do with the bread and the wine what they wish; it is up to God to determine what becomes of the elements. Yet, what is interesting about these objects becoming owned by God is that after the consecration Christ immediately gives them away. In fact, even before the consecratory sentence occurs Christ indicates that these objects will be given to the disciples (‘Take! Eat!’). This then leads us to consider the use principle for this instance. If the objects are set apart for God’s use, what does he use them for? The use of these consecrated objects fits well with the theophanic use of consecrated objects in this chapter’s reflections on the Hebrew Scriptures occurrences. Holy objects  – consecrated objects, objects that belong to God – are used by God to mediate his presence. This was the case with the location of the tent of meeting and specifically with the Mercy Seat. These consecrated and holy objects (and locations) were places where God would meet God’s people, God would appear to God’s people, and God would be present to God’s people. Likewise, with the consecration of the bread and wine, Christ qua God is saying, ‘I’ll be right there.’ Christ, as God, appears (theophany) in/at the location of the object of consecration. It is his object; post-consecration he owns it, and he will use it to bring about his presence. This of course is all the more striking given the sentence that Jesus uses to consecrate the bread, ‘This is my body.’ A fuller explication of the meaning of that utterance, and the other illocutionary acts it performs, will continue in the next chapter.

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What’s in a (Re)Name? That Which We Call Bread, by Another Name Would Be Christ’s Body

Socrates: And speech is a kind of action? Hermogenes: True. ... Socrates: And if speaking is a sort of action and has a relation to acts, is not naming also a sort of action? Hermogenes: True. Plato, Cratylus 387b, d

In the previous chapter, I  introduced an analysis of the act of consecration as a certain type of speech-act. This analysis ran on William Alston’s account of exercitive-type illocutionary acts. I  supplied this linguistic infrastructure with Thomas Cranmer’s definition of consecration to provide us with an overall speechact schema for analysing consecration. One of the key aspects of the analysis showed that consecration is a certain kind of distinguishing or setting apart of an object. Once an object has been distinguished from other objects of its kind, it is then conceptually possible to endow that object with a non-natural use, a spiritual use in the case of consecration. Following an examination of divine presence, I concluded the chapter with a discussion of what sorts of metaphysical implications might be in play for a consecrated, or holy, object. However, I do not think that simply having the property of being holy is the complete teleological function for a consecrated object. As we saw with the consecration of the seventh day of the creation

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week, the day was neither separated simpliciter nor even separated for a holy use simpliciter, but it was separated for the holy use of holy rest. Similarly, in application to the consecration at the Eucharist, there is more going on than a mere separation of bread and wine; rather, they are separated for a particular holy use. The next step in analysing the teleological component of consecration is to attend to another exercitive illocutionary act, what I  will term the exercitive of renaming. In this chapter, I  will continue with a linguistic analysis of the words of institution in the efforts of laying the next layer in a proposal on the metaphysics of the Eucharist to be undertaken in the next chapters. This is not yet the metaphysical proposal, but rather continues the inquiry into the linguistic features of the Eucharist began in Chapter 2. The first step in this chapter will be an examination of the nature of singular terms (proper names, pronouns, definite descriptions, etc.) and their relation to biblical instances of renaming. This is in an effort to extend some of Hunsinger’s analysis that I presented in the second chapter. Hunsinger suggests that a way forward through the current ecumenical impasse on the doctrine of the Eucharist is to see the words of institution as bringing about, what he terms, ‘real predication’.1 The ecumenical imperative here is that the consecrated bread and wine must be able to be referred to as ‘the body of Christ’ and ‘the blood of Christ’. Further attending to philosophy of language, I will discuss just what this means, and how real predication comes about in a linguistic community. This latter component of the analysis will again run on William Alston’s speech-act infrastructure for exercitive-type illocutionary acts. Following the linguistic analysis of real predication, I will make use of Alvin Plantinga’s theory of names to show how real predication in the Eucharist brings hearers to a similar position as one finds oneself in Chalcedonian Christology.

1

Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, p. 60.

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Singular Terms as Names In line with this chapter’s concern with the linguistics of the Eucharist, ‘real predication’ is a position on what one can say about the bread and wine after the utterances of the dominical words. This provides a linguistic state of affairs that the metaphysical infrastructure of subsequent chapters undergird. I argue that real predication ought to be understood as the giving of another singular term to the bread and the wine. Up to the point of the utterance of the words of institution, the bread and wine on the table at the Last Supper had only been referred to by the singular term ‘this bread’, ‘that wine’, or the like.2 Real predication proffers that the dominical words brought about other singular terms that can be used to refer to those objects. Thus, given real predication, the words of institution turn out to be instances of ‘re-singular-terming’ or as I have paraphrased it, ‘renaming’. In the next section, I will set the context to show the biblical precedent for the linguistic practice of renaming, which will include an analysis of the speech-act of renaming. I will then apply this reasoning to the Eucharistic instance of renaming. However, it may not be initially clear that that we ought to understand real predication as the linguistic practice of renaming. Thus, the first step in the argument is to show that singular terms and names are functionally equivalent. Being functionally equivalent, then, allows me to explicate an instance of ‘renaming’ when the words being used are clearly names per se.3 Singular terms are those terms that refer to distinct particulars. These are the ‘paradigmatic referring devices . . . expressions that purport to denote or designate particular individual people, places, or other objects’.4 As the Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy puts it, a singular term is ‘an 2 3

4

Perhaps the owner of the room had one time said, ‘my bread’ of the bread. Phrases like ‘my body’ or ‘this bread’ do not seem like the names ‘Matt’, ‘Tom’, or ‘Sue’, yet they are all singular terms. William G. Lycan, Philosophy of Language: A Contemporary Introduction, 2nd edn (New York: Routledge, 2008), p. 10.

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expression . . . that can be the grammatical subject of what is semantically a subject-predicate sentence’.5 Singular terms are, of course, distinct from general terms, which can denote more than one particular individual. ‘Dog’ is a general term, whereas ‘Fido’, ‘Lassie’, and ‘Snoopy’ are all singular terms. The latter in this example are all proper names, but a word need not be a proper name in order for it to be a singular term – although, as I will show, they are functionally equivalent. For singular terms include such items as proper names, definite descriptions, singular personal pronouns, demonstrative pronouns, and possibly a few more items.6 I hold that the singular terms we use to refer to objects – be these objects people, natural kinds, or artefacts – are stipulated at some point in the object’s past and then that term is passed along by the conventional use of the linguistic community of users. This view is an extension of the causal-historical theory of reference proffered by Saul Kripke and Keith Donnellan.7 Theorists in this school typically attempt to describe how names refer, but I  think that this notion can be applied to all referring devices, including singular terms. The causal-historical view holds that names of objects are stipulated at some point and they are passed from link to link along a reference chain. What I  want to highlight, however, is the necessity of the terms being used by a particular linguistic community in order for that term to refer in that linguistic community. Let me offer an illustration of this theory at work During my teenage years, at the beginning of a particular school year, a fellow sitting next to me in my humanities class named ‘Michael’ raised his hand to answer a question posed by the teacher. Michael happened to be wearing a T-shirt with the word ‘KORN’ 5

6 7

George F. Schumm, ‘Singular Term’, in The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy, ed. Robert Audi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 846. Lycan, Philosophy of Language, p. 10. See, for instance, Saul A. Kripke, Naming and Necessity (Oxford: Blackwell, 1972); or Keith S. Donnellan, ‘Proper Names and Identifying Descriptions’, Synthese 21 (1970): 335–358.

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across the front.8 The teacher, not knowing any students’ names yet and in a moment of – to my mind – indiscretion, pointed to Michael and said, ‘You, Korn’, in order to call on Michael to answer the question. A bit of confusion arose, but then Michael answered the question. As teenagers are prone to do, the class picked up on this referring device and began to refer to Michael as ‘Korn’. Michael did not protest. In fact, being a fan of the band, he began to embrace his new name to the point of answering to the name. The result was that gradually Michael became known throughout the school as ‘Korn’. As Kripke would describe it, our teacher’s pointing at Michael and saying ‘Korn’ was a ‘baptism’9 at which a name began to be used in order to refer to Michael and this name was passed on from link to link throughout the linguistic community of my school. Let me extend the illustration to cover all singular terms, however, and show that what occurs with naming or renaming applies also to new singular terms being used to refer. For in this exchange between Michael (aka Korn) and the teacher, the teacher used another singular term to refer to Michael, ‘you’, accompanied by a pointing gesture. In English, the second-person singular pronoun can refer to individuals. But likewise could the phrase ‘that guy’ have referred to Michael in the given context or ‘him’, ‘this dude’, or ‘bro’ or Michael could have pointed to himself and asked, ‘Me?’, thus using another singular term. There are many singular terms that could refer to the individual named Michael, but all those terms function in the same manner – that is, they refer to Michael. The difference between these terms is not in the referent, but in the utterer. Michael can say, ‘me’, to refer to Michael, but I cannot. When I say, ‘me’, given the linguistic conventions of English, I refer to myself. I can say, ‘you’, to refer to Michael, but for Michael it is non-standard for him to refer to himself when he says, ‘you’.10 8 9 10

The nu metal band. For instance in Kripke, Naming and Necessity, pp. 96–96. But not impossible. Perhaps before a difficult exam in the aforementioned humanities course, Michael could have said to himself, ‘C’mon, you got this!’ in a not inappropriate manner.

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In addition to personal pronouns, demonstrative adjectives also serve to refer to objects. With respect to Michael, the teacher merely uttering, ‘guy’, would not have succeeded in referring, but saying, ‘this guy’, with some clear, non-verbal corollary indication of Michael (looking, pointing, head nodding) would succeed in referring. Of course, ‘that guy’ would serve the same purpose, English just happens to distinguish proximity by two separate demonstratives. Possessive adjectives function in a similar manner as demonstratives in moving a term from general to singular. ‘Dog’ is a general term, but prefix ‘my’ as in ‘my dog’ and we have a singular term; ‘chair’ is a general term, but ‘your chair’ is singular. And this is just as ‘this dog’ or ‘that chair’ are singular terms where the demonstratives serve to singularize a general term. How a singular term refers to an individual is, on my estimation, purely a matter of convention. However, when we know a language, we know the conventions and know how to utilize them. For instance, when I say the word ‘basketball’, English-users by and large understand the object to which I refer, some rubbery, round, bouncy sphere that teams such as the Los Angeles Lakers dribble, pass around, and attempt to shoot though a hoop. Taking into consideration the conventional nature of language, we English-speakers could, over time, start referring to basketballs as ‘hoopballs’.11 Then, at some point in the future, any use of ‘hoopball’ would refer to that object that the Lakers dribble, pass, and shoot. In fact, this is what has occurred in the history of languages. Terms come and go, terms are inaugurated and modified, new objects need new terms, and old objects occasionally get new terms. And, generally speaking, these changes occur gradually over time; but this is not necessary. When this occurs, that is, when an object is referred to by a different singular term, this phenomenon is ‘re-singular-terming’. However, since that phrase is cumbersome, I  will use ‘renaming’ to refer to this practice. 11

This is similar to the ‘cell phone’ to ‘handy’ illustration from the previous chapter.

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The EXERCITIVE of Renaming Naming and renaming play important roles in many biblical narratives. For instance, one of the first acts God performs in creation is the naming of the light ‘day’ and the dark ‘night’ or the expanse above the waters ‘heaven’ and the dry ground ‘earth’.12 Adam receives the task of naming every living creature.13 Further, important individuals in the biblical stories occasionally have their names changed by God. The patriarchs Abraham,14 Sarah,15 and Jacob16 all undergo this phenomenon. Likewise, the Apostle Paul, upon his conversion to Christ, is renamed from his original ‘Saul’.17 In this chapter, I show that the words that Christ uttered regarding the bread and the wine of the Last Supper, ‘This is my body’ and ‘This is my blood’, respectively, are a kind of renaming. This is a step in the use analysis; it is not the final step, but is the next step once the consecration occurs. Like consecration, renaming is an exercitive illocutionary act. In the previous chapter, in order to illustrate speech-acts, I used the example of someone breaking a bottle of champagne on the prow of a ship and uttering, ‘This is the Flying Dutchman.’ This sentential act, given the appropriate conditions, is an exercitive illocutionary act, wherein the ship takes on the name ‘Flying Dutchman’. This phenomenon is of the sort that Austin uses to introduce performative utterances,18 and Alston cites ‘name’ as a potential exercitive verb in his description.19 According to Alston’s exercitive schema, U O’d (where ‘O’ is a term for purporting to be producing a

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Genesis 1.5, 8, 10. Genesis 2.19. Genesis 17.5. Genesis 17.15. Genesis 32.28. Acts 13.9. Austin, How to Do Things with Words, p. 5. Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning, p. 34.

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particular conventional effect, E) in uttering S, naming this ship in this instance could have this formulation: U – Someone with relevant authority20 O – named E – the naming of the ship the Flying Dutchman S – ‘This is the Flying Dutchman’ This is how naming comes about, the ‘baptism’ that Kripke speaks of. However, the object under examination in this chapter, the bread of the Eucharist, already has a name, ‘bread’.21 Of course, the singular terms used to refer to the specific piece of bread would be, ‘this bread’ or ‘my bread’ or ‘that bread’. I propose, then, that we can see Christ’s utterance of the words of institution with respect to the bread as an exercitive IA of renaming. When Jesus said regarding the bread, ‘This is my body’, he renamed it as ‘his body’.22 In order to exposit this phenomenon, I turn to an instance that is a clear case for renaming, Christ’s renaming of Simon Peter. In Matthew 16.15–18, Christ has the following exchange with the Apostle Peter: [Jesus] said to [the disciples], ‘But who do you say that I  am?’. Simon Peter replied, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven. And I  tell you, you are Peter (sy ei Petros), and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’23

20 21 22

23

Perhaps Davy Jones. In English. And its singular term cognates: ‘my body’, ‘Christ’s body’, ‘the body of Christ’, etc. As with elsewhere in the book, I will focus on the bread words for the sake of brevity, but a similar analysis is intended for the cup words as well. Emphasis added.

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Christ obviously knows to whom he is speaking; he even uses the Apostle’s given name in this utterance (Simon Bar-Jonah). When Christ says, ‘you are Peter’, he renames Simon son of John as ‘Peter’. What conditions does Christ need to take responsibility for in order for an exercitive illocutionary act of renaming to obtain? As with my previous examples, I  can fill in the terms from this specific instance into the genera schema for exercitives: U – Christ O – renamed E – the renaming of Simon son of John as Peter S – ‘you are Peter’ Thus, I can present the Petrine exercitive of renaming along with a brief description of the Conditions (1)–(4) for this instance: Christ renamed Peter in uttering, ‘you are Peter’, iff in uttering, ‘you are Peter’, Christ took responsibility that 1. Conceptually necessary conditions for renaming are satisfied. (This might include such elements as . . .) a. Simon Peter had a name prior to his renaming. b. Beliefs that God changes names for significant purposes. c. Beliefs that Christ either is God or speaks in a manner as one with the authority of God. 2. Christ has the authority to rename. a. As leader of the community of disciples, he has such authority to determine the names of his disciples. b. As a representative of God, he has the (at least derived) authority to speak for God. 3. Appropriate conditions for exercise of authority a. Simon Peter was present. b. Other members of the linguistic community were present 4. By uttering, ‘you are Peter,’ Christ brought about the renaming of Simon Peter. a. This is just to say that Christ thought that he was bringing about the renaming by taking steps of renaming. 119

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Thus, Christ brought about the renaming of Simon son of John as ‘Peter’. The rest of the Gospels, the New Testament, and Church tradition indicate that this conventional effect obtained.

The Eucharistic EXERCITIVE of Renaming The application of the preceding analysis to the Eucharist should now be clear. The object in Christ’s hands certainly had a name, as all the New Testament accounts specifically mention that Christ took bread and they all name it as such.24 So, Christ took the bread, drew his disciples’ attention to it, and renamed it as his body. This is the Eucharistic exercitive of renaming (with a brief statement of the conditions, these will be discussed further later in this chapter): Christ renamed bread in uttering, ‘This is my body’ (where ‘renamed’ is a term for purporting to be producing the conventional effect of changing the name of an object), iff in uttering, ‘This is my body’, Christ took responsibility that 1. Conceptually necessary conditions for renaming are satisfied. (This might include such elements as . . .) a. The object in hand had a name prior to its renaming. b. Beliefs that the names of objects can be changed. 2. Christ has the authority to rename. a. As leader of the community of disciples, he has such authority to determine the names the community would use for objects. b. As God, he in fact has ultimate authority to determine the names of objects. 3. Appropriate conditions for exercise of authority. a. Other members of the community are present. b. Attention was drawn by Christ to the object to be renamed. 24

Matthew 26.26; Mark 14.22; Luke 22.19; 1 Corinthians 11.23–24. Recall also the discussion in Chapter 2 wherein I argue that arton (‘bread’) is indeed the antecedent of touto (‘this’).

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The Eucharistic exercitive of Renaming 4. By uttering, ‘This is my body,’ Christ brought about the renaming of the bread. a. This is just to say that Christ thought that he was bringing about the renaming by uttering a new name.

This is also presented as the following: U – Christ O – renamed E – the renaming of bread as Christ’s body S – ‘This is my body’ As I  undertook in the analysis of consecration, I  here unpack the conditions that are present here in order for renaming to obtain. Condition (1): Conceptually Necessary Conditions for Renaming Are Satisfied What concepts need to be in place in order for a veridical renaming to obtain? The first condition I offer is that the object in question already have a singular term used to refer to it. Otherwise, the speech-act in play here would be a naming, not a renaming. I assume that at some point in the history of the Greek language, ‘artos’ came to be used to refer to one of the objects that was present on the table before Christ and his disciples at the Last Supper. At the moment of the renaming, Christ established an additional sequence of vocables that could function to pick out the object formerly referred to only as ‘bread’. In this instance, we can see how Alston’s definition is most applicable. For, recall this specific aspect of the general exercitive illocutionary act schema: ‘where “O” is a term for purporting to be producing a particular conventional effect.’25 Exercitive illocutionary acts bring about a change in a linguistic community’s conventions. The Eucharistic exercitive illocutionary act of

25

Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning, p. 313, emphasis added.

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consecration brings about a change in the bread’s conventional role. The Eucharistic exercitive illocutionary act of renaming brings about a change in the bread’s conventional name. Although we may wish to grope for a metaphysical statement at this time, the analysis to this point merely indicates that this exercitive of renaming indicates that Christ gives another term that can be used by his community to refer to the object in his hand. Now, perhaps I have been a bit loose with my language at times in this discussion in one important respect that I will now clarify in light of Scriptural teaching. For, strictly speaking, ‘name change’ is not the most precise way to characterize what has occurred at the Eucharistic exercitive of renaming. As I noted in Chapter 2 during my discussion of the Roman Catholic perspective on the syntax of ‘This is my body’, I showed that in 1 Corinthians Paul continues to use the term ‘bread’ to refer to the consecrated and renamed object.26 What Paul indicates here is that in this instance Christ gave his community another term by which they may refer to the bread. Thus, it is more precise to describe this phenomenon not as a name change, but a name addition.27 In this sense, we ought to conceive of the prefix ‘re-’ in ‘rename’ not as replace, but as again;28 this style of renaming is ‘to name again’, not ‘to eliminate one name and swap with another’. Therefore, at some moment after the performance of the Eucharistic exercitive of renaming, if someone were to walk into the Upper Room and ask, ‘What is Jesus holding?’, one disciple could rightly say, ‘his body’ and another could rightly say, ‘bread’. This is just as Hunsinger describes the phenomenon of real 26 27

28

In 1 Corinthians 11.26–28. It might be noted that the Orthodox theologian Sergei Bulgakov makes just this same observation: ‘Having in mind the meaning and power of transmutation, one can say not only that the bread and wine are the body and blood of Christ but also that, conversely, the body and blood of Christ in the sacrament are the bread and wine. Therefore, in the liturgy of St. Basil the Great (as in the Apostle Paul), the alreadysanctified elements are called, as before, bread and wine.’ The Holy Grail and the Eucharist (Hudson, NY: Lindisfarne Books, 1997), p. 90. We repeat, revise, reiterate as we perform a given action again.

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predication. Both the predicates ‘is bread’ and ‘is the body of Christ’ are apt for the consecrated object in Christ’s hands. Not coincidentally, this same phenomenon characterizes Simon Peter’s name addition. For, recall that Christ performs the exercitive illocutionary act of renaming in Matthew 16.17–18 (‘Simon’ to ‘Peter’). However, just one chapter later in Matthew’s gospel, 17.25, Christ calls Simon Peter ‘Simon’.29 The Fourth Gospel also recounts this name addition in its first chapter (1.42: ‘You are Simon, the son of John, you will be named “Cephas” [which means “Peter”]’). Then Christ goes on to refer to Simon Peter as ‘Simon’ in a later chapter.30 The author of the Fourth Gospel even seems to prefer to use ‘Simon Peter’ to refer to Simon Peter.31 Moving outside of the Gospels, Acts 10 refers to ‘Simon who is called Peter’. Thus, it seems that for the community for which Christ produced the conventional effect of Simon Peter’s name addition, there was freedom to refer to him as ‘Simon’, ‘Peter’, and ‘Simon Peter’.32 The same freedom applies to the object of consecration at the Last Supper; it may be referred to properly both as ‘this bread’ and as the ‘body of Christ’. A second conceptually necessary condition for a renaming to occur would be that the linguistic community in question must have the linguistic practice of allowing fluidity to the singular terms used to refer to an object. We can imagine a possible world in which there is a linguistic community whose language does not allow for any term but one to refer to any given object. In this world, an object is referred to by one name only, and every other utterance fails to refer to that object. This, however, is not how most languages in the actual world work. As Christ’s renaming of Simon Peter indicates, and the 29

30 31

32

This is even in light of the fact that the narrator refers to Simon Peter as ‘Peter’ one verse prior in the same narrative. 21.15, 16, 17. 6.8, 68; 13.6, 9, 24, 36; 18.10, 15, 25; 20.2; 21.2, 3, 7, 11, 15. Just ‘Peter’ in 13.8, 37; 18.16, 18, 26, 27; 20.3; 21.7, 17, 20, 21. And ‘Cephas’: 1 Corinthians 3.22; 9.5; Galatians 2.9, 11. And even ‘Simeon’: Acts 15.14; 2 Peter 1.1.

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subsequent biblical references to that new name, the linguistic community of the early disciples allowed such singular term fluidity. Condition (2): Christ Has the Authority to Rename Much of what can be said with respect to Condition (2)  in this instance has already been presented in the discussion in the last chapter regarding the authority needed to consecrate. The authority to name or rename an object resides in the linguistic community that uses or will use that name to refer to that object. This authority is granted by extension to individuals in the community, but that authority is only known a posteriori if the proposed linguistic convention passes into conventional use. There are not any instances in the New Testament itself where members of Christ’s linguistic community are referring to the renamed objects by their new names. Thus, we do not have concrete Scriptural evidence that the linguistic community that heard the utterances of the words of institution assented to the renaming  – began using those names  – thereby pushing the use into convention, and validating Christ’s authority in that linguistic community. However, we do have indications of such linguistic practice in the earliest liturgical celebrations of the Eucharist. If these liturgical linguistic uses are reliable indicators of the linguistic practices of the linguistic community of the Upper Room audience, then we can take this as an indication that the renaming passed into conventional use. Despite the fact that we do not have Scriptural evidence of this specific speech-act having the effects that would warrant our estimation of a veridical renaming to have taken place, I think we can still hold to Christ’s authority in the linguistic community that heard the words of institution. This authority, as indicated in the previous chapter, can be elucidated on two levels, corresponding to the two natures of Jesus Christ. Humanly, Christ was the rabbi of the community of disciples. This gave him the authority to teach and direct their actions and, presumably, alter their linguistic practices. On 124

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the latter, the most relevant for this section, the authority to rename was clearly given to Christ at the instance of the renaming of Simon Peter. This does not necessarily entail that the disciples gave Christ carte blanche renaming authority, but it does provide linguistic precedent  – with a similar linguistic form  – for a renaming performed by Christ passing into convention. This gives ground for holding that Christ had the requisite authority to rename at the Last Supper as well. With respect to Christ’s authority to rename qua his divine nature, a similar observation can be made as I  noted in the Condition (2)  of the exercitive of consecration with respect to the ownership relation that obtains between an utterer and an object. Being the owner of an object typically brings about the ability/authority to name/rename the object. When a child gets a puppy for Christmas, she gets to name the puppy. When I bought my first car, I gave it a name.33 Since God is the creator and the first and sustaining cause of every object in the cosmos, this entails that God owns every object. God then has ultimate authority to determine the names of objects. Likewise, as the aforementioned instances of the renaming of Abram, Sarai, Jacob, and Saul demonstrate, there is biblical precedent for God exercising this linguistic authority. Moreover, in the last chapter, I  established that consecration brings about a stronger ownership relation between an object and God. When an object is consecrated, it becomes owned by God in a more robust sense. Consequently, this doubles – so to speak – the ownership relation that God has over an object. As originator of the cosmos, God has ultimate ownership, yet God hands over objects in the world to humans for their derivative ownership. At consecration, God asserts (or reasserts) his divine prerogative over an object and the human ownership relation over the object diminishes. Consequently, as the Eucharistic exercitive of consecration 33

‘Buttercup’ seemed apropos for a brown 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme driven by a seventeen-year-old.

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is a conceptually prior speech-act, it paves the way for the renaming speech-act. This affords Christ, qua divine, all the more authority to rename the holy objects of consecrated bread and wine. Thus, Christ via both his human nature  – as leader of the assembled linguistic community – and his divine nature – as the ultimate owner of all objects in the cosmos – had authority to rename the indicated bread and wine. Condition (3): Appropriate Conditions for the Exercise of Authority In order for a new linguistic practice to pass into convention for a linguistic community, the community must be aware of the linguistic practice. One could not just make a convention for one’s linguistic community if one only said something to oneself. The community has to be privy to the new practice in order for it to cooperate with the linguistic authority in bringing about the conventional effects of the exercitive illocutionary act. Thus, in order for Christ to add the name ‘the body of Christ’ to the consecrated bread for the linguistic community of the followers of Christ, some members of that community must be present to hear this utterance and thereby perceive this speech-act. Of course, as the Last Supper narratives have it, there were other members of Christ’s linguistic community present when he uttered the dominical words. Thus, this condition is satisfied. A second condition for renaming under Condition (3) is the clear indication of which object was the subject of renaming. As with the discussion in the previous chapter regarding the non-vagueness of the object of consecration, the linguistic community needs to know which object the utterer is referencing with her speech-act. With respect to the Eucharistic exercitive of renaming, Christ in fact ensured the satisfaction of this point when he uttered the words of institution as he used the proximate demonstrative pronoun ‘this’ of both bread and then again of wine. The bread in Christ’s hands – the bread that Christ indicated, not bread in another room or perhaps 126

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in a disciple’s hand or in a disciple’s stomach  – ‘this bread’ is that which is undergoing the renaming.34 This condition also helps us to see that Christ did not rename all bread or all wine; this global entailment would follow from an utterance like, ‘Bread is my body’. Rather, the demonstrative localizes the renaming to just the object indicated. Condition (4): By Uttering, ‘This Is My Body,’ Christ Brought about the Renaming of the Bread By holding Christ to have taken responsibility for this condition, we take it that Christ intended to bring about the effects of his exercitive illocutionary act through his utterance. It is difficult at times to know with confidence what the internal states are of any person. It would be quite possible for Christ and the words he uttered to satisfy Conditions (1)–(3), but fail in (4), and thereby for the Eucharistic exercitive of renaming to not obtain. That is to say, it is possible that the conceptual conditions for renaming obtained:  Christ had the requisite authority to rename and the external conditions were satisfied, but if Jesus did not take responsibility for intending his utterance to bring about the renaming, then a renaming would not have occurred. Alston includes Condition (4) in his general exercitive schema to allow for the possibility that one might only be issuing utterances to practice diction or test a microphone, even if satisfying Conditions (1)–(3). I think the most I can say on this score is that it would seem very odd to hold that Christ was not doing something linguistically significant with this utterance. What this significance is, of course, is the focus of this project. We can note the similarity of this utterance with the Simon Peter renaming; we can note that the utterances at 34

In Anglican liturgical practice, for example, this concern is addressed by the bread to be consecrated needing to be on the corporal. Bread in the congregation, or in the sacristy, or even on the nearby credence table is not indicated in ‘this’ and thus is not renamed.

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a Passover celebration are saturated with significance; and we can point to the earliest Christian practices and Paul’s instructions in 1 Corinthians. However, not being able to cross-examine Christ regarding this utterance, we are ultimately left only with merely plausible explications regarding Condition (4), not necessary ones. In harmony with liturgical practices, Hunsinger’s account of real predication, and a notion that the Holy Spirit would have prevented the Church from falling into egregious interpretive error, I  find it reasonable to hold that Condition (4) obtains in the narrative under examination. This section shows that the action of renaming brings it about that the bread at the Eucharist takes on an additional name. The meaning of this name, and Christ’s intentions for performing this illocutionary act, are incredibly important, but the analysis has not yet reached that point. Recalling Alston’s description of exercitive illocutionary acts that they are a ‘bringing into being of a certain state of affairs’,35 all I have argued for to this point is that the state of affairs that has been brought into being is the name addition of ‘body of Christ’ to the consecrated bread.

Dual-Named At this point in the analysis, we have come to the point where the consecrated object in Christ’s hands may be referred to both as ‘this bread’ and as ‘the body of Christ’. This is a result of the renaming speech-act that Christ has performed. That the consecrated object is now denoted by these two singular terms is the ecumenical minimum of Hunsinger’s theory of real predication by syntactical equivalence. However, a bit more clarity can be brought to bear on this linguistic state of affairs before turning to metaphysical realities. Hunsinger states that real predication by syntactical equivalence 35

Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning, p. 86.

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obtains on the level of ‘first-order discourse’ and ‘first-order predication’,36 thus, I  proffer, we can use first-order logic to express the relations between the terms in the Eucharistic real predication. This section is a brief excursus into the logical relations between the terms ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ in real predication. Often first-order logic is used to show how the same predicate can be applied variably to many subjects, or for any subject, or for all subjects, and so on. For, suppose we analyse the predicate ‘is a professor’ and two subjects, ‘Matt’ and ‘Sue’, in the sentences, ‘Matt is a professor,’ and ‘Sue is a professor.’ By first-order logic, the sentence, ‘Matt is a professor,’ can be presented as: Professor(Matt). Likewise, then, the sentence, ‘Sue is a professor,’ can be presented similarly as: Professor(Sue). But we can also use this tool to present situations in which different predicates are applied to the same subject. So suppose in addition to being a professor, Matt is a chef. We can present the sentence, ‘Matt is a chef,’ as: Chef(Matt). A range of predicates can be applied to the same subject. This, then, seems to be the situation in the Eucharistic real predication by syntactical equivalence, once the conception of renaming is in place. Since this whole project is just about how to think about what it is in Christ’s hands – and in the hands of Eucharistic ministers standing in persona Christi – I will simply stipulate a neutral and generic singular term to refer to that object in Christ’s hands (the object Christ denotes as ‘this’) as ‘the object in Christ’s hands’. Thus, because of the two names, the object in Christ’s hands can be referred to by two predicates, ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’. These two predicate situations can both be expressed in the sentences, ‘The object in Christ’s hands is this bread,’ and ‘The object in Christ’s hands is the body of Christ.’ Using first-order logic, these sentences can be presented as:  This bread(the object in Christ’s hands) and The body of Christ(the object in Christ’s hands).

36

Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, pp. 60–61.

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According to this analysis, the predicates ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ stand in a relation of syntactical equivalence to one another. Both of these singular terms are properly predicates of the object in Christ’s hands after the words of institution. We have not yet reached the semantic meaning of ‘this bread’ or ‘the body of Christ’, and we have certainly not made it to the metaphysical state of affairs that would warrant such utterances. However, before we reach the metaphysical proposals of the next few chapters, I will utilize Alvin Plantinga’s reflections on the philosophy of language to further shore up the linguistic foundation of real predication by syntactical equivalence and to pivot from the linguistic to the metaphysical.

Plantinga’s Boethian Compromise As Plantinga notes in the introduction to his article ‘The Boethian Compromise’,37 theories of proper names have fallen into two main camps:  Definite Description theories and Direct Reference theories (Plantinga refers to these theories as, respectively, ‘Fregean’ and ‘anti-Fregean’).38 Plantinga proffers that his solution to the problem of the function of proper names will allow him to enjoy the benefits of both theories with none of the baggage. Plantinga sets his theory up to be successful if it can satisfactorily address a number of puzzles that Bertrand Russell set forth in his seminal ‘On Denoting’. For my project, I am most interested in the ability of Plantinga’s theory to address the puzzle of ‘propositional identity 37

38

Alvin Plantinga, ‘The Boethian Compromise’, in Essays on the Metaphysics of Modality, ed. Matthew Davidson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 122– 138. Originally published in American Philosophical Quarterly 15 (1978): 129–138. All references to ‘Boethian Compromise’ are from the Davidson volume. I highlight that in his analysis Plantinga is interested in proper names. However, as my previous discussion shows, I think the analysis of names can apply to any singular term.

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in the context of propositional attitudes’.39 I am not, however, here interested in whether Plantinga ends up finally solving the debates between Fregeans and anti-Fregeans; thus, in what follows I  will not be attempting to show that this occurs. Rather, what I will do is appropriate the conceptual infrastructure that Plantinga develops in his account to treat a similar puzzle brought about by the Eucharistic exercitive of renaming, and thus provide a constructive picture of real predication by syntactical equivalence. First, on to the puzzle Plantinga attempts to solve. It is a curious situation when we language-users have two names to refer to the same object. This might be a trivial difference, such as a sentence like, ‘A cell phone is a handy.’ But there are also similar, yet trickier, sentences such as, ‘Hesperus is Phosphorus’, or ‘Mark Twain is Samuel Clemens.’ As Plantinga observers, suppose someone knew the proposition Mark Twain was a pessimist; that person would still be perfectly reasonable if the person did not also know Samuel Clemens was a pessimist. Even though Mark Twain is Samuel Clemens, if one did not know this, then one could be forgiven for knowing the former proposition and not the latter. Proper Names Express Properties Plantinga offers three principles that function as steps towards understanding this linguistic phenomenon.40 The first principle, what I will call Principle (1), is that Proper names express properties.41 Plantinga advocates for Principle (1) in response to anti-Fregeans, who hold that proper names do not express properties but rather simply denote objects. For, suppose someone has the proper name ‘Simon Peter’, and we use ‘Simon Peter’ to refer to a particular 39 40

41

Plantinga, ‘Boethian Compromise’, p. 123. My explanation is an expansion, and I hope simplification, of Plantinga’s argument on p. 127 in ‘Boethian Compromise’ combined with some of his reasoning from chapters 4 and 5 of his The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974). By ‘express’ here, I take it that Plantinga means designate or refer to.

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individual. Certainly, ‘Simon Peter’ expresses at least some properties that are trivially true, like self-identity or being married if not a bachelor. If this is the case, we can follow Plantinga’s reasoning by attending to the sentence, ‘Simon Peter is self-diverse.’42 This sentence is false, and necessarily so, just as the sentence, ‘Simon Peter is diverse from Simon Peter.’ Thus, if this latter sentence is false, then ‘Simon Peter’ expresses a particular property identity-with-Simon Peter as well as the property of self-identity. Thus, the proper name ‘Simon Peter’, in the analysis, expresses at least two properties: (a) self-identity and (b)  identity-with-Simon Peter. And so, Principle (1) is apposite. All names would seem to express (a)  self-identity, for everything has the property of being identical with itself. But only Simon Peter has (b)  identity-with-Simon Peter, for only Simon Peter is identical with Simon Peter. In Plantinga’s terminology, (b)  is an ‘individual essence’ of Simon Peter.43 An individual essence  – or simply an ‘essence’ – is a property that is essential to an individual and only that individual. Plantinga defines ‘essential property’ in the following manner: ‘Let’s say that a property P is essential to an object x iff it is not possible that x have its complement – equivalently, iff there is no possible world in which x exists but lacks P.’44 It is important to note that ‘essence’ here is being used in a technical sense. Popularly we might think of ‘essence’ as the fundamental quality of a thing (‘a politician is essentially a people-pleaser’) or the hint of a thing (‘the tea has the essence of bergamot’). But rather, in this context, an essence is an essential property of an object that only that object has. For clarity, I lay out the terms as such:

42

43 44

The property self-diverse being the opposite of self-identity. Plantinga uses ‘Quine’ not ‘Simon Peter’ in his sentences . . . to some philosophers, no doubt, Quine functions similarly as Simon Peter does to theologians. Plantinga, ‘Boethian Compromise’, p. 127. Ibid., p. 128. Note that ‘complement’ here is being used as logical complement or negation. If P is essential to x, it is not possible for P to have ~x.

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Pl a n t i n g a ’ s B oet h ia n C o m pro m i se Essential property – a property an object, x, has such that it is not possible for x to exist but lack this property. Essence (aka individual essence or individual essential property) – a property an object, x, has essentially and is such that it is not possible that another object distinct from x has it.45

Thus, as we saw in the preceding, Simon Peter has (a)  and (b); these are both essential properties of Simon Peter, but only (b) is an essence of Simon Peter. Identity-with-Simon Peter is a property that only Simon Peter has. Proper Names Express Essences This discussion leads to a statement of Plantinga’s Principle (2), that Proper names express essences. This idea, Plantinga states, is from Boethius.46 Simply restated from our previous reasoning, an essence of Simon Peter is a property he has essentially, and, furthermore, it is impossible that something other than Simon Peter has that property. Thus, ‘Simon Peter’ expresses Simon Peter’s essences. I must note that, as Plantinga cautions, ‘essences’ in Principle (2) is in the plural. Objects typically have several essences, several essential properties. Identity-with-Simon Peter is just one of the essences that Simon Peter possesses. What, then, are other essences that an object possesses? At this point in the argument, Plantinga draws 45 46

Ibid. Plantinga quotes Boethius: ‘For were it permitted to fabricate a name, I would call that certain quality, singular and incommunicable to any other subsistent, by its fabricated name, so that the form of what is proposed would become clearer. For let the incommunicable property of Plato be called ‘Platonity’. For we can call this quality ‘Platonity’ by a fabricated word in the way in which we call the quality of man ‘humanity’. Therefore, this Platonity is one man’s alone, and this not just anyone’s but Plato’s. For ‘Plato’ points out a one and definite substance, and property, that cannot come together in another,’ in In Librum de Interprelatione (sic) edition secunda, PL 64, 462d–464c, quoted in H. N. Casteñeda, ‘Individuation and Non-Identity: A New Look’, American Philosophical Quarterly 12 (1975): 135–136, quoted in Plantinga, ‘Boethian Compromise’, p. 128.

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attention to ‘world-indexed’ properties. Thus, we have to attend to ‘possible worlds’ language. A ‘possible world’ is just a conceptually constructed state of affairs wherein we think of the sorts of things that could be. It certainly is not postulating that there is some other planet or dimension that is out there somewhere; it is just a philosopher’s tool for getting clear on what sorts of things are necessary and which are not necessary. For instance, it is quite possible that instead of drinking tea this morning, I drank orange juice. Thus, we could say, ‘there is a possible world where James drinks not tea but orange juice on Thursday the eleventh of October’; thus, we see that drinking tea this morning was a possible but not necessary activity for me this morning. However, there are some necessary things that we can also talk about using possible worlds language. For instance, propositions like 2 + 2 = 4, being coloured if red, or being unmarried if a bachelor are necessary truths.47 There is no possible world where a bachelor is married; there is no possible world where a rose is red but uncoloured. Of course, in all this discussion of possible worlds, we must not forget about an important member of that set, the actual world. So, I can say, ‘There is a possible world where I drank orange juice this morning, but in the actual world I drank tea.’ Employing ‘possible worlds’ and the ‘actual world’ help us to get clear on what is necessary, what is contingent, and thus what are essential or nonessential features of things whose properties we express with names. With the possible worlds tool in place, let us continue along with Plantinga to follow how he uses this tool to show that objects have several essences.48 Plantinga writes, ‘Suppose we say that Plato has the world-indexed property P-in-W if and only if W includes Plato’s having P (if and only if, that is, it is not possible that W be actual and

47 48

Of course, we could have different terms or symbols to express these propositions. Again, I am largely paraphrasing and expositing Plantinga’s argument here from p. 128 of ‘Boethian Compromise’, while also conferring with The Nature of Necessity, pp. 62–63, 72.

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Plato not have P)’.49 Let me unpack this with our Simon Peter illustration. Suppose that there is a possible world, let us call it ‘Saidabeth’,50 in which Simon Peter is a tax collector. Simon Peter would then have the world-indexed property being-a-tax-collector-in-Saidabeth. However, in the actual world, Simon Peter is a fisherman. This means that Simon Peter has the property being-a-fisherman-in-theactual-world. However, and here is a key move, Simon Peter has all of his world-indexed properties in all possible worlds. So, if we think about the possible world Saidabeth, we know that in this world Simon Peter is a tax collector, but even in Saidabeth Simon Peter also possesses the property being-a-fisherman-in-the-actual-world. The case is the same for the converse in the actual world. In the actual world, Simon Peter is a fisherman, but he also has the property being-a-tax-collector-in-Saidabeth. To be clear, being a fisherman is a related but different property than being-a-fisherman-in-the-actual-world. The world-indexing specifies the possible world in which the property obtains. So, for the sake of our discussion, Simon Peter possesses both the properties of being-a-fisherman-in-the-actual-world and of being-a-taxcollector-in-Saidabeth. Furthermore, Simon Peter possesses both of these properties in every possible world in which he exists and thus, by definition from the preceding, these are essential properties of Simon Peter. But let us further consider properties of Simon Peter that only he possesses, for instance the property of being the brother of Andrew or the property of being the disciple Jesus called ‘Rock’. The worldindexed versions of these properties are essential to Simon Peter, and it is such that no other thing distinct from Simon Peter could possess them. Thus, being-the-brother-of-Andrew-in-the-actual-world

49

50

Plantinga, ‘Boethian Compromise’, p. 128, italics original. Where P is a property and W is a possible world. Simply a mixed-up version of Peter’s hometown, Bethsaida.

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and being-the-disciple-Jesus-called-’Rock’-in-the-actual-world are essences of Simon Peter. It should be clear from the preceding that, in our illustration, Simon Peter has more than one essence. For surely, being-thebrother-of-Andrew-in-the-actual-world and being-the-disciple-Jesuscalled-’Rock’-in-the-actual-world are two different properties – thus, Simon Peter has at least two different essential properties. Yet, as Plantinga notes, properties like these are ‘logically but not epistemically equivalent’.51 They are logically equivalent because they are both essential to Simon Peter; there is no possible world where Simon Peter has one but not the other. But they are not epistemically equivalent. For a person who had only read John 1.40,52 but not John 1.42,53 would know Simon Peter to possess the property being-the-brother-of-Andrew-in-the-actual-world but not know that he possesses the property being-the-disciple-Jesus-called-’Rock’-inthe-actual-world. Since an object can have several essences, it is easy to make the move to hold that ‘distinct proper names . . . can express distinct essences’.54 Different Proper Names of an Object Can Express Logically Equivalent but Epistemically Inequivalent Essences of That Object This, then, brings us to the third principle in the analysis, Principle (3), Different proper names of an object can express logically equivalent but epistemically inequivalent essences of that object.55 Suppose I use the term ‘Simon’ to express Simon Peter’s essence being-the-brother-of-Andrew-in-the-actual-world and the term 51 52

53

54 55

Ibid., p. 129. ‘One of the two who heard John speak and followed Jesus was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother.’ ‘Jesus looked at him and said, “So you are Simon the son of John? You shall be called ‘Cephas’” (which means Peter).’ Plantinga, ‘Boethian Compromise’, p. 129. Ibid., p. 130.

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‘Peter’ to express Simon Peter’s essence being-the-disciple-Jesuscalled-’Rock’-in-the-actual-world. So then we can say, ‘Simon is the brother of Andrew in the actual world,’ and ‘Peter is the disciple Jesus called “Rock” in the actual world.’ Both ‘Simon’ and ‘Peter’ refer to the same object, Simon Peter, for Simon Peter is the bearer of each of the essences that ‘Simon’ and ‘Peter’ express. Moreover, extending the previously described notion concerning the epistemic inequivalence of essences, these names are epistemically inequivalent. Again, suppose someone read John 1.40 and not 1.42; it would be quite possible to know Simon, but not Peter and thus also not know that Simon is Peter. Principle (3)  also serves to show how sentences like, ‘Simon is Peter’ are actually informative and not simply tautologies. Suppose a person, Sue, knows that Simon possesses the property of beingthe-brother-of-Andrew-in-the-actual-world and she also knows that Peter possesses the property of being-the-disciple-Jesus-called-’Rock’in-the-actual-world. But if Sue at one moment did not know that Simon is Peter, when she hears the sentence, ‘Simon is Peter,’ and comes to know Simon is Peter, then she will have gained knowledge. She will come know that the property being-the-brother-of-Andrewin-the-actual-world and the property being-the-disciple-Jesus-called’Rock’-in-the-actual-world are co-exemplified by the same object. She will come to know that these non-identical essences are logically equivalent. That is informative to Sue and thus ‘Simon is Peter’ says a lot more to Sue than ‘Simon is Simon.’ Even if Sue should come to know that Simon is Peter, this does not remove the epistemic inequivalence of these essences. Simon is Peter is not epistemically equivalent to Simon is Simon. This is due to the fact that Sue would still be able to epistemically distinguish the essences of Simon Peter. She would know that although ‘Simon’ and ‘Peter’ are co-instantiated, they tag different essences. Different names of the same object potentially express different clusters of essences as well. A proper name might only express one of an object’s essences, as in the case of ‘Simon’ expressing 137

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being-the-brother-of-Andrew-in-the-actual-world. But it might also be the case that one can stipulate that ‘Simon’ expresses a number of essences, including (a)  being-the-brother-of-Andrew-in-theactual-world, (b)  being-the-elder-son-of-John-in-the-actual-world, and (c)  being-the-curly-haired-disciple-of-Jesus-in-the-actual-world. Principle (3) merely specifies that if an object has a name, then that name expresses at least one essence of that object. Furthermore, names of objects are names of objects when in use by speakers at particular times. It might be the case that a name could express one essence for a speaker at one time, then another – or an additional  – essence at another time. For instance, suppose Sue knows that Simon is the brother of Andrew in the actual world, and thus has this in mind when she says at one moment, ‘Simon’. At a subsequent moment, she might come to know that Simon has additional essences such as (b)  being-the-elder-son-of-John-inthe-actual-world and (c)  being-the-curly-haired-disciple-of-Jesus-inthe-actual-world. Then, when she says, ‘Simon’, at an even further moment, then for Sue at this later moment, ‘Simon’ expresses more essences than at the initial utterance of that name. To conclude this précis of Plantinga’s reasoning about the nature of names, let me offer a brief synopsis of the main ideas. The first principle to put in place is that proper names express properties. These properties might be trivial ones like being coloured if red, or they might express essential properties. If proper names express essential properties, then they can express (individual) essences, which are those essential properties that it is not possible for another object to possess. These essences, be they one or many, are especially seen in their world-indexed instantiations such as Simon Peter’s beinga-fisherman-in-the-actual-world. But it is clear that these essences, while being logically equivalent, are epistemically inequivalent. It is quite possible for a person to know one name of an object that tags essences of that object while remaining ignorant of other names or other essences. A knower of two names of an object – and the two clusters of essences those names tag – may epistemically distinguish 138

Bread and B ody

those essences, thus preserving the epistemic inequivalence of an object’s several essences. With this linguistic infrastructure in place, let us apply this reasoning to the names of the consecrated, renamed piece of bread from the Eucharist.

Bread and Body As I  stated previously, when Christ singles out a specific piece of bread by referring to it as ‘this bread’, that name becomes a referring device for that object. ‘This bread’ is a name used to express some individual essential property of the object at hand. Perhaps there are many individual essences that the bread has, but at least one is being this bread in the actual world. Thus, we can at least stipulate that ‘this bread’ expresses being this bread in the actual world. If my reasoning and analysis of the speech-acts Christ utters regarding the bread and wine are accurate, then the dominical words are an instance of Christ renaming the bread in the sense of adding another name to those objects. Christ adds the name ‘his body’56 to refer to the bread. As I reasoned from Paul’s description in 1 Corinthians, Christ does not replace the name of the bread, but rather gives a second name by which it may be referenced. Thus, the consecrated object that Christ holds in his hands just subsequent to the utterance of the dominical words has two names: ‘this bread’ and ‘my body’.57 What individual essences might ‘my body’ (when uttered by Christ) express? Perhaps there are many individual essences that ‘the body of Christ’ expresses, but at least one is being Christ’s body in the actual world. Let us suppose that ‘my body’ (when uttered by Christ) expresses this property. Consequently, at a point following the utterance of the phrase, ‘This is my body’, the consecrated object in Christ’s hands has two names that express two essences: ‘this bread’, 56 57

And its cognates. And its cognates.

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expressing the essence being this bread in the actual world; and ‘my body’, expressing the essence being Christ’s body in the actual world. It should be clear how the preceding Plantinga-style analysis applies in this situation. For on this analysis, the sentence, ‘This [bread] is my body,’ follows the same kind of analysis as the sentences, ‘Hesperus is Phosphorus,’ and, ‘Simon is Peter.’ All this is to say that we have a linguistic state of affairs where – à la Hunsinger – syntactical equivalence obtains, and also  – à la Plantinga  – epistemic inequivalence obtains. For it is quite possible to know one of the names of the consecrated object, and the essence it expresses, without knowing the other. Suppose during the Last Supper scene someone were to walk into the Upper Room after Christ’s utterance of ‘This is my body’ without have heard this renaming utterance. This person would not know that a name of the object in Christ’s hands was ‘the body of Christ’ and thus not know that the object possesses the property being Christ’s body in the actual world. This person would likely infer the name of the object as ‘this bread’ and thus know it possesses the property of being this bread in the actual world. We have thus arrived at a real predication by syntactical equivalence with epistemic inequivalence, with resultant metaphysical complications. For how is it that an object could possess both the properties being this bread in the actual world and being Christ’s body in the actual world such that the names ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ are apt of it? How does a Corporeal Mode explication of the Eucharist metaphysically account for this linguistic state of affairs? Even further, what metaphysical arrangement will account for the fact that the consecrated bread and the natural body of Christ (which in the Last Supper narrative is in fact holding the consecrated object) both have the name ‘the body of Christ’, and thus must both possess the property being Christ’s body in the actual world? These are deep metaphysical waters indeed. However, I  do not think that we are left adrift with respect to plumbing the metaphysical depths of the Eucharist that our linguistic analysis has led us to. One move that has been made in this history of Eucharistic 140

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theology is to draw out the similarities between Christology and the Eucharist. For the linguistic states of affairs that I  have described as occurring in Eucharistic real predication by syntactical equivalence with epistemic inequivalence are the same as those linguistic realities found when speaking of Christ in Chalcedonian-inspired Christology. Hence, in the next chapters I will utilize the metaphysics of the Incarnation to describe a metaphysical explication of the Eucharist that makes apt the sentence, ‘This bread is the body of Christ.’

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Christology for the Eucharist

. . . the two whole and perfect Natures, that is to say, the Godhead and Manhood, were joined together in one Person . . . whereof is one Christ, very God and very Man . . . Article II, Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion

In the previous chapter, I  described how we can understand the words of institution to be an occasion of Christ renaming the consecrated objects, whereby we can construe renaming as an instance of name addition. Hence, after the moment of consecration, the object in Christ’s hands can be referred to both as ‘this bread’ and as ‘the body of Christ’ and their cognates. This is the same linguistic state of affairs as George Hunsinger’s account of real predication by syntactical equivalence. However much this explanation is satisfactory as a description of the linguistic realities brought about by the dominical words, we must push to erect a metaphysical infrastructure that grounds this linguistic phenomenon. What occurs on an ontological level that makes Christ’s utterances, and the utterances of ministers standing in persona Christi, apt? This is the query with which we were left at the end of the last chapter. My proposed solution is to draw out the similarities between the metaphysical state of affairs of the Eucharist and the metaphysical state of affairs proffered by Chalcedonian Christology. For on this view of Christ, it is apt to say of Christ both, ‘This is God’, and, ‘This is a human’, a linguistic situation similar to what my previous analysis found occurs in the Eucharist. As there are linguistic similarities in these related states of affairs, so too will I  show that there 142

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are resources in explications of Chalcedonian Christology to help describe the metaphysics of the Eucharist that underwrite the utterances in question. Hence, this chapter is a Christological chapter. It will present a theological, metaphysical, and conceptual foundation upon which the next two chapters will proffer an incarnational model of the metaphysics of the Eucharist. We will not lose sight of the Eucharistic objective, but specific discussion of the Eucharist will be on hold until the next chapter. In this chapter, I  will first proceed with a discussion of the Chalcedonian Christological motif. This will include an important excursus into theological methodology. Then, I will present some of the recent attempts in the analytic literature to exposit the traditional understanding of the realities of Christ. Finally, I  will offer a specific exploration of the hypostatic union, with a particular emphasis on the instrumental nature of that union.

The ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon Following, then, the holy Fathers, we all with one voice teach that it should be confessed that our Lord Jesus Christ is one and the same Son, the Same perfect in Godhead, the Same perfect in manhood, truly God and truly man, the Same [consisting] of a rational soul and a body; homoousios with the Father as to his Godhead, and the Same homoousios with us as to his manhood; in all things like unto us, sin only excepted; begotten of the Father before ages as to his Godhead, and in the last days, the Same, for us and for our salvation, of Mary the Virgin Theotokos as to his manhood; One and the same Christ, Son, Lord, Only begotten, made known in two natures [which exist] without confusion, without change, without division, without separation; the difference of the natures having been in no wise taken away by reason of the union, but rather the properties of each being preserved and [both] concurring into one Person (prosopon) and one hypostasis – not parted or divided 143

Christolo gy for the Eucharist into two persons (prosopa), but one and the same Son and Onlybegotten, the divine Logos, the Lord Jesus Christ; even as the prophets from of old [have spoken] concerning him, as the Lord Jesus Christ has taught us, and as the Symbol of the Fathers has delivered to us.1

Most of the contributors to the recent analytic Christological literature take seriously  – and often authoritatively  – the Church’s formularies, especially the deliverances of Scripture, Ecumenical Councils, official Church teaching, and/or the work of leading theological figures, be they Cyril of Alexandria, Augustine, Anselm, or Thomas Aquinas. One of the most influential conciliar pronouncements is the AD 451, so-called, ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon from the Fourth Ecumenical Council. In the analytic literature, and in other theological traditions as well, this statement has been taken as the impetus for the ‘two natures, one person’ explication of Christ. However, the ‘Definition’ has come under fire for being used in ways that the Fathers in attendance at the council would not recognize. In order to provide a sure footing for my use of the ‘Definition’, I will review and expand Sarah Coakley’s description of the council in order to show my use of the ‘Definition’ as falling within the project she commends. In her influential article, ‘What Does Chalcedon Solve and What Does It Not? Some Reflections on the Status and Meaning of the Chalcedonian “Definition” ’, Coakley attempts to situate the pronouncement with historical accuracy against three contemporary misunderstandings. In doing so, she advances an argument that the ‘Definition’ ought to be taken as an ontologically regulatory but apophatic statement. First, Coakley argues that a contemporary school 1

Sarah Coakley, ‘What Does Chalcedon Solve and What Does It Not? Some Reflections on the Status and Meaning of the Chalcedonian “Definition” ’, in The Incarnation: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Incarnation of the Son of God, eds. Stephen T. Davis, Daniel Kendall, and Gerald O’Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 143. All quotations from the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon are taken from Coakley’s translation.

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of theological thought, what she terms the linguistically regulatory school, fails to consider the metaphysical motives of the Fathers in using such terms as ‘nature’ and ‘person’.2 The perspective of this school is to focus wholly on the predications made of Christ in the ‘Definition’, but not on what those predications denote. These predications are rules for speaking about Christ, but these rules do not govern any deeper metaphysical reality beyond the linguistic conventions of the community. Despite her arguments against the excesses of this perspective, Coakley gleans from this view that the ‘Definition’ is attempting to be regulatory. That is, there is a sense in which the ‘Definition’ functions to guide the Church’s speech about Christ regarding both unity (one person) and duality (two natures), provided that those terms are not evacuated of metaphysical content. In conversation with the second two positions she outlines, Coakley plots a course between – on the one hand – overly metaphorical explications and – on the other hand – overly literal explications of the ‘Definition’. The former is exemplified by John Hick’s The Myth of God Incarnate, and the latter by some analytic philosophers who have recently weighed in on the doctrine of the Incarnation. To Hick’s charge of incoherence – and thus the necessity of a purely metaphorical interpretation of the ‘Definition’ – Coakley responds that the Fathers certainly would have embraced their statement as ‘paradox’ in the sense of being ‘contrary to expectation’ but would have demurred from seeing paradox as ‘self-contradiction’.3 The Incarnation is certainly ‘odd’ in a similar sense as metaphors are, but that does not entail that it is incoherent.4 On the other hand, 2

3 4

Coakely specifically targets Richard Norris, ‘Chalcedon Revisited: A Historical and Theological Reflection’, in New Perspectives on Historical Theology: Essays in Memory of John Meyendorff, ed. Bradley Nassif (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1996), pp. 140–158. Ibid., p. 153. Ibid., pp. 153–155. One can see a different line on the charge of incoherence levelled at the Incarnation in Michael Martin, ‘The Incarnation Doctrine Is Incoherent and Unlikely’, in Debating Christian Theism, eds. J. P. Moreland, Chad Meister, and Khaldoun A. Sweis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), pp. 404–413.

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insistence on the literalness of the Incarnation has also proved to import too much into the ‘Definition’ itself. Contra Hick and Richard Norris, the ‘Definition’ can be read literally. Yet, contra analytic philosophers, this does not mean that the ‘Definition’ prizes precision, but only that the ‘Definition’ purports to make ‘a true, ontological statement about Christ’s person’.5 Consequently, on Coakley’s analysis, one school holds the ‘Definition’ to be regulatory, but only linguistically so. Two schools, Hick’s and some analytic philosophers’, hold the ‘Definition’ to be speaking about the ontology of Christ. But whereas Hick sees this as incoherent and thus an invitation to interpret the ‘Definition’ metaphorically, the analytic philosophers have taken the ‘Definition’ to be offering a precise proposition. Coakley avers that the first school is right about the ‘Definition’ being regulatory, but wrong in holding it to be purely linguistic. She sees the Chalcedonian Fathers as clearly interested in the ontology of Christ. However, vis-à-vis the second two schools, Coakley argues they are right in seeing something ontological afoot in the ‘Definition’ but wrong to see it as either purely metaphorical or analytically precise. Coakley understands the ‘Definition’ as being apophatically regulatory of a range of ontological expositions. Thus, it is not purely linguistically regulatory, but provides space for theological creativity in discussions of the ontology of the Incarnation. Coakley draws our attention to the fact that the term ‘definition’ was originally taken in the sense of a ‘horizon’, ‘boundary’, ‘limit’, or even ‘rule’. This perspective, Coakley notes: Leaves us at the ‘boundary’, understood as the place now to which those salvific acts must be brought to avoid doctrinal error, but without any supposition that this linguistic regulation thereby explains or grasps the reality toward which it points. In this, rather particular sense, it is an ‘apophatic’ document.6 5 6

Coakley, ‘What Does Chalcedon Solve’, p. 158. Ibid., p. 161, emphasis original.

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In being apophatic, the ‘Definition’ sets boundaries to delimit what falls outside the borders of orthodoxy. The English term ‘regulatory’ has as its Latin root regula, from which we translate such notions as a monastic rule or the way of life or way of being in a community. For Benedictine monastics, for example, how they experience their spirituality will have a personal and creative sense to it, but their encounter with God will be guided, directed, and nurtured by the Rule of St. Benedict to which they adhere. By casting the ‘Definition’ in the style of a guide, a director, a tutor for creative expression, we can see much of the recent analytic dialogue as creative explorations of the reality of Christ, not as expositions of the ‘Definition’ itself. What Chalcedon provides us with are conceptual and linguistic tools for helping us to conceive of Christ. The twin principles of duality and unity are those specific tools that Coakley commends as the result of Chalcedonian tutelage. I  here add George Hunsinger’s distillation of these Chalcedonian principles. The ‘Chalcedonian Pattern’, as Hunsinger denotes it, includes (a)  ‘inseparable unity’ (from the line in the ‘Definition’, ‘without separation or division’), (b)  ‘abiding distinction’ (from ‘without confusion or change’), and (c) an ‘asymmetrical ordering principle’ (which includes giving the ‘absolute primacy and precedence. . .always to God’).7 Hence, when applied to the components of Christ, the divine and human natures are not divided; they maintain their own realities and are ordered to the divine. On the last point, Hunsinger reminds us that it is the divine person that has assumed a human nature. There is a logical, chronological, and ontological priority given to the divine. This asymmetry tips the scale, so to speak, towards the divine, while never diminishing the full reality of Christ’s human nature. 7

Hunsinger clearly expresses this pattern in ‘A Yawning Chasm Not Easily Closed’, Syndicate (2014), http://syndicate.network/symposia/theology/saving-karl-barth/. He makes a similar observation in ‘Widening the Circle of Acceptable Diversity: A Reply to My Ecumenical Friends’, Pro Ecclesia 19 (2010): 280. The spirit of this pattern fills his The Eucharist and Ecumenism.

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Theological Methodology The preceding leads to an important discussion of theological methodology and the development of doctrine that is appropriate to bring in here. Since I  am expositing Chalcedonian Christology, it would behove us to spend some time thinking about the relation between the various statements about the person and natures of Christ laid out in the historic formularies of the Church. For the situational nature of these statements has led and can lead one to use them in various manners. A particular statement about the person and natures of Christ leaves open a number of interpretive possibilities. In fact, this is just what occurred with the First Council of Nicaea. The only hard line drawn by the Nicene Creed was one that left Arius and his followers outside the bounds of orthodoxy.8 But many a Christological perspective that later would be ruled heresy could still, at that point, endorse the important homoousios clause of the Creed. It was not until more distinctions were made at the councils of Ephesus and Chalcedon that a position like, for instance, Nestorianism was ruled out of bounds. Consequently, there are at least a couple directions to go in understanding the function of the creedal statements and other formularies of the faith. With respect to these statements, one might think that (a) earlier statements are thick-grained and thus allow for a range of later fine-grained interpretations, or (b) earlier statements are vague and thus require later specific interpretations. Whether one adopts (a) or (b) as an interpretive scheme will have significant consequences for how one draws the boundaries of orthodoxy. If one were a proponent of the position articulated by (a), one could argue in the following manner, for example. For all we know, one might faithfully interpret the Nicene Creed as allowing for one 8

This is an example of how one might take a creedal statement to be apophatic in the manner that Coakley exposited the ‘Definition’. The homoousious clause of the Nicene Creed set a boundary such that one may not conceive of Christ as Arius did. One may not say, for example, there was a time when the Word was not.

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to conceive of Christ as possessing 1, 2, 3 . . . n wills. The Creed contains no clauses related to the number of wills Christ does or might have. So, hypothetically, suppose someone thinks that humans have, say, three wills (perhaps each part of the Platonic tripartite soul has its own will). Suppose this one also thinks that God has a will. Then, by way of adherence to the Creed that Christ was God and a human, this theorist would hold that Christ has four wills (to coin a term, ‘tesserathelitism’). This is a rather odd perspective, yet, in virtue of (a), allowed by the Creed. Thus, if (a)  is the appropriate manner for construing adherence to ecclesial formularies, and if one currently held that Christ has four wills, this one could still claim to be a Nicene Christian. However, the tesserathelite theorist could not claim to be an adherent to the Third Council of Constantinople, which clearly stated that Christ had two wills. Thus, according to the perspective expressed in (a), the earlier statement (the Creed) allows but does not require a specific doctrinal position that becomes specified at a later Council (say, Constantinople III, or even other nonConciliar formularies such as the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion or Augsburg Confession). Therefore, position (a) helps one to conceive of the manner in which monophysite Christians have a claim to being Nicene Christians but not Chalcedonian Christians. Monophysitism is not ruled outside the bounds of orthodoxy established at Nicaea I, even it if is clearly beyond the bounds of Chalcedon, given (a). However, one might hold to the development of doctrine thesis expressed by (b), which could be argued for in the following manner. All the truth of a particular theological doctrine is expressed in seed form in earlier statements. This truth is then highlighted, made clear, or teased out by way of later statements. What is expressed in an earlier statement is not a range of interpretations, but one interpretation stated vaguely. It is the goal, then, of later formularies to make explicit what is implicit in earlier statements. Whereas it might have seemed legitimate in 400 AD to hold that Christ has four wills, we now know, this side of Constantinople III, that dyothelitism is the appropriate perspective on the number of wills Christ possesses. 149

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This therefore entails that monothelitism (or tesserathelitism, or any non-dyothelitistic position) is and always was inaccurate as a description of the number of Christ’s wills. The later, more specific, formularies make explicit what is stated vaguely or implicitly in earlier formularies. I here want to advocate for a rule-focused version of (a), that earlier statements are thick-grained while later statements are more fine-grained. As we march through the centuries since Christ’s earthly career, we come across formularies of the Church that increase in specificity with respect to who Christ was and what he did. Following the trajectory cast by Coakley’s discussion of the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon being a rule, I want to see the other formularies as teachers, guides, or, best, rules for engaging with the reality of Christ. I do not mean ‘rule’ as a mere language game, but rather more along the lines of a monastic rule that disciplines and tutors our thinking about Christ. From this perspective, the chronologically later formularies are conceived of as the lesson plans with greater specificity for attuning our minds to the reality of Christ. Nicaea I teaches a thick-grained lesson about the consubstantiality of Christ with the Father. Constantinople III teaches a finer-grained lesson about the number of Christ’s wills. The Christians who put themselves under the rule of Chalcedon have their minds tutored to think of Christ as one person with two natures. Chalcedon lays out a specific lesson plan for tutoring our minds to think about the unity and duality of Christ. Out of the lesson plan of one person, two natures Christology emerged the question of the number of Christ’s wills. It seemed to the majority of the practitioners of Christianity that the Chalcedonian lesson led one to hold to dyothelitism. Constantinople III provides a more specific lesson plan homing in a specific aspect of the previous lesson. Yet, on this account, there is no necessary entailment relation that obtains between earlier and later formularies. It would seem wise and prudent to attempt to learn the lessons – follow the rule – of the whole Christological course, and 150

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not just pick a few individual lessons. For if one adopted the later process, which is a more piecemeal process, on what grounds is the student of Christology going to pick and choose the lesson she learns? On what grounds could one say, ‘I’ll take some Nicaea I by holding to the homoousios clause, I will drop Chalcedon by holding to monophysitism, but I like Constantinople III so I will take two wills in Christ’? This procedure is not ruled out by (a), as it is by (b), but it seems to be ruled out by prudence. There is safety in greater adherence to a greater amount of the lessons. I do not doubt that there are many who know Christ and think accurately about him, and they do so without having thought twice about the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon, but this seems a much riskier practice. This discussion of the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon and theological methodology establishes my posture for the forthcoming analysis of Christology. I  do not hold the definitions and distinctions to come as attempting to lay out the only way of conceiving of Christ. Rather, I  see the subsequent discussion as providing further tutelage for thinking about Christ. The following ‘lesson plan’ takes seriously the lessons of the first seven Ecumenical Councils, and it attempts to operate specifically within the generalities that these formularies present. The model of the Incarnation to come describes a reality that follows the Chalcedonian tutelage, but need not be seen as the authoritative exposition of the ‘Definition’ itself. I  am wary of requiring a certain metaphysical explication as the only explication that is entailed by the language of these formularies. Rather, Chalcedon provides tools for expressing the unity and duality of the reality of Christ. Likewise, my Eucharistic model detailed in Chapter 7 expresses the unity and duality of the reality of Christ’s presence in the elements. With this in mind, the following attempts to release some of the ‘spiritual and theological creativity’9 which 9

Coakley, ‘What does Chalcedon Solve’, p. 163.

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Coakley hopes will be the fruit of a proper understanding of the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon.

The Contemporary Family Tree In this section, I review key distinctions as they have been made in the recent literature in order to arrive at a particular model of the Incarnation.10 My purpose here is to show a family tree of perspectives on the person and natures of Christ. I am not here attempting to settle the issues in the contemporary discussion, but rather to lay a foundation for the incarnational model of the Eucharist that I will proffer in the next two chapters. It would likely be quite possible 10

Some material in this section and the next is gleaned from my ‘Impanation, Incarnation, and Enabling Externalism’, Religious Studies 51.1 (2015): 75–90; and ‘Kryptic or Cryptic? The Divine Preconscious Model of the Incarnation as a Concrete-nature Christology’, Neue Zeitschrift für Systematische Theologie und Religionphilosophie 58.2 (2016): 229–243. For some of the fruit of recent analytic work on the Incarnation, begin with the text that has largely spawned the contemporary discussion, Thomas V. Morris, The Logic of God Incarnate (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986). Also of catalysing importance is Alvin Plantinga, ‘On Heresy, Mind, and Truth’, Faith and Philosophy 16 (1999): 182–193. More recent is a state-ofthe-art volume whose articles helpfully map and advance the current discussion, Anna Marmodoro and Jonathan Hill, eds., The Metaphysics of the Incarnation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). In addition, for other seminal contributions to the literature, see Richard Cross, The Metaphysics of the Incarnation: Thomas Aquinas to Duns Scotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Davis, Kendall, and O’Collins, eds., The Incarnation: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Incarnation of the Son of God; Richard Cross, ‘The Incarnation’, in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophical Theology, eds. Thomas P. Flint and Michael C. Rea (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 452–475; Timothy Pawl, In Defense of Conciliar Christology: A Philosophical Essay (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). Also, Oliver Crisp’s tetralogy of Christology: Divinity and Humanity: The Incarnation Reconsidered (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); God Incarnate: Explorations in Christology (London: T&T Clark, 2009); Revisioning Christology: Theology in the Reformed Tradition (Farnham, UK: Ashgate Press, 2011); The Word Enfleshed: Exploring the Person and Work of Christ (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2016).

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and fruitful to attempt an analysis of how the various contemporary models of the Incarnation yield differently nuanced incarnational models of the Eucharist. But, rather than attempt that here, I  will simply follow the trajectory of a specific family of views of Christ. Transformationalist–Relational Distinction A first distinction made in the recent Christological literature is between those perspectives that are ‘transformationalist’ models of the Incarnation and those that are ‘relational’ models.11 This first level of distinction responds to the question, ‘What does it mean to become human?’, when we say that in the Incarnation, ‘God became human.’12 Transformationalists hold that ‘to become human means being transformed into a human . . . just as a caterpillar becomes a butterfly by being transformed into one.’13 Jonathan Hill delineates between ‘physicalist transformational’ models and ‘dualist transformational’ models, with the distinction turning on how one understands the human being. Hill holds up Trenton Merricks as the archetypical physicalist-transformationalist with his materialistic Christology.14 For Merricks, humans just are identical to their bodies, thus for the Word to become a human just means that the Word becomes identical to a particular human body. The dualisttransformationalist is some kind of substance dualist about the human being, where humans are composed of two distinct substances, a body and a soul or mind. One typical dualist understanding of the identity of the human being is to identify her with her soul/mind. Thus to be a human just means to be a human soul/ 11

12

13 14

These terms are Jonathan Hill’s from his discussion in the introduction to The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, pp. 1–19. As the Nicene Creed has it, ‘[Jesus Christ] became incarnate from the Virgin Mary and was made man’. Hill, ‘Introduction’, in The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, p. 8. Trenton Merricks, ‘The Word Made Flesh: Dualism, Physicalism, and the Incarnation’, in Persons: Human and Divine, eds. Peter van Inwagen and Dean Zimmerman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 281–301.

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mind. The Incarnation on this view would be when the Word became the mind of a human being, which was at one time properly related to a human body. It is hard to see how the physicalisttransformationalists can adhere to the Chalcedonian ‘Definition’. It may be the case that one can make sense of the notion of God becoming human, but Chalcedon requires the continuance of both the divine and the human natures, joined in the one person of the Word. They are joined without change to the divine person. The dualist-transformationalist might be on better footing regarding the ‘Definition’, but this footing is still shaky regarding the status of the full humanity of Christ’s human nature. This is because at the moment of the Incarnation, Christ includes a full human nature, which itself includes a human ‘reasonable soul’. Juxtaposed to the transformationalist family is the relational family of models. Proponents of this family hold that becoming human ‘means entering into a certain kind of relationship with a human being – or, rather, with something that would have been a human being had it not been in such a relationship’.15 Thus, the relational modeller will attempt to describe the ways in which the divine nature and an instance of a human nature are related appropriately in the Incarnation. Hill explains further (where ‘X’ is ‘whatever it is to be a human’): Relationalists, by contrast, hold that, in the incarnation, the Son became related to X. On this view, ordinary humans are human in virtue of being X, but it is not actually necessary to be X to count as human. It is sufficient to be related, in a sufficiently close way, to X . . . Being identical with a human body and soul is one way of having a human body and soul, but it is not the only way.16

Thus, relationalists hold that there is an appropriate relation that obtains between the Word and a human nature such that we can 15 16

Hill, ‘Introduction’, p. 10. Ibid., pp. 10–11, emphasis original.

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properly predicate ‘is human’ of the Word. This is the meta-family that I  am adopting my Eucharistic model into, and thus we will spend more time tracing its lineage. Abstractist–Concretist Distinction Further delineations have been made within the relational family. Following a distinction observed by Alvin Plantinga, two major strains of relational models have emerged: abstractist and concretist versions. If relational models hold that there exists some important relation between the divine nature and an instance of human nature, the concretist–abstractist distinction rests on different conceptions of nature. Abstractists hold that, at bottom, a nature is a property, a rich property, or a cluster of properties. Concretists hold that, at bottom, a nature is a concrete particular that bears properties. In his article, Plantinga offers this description of the abstractist position: . . . when the second person of the Trinity became incarnate and assumed human nature, what happened was that he, the second person of the Trinity, acquired the property of being human; he acquired whatever property it is that is necessary and sufficient for being human.17

As Oliver Crisp comments, this view is ‘characterized by the slogan “logos-sarx (Word-Flesh) Christology”, because it is the Word who assumes the flesh of human nature at the Incarnation. But this does not mean that the Word takes on a human soul distinct from the Word’.18 We might think of a nature on the abstract view as being a property pile. That is, in order to get a human nature, one has to pile on a number of properties, say, being capable of rational thought, being appropriately linked with a human body, or whatever properties one thought were necessary and sufficient for being a member 17 18

Plantinga, ‘On Heresy, Mind, and Truth’, p. 183. Crisp, Divinity and Humanity, p. 37.

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of the natural kind ‘human’.19 This could also be understood as just one property, perhaps a rich property, like being capable of rational thought and appropriately linked with a human body and etc., or perhaps it is a grouping of distinct properties. Hearkening back to Hill’s definition, the abstractist holds that the ‘X’ of human nature is some property or property cluster the possession of which makes one a human. The abstract-nature view is the position that Thomas Morris takes in his exposition of Chalcedonian Christology. In many ways, Morris’ 1986 The Logic of God Incarnate was the catalyst for much of the contemporary analytic discussion of the Incarnation. In expositing his view on the nature of natures, he offers the following definitions: ‘we can consider any individual, and the whole set of properties individually necessary and jointly sufficient for being numerically identical with that individual. That set of properties we can call an individual-essence, an haecceity . . . or . . . an individual-nature.’20 And further, ‘a natural kind can be understood as constituted by a shareable set of properties individually necessary and jointly sufficient for membership in that kind. Such a set of properties can be characterized as a kind-essence, or a kind-nature.’21 Thus, according to Morris’ conception of natures, he arrives at this conclusion: ‘It is the claim of orthodoxy that Jesus had all the kind-essential properties of humanity, and all the kindessential properties of divinity, and thus existed (and continues to exist) in two natures.’22 Natures as properties is the abstractist line of the relational family of Christological explication. However, as noted, this is not the only line that descends from the relational family of views.

19

20 21 22

We ought to understand this as a logical process, not chronological. The possession of properties are logically prior to the possession of a nature. Morris, The Logic of God Incarnate, p. 38. Ibid., p. 39. Ibid., p. 40.

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In distinction from the abstract-nature view, the concrete-nature perspective begins not with properties, but with concrete particulars.23 Plantinga states: On the second view, by contrast, what [the Logos] assumed was a human nature, a specific human being. What happened when he became incarnate is that he adopted a peculiarly close and intimate relation to a certain concrete human being, a ‘human nature’ in the sense of a human being. That is, there is or was a concrete human being – a creature, and a creature with will and intellect – to whom the Logos became related in an especially intimate way, a way denoted by the term ‘assumption’.24

To this, I  add Crisp’s comment that this position ‘emphasized the humanity of Christ and the distinction between the two natures in the hypostatic union . . . characterized by the phrase “logos-anthropos” (Word-human being) Christology’.25 The concretist holds that natures are or are composed of concrete particulars that bear properties, but that are not themselves properties. Concrete particulars are not sharable by other entities – they cannot be borne by others – rather they are the bearer of sharable entities like properties. One need not, but may, hold that these concrete particulars are bare particulars.26 Rather, the concretist can hold with Michael Loux that a nature bears certain necessary properties, but only insists that the nature itself is not a property.27 On this view, a nature is a concrete particular instance of a certain kind that endows an instance of this nature with certain properties and capacities. For instance, the alligator nature endows 23

24 25 26 27

Again, this is logical priority not chronological. The possession of a concrete particular nature is logically prior to the possession of certain properties. Plantinga, ‘On Heresy, Mind, and Truth’, pp. 183–184. Crisp, Divinity and Humanity, p. 38. On bare particulars, see Moreland, Universals. See Loux’s discussion of concrete particulars in his Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction, pp. 126–127.

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the possessor of it to crush an entire full-grown adult Orpington chicken with its jaws, whereas an instance of human nature enjoys no such capacity. An instance of human nature has the capacity for self-awareness, whereas an instance of an oak tree nature has no such ability. Therefore, Hill’s ‘X’ of human nature is an instance of a human concrete particular; the Word enters into the appropriate relation with an instance of human nature such that the Word is properly a human. Plantinga offers this comparison of the two views: . . . the terms ‘nature’ and ‘human nature’ get used in two analogically related but very different senses: in the first sense [the abstractnature view], the term ‘human nature’ denotes a property (or, if you like, group of properties): the property P which is such that necessarily, every human being has P, and necessarily, whatever has P is a human being. In the second sense [the concrete-nature view], the thing denoted by ‘human nature’ and that gets assumed is a human being, a concrete object, not an abstract object like a property.28

The distinction between these two views on the nature of natures is really about logical priority, does one start with properties or with a concrete particular? When it comes to applying this distinction to Christ in the Incarnation, Crisp comments: The important difference between concrete- and abstract-nature views of Christ’s humanity on this matter is that the advocate of a concrete-nature view thinks that the human nature of Christ is a concrete particular assumed by the Word, not just a property possessed by the Word . . . Christ’s human nature is first and foremost a concrete particular that has certain properties, not a property of the Word that entails the possession of a certain concrete particular.29

Thus, regarding Christ, does one think that the possession by the Word of certain properties is logically prior to the Word possessing 28 29

Plantinga, ‘On Heresy, Mind, and Truth’, p. 184. Crisp, Divinity and Humanity, p. 46.

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a human nature, or is the possession of a human nature logically prior to the Word possessing certain properties, capacities, relations, and so on? The abstract- and concrete-nature views treat the instance of similar/same capacity-possession or action-execution in instructively different manners. It is clear to observation that instances of some natures share similarities with instances of different natures. It is not an essential feature of myself or human nature, but I, being a human, am unable to crush an entire full-grown adult Orpington chicken in my jaws. I have not been endowed with the capacity of performing this action. I can, however, crush small bits of chicken in my jaws. An alligator may too nibble off a bit of chicken and crush it in its jaws, even if it also possesses the capacity for crushing the entire full-grown adult Orpington chicken. The alligator and I both have the capacity for crushing small bits of chicken in our jaws. Thus, we both have at least the similar if not the same capacity, even though we are instances of different kinds of natures. The abstract-nature view would say that the alligator and I could have the same capacity. There is some abstract property, say, being able to crush a bit of chicken with jaws that both I and the alligator exemplify.30 When I crush the bits of chicken, I do so as a human, because I have other essential properties that make it such that I am a human. When the alligator performs this action, it does so as an alligator, because it has whatever properties are necessary for being a member of the alligator kind. Nevertheless, we perform the same action and exemplify the same property. However, on the concrete-nature view, despite the similarities of these two actions (I and an alligator crushing bits of chicken in our respective jaws), they are not the same kind of action because the capacity for our actions emerge from our different kind-natures. It is

30

It is not clear in the literature whether one has to have a particular view of properties or property exemplification in mind. It seems that the theorist can simply pick a view and analyse property exemplification in this instance accordingly.

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our natures – my human nature and the alligator’s alligator nature – that endow us with the capacity to perform this action, but they are not the same capacity because they are in virtue of different natures. Thus, I  am unable to alligator-ly crush small bits of chicken, just as the alligator is not humanly able to crush small bits of chicken. The concrete-nature view states that all possessors of natures possess certain capacities and powers in virtue of having those natures, but the capacities are due to the nature rather than the nature being constituted by the having of certain capacities. At bottom, when deciding what view of nature one wishes to adopt, one can ask a fundamental distinguishing question of an entity: does it have properties that entail membership in a kind or is it a member of a kind that then entails certain properties? If one affirms the former, one is working with an abstract-nature conceptual infrastructure; if one affirms the latter, then one endorses the concrete-nature perspective on the nature of natures. Concrete-Compositionalism With respect to the Incarnation, I will here adopt the concrete nature perspective of natures. This is a majority opinion in the tradition and is the position of my main interlocutors. On this perspective, Christ is composed of two concrete natures. Given this composition, the concrete-relational family line has been given the name ‘concrete-compositionalism’. Within the concrete-compositional pedigree, one can end up as a two-part or three-part concrete-compositionalist, with the distinction turning on how one conceives of human beings.31 One could be a two-part concrete-compositional Christologist because one is a materialist about the human being where the human body is one part and then the Word is another part of Christ. Or perhaps one 31

See discussion in Crisp, Divinity and Humanity, p. 41; and Leftow, ‘A Timeless God Incarnate’.

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is a dualist about the human person.32 In this case, then, one thinks human beings are themselves composed of two parts, a human soul/ mind and a human body. Anthropological theories of how humans are composed of two parts can be construed along hylomorphist or substance dualist lines.33 For instance, a hylomorphist could hold that the human person is necessarily composed of two-parts, but the nature of a particular human is identical to the composite, not to one part of the composite.34 When the Word enters into a union relation with a human nature, what results is a three-part, concretecomposition. Likewise, on most accounts of substance dualism about the human, a human being is necessarily an immaterial soul/ mind that contingently is joined to a concrete human body. The typical supposition in the literature is that whatever the relation is that obtains in regular human natures (i.e., those not assumed by the Word) between their bodies and souls is the same relation that obtains during the Incarnation between Christ’s human soul/mind and his human body. Thus, in this family line, when the second person of the Trinity assumes a human body/soul composite, a three-part, concrete composition occurs.

32

33

34

See Crisp’s Christological tetralogy: Divinity and Humanity, God Incarnate, Revisioning Christology, and The Word Enfleshed. Also Leftow, ‘The Humanity of God’. See these options playing out in the analytic Christological literature in Anna Marmodoro and Jonathan Hill, ‘Modeling the Metaphysics of the Incarnation’, Philosophy and Theology 20 (2008): 99–128; and ‘Composition Models of the Incarnation: Unity and Unifying Relations’, Religious Studies 46 (2010): 469–488; Michael Rea, ‘Hylomorphism and the Incarnation’, in The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, pp. 134–152; Eleonore Stump, ‘Aquinas’ Metaphysics of the Incarnation’, in The Incarnation, pp. 197–220; Jonathan Hill, ‘Aquinas and the Unity of Christ: A Defence of Compositionalism’, International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 71 (2012): 117–135. Perhaps the hylomorphist does not want to hold that the body and soul are two concrete particulars, but rather two aspects of one concrete particular that is the human being. I do not think much is riding on this point for the current discussion, and the hylomorphist who feels strongly about the number of concrete particulars in a human person can simply translate much of the forthcoming discussion to her liking.

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Thomas P.  Flint has distinguished concrete-compositionalism into two varieties.35 One variety he calls ‘Model T’, which conceives ‘of the incarnation as a case of a substance’s gaining a part’.36 He goes on: ‘In becoming human the Son or Word of God . . . takes on CHN as a part’37 (where ‘CHN’ is an abbreviation for ‘Christ’s human nature’). On this model, ‘Christ’ refers to the Word who has added on or assumed an instance of human nature. Flint contrasts this variety with ‘Model A’, where ‘the Son unites himself to CHN in the incarnation. But the composite thus formed is not the Son. The Son remains simply one part of the composite entity that results from his assuming a human nature . . ., which . . . we call Christ.’38 These are two ways of explicating the concrete composition that occurs at the Incarnation. Three-Part, Concrete-Compositionalism It would be a worthwhile endeavour to probe which Christological models have particular entailments as foundations for incarnational models of the Eucharist. However, I  can here but adopt one such Christological model for my constructive Eucharistic work to come. Thus, I  specify that within the concretist-relational family I  have already adopted, the model of the Incarnation that will undergird my Eucharistic proposal is three-part, concrete-compositionalism, envisioned along Model A lines. I offer here two brief preliminary notions undergirding my adoption of this view on Christ. I  then offer an exposition of this view. First, I will here conceive of humans along substance dualist lines. I do not make the claim that this is the superior explication of the reality of Christ along Chalcedonian lines – it may well be – but it 35

36 37 38

Thomas P. Flint, ‘Should Concretists Part with Mereological Models of the Incarnation?’, in The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, pp. 67–87. Ibid., p. 71. Ibid. Ibid., p. 79.

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seems that Chalcedon leaves open the possibility of working with conceptions of natures and humans to which one is antecedently committed. My preferences for pure/simple substance dualism are independent of my thinking about Chalcedonian Christology, although I  do find them nicely harmonious. Much of what I  will say about Christology, and later the Eucharist, may be attractive to the hylomorphist, but I  am operating with pure/simple substance dualism in mind. Second, with respect to my preference for the three-part, concretecompositional model, I find this model utilized by a number of my key interlocutors (either in pure/simple substance dualist or hylomorphist forms). This is explicit in some of my contemporary interlocutors such as Crisp and Katherin Rogers; implicit in other contemporary interlocutors such as Marilyn McCord Adams and Richard Cross; and, I think, implicit in some of my historical interlocutors such as Thomas Aquinas and Cyril of Alexandria. The Model A route for explicating the three-part, concrete-compositional model is also explicit in Crisp and Rogers and, I find, is particularly harmonious with what I want to say about the Eucharist. With these points noted, to conclude this section I here exposit the Model A version of the three-part, concrete-compositional model.39 Crisp puts this view on the Incarnation as such: . . . in the incarnation the second person of the Trinity assumes a human nature, understood to be a concrete particular. The concrete human nature and divine nature of God the Son together compose Christ. That is, God Incarnate is a whole composed of the proper parts of God the Son and (the parts of) his human nature.40

39

40

Much of my thinking here is influenced by Oliver Crisp’s discussions in Divinity and Humanity, ch. 2; and ‘Compositional Christology without Nestorianism’, in The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, pp. 45–66. In what follows, I will often drop the ‘Model A’ modifier and just refer to the three-part, concrete-compositional model. Crisp, ‘Compositional Christology without Nestorianism’, p. 45.

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First, it must be noted that on this model ‘Christ’ does not refer to God the Son/the Word/the second person of the Trinity, but rather refers to the composite whole, of which the Word is a part. I will use the name ‘Word’ to refer to the second person of the Trinity, God the Son. The Word is necessarily divine, that is, the Word has the divine nature essentially and shares this nature with the Father and the Holy Spirit.41 The Word is not composed of two concrete particulars (say, the Word and the divine nature). No, rather, the Word is a concrete particular, just as the Father is a concrete particular and the Spirit is a concrete particular. By the preceding definition of concrete particular, the divine nature is not a concrete particular because it is sharable by other entities, and the divine nature is shared by the Father, the Son/Word, and the Holy Spirit. So, the first concrete particular that Christ is constituted by is the divine Word. The second concrete particular that Christ is composed of is a human body. And the third concrete particular that Christ is composed of is a human soul. The human soul and body, when properly joined together, constitute an instance of human nature.42 Therefore, the three-part, concrete-compositional model holds that Christ is composed of three parts: (1) the divine Word, (2) Christ’s human soul/mind, and (3) Christ’s human body. ‘Christ’, then, refers to this composite whole. The three-part, concrete-compositional model does not just specify the component parts of Christ, but also denotes the unions that obtain among the various parts. In all humans, a union obtains between bodies and souls that brings about an instance of human nature; let us call this the natural union. As according to Chalcedonian 41

42

I am not here attempting to commit myself to a particular exposition of the Trinity other than to say that the Father and the Son/Word and the Holy Spirit are all distinct persons who are divine, yet are not three Gods but one God. It might be all well and good to refer to the human nature as a concrete particular even though it is composed of two distinct parts, just as the entire composite Christ might be thought of as a concrete particular even though Christ is composed of various other concrete particulars. Perhaps a distinction between composite and noncomposite concrete particulars would be helpful in this regard.

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Christology, Christ is to be like humans ‘in all respects apart from sin’ – we must hold that the natural union in Christ is as it is in other humans. When the divine Word assumes an instance of human nature (itself a body/soul composite), a union obtains between the Word and the human nature; let us call this the hypostatic union. I think it is important to specify that the hypostatic union is not two union relations (one between the Word and the human body, with a second between the Word and the human soul), but rather there is one hypostatic union relation between the Word and the human nature. Thus, in sum, the three-part, concrete-compositional model states that Christ is composed of the divine Word in a hypostatic union with an instance of human nature whose body and soul components are in a natural union with one another.

The Three-Part, Concrete-Compositional Model and the Conciliar Tutelage Three-part, concrete-compositional Christology is an attempt to describe the reality of Christ. How does it fare as following the Chalcedonian rule? As Coakley elucidates, the primary rule of Chalcedon is the unity and duality that is at the heart of the reality of Christ. The Three-Part, Concrete-Compositional Model and Unity First, on unity, it is clear that the three-part, concrete-compositional model attempts to portray that there is one and only one person in Christ. Regardless of the number of concrete particulars that are joined to the Word, the Word is the only person in the composite Christ. This fits the Chalcedonian lessons that the person is ‘one and the same Son’, ‘one Person and hypostasis’, and ‘one and the same son and Only-begotten’. Reflection on the nature of humans shows that the number of concrete particulars making up a particular entity 165

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need not alter the number of that entity. For humans themselves, on a dualist assumption, are composed of two distinct concrete particulars. A human body is not a human soul, nor vice versa. Both particulars are individual, at least conceptually separate (to satisfy the hylomorphist), and, on this view of natures, concrete. And yet, when a human body and soul are united together, we have one human person. However, a bit of a specification is needed here. As Crisp and Leftow have shown, in order for this view of Christ to avoid entailing Nestorianism, we must build into our conception of human persons the possibility that a united human body/soul composite be not a human person, even if there is only one case in which this occurs.43 The worry is that if, by definition, any time a human body and soul are joined together a human person is constituted,44 then – by definition – if a human body and soul are joined together that the Word then assumes, then the Word has assumed a human person. This would necessarily entail Nestorianism, that Christ is composed of two persons with two natures. This would, of course, fail an important Chalcedonian lesson. Thus, the defender of this view must find a way to block this perceived entailment to Nestorianism. Crisp offers a comment on Leftow’s discussion of this trouble that might provide a way forward in this quandary.45 All we need at this point is a plausible story to block an entailment from this picture of Christ to Nestorianism. Crisp suggests a claim that perhaps ‘every human zygote has the property “constituting a distinct, individual human person when composed of a body + distinct soul, intellect and will, unless assumed by a divine person” ’.46 On this view, Christ’s 43

44

45

46

I am not here interested in the historical question as to whether Nestorius was actually a Nestorian. For the sake of ease, I will simply use the term ‘Nestorian’ to refer to a perspective on Christ that holds him to be two persons with two natures. Or brought into existence, or occurs, or instantiated, or however one might construe the causal activity occurring in this phenomenon. Here I present a comment on Crisp’s reasoning from Divinity and Humanity, p. 64. He is interacting with Leftow’s ‘A Timeless God Incarnate’. Crisp, Divinity and Humanity, p. 64, emphasis original.

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body/soul is a distinct instance of human nature and, whereas typically a human body and soul in a natural union would constitute a human person, this union has a caveat clause of ‘unless assumed by a divine person’. Again, Crisp comments: . . . in virtue of being assumed by the Word [Christ’s human nature] is incapable of becoming an individual without the Word, because it bears the property ‘constituting a distinct, individual human person when composed of a body + distinct soul, intellect and will, unless assumed by a divine person’.47

So, when the assumption of the human nature obtains, a human person is prevented from being constituted. The concepts at play in this formulation are akin to recent discussions of metaphysical dispositions. We might think that certain objects have certain dispositions. A standard example is that glass has the disposition to shatter when struck. However, this disposition assumes certain stimulus conditions, and if those conditions are altered, then the disposition does not obtain. For example, let us say that a champagne glass has the disposition of shattering when struck. It could be the case that the champagne glass is wrapped in protective packaging that would absorb the force of the strike and prevent the disposition from obtaining. Rather than denying that the glass has the disposition to shatter when struck, what is needed is the insertion of ceteris paribus clauses into the analysis of certain conditionals. Thus, if the champagne glass is struck, ceteris paribus, it will shatter. A similar analysis can be made regarding human nature. If a human body and soul are joined together by a natural union, then ceteris paribus, a human person will be constituted. Of course, the assumption of a human body/soul composite by a divine person is not a case where other things are the same as typical human body/ soul compositions. Therefore, even though Christ’s human soul and body are joined by a natural union, in just the same manner 47

Ibid.

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as all other human souls and bodies are joined, a human person is not constituted.48 Having learned the lesson regarding unity from Chalcedon, the three-part, concrete-compositional model holds that there is only one person in Christ. The Three-Part, Concrete-Compositional Model and Duality In addition to unity, Chalcedon teaches duality. The three-part, concrete-compositional model attempts to portray this by noting the concrete particulars that compose Christ are instances of divine and human natures. The ‘Definition’ teaches that Christ is ‘perfect in Godhead’ and ‘perfect in manhood’, ‘truly God and truly man’, and ‘made known in two natures [which exist] without confusion, without change, without division, without separation’. Here, then, is the duality taught by Chalcedon:  Christ has two natures. It is important for the Chalcedonian Fathers to note that the natures Christ possesses – divine and human – are the same kind of natures as are found in other instances of the divine nature and human natures (ceteris paribus, of course). That is, the human nature in Christ is not some kind of nature other than the kind of human nature one finds in all other humans. Hence, the Chalcedonian qualification that Christ is ‘in all things like unto us, sin only excepted’, is satisfied. In addition, on the divinity side, the Word is described as ‘homoousios with the Father’. We cannot think, according to this rule, that the divine nature which the Father has is different from the divinity Christ has. Christ, unlike any other entity in existence prior to the Annunciation, has duality of natures: divinity and humanity. 48

Perhaps one might think this response to the Nestorian problem smacks of an ad hoc solution by fiat. However, all the defender of the three-part, concrete-compositional model has to do is show that there is no necessary entailment from this model to Nestorianism. This solution might be taken as a just so story, but it is a story that blocks such an entailment. Yet further on, once my presentation of my three-part, concrete-compositional model is fully deployed, I will have more conceptual resources to respond to this charge. For my response, see footnote 88.

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Further, the three-part, concrete-compositional model satisfies Hunsinger’s description of the ‘asymmetric ordering principle’ taught by Chalcedon. The three-part, concrete-compositional model holds that the divine nature and divine person in Christ – the divine Word – is prior to the human nature, both ontologically and chronologically.49 All the while the Word is incarnate, he is a divine person with a human nature. In fact, the assumption of the human nature by the Word aborts the natural process of human persons being constituted by a human nature. This indicates a priority of ordering of the divine over the human in Christ. In attempting to learn from and express the Chalcedonian lessons of unity, duality, and asymmetry, the three-part, concretecompositional model portrays Christ as one person with two natures. Yet, as I indicated in Coakley’s discussion of the ‘Definition’, this need not be the end of the conversation but rather a beginning. In an instance of declarative theology, more specificity and clarity can be brought to the three-part, concrete-compositional model as it attempts to describe the reality of Christ. In what follows, I offer not an exposition of the ‘Definition’, but a creative exploration of this reality tutored by the rules of Chalcedon. Yet let me offer this caveat before proceeding. As I noted previously, the three-part, concrete-compositional model portrays Christ as composed both of concrete particulars and of relations between these concrete particulars  – the natural union between body and soul and the hypostatic union between the divine Word and the human nature. I will offer an exploration of these components, but I do so with this warning from Constantinople II firmly in mind: ‘If anyone, when speaking about the two natures, does not confess a 49

Insofar as temporal categories can be applied to God. The tradition tends to hold God to be outside of time; the human nature in Christ, however, is not. Thus, in the moments before the Annunciation, the Word existed, but the human nature that would be the Word’s did not. It is not Arian to say that there was a time when the human nature in Christ was not, but it is Arian to say that there was a time when the Word was not.

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belief in our one lord Jesus Christ, understood in both his divinity and his humanity, so as by this to signify a difference of natures of which an ineffable union has been made . . . let him be anathema.’50 I completely agree that the hypostatic union is an ineffable mystery. I do not pretend that my discussion of it is a definitive or exhaustive one. However, in an effort of declarative theology, whereby I hope to help our minds imagine better (as Peter Aureoli puts it) this mystery, I proceed. Notwithstanding the mystery of the hypostatic union, as I will show below there is precedent in the tradition for drawing a comparison between the hypostatic union and the natural union. I will here investigate this comparison by homing in on the three-part, concrete-compositional model as discussed recently by Katherin Rogers and Oliver Crisp, and augmented by discussion of the hypostatic union by Thomas Aquinas and Richard Cross. All of this is to lay foundation for my discussion of an incarnational model of the Eucharist in the next chapters.

Rogers’ Action Model of the Incarnation In a series of essays on the Incarnation, Katherin Rogers has attempted to defend a concrete-compositional account of the Incarnation that avoids some of its recent criticisms.51 Rogers’ move is to describe the Incarnation as an action composite. That is, the Incarnation ought to be conceived of more like a state of affairs than a mereological sum; thus, the Incarnation is God doing something, God performing actions. The manner in which Rogers exposits this 50

51

In Pawl, In Defense of Conciliar Christology, p. 21, emphasis original. I am indebted to pp. 20–22 of Pawl’s text for this helpful reminder. She presents her most thorough discussion in ‘The Incarnation as Action Composite’, Faith and Philosophy 30 (2013): 251–270. Briefer versions of her argument appear in ‘An Anselmian Defense of the Incarnation’, in Debating Christian Theism, pp. 393–403; and ‘Incarnation’, in The Cambridge Companion to Christian Philosophical Theology, eds. Charles Taliaferro and Chad V. Meister (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 95–107.

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idea is by recourse to an extensive illustration utilizing the phenomenon of a person playing a video game. I will now review her analogy and show how this portrays the Incarnation as an action composite, thus further specifying the three-part, concrete-compositional model. Imagine an adolescent boy, Rogers calls him ‘Nick’, who is engaged in a first-person video game where the entity he controls on the screen is ‘Nick’s Character’. Nick uses Nick’s Character in order to operate in the virtual, video-game world. This state of affairs of Nick engaging in the video game as Nick’s Character Rogers denotes ‘Nick Playing.’ Accordingly, when Nick is playing the video game as Nick’s Character, Nick Playing obtains. If, per chance, Nick’s mom tells him to go take out the trash and he turns off the game, then Nick Playing would not at that time obtain. This illustration maps on to the theological reality we are discussing in the following manner. Nick corresponds to the divine Word, Nick’s Character corresponds to the human nature of Christ, and Nick Playing – the act(s) of Nick playing the role of Nick’s Character – corresponds to Christ as incarnate. We can portray the analogy according to common type of formulation found in many standardized tests. These take the following form: as X is to Y so is P to Q or X : Y :: P : Q Rogers’ analogy is thus construed as follows: Nick : Nick’s Character (during Nick Playing) :: Word : the human nature in Christ (during the Incarnation). As a version of concrete-compositionalism, Rogers thinks that Nick and Nick’s Character are concrete particulars. But unlike other more static accounts of Incarnational concrete compositionalism, she argues that the composition is constituted by the activity of Nick playing Nick’s Character. 171

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On this view, there is only ever one person involved in Nick Playing, Nick. But there are two natures engaged:  Nick’s original nature – which Nick has even outside of Nick Playing – and Nick’s Character. This is just as the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation has Christ as composed of one person, the Word, and two natures, the divine and human. In the act of the Word operating the human nature, the Incarnation obtains. It is only in the causal activity of Nick engaging in the game as Nick’s Character that Nick Playing obtains. Likewise, so the illustration goes, it is only in the causal activity of the Word using the human nature that Christ obtains. Rogers gives reasons for thinking that this illustration for the Incarnation is an attractive one. First, the analogy describes that the composite only ever includes one person – this is helpful in meeting the anti-Nestorian requirements of the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon. The second point of attraction is that this analogy posits different ‘orders of being’. Nick has a greater ontic weight than Nick’s Character. They are not on the same order of being, and in fact, Nick’s Character is ‘utterly dependent’52 on Nick; Nick’s Character would not exist without Nick. This, Rogers thinks, reflects the ontological dependence that Christ’s human nature has on the Word. Third, and related to this point of attraction, is in the illustration there is a ‘thoroughgoing causal asymmetry’53 between the two concrete particulars in the state of affairs. Nick is the agent in Nick Playing, thus the actions of Nick’s Character can accrue to Nick. If Nick’s Character were to find some hidden passageway in the game and Nick were to remark, ‘I found it!’ we would not find that an inappropriate locution. However, this asymmetry does not entail a causal overwhelming, because when Nick acts in the video game, he is constrained by the ontology of the video game. On application to the Incarnation, when the Word acts humanly through his human 52 53

Rogers, ‘The Incarnation as Action Composite’, p. 254. Ibid., p. 255.

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nature he is constrained by his human nature. Hence, the state of affairs constricts, but also enables, the Word’s ability to act humanely in the human sphere.54 Instrumentalism in Rogers Rogers’ illustration presents a more robust account of the union between the Word and his human nature than has typically been offered in concrete-compositional Christology. However, she raises this potential criticism of herself: The critic may mount a . . . criticism and argue that N[ick] P[laying], as an analogy for the Incarnation, suggests the wrong sort of relationship between W[ord] and [Christ’s human nature]. It might be argued that N[ick] uses N[ick’s] C[haracter] as a sort of instrument by means of which to play, and it is wrong to think of [Christ’s human nature] as an instrument used by W[ord].55

What seems to be lurking behind this idea is the objection Thomas Senor makes against concrete-compositionalism. Senor asks, ‘in virtue of what do the human body and mind come to be parts of GS [God the Son], as opposed to mere instruments or some other kind of entities related externally and instrumentally to GS?’.56 The objection here is that the compositional view, and even Rogers’ explication, turns the human nature in Christ into an instrument of the Word, and that this is an insufficient or inappropriate conception of the Incarnation. In the next sections, I argue that focusing on an instrumental explication of the union relations in the threepart, concrete-compositional model actually adds more specificity and clarity to the view Rogers commends. I  argue one ought to accentuate the instrumental motif, not avoid it. An instrumental 54 55 56

Ibid., p. 257. Ibid., p. 269. Thomas D. Senor, ‘The Compositional Account of the Incarnation’, Faith and Philosophy 24 (2007): 59.

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account of the Incarnation conceives of the human nature in Christ as an instrument of the Word in the Incarnation. This move would then entail categorizing the hypostatic union as an instance of an instrumental union. In order to discuss the benefit and traditional pedigree of an instrumental construal of God Incarnate, I turn to Thomas Aquinas’ explication of the hypostatic union. However, a caveat:  although Thomas makes an analogy between the natural union between body and soul and the hypostatic union, I do not think this specific aspect of his discussion is dependent upon on a hylomorphic account of human beings. One might certainly adopt such a view and pursue a three-part, concrete-compositional model of Christ; Thomas was clearly a hylomorphist. But the specific aspect of Thomas’ argument that I am interested in also works on a simple/pure substance dualist account of the ontology of humans.57 Further, I do not intend my utilization of Thomas’ discussion to entail an endorsement of all Thomas says about the Incarnation, human persons, or the use of instruments. Rather, I am simply gleaning from this important historical source some resources that will be deployed in my own constructive model of both the Incarnation and the Eucharist.

Instrumentalism in Thomas In his disputed questions on the hypostatic union (De Unione Verbi) and in the Summa contra Gentiles, Thomas searches for a way to talk about the hypostatic union, trying to help our finite minds grasp this infinite mystery. He says in both treatises that the best way to grasp the hypostatic union is to look to the union between the body and the soul in the human. In De Unione Verbi, Thomas writes, ‘there is 57

I am not certain that property dualism would be as hospitable a home for this discussion, and I am not certain the property dualist would see herself as explicating a three-part, concrete-compositional view of Christ, but I could see her borrowing much from this conversation.

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no example of this union in created things nearer than the example Athanasius posits, of the union of the rational soul to the body’.58 By this, Thomas means the line in the Athanasian Creed:  ‘For as the reasonable soul and flesh is one man, so God and man is one Christ.’ His strategy, similar to Cyril of Alexandria’s, is to look to the union between the body and the soul as a model for the union between the divine and human in Christ.59 We might say the following in standardized test format: Natural union : embodiment :: hypostatic union : Incarnation

Thomas states that the soul, on his understanding, is related to the body ‘both as to matter and as to an instrument’.60 Of course, the hypostatic union cannot be of the first kind of relation, that of matter and form. Thus, the hypostatic union can be thought of as an instance of an instrumental union, as Thomas puts it, ‘just as the body is held to be an organ of the soul’.61 He clearly rules out the 58

59

60

61

Thomas Aquinas, Quaestio disputata de unione Verbi incarnate (Turin: Marietti, 1953), www.corpusthomisticum.org/qdi.html (DUV), a. 1 r. This same conceptual move is made by Cyril of Alexandria: B. But how from these two things, that is Godhead and manhood, can we envisage a single Christ? A. I think in no other way than as things which come together with each other in an indivisible union beyond all conception, as I have already said. B. Such as what? A. Well, do we not say that a human being like ourselves is one, and has a single nature, even though he is not homogeneous but really composed of two things, I mean soul and body? B. We do.Cyril of Alexandria, On the Unity of Christ (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2000), p. 78. Summa contra Gentiles, ed. Joseph Kenny, O.P. (New York: Hanover House, 1955– 1957), http://dhspriory.org/thomas/ContraGentiles4.htm (SCG), IV.41.10. Compare also what Thomas says in De unione Verbi: ‘But there is no example of this union in created things nearer than the example Athanasius posits, of the union of the rational soul to the body. Not indeed in the way that the soul is the form of the body, because the Word cannot be a form in matter; but in the way that the body is the instrument of the soul, not indeed an extrinsic and foreign instrument, but its own and a conjoined one.’ DUV a. 1 r. SCG IV.41.10.

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matter/form relation as a possible way of understanding the relation between the Word and the human nature in Christ. Thus, if one were a pure/simple substance dualist who did not think that the soul was related to the body as matter and form, but only as a kind of instrument, then the substance dualist can be comfortable with Thomas’ discussion of that aspect of the relation between soul and body. For some further historical precedent for this mode of describing the hypostatic union by recourse to the natural union, let me note Thomas’ discussion of this issue in the Summa Theologiae. Thomas quotes John of Damascus as saying, ‘the flesh of Christ is the instrument of the Godhead’.62 Thomas does this in response to an objection that an instrumental union entails an accidental union, far from a robust explication of the hypostatic union that is desired. Thomas then defends John of Damascus’ characterization: Not everything that is assumed as an instrument pertains to the hypostasis of the one who assumes, as is plain in the case of a saw or a sword; yet nothing prevents what is assumed into the unity of the hypostasis from being as an instrument, even as the body of man or his members.63

Thomas says that it is not a necessary feature of instruments that they in fact accrue accidentally, although sometimes this is the case. Accordingly, just because a thing is an instrument does not mean that it cannot enter into the ‘unity of the hypostasis’. In fact, there are some things that are aspects of the unity of the hypostasis that are instruments, for example the body or body parts of a human being. Thomas continues by discussing the Nestorian heresy, ‘Hence Nestorius held that the human nature was assumed by the Word merely as an instrument, and not into the unity of the hypostasis.’ And this is wrong. Consequently, Thomas glosses John of Damascus as holding that ‘the human nature in Christ is an 62 63

De Fide Orth 3.15 in ST IIIa.2.4 obj. 4. ST IIIa.2.6 ad 4.

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instrument belonging to the unity of the hypostasis’.64 This seems to be the very same worry that Senor raises against the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation; that this construal turns the human nature in Christ into a mere instrument, just as Thomas describes Nestorius as holding. Thus, Thomas, and the contemporary defender of the three-part, concrete-compositional model, has to find a way of describing the instrumental union as robust enough to avoid the ‘mere’ objection. If the Word is related to the human nature as the soul is related to the body, and the soul is related to the body like an instrument, then the human nature in Christ can be said to be the instrument of the Word. However, Thomas goes on to make a further distinction with respect to instruments. He distinguishes two ways that objects can be related to the soul. He says, ‘the body and its parts are the organ of the soul in one fashion’65 and another fashion that objects are organs of the soul is as ‘external (exterior) instruments’.66 What emerges is a technical distinction between instruments that are external and instruments that are an operator’s ‘very own’ (proprium). Thomas later describes external instruments as ‘common’ (commune) when he gives this illustration: ‘An axe is not the soul’s very own instrument, as its hand, for by an axe many can operate, but one’s hand is deputy to one’s soul in it very own operation.’67 I find this distinction helpful and intuitive. I will denote these species of instrumentality as private and common instrumentality; axes are common instruments of souls in the act of chopping, hands are private instruments of souls in embodiment. Just what distinguishes common and private instruments for Thomas is not at first entirely clear. Thomas seems to be targeting some sort of ownership relation, that is, private instruments are owned by agents in some robust sense, while common instruments are such that they are not owned 64 65 66 67

Ibid. SCG IV.41.11. Ibid. Ibid.

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by one specific agent. This will be the subject of further discussion later in this chapter when I take us back to Rogers’ analogy. Before we come to that discussion, one may want to ask why Thomas takes such pains to distinguish private and common instrumentality. He seems to do so to head off a potential objection to his instrumental model of the hypostatic union. Thomas says, ‘For all men are related to God as instruments of a sort, and by these He works’;68 then he quotes Philippians 2.13: ‘for it is God who works in you both to will and to accomplish according to His good will’. This might appear to be a problem. For if every human being is related to God ‘as instruments of a sort’, and this instrumental union is that which explains the hypostatic union, are we to suppose that God is hypostatically united to every human being? Are we all God Incarnate? No, rather – making use of the notion of common instrumentality – Thomas says, ‘other men [i.e., those not assumed by the Word] are related to God as extrinsic and separated instruments’,69 that is, common instruments. The human nature in Christ is related to the Word as a private instrument, on the order of the relation of a hand to the soul, not on the order of the relation of an axe to the soul. So, more standardized test comparisons arise: axe : soul :: all human natures : God

and hand : soul :: human nature in Christ : Word.

God does not own all humans the way that the Word owns his human nature, just as souls do not own axes the way that they own their hands. Thomas seems to think it just intuitive that Christ has a private ownership relation of his human nature, not a common one. 68 69

Ibid. Ibid.

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And he repeats this position often: ‘God does not move [other men] only to operations which are his very own’70; ‘the human nature of Christ is related to God as his own conjoined instrument’71; the Word is related to the human nature as ‘its own and conjoined’72 instrument. However, I think more specificity can be had in this discussion. To draw this out, I  turn to a related discussion from the contemporary literature.

Ownership in Crisp In addition to the role ownership plays in distinguishing private from common instrumentality in the thought of Thomas Aquinas, the concept of ownership performs similar work in a contemporary account of the Incarnation. In his text God Incarnate, Oliver Crisp faces Brian Hebblethwaite’s arguments against the possibility of multiple incarnations.73 For the record, Crisp holds that multiple incarnations of the Word are metaphysically possible, even if there are good theological reasons for holding that they are not or will not be actual. Hebblethwaite himself is interacting with the Christology of Thomas Morris from The Logic of God Incarnate. In that text, Morris argues that there is an ‘asymmetrical accessing relation’74 that obtains between the Word and the human mind in Christ.75 But Crisp raises this worry, similar to that raised by St. Thomas, that if the ‘asymmetrical accessing relation’ obtains not just between Christ’s two minds, but indeed between the Word and all human minds, ‘what distinguishes the epistemic access the Second Person of the Trinity had 70 71 72 73

74 75

Ibid. Ibid. DUV a. 1 ad. 1. Found in ‘The Impossibility of Multiple Incarnations’, Theology 104 (2001): 323–334. For further discussion, see Timothy Pawl, ‘Brian Hebblethwaite’s Arguments against Multiple Incarnations’, Religious Studies 52.1 (2016): 117–130. Morris, The Logic of God Incarnate, p. 162. It should be noted that Morris opts for the abstract-relational model of Christology.

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to the mind of Christ, as opposed to, say, the access he has to my mind?’.76 Crisp then shows Morris appealing to the ownership condition, that the Word has ‘a particular “ownership” of Christ’s human nature that does not obtain in the case of the divine relationship to my human nature. In short, Christ’s human nature is the human nature of the Second Person of the Trinity’.77 Crisp follows Morris in referring to this ownership as ‘metaphysical ownership’. But what is ‘metaphysical ownership’? Crisp tells a story about how the metaphysical ownership relation that obtains between the Word and his human nature is akin to the metaphysical ownership relation that obtains between human souls and bodies on a substance dualist account of the ontology of humans. On most accounts of pure/simple substance dualism, a person is identified with her soul, and the body of a person just is whatever hunk of matter the soul stands in an appropriate relation with. Unfortunately, it has been no easy task for substance dualists to spell out just what the appropriate relation is between the soul and the body. It is plausible that one way of conceiving of this relation is, to hearken back to Thomas, to liken it to an instrumental relation. At this point, then, we find ourselves circling back to Thomas’ initial foray into the Athanasian Creed’s description of the hypostatic union as like that of ‘the rational soul to the body’. The notion of private instrumentality, as gleaned from Thomas and Crisp, can be further specified by recourse to recent discussions in the philosophy of mind pertaining to the extension of mind into the world.

Instrumentalism and Enabling Externalism In this section, I will take a different approach to characterizing a similar issue as was raised by Rogers and Thomas, that of conceiving 76 77

Crisp, God Incarnate, p. 158. Ibid., emphasis added.

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of the human nature of Christ as a kind of instrument. I will explicate this notion both by recourse to Richard Cross’ Duns Scotusinspired discussion of the Incarnation as well as drawing on the philosophy of mind literature with respect to enabling externalism. This discussion will further reinforce the Christological conceptual infrastructure that will undergird the account of the Eucharist in the next chapters. Enabling Externalism Richard Cross has defended an instrumental account of the threepart, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation, which draws insight from Duns Scotus’ theory of cognition. What is pertinent to our examination is the illustration Scotus uses to describe a state of affairs wherein an instrument properly becomes part of the body that uses it. Scotus writes: . . . the motive power in a hand can use a knife to cut up a body, in so far as [the knife] is sharp. If this sharpness were in the hand as its substance, then the hand could use it for the same operation, and nevertheless it would be accidental to the hand (in so far as the motive power is in it) that sharpness is in it, and vice versa, because sharpness gives the hand no perfection pertaining to [motive] power.78

Cross comments, ‘The idea is that the knife and the body form something with a unity as tight as would obtain in the case that the blade were straightforwardly a part of the body (in the manner, say, of Johnny Depp’s Edward Scissorhands character). The knife and the body become one subsisting thing.’79 Whereas relations of formal causality might be sufficient for unity, Cross comments, they need 78

79

Richard Cross, ‘Vehicle Externalism and the Metaphysics of the Incarnation: A Medieval Contribution’, in The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, p. 190. See also, Richard Cross, ‘Some Varieties of Semantic Externalism in Duns Scotus’s Cognitive Psychology’, Vivarium 46 (2008): 275–301. Ibid.

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not be seen as necessary. Unity, indeed identity (the forming of one subsisting thing), might be achieved by relations of efficient causality.80 Scotus expresses a type of vehicle or enabling externalism wherein an object that is external to the body is used by the body to perform some action. The external object enables the body to perform an action that in its current state it could not perform alone. We can further probe the notion of enabling externalism by attending to the seminal article in the philosophy of mind by Andy Clark and David Chalmers, ‘The Extended Mind’.81 In their description of the Extended Mind Thesis, Clark and Chalmers offer the Parity Principle to push against the prejudice that all cognitive processes are done in the head. Here I  offer that principle as slightly revised by Clark in a subsequent publication: If, as we confront some task, a part of the world functions as a process which, were it to go on in the head, we would have no hesitation in accepting as part of the cognitive process, then that part of the world is (for that time) part of the cognitive process.82

In their article, Clark and Chalmers offer an illustration that has come to be the canonical story of the Extended Mind Thesis in action. An Alzheimer’s patient, Otto, uses a notebook to record pieces of information that he wishes to remember. Every time he has information he may want later (say, the address of a museum he will visit later in the day), he writes that down in his notebook. In this way, the notebook has become part of Otto’s mind. Following Susan Hurley,83 let us refer to the object that is extended as the ‘extended entity’ and the object that is being extended onto as 80 81 82

83

Ibid. Andy Clark and David J. Chalmers, ‘The Extended Mind’, Analysis 58 (1998): 7–19. Andy Clark, ‘Memento’s Revenge: The Extended Mind Extended’, in The Extended Mind, ed. Richard Menary (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2010), p. 44. Susan L. Hurley, ‘Varieties of Externalism’, in The Extended Mind, pp. 101–153. The terms ‘extended entity’ and ‘enabling entity’ are Hurley’s, and the generic Parity Principle is mine.

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the ‘enabling entity’. Hence, here I make the Parity Principle more generic to cover all instances of enabling externalism: If an activity were done by an extended entity alone, we would accept this activity to be an extended entity process. If the activity were done utilizing an enabling entity, then that enabling entity is part of the extended entity process, and, for that time, the enabling entity is part of the extended entity.

The Parity Principle is the same conceptual move that Cross shows Scotus making in his illustration of the cognitive process. If the sharpness of a knife were in the hand (à la Edward Scissorhands), then we would accept the cutting as a bodily process. Or we might restate the Parity Principle for this case as follows: If cutting were done by the hand alone, we would accept cutting to be a bodily process. If cutting were done utilizing a knife, then the knife is a part of the bodily process, and, for that time, the knife is a part of the body.

Applied to the Incarnation Cross suggests that the notion of enabling externalism can be applied to Christ’s Incarnation.84 The human nature in Christ enables the Word to act in the human sphere as a human, something the Word as divine cannot do. Because of this efficiently causal or

84

It should be noted that in the volume wherein Cross’ article appears, Anna Marmodoro has an entire article devoted to exploration of the Extended Mind Thesis as a means for discussing the incarnation. However, her discussion lacks the emphasis on instrumentality that is vital to my discussion of Sacramental Impanation in the next chapters. See Anna Marmodoro, ‘The Extended Mind in Ontological Entanglements’, in The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, pp. 205–227. Furthermore, John Jefferson Davis suggestively probes the application of the Extended Mind Thesis to Christian theology in his ‘How Personal Agents Are Located in Space: Implications for Worship, Eucharist, and Union with Christ’, Philosophia Christi 13 (2011): 437–444.

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instrumental unity, the human nature in Christ and the Word form one entity, that is, the composite Christ. Cross states: By being an instrument of the Word, the human nature and the Word become one subsisting thing . . . just as the knife becomes (in effect)85 a part of the body. The body extends itself to include the knife; the Word extends himself to include the human substance.86

The act of extension is the relation of efficient causality obtaining between the agent and the instrument. Just as the knife enables Scotus’ hand to cut in the act of cutting,87 the human nature in Christ enables the Word to act as a human in the Incarnation; just as in cutting the knife becomes a part of Scotus’ hand, in the Incarnation an instance of human nature becomes a part of Christ. Thus, we can see parallel instances of extension and parallel instances of unities forming for various extended entities and enabling entities in the execution of specific activities: For Scotus’ knife: Activity: cutting Extended entity: Scotus’ hand Enabling entity: Scotus’ knife. In the canonical EMT illustration: Activity: cognition Extended entity: Otto’s mind Enabling entity: Otto’s notebook. In Christ: Activity: Incarnation Extended entity: the Word Enabling entity: the human nature in Christ. 85

86 87

I think we ought to read this parenthetical phrase as not ‘kinda sorta’ but ‘according to efficient causality’. Cross, ‘Vehicle Externalism’, p. 190, emphasis original. Let us just imagine Scotus is the one holding the knife in his own illustration.

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According to Scotus’ exposition of enabling externalism, extended entities and enabling entities form ‘one subsisting thing’. This explanation preserves both the unity and duality of the extending and enabling entities. This is an important distinction with respect to the Incarnation, lest one fail the Chalcedonian lessons. Moreover, we can appropriate the Thomist/Crispian distinction between private and common instrumentality to help us think about cases where there is a greater level of intimacy between extended and enabling entities. For instance, in the knife illustration, there is something more intimate about Edward Scissorhands’ use of his scissor-hands than Scotus’ use of his knife. Even though they are both instances of an instrumental union, my intuition is that the unity between Edward’s body and his scissors is more intimate than that of Scotus’ body and his knife. But what could be more intimate than forming ‘one subsisting thing’? In a similar manner as Thomas explicated private instruments as being moved as the agents ‘very own’, so too does Edward Scissorhands move his scissor-hands as his very own. This private ownership relation brings about the private instrumentality that is a more intimate union than occurs in the common instrumentality of when Scotus uses a knife. Scotus could put down the knife, bringing about a cessation in the efficient unity between his hand and the knife, and then his brother Franciscan could pick up the knife and form his own unity with that knife. Edward has a greater level of intimacy with the scissors of his hands because there is a greater level of ownership of that object. Thus, again, the ownership relation helps to clarify the intuition that there is a more intimate unity among the following items (where (a) are instances of private instrumentality and (b)  are instances of common instrumentality):  (a) Edward Scissorhands and his scissor-hands versus (b)  Scotus and his knife; or, (a) the Word and the human nature in Christ versus (b) the Word and every other human nature. This distinction will become especially important when I apply this Christological model

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to the Eucharist, where Christ uses the elements as his body, but in a more intimate manner than he does, for example, the whip of chords in John 2. One might wonder at this point if we have hit rock bottom in terms of characterizing the hypostatic union. There exists a relation between the Word and the human nature in Christ that is denoted by the term hypostatic union. Rogers’ analogy showed that the Incarnation can be more helpfully conceived of as an action composite, whereby the hypostatic union is brought about by the use of the human nature by the Word. The Athanasian Creed suggests likewise that this relation is like the one between the body and the soul. One way of conceiving of the body–soul relation, à la Thomas Aquinas, is as the body being the instrument of the soul. But the instrumental relation needs to be intimate enough to avoid incarnations in all humans used by God. Thus, the introduction of the private character or metaphysical ownership specification of the instrumentality that Thomas and Crisp proffer. However, I do not think this goes quite far enough. In fact, I suggest that reintroducing Rogers’ video-game analogy will help specify what Crisp and Thomas are attempting to achieve in the concept of an act of private ownership instrumentality.

First-Person Private Instrumental Ownership A key feature in Rogers’ picture-in-words is that the video game is a first-person role-playing video game. In this game, the state of affairs ‘Nick Playing’ only obtains when Nick is actually playing the game as Nick’s Character. Nick’s Character has no independent existence apart from being that entity played by Nick. In fact, ‘Nick’s Character’ just refers to that character through which Nick operates in the virtual world. Should it become the case that Nick were to play the game with another character in the virtual world, that character would become ‘Nick’s Character’. 186

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Imagine Nick and another boy, call him ‘Tom’, are both playing this video game together, perhaps on a split-screen. Both Nick and Tom are operating their own characters in the virtual world, Nick operates Nick’s Character and Tom operates ‘Tom’s Character’. If, perchance, Tom were to put down the controller to, say, go get a snack, and Nick were to pick up the controller and start playing the game with the character formerly known as Tom’s, then that character would just become Nick’s, Nick’s Character. Tom’s Character would, so to speak, cease to exist. It might be the case that Nick could operate multiple characters in the virtual world. I can easily imagine myself using two joysticks to control two different characters in a video game. Therefore, the controlling of the former Tom’s Character by Nick would not entail the cessation of Nick’s Character; Nick would just find himself with two characters, Nick’s Character (I)  and Nick’s Character (II), but only if Nick could maintain the causal activity of operating both of his characters, (I) and (II). If he had to put down his controller to pick up Tom’s (perhaps it is across the room), then the former Nick’s Character (I) would cease to exist and Nick’s Character would come into existence solely in the form of Nick’s Character (II). In application to the Incarnation, the human nature in Christ just is that human nature through which the Word operates in the human sphere. If the Word were to start operating, say, my human nature as his own, in a union of private instrumentality, that human nature would no longer be mine. The Word would own that human nature and the first-person perspective of that nature, and I would have no more access or right to operate through it. Further, if my human nature were taken to be essential to me, then it would seem in fact that I would cease to exist. Now, this does not entail that there is a logical or metaphysical restriction on the Word’s ability to annex my nature. It seems to me clearly possible that the Word could take over ownership of my nature on the order of private instrumentality. However, what cannot continue if this were to take place is my private ownership of that human nature. Thus, if the Word is interested 187

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in preserving me or any other human beings in existence, he will not form private instrumental unions with my or any other human nature.88 What the Apostle Paul speaks of, then, in the Philippians passage must be some weaker form of instrumentality. In fact, we have the notion of common instrumentality on the table as a possible explication of an instrumental union that preserves my ownership of my human nature, while allowing the Word to use me as a common instrument. The preceding discussion allows me to highlight the implications of this theory for two related issues regarding the contingency of the Incarnation and the possibility of multiple incarnations. Regarding the former, Crisp observes: Christ qua human might not have existed had the Second Person of the Trinity not become incarnate. That is, Christ is truly but only contingently God Incarnate. For surely it is metaphysically possible for a given divine person to refrain from becoming incarnate, otherwise it would appear that God the Son is not free in his decision to become incarnate.89

In the video-game illustration, Nick Playing only obtains, and thus Nick’s Character only exists, when Nick is playing the game. 88

89

This picture also allow me to respond further to the charge that Leftow and Crisp’s ceteris paribis response to the charge of Nestorianism is ad hoc. Since it is the case on this perspective that if the Word operates a human nature as his own, that human nature would belong to the Word and to no other; then Nestorianism is ruled out as an impossibility – there could be no second person appropriately related to that human nature. If one was looking for heresies to endorse, one could still be an adoptionist of a sort. On this score, one could tell a story about how there was a human person with a human nature who was born of the Virgin, then at some point that human nature was taken over by the Word, causing the previous owner to cease to exist. However, to avoid this charge, one could also just hold that from the first moment of the Incarnation – the moment at the Annunciation – the Word was the owner of the human nature in Mary’s womb, and thus at no time was there ever a person not the Word who owned that nature. For a related discussion, see chapter 5 of Crisp’s God Incarnate, ‘Christ and the Embryo’. Crisp, God Incarnate, p. 159.

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However, Nick could choose not to play, or could start and then stop; Nick’s Character is existentially dependent upon Nick for its continuation. Likewise, the composite Christ, the state of affairs of the Incarnation, is completely dependent upon the activity of the Word. Now, we might fear this is too weak; would the Word ever stop using his human nature now that we are this side of the Annunciation? Clearly, would and could are two different conditionals. The Word does not need to take out the trash, or get a snack, or do anything else that would entail his being unable to continue acting through the human nature. Just because he can lay down this nature does not entail that he will. There may be theological reasons why the Word would not cease acting through the human nature, but the ability to lay down the human nature preserves the radical contingency of the Incarnation. Secondly, on the notion of multiple incarnations, the video-game illustration preserves Crisp’s arguments that multiple incarnations are possible.90 Nick might operate Nick’s Character (I)  and Nick’s Character (II) with his two hands and two controllers. The Word, not limited in the manner that I  am limited by my two-handedvideo-game-controller capacities, is capable of operating many human natures. Again, there might be good theological reasons for why the Word would not or need not multiply incarnate, but the video-game analogy fits with the conclusion Crisp, and incidentally Thomas Aquinas elsewhere,91 makes that the Word can become incarnate in multiple human natures. What the preceding discussion shows, only, is that if the Word were to incarnate in another human nature, that human nature would become his to the exclusion of any other person who was or might have been the owner of that instance of human nature.

90

91

The possibility of multiple incarnations is taken up at length by Crisp in God Incarnate, pp. 155–175; and Robin Le Poidevin, ‘Multiple Incarnations and Distributed Persons’, in The Metaphysics of the Incarnation, pp. 228–241. ST IIIa.3.7 r.

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Conclusion I began this chapter with the desire to give an account of how it is apt for the predicates ‘is a human’ and ‘is God’ to be applied to the Word. These predications are key to the Nicene/Chalcedonian lessons taught regarding speaking properly of Christ. These lessons also lay down some rules for how to conceive of the reality of Christ in such a manner that these predicates are apt. These rules are to maintain the duality and unity of Christ: the duality of the natures, the unity of the person. Yet this was just the beginning of the creative exploration of the reality of Christ utilizing the guidelines of Chalcedon. The contemporary analytic discussion, while being conversant with the tradition of the doctrine, has presented the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation as aptly expressing the reality of Christ, tutored by Chalcedon. However, stating the three-part, concrete-compositional model is not the end of the exploration, but rather a middle point along a path towards a more specific exposition of Christ. By attending to Rogers’ portrayal of the three-part, concretecompositional model, I  noted that it is helpful to think of the Incarnation as falling under the rubric of divine action; the Incarnation is the Word acting in the world with his human nature. This focus on action allowed me to probe the nature of the hypostatic union. This union relation sanctions the use of ‘is a human’ and ‘is God’ as apt predicates of the Word. But, the question was raised, what kind of union is the hypostatic union? Can we creatively probe the nature of the union even further? Rogers’ action leitmotif suggested an instrumental union as that which best characterizes the hypostatic union. This move has a traditional pedigree in the Athanasian Creed, John of Damascus, Cyril of Alexandria, and Thomas Aquinas. This, then, undergirds the Chalcedonian lessons of the two natures in Christ being united ‘without confusion, without change, without division, without separation’.

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With respect to the hypostatic union, those following the Chalcedonian lessons can err in two directions. They can err either by (a) conceiving of the union not intimate enough to sanction the accrual of the predicates of both natures to the person, or (b) making the union so intimate that the two natures are ‘confused’ or merged into one by losing their individuality. On the latter, the instrumental union preserves the reality and individuality of the instrument used by the agent. Even though Edward Sissorhands’ scissor-hands are intimately related to him, they are still distinct from him. Likewise, even though the human nature in Christ is the instrument of the Word, it remains composed of two concrete particulars that are not ‘confused’ with the Word. Secondly, in response to (a), the instrumental union as illuminated by the firstperson, private ownership instrumental relation shows that Christ is the ‘one and the same Christ’ and ‘one and the same Son’ operating through the human nature. Yet, should the Word cease to act through the human nature, the Incarnation would cease as well. In virtue of this, however, the union is preserved whenever the Word acts through the human nature  – which, according to traditional theological reasoning, the Word always does and will do this side of the Annunciation. Thus, in regard to the predicates in question, whenever and as long as the Word operates through the human nature, it is apt to say of the Word that the Word ‘is a human’. This is as it was always the case that the pre-Incarnate Word always acted through his divine nature, thus making apt the predication that he ‘is God’. These Christological motifs lay down a certain conceptual infrastructure that I will apply to the Eucharist in the next chapters. The key themes to take with us into that discussion are those of the Chalcedonian unity and duality, the notion of concrete particulars being joined together through instrumental unions, and the utility of those unions for allowing predicates of those various concrete particulars to be apt of one subject. We must also take with us the distinction between private and

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common ownership as well as the enabling externalist explication of the instrumental relation. All of these themes, so important to my discussion of three-part, concrete-compositionalism, will reemerge in my discussion of the Eucharistic names of the consecrated object ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’.

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It is necessary to make a total change in the statement of the question [of the Eucharist] . . . the question must be returned to the domain of Christology, for it is essentially and wholly a Christological question. Sergei Bulgakov1

In this chapter and the next, I  will erect a constructive theory of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist based upon the foundation of the previous chapters. At the end of Chapter  4, we were left with a linguistic state of affairs whereby the consecrated elements may be referred to both as ‘bread’ and ‘Christ’s body’/‘wine’ and ‘Christ’s blood’. Since this is a similar linguistic situation as one finds in Chalcedonian Christology, the last chapter was an exposition of the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation, with a particular explication of the instrumental nature of the unions in the composite Christ. This chapter presents an analysis of some incarnational models of the Eucharist utilizing the Christology of the previous. I will first review some of the Eucharistic taxonomy initially presented in Chapter 1. Against the backdrop of two nonChalcedonian models of Christ’s presence, I proffer and analyse three types of incarnational models of the Eucharist. Following this, I present a sketch of some historical discussions of these various incarnational models of the Eucharist. I place my contemporary analysis before the historical material, not because I want to set myself up for the charge of anachronism, but rather, presenting my delineation of 1

The Holy Grail and the Eucharist, p. 61, emphasis original.

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the various types of incarnational models of the Eucharist provides me with language and tools to better and more clearly discuss the views of the past. It should also become apparent that I offer my constructive work as a means for maintaining fidelity to the tradition. I do not see my theory of the Eucharist as a sui generis novelty, but an updated and clarified model that coalesces concerns of the tradition of Christian Eucharistic theology.

Corporeal Mode Models of the Eucharist As noted in Chapter 1, I categorize any view of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist where that presence is described as a substantial presence as being in the Corporeal Mode. This mode is distinguished from the Pneumatic Mode, which holds that, at the consecration, Christ becomes present in a non-substantial way, and the No Non-Normal Mode, which holds that Christ is not present in the Eucharist in any way different from his presence in other areas of the cosmos. I also differentiated various species of these modes of presence that I  termed manners. The models in this chapter are all manners that fall under the Corporeal Mode category. These manners, or families of manners, can be distinguished according to what that particular viewpoint states about the status of the substantial presence of Christ’s body and blood, along with what that viewpoint has to say about the bread and wine. I divide the Corporeal Mode into two viable manners:  Roman and German.2 Roman manner theories of the Eucharist hold that (a) Christ is substantially present, and (b) the bread and wine are no longer substantially present. On my taxonomy, the Roman manner can be further subdivided into Roman-transubstantiation and Roman-annihilation. Roman-transubstantiation holds that 2

Excepting the theoretical Capernite manner.

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(a)  Christ is substantially present, (b)  the bread and wine are no longer substantially present, and (c) the substances of the bread and wine are converted into the substances of Christ’s body and blood. This view is distinct from Roman-annihilation, which holds that (a)  Christ is substantially present, (b)  the bread and wine are no longer substantially present, and (c) the substances of the bread and wine are annihilated when the substances of Christ’s body and blood arrive. Incarnational models of the Eucharist, tutored by the Chalcedonian ‘Definition’, fall under the German manner family of Corporeal Mode perspectives. In the Christian theological tradition, what I  am calling German manners have been variously denoted as consubstantiation, impanation, sacramental union, transmutation, Berengarian, Wycliffite, Lollard, Hussite, and others. Often these terms are utilized in pejorative characterizations. For our purposes here, by the German manner of views I mean nothing other than Eucharistic positions that hold (a) Christ is substantially present, and (b) the bread and wine continue to be substantially present. However, the German conditions (a) and (b) may come with a variety of corollary conditions, thus further subdividing this manner. I demarcate what I call the German-Wittenberg model, which holds that (a) Christ is substantially present; (b) the bread and wine continue to be substantially present; and (c) the body and blood of Christ are ‘in, with, and under’ the bread and wine. I denote models of the Eucharist as German-Nuremberg theories of the Eucharist, which hold that (a) Christ is substantially present, (b) the bread and wine continue to be substantially present, and (c) a union obtains between Christ’s body/blood and the bread/wine modelled on the Incarnation. At times in the tradition, a theory of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist that endorsed the German-Nuremburg conditions would be referred to as ‘impanation’. I have no trouble with this term as long as it is taken to entail only these German-Nuremberg conditions. In fact, because ‘incarnational model of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist’ is a mouthful and ‘German-Nuremberg’ is of my own 195

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inventing, ‘impanation’ seems to be the best term for the models adduced in this chapter and will be employed here.3

The Three-Part, Concrete-Compositional Model of Christ and the Eucharist Recall that the three parts that compose Christ are the concrete particulars of (1)  the divine Word, (2)  a human soul/mind, and (3)  a human body. In the Eucharist, according to Corporeal Mode theories, more concrete particulars enter into relations with Christ, namely the sacramental elements of bread and wine. A  question that any Corporeal Mode theory faces is, just what are the relational dynamics that obtain between the sacramental elements and the rest of the concrete particulars that compose Christ? As Marilyn McCord Adams puts the point, ‘Any doctrine of real presence will have to face the metaphysical issue of how and whether one body can exist under another.’4 All Corporeal Mode theories face – and attempt to meet – this issue. For instance, the aforementioned Corporeal Mode theory of Roman-transubstantiation posits that one body, the body of Christ, can ‘exist under another’, the bread, in that the bread is transformed into the body of Christ, thereby bringing about the cessation of

3

4

However, George Hunsinger expressed to me in personal conversation that ‘ “Impanation” is an ecumenical non-starter’, by which he meant the term. Yet, based upon his comments in The Eucharist and Ecumenism (to be discussed in Chapter 7), I do not think he has my version of impanation in mind. Still, I do wish to be ecumenical, thus I am only here committed to the view (which I think is ecumenical), not the name, and employ it only for the sake of linguistic economy. Marilyn McCord Adams, ‘Aristotle and the Sacrament of the Altar: A Crisis in Medieval Aristotelianism’, Canadian Journal of Philosophy 21 (1991): 200. What she means by ‘real presence’ doctrines is what I mean by Corporeal Mode theories. I grant that Pneumatic Mode theories could count as real presence theories depending on one’s definition of ‘real presence’; I take it that Adams would not.

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the bread’s existence.5 This is despite the fact that all of the sensible properties of the bread continue to exist and none of the sensible properties of the body of Christ come to exist at the location formerly occupied by the bread. In this case, there is no relation between the bread and the body of Christ; there is only a relation between the body of Christ and the sensible properties of the bread. While this state of affairs may be metaphysically possible, it is certainly metaphysically exotic. If a simpler metaphysical explication of the Corporeal Mode is possible, or if a Corporeal Mode theory could utilize the resources of incarnational metaphysics (also exotic, but with the weight of Ecumenical Councils behind it), that theory would seem to be more attractive.6 Further, as I argued in Chapter 2, I find Roman-transubstantiation to make less straightforward sense of the words of institution. The German-Wittenberg model likewise faces the trouble of describing how ‘one body can exist under another’. This view holds that there are actually two bodies, the bread and the body of Christ, at the location of the bread, with the body of Christ being ‘in, with, and under’ the bread – as the traditional Lutheran formula expresses it. The relation obtaining between the bread and the body of Christ on this view would be co-location. This might seem to be the Corporeal Mode theory most analogous to the Incarnation. For as 5

6

For recent analytic discussions of this traditional Roman Catholic explication of the Eucharist, see D. C. Cassidy, ‘Is Transubstantiation without Substance?’, Religious Studies 30.2 (1994): 193–199; Timothy Pawl, ‘Transubstantiation, Tropes and Truthmakers’, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 86 (2012): 71–96; Martin Pickup, ‘Real Presence in the Eucharist and Time-travel’, Religious Studies 51.3 (2015): 379–389; Alexander R. Pruss, ‘The Eucharist: Real Presence and Real Absence’, in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophical Theology, pp. 512–540, and ‘Omnipresence, Multilocation, the Real Presence, and Time Travel’. For a very helpful historical survey, see Marilyn McCord Adams, Some Later Medieval Theories of the Eucharist: Thomas Aquinas, Gilles of Rome, Duns Scotus, and William Ockham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Unless, of course, one has antecedent commitments to a particular metaphysical explication, no matter how exotic.

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Chalcedonian Christology holds that there are two natures present in Christ, why would there not be two bodies in the Eucharist? One trouble is that the co-location of one physical concrete particular (a human body) and two non-physical concrete particulars (the divine Word and a human soul) in the Incarnation is much easier to account for metaphysically than the co-location of two physical concrete particulars (the bread and the body of Christ). Further, even if co-location is a metaphysically viable option, co-location is a much less robust kind of union than the hypostatic union. Thus, a Corporeal Mode theory with incarnational-relational dynamics as its guiding principle will seek a union between the Eucharistic bread and Christ more analogous to the hypostatic union than simple co-location.7 The Chalcedonian explication of the Incarnation plots a middle road between Docetism and Nestorianism. Christ does not just seem to be human, but neither is he two co-located persons. Rather, Christ is one person who is fully human and fully divine. German-Nuremberg impanation theories of the Corporeal Mode take incarnational metaphysics as their theological North Star. Thus, impanation attempts a Corporeal Mode via media between transubstantiation and consubstantiation by maintaining the realities of the body of Christ and the bread, and by articulating a robust sense of the union between the two. In the next section, I distinguish three types of German-Nuremberg impanation. These three varieties of the German-Nuremberg family all hold (a)  Christ is substantially present; (b)  the bread and wine continue to be substantially present; and (c) a union obtains between Christ’s body/blood and the bread/wine modelled on the Incarnation; but are distinguished by 7

These two paragraphs hardly constitute decisive arguments against the Romantransubstantiation or German-Wittenberg models. My purpose here is much more constructive than deconstructive. My goal is to describe a coherent and attractive metaphysical state of affairs that undergirds the biblical/liturgical utterance, ‘This is my body.’ I do not need all other models to fail in order to do so, although I obviously presently think the model I proffer to be the best available.

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the relation by which the bread/wine is joined to the other concrete particulars of Christ and the concrete particular to which the bread/ wine is joined.

Types of Impanation In addition to analysing the manner in which the following types of impanation address the relations between the concrete particulars during the Eucharist, I also want to keep in mind the ‘Chalcedonian Pattern’ as Hunsinger elucidates it. If the following models of the Eucharist are to be incarnational models, and they are going to follow the Chalcedonian tutelage regarding the reality of Christ, then they should follow the Chalcedonian Pattern principles of ‘inseparable unity’ (from the line in the ‘Definition’, ‘without separation or division’), ‘abiding distinction’ (from ‘without confusion or change’), and an ‘asymmetrical ordering principle’ (which includes giving the ‘absolute primacy and precedence . . . always to God’).8 Hence, I will here introduce and describe three impanation types, evaluate them according to the Chalcedonian Pattern, and note a few key benefits of each type. I do not intend to give an exhaustive treatment of each impanation type. The next chapter is a thorough explication of the third impanation model. I offer here two other plausible models as, first, a conceptual backdrop for the defence to come and, second, to show the various nuances that incarnational models of the Eucharist can display. The latter will come into play as I highlight the incarnation motif of some Eucharistic theology in the tradition. But first, a few words on terminology. As with the term ‘impanation’, the nomenclature employed here is for the sake of convenience. I am interested in the phenomena these models are attempting to denote, not the terms themselves. Because my focus in the discussion of Christology in the last chapter has been on the union 8

Hunsinger, ‘Widening the Circle’, p. 280.

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relations that obtain in Christ, I have opted to refer to these types of impanation by demarcating them according to the union relation that obtains between the consecrated elements and one or other aspect of Christ. Recall, we already have on the table two kinds of instrumental unions, the natural union between the body and soul in a human being and the hypostatic union between the divine Word and the assumed human nature. The first impanation model to be discussed will reuse the notion of a hypostatic union by positing that another hypostatic union obtains between the Word and the consecrated elements. Thus, because the key union in this model is another hypostatic union, I denote this first version of impanation as Hypostatic Impanation. The second model reuses the notion of the natural union in describing another natural union that might obtain between the human soul in Christ and the elements. Hence, I  designate this second model as Natural Impanation. These first two models reuse the two kinds of union relations – in their instrumental explication – we have already discussed. However, even though the third model reuses the general instrumental union motif, it does not reuse the hypostatic or natural categories. Rather, the third model advances a different species of instrumental union, this union obtaining between the human body in Christ and the consecrated elements. In honour of Martin Luther and the general conceptually German region from which these ideas spring, I call this a ‘sacramental union’. In his treatise on the Eucharist against the ‘fanatics’, Luther discusses various instances in Scripture where identical predication – his term – occurs.9 Generally, this is an instance where items are united in some fashion so that the predicates of one item aptly accrue to the other item. His two standard examples are the Trinity and the Incarnation. On the former, he notes that the union in one nature between the three persons allows one to say, ‘God is the Father, God is the Son, God is the Holy Spirit, 9

Martin Luther, ‘That These Words of Christ, “This Is My Body,” Etc., Still Stand Firm against the Fanatics’ in Works, vol. 37 (St. Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1955).

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and conversely the Father is God, the Son is God, etc.’10 Likewise, the hypostatic or personal union between the divine Word and the assumed human nature warrants the predications with respect to Christ, ‘God is man and man is God.’11 When he turns to describe the union relation between the consecrated elements and Christ, Luther writes, ‘Here, too, out of two kinds of objects a union has taken place, which I shall call a “sacramental union” . . . This is not a natural or personal union, as is the case with God and Christ . . . but it is also assuredly a sacramental union.’12 Since I agree with Luther that the third model of impanation that I  will describe involves a unique union – but one with precedent in the hypostatic and natural unions – I will use his term and refer to the union between the elements and the body of Christ as a sacramental union.13 Consequently, the third model is christened Sacramental Impanation. Hypostatic Impanation Recall my desideratum stated at the end of Chapter  4:  I want to predicate of the consecrated bread both ‘is bread’ and ‘is the body of Christ’ along the lines of the Chalcedonian Christological predications. The first variety of impanation, Hypostatic Impanation, posits that another hypostatic union obtains between the divine Word and the consecrated elements.14 In this previous chapter, I  probed 10 11 12

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Ibid., p. 298. Ibid. Ibid., p. 300, emphasis added. Note that for Luther ‘natural union’ denotes the union of the persons of the Trinity in one nature, whereas I use the term ‘natural union’ to refer to the relation between the body and soul in a human. Hunsinger in ‘Widening the Circle’ also uses this term, p. 281. As should be clear, I do not intend to imply that Sacramental Impanation – or any impanation view – aptly describes Luther’s view. I do think there significant points of contact between what Luther articulates about the Eucharist and the incarnational model of the Eucharist I deploy in detail in the next chapter, but I am wary of asserting they are identical. I note in passing that I believe this incarnational model of the Eucharist requires an antecedent commitment to what has come to be called the extra Calvinisticum – that there is some remainder of the divine Word that exists beyond, outside, or extra to his

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the notion of the possibility of multiple incarnations by way of the discussions of Thomas Aquinas, Oliver Crisp, and Marilyn McCord Adams. Hypostatic Impanation states that the Word becomes incarnate again  – a literal re-Incarnation  – in the bread and wine of the Eucharist. Regarding this view, Adams describes that in the Eucharist, ‘the Divine Word assumes the Eucharistic bread the way that he assumes the human nature’.15 Furthermore: [J]ust as the Divine Word becomes in-carnate (en-fleshed) when it assumes a particular human nature into hypostatic union with itself, so the Divine Word becomes im-panate (em-breaded) when – at the moment of consecration – it hypostatically assumes the Eucharistic bread nature on the altar.16

This view states that, in the Eucharist, the consecrated elements are hypostatically united to the Word in the same manner as the human nature in Christ is hypostatically united to the Word. During the Incarnation, the Word assumes(1) the human nature, whereas during the Eucharist the Word assumes(2)  the consecrated elements; this is a second hypostatic union. If ‘hypostatic union’ denotes the joining of two natures, an essential nature and a contingent ‘alien’ nature, in one person, then Hypostatic Impanation is a hypostatic union subsequent to the Incarnation that includes the divine Word and (an)other alien nature(s), the consecrated elements. The difference between the Incarnation and Hypostatic Impanation

15

16

human nature. I think the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation can be construed along Lutheran or non-Lutheran lines and is thus neutral with respect to the question of the extra. Hypostatic Impanation is not neutral, but requires assent to the extra. Both Natural Impanation and Sacramental Impanation, however, can run with or without an antecedent commitment to this Christological position. For a selective historical survey of the extra, see Andrew M. McGinnis, The Son of God Beyond the Flesh: A Historical and Theological Study of the Extra Calvinisticum (London: Bloomsbury, 2014). Marilyn McCord Adams, Christ and Horrors: The Coherence of Christology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 305. Ibid., p. 296.

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is in the nature assumed:  human in the Incarnation, consecrated elements in the Eucharist.17 Thus, Hypostatic Impanation plus the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation entails that at the Eucharist Christ becomes composed of another part, a Eucharistic part. Telling an incarnational story that is similar to a dualist narrative, and using our private instrumental account of union, one could say that any parcel of matter that is the private instrument of a divine person becomes the body of that divine person.18 This model posits that the Eucharistic bread becomes the private instrument of the Word, but does so directly without going through any aspects of the human nature in Christ. This parcel of matter, the bread, then becomes a body of the Word. As ‘Christ’ refers to the divine person of the Word in the activity of using a created entity as its private instrument, the liturgical utterance ‘this is the body of Christ’ is apt. Since the bread would retain its structure, its shape, taste, substance, and so on, there is no reason not to continue referring to it as ‘bread’. This linguistic situation is the same as that within Christology where there is no reason not to refer to Christ as ‘a human’. Thus we achieve our desideratum for the Eucharistic predications: both ‘is bread’ and ‘is the body of Christ’ are apt predications for the consecrated object. How does Hypostatic Impanation fare as following the Chalcedonian Pattern? The first principle was ‘inseparable unity’, but that needs a quick comment. I do not think we ought to read this as some kind of strong claim, like ‘it is not logically possible for Christ’s natures to be separated’. Rather, medieval school theology has pointed out that because of the contingency of the Incarnation, 17

18

I am grateful to Marilyn McCord Adams for making this clear to me in personal conversation. The term ‘alien’ is hers. Of course, this is not an account of three-part, concrete-compositional Christology, for applied directly to Christ this would seem to entail Apollinarianism. It does, however, seem similar to a materialist version of Christology. Also note that this view does not require substance dualism to be true, it merely makes use of some substance dualist concepts.

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Christ could lay down his human nature at any time, but would not due to theological considerations.19 Rather, this principle from the Chalcedonian Pattern is employed to maintain that nothing apart from God’s own choosing could divide Christ. Likewise, then, Hypostatic Impanation could provide a robust account of the union between the instance of bread and the Word. Following the lead of the Incarnation, Hypostatic Impanation could say that the union is likewise preserved for as long as God chooses. The second principle of the Chalcedonian Pattern is ‘abiding distinction’, and similarly Hypostatic Impanation can follow this principle. On this model, the bread and the Word are not confused with one another, and they are not mixed into some hybrid, but nor does it entail that either change to be something it was not previously. Parenthetically, it is in this area that Roman-transubstantiation falls short of the Chalcedonian Pattern, for it is part of that perspective that the bread changes to cease to be bread. Hypostatic Impanation need not make any such move. Finally, for the Chalcedonian Pattern, is the ‘asymmetrical ordering principle’, which specifies that the divine aspect of Christ takes precedence over the human aspect; the Incarnation is a divine person taking on a human nature. This principle is easily satisfied in the Eucharistic state of affairs as described by Hypostatic Impanation, for it is the Word that takes the bread to itself. The bread is a passive component in this action, and it seems clear that any object which is taken on by the Word in this manner gives precedence to the Word. In addition to underwriting the liturgical utterance and following the Chalcedonian Pattern, there are two further attractive features of the Hypostatic Impanation model. First, the bread becomes the locus for the Word’s action in the world in a manner more robust than the Word’s action in the world via omnipresence.20 This 19 20

See Adams, Christ and Horrors, p. 306. Recall the discussion in Chapter 3 of understanding divine presence as divine action. An intensification of divine activity in a location sanctions the faithful’s response, ‘God is there’, even when God is everywhere.

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entails that the faithful who manducate the elements enjoy a literal personal connection with God. By circumventing the human nature in Christ, the faithful are joined directly to the Word via the elements. Secondly, this view has the advantage of being metaphysically parsimonious in utilizing an already-instantiated union, the hypostatic union. The next two models to be discussed use hypostaticlike unions, but not a strict reuse of the hypostatic union. Further, while a hypostatic union is an odd kind of union, it has the weight of Ecumenical Councils supporting it as a real union. Thus, Hypostatic Impanation simply reuses a concept already employed in discussions of the Incarnation and thus has a parsimonious account of how ‘this is the body of Christ’ is apt. Natural Impanation A different type of impanation, Natural Impanation, could tell a different metaphysical story with roughly the same plot and main characters as Hypostatic Impanation. This view, however, must necessarily include an entirely pure/simple substance dualist anthropological background setting.21 Impanation types are distinguished by the relation by which the bread/wine is joined to the other concrete particulars of Christ, and the concrete particular to which the bread/wine is joined. Natural Impanation avers that during the Eucharist another natural union obtains between the consecrated elements and the human soul in Christ. On the pure/simple substance dualist background story regarding the nature of humans, the body of a particular human just is whatever parcel of physical matter stands in an appropriate relation to the soul of that human (the human is, on this view, identical with her soul). Hearkening back to our preceding Christological discussion, the appropriate relation is the relation of private instrumentality. Then, 21

In the previous chapter, I pitched the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation as neutral with respect to pure/simple substance dualism versus hylomorphism; this type of impanation is not neutral.

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any parcel of matter which is used by my soul as my private instrument is the body of my soul. It would be metaphysically possible for my soul to become attached to any parcel of matter, including one in the form of, say, an alligator. This is what Alvin Plantinga addresses when he famously asks, ‘Could Socrates have been an alligator?’, to which he responds: That depends. We might think of an alligator as a composite typically consisting in a large, powerful body animated by an unimpressive mind with a nasty disposition. If we do, shall we say that any mind-alligator-body composite is an alligator, or must the mind be of a special, relatively dull sort? If the first alternative is correct, then I think Socrates could have been an alligator; for I think he could have had an alligator body.22

If this story is apt, we can twist the plot to take us to the Eucharist. In this vein, the soul of Christ enters into an appropriate private instrumental relation with the consecrated elements, which thereby become the body of Christ. As we saw in our treatment of Katherin Rogers’ Christological model analogy, when Nick began to operate Nick’s Character (II) this did not necessitate a disconnection to Nick’s Character (I). Likewise, the attachment of the soul of Christ to the bread need not entail a cessation of attachment to the human body of Christ. Like the first type of impanation, the Eucharistic state of affairs is a component of the state of affairs of Christ. But rather than another hypostatic union, Natural Impanation posits another natural union, which still is an instance of private instrumentality. If ‘body’ simply refers to that parcel of matter to which one is appropriately related by a natural union, and Christ’s soul is appropriately related to the Eucharistic elements, then those elements would be termed his body, and the predication of the bread as ‘the body of Christ’ is apt. This is just as it is apt to point to the human body in 22

Plantinga, Nature of Necessity, p. 65.

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the composite Christ and likewise predicate of it, ‘this is the body of Christ’. In a similar manner as Hypostatic Impanation, Natural Impanation satisfies the desiderata of the Chalcedonian Pattern. Since there is no need to deny the continued existence of the bread, it simply being assumed by the soul of Christ, the ‘abiding distinction’ requirement is satisfied. Additionally, we might think that the union between the soul and body to be one of the most intimate conceivable (as the last chapter indicated, so thought Cyril of Alexandria, Thomas Aquinas, and the author of the Athanasian Creed). Thus, in a similar manner as Hypostatic Impanation, Natural Impanation satisfies the ‘unity’ principle. Finally, since on the substance dualist model of the human the soul takes precedence over the body, likewise is the ‘asymmetrical ordering principle’ of the Chalcedonian Pattern expressed in this incarnational model of the Eucharist. Yet, it might seem that, given the Natural Impanation model, the matter of the bread would severely limit Christ’s ability to execute his soul’s capacities. Like Plantinga’s Socrates-alligator, the hunk of matter to which the soul is attached would determine, to some extent, the abilities that Socrates would be able to manifest. For instance, given the alligator skeletal structure, Socrates-alligator would not be able to walk on two feet. But Socrates-alligator may be able to do some things that Socrates-in-a-human-body could not, for instance, crush an entire full-grown adult Orpington chicken with his jaws. We know the human soul to be endowed with a number of capacities that are at times unrealized (given the substance dualist story). For example, the human soul has the capacity for processing visual data that is presented to it through the body’s eyes. The man in John 9 who was born blind, however, was not able to exercise this capacity in his soul due to the inability of his eyes to present the soul with visual data. When his sight was restored by Christ, his physical ability became such that his soul was able to exercise its capacity for processing visual data. A  human soul appropriately attached to a human body gives the soul the physical context for realizing a 207

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great many capacities (grasping and manipulating objects, singing, tasting tea, etc.). A human soul attached to a piece of bread would greatly limit the ability of a human soul to act on its capacities. However, this being said, Eucharistic theories such as impanation attempt to be real presence theories. These are theories about the mode of Christ’s bodily presence in the Eucharist; they attempt to describe how it is apt to say of the consecrated bread, ‘this is the body of Christ’, or, ‘Christ is there’.23 If one adopts the pure/simple substance dualist story, and one wants to say that a soul has a location, it seems the best location for a soul is the location of the body to which it is appropriately linked.24 On Natural Impanation, Christ would be literally located, really present, at the location of the consecrated bread because it is his body, thus making apt the predication ‘this is the body of Christ’. A second benefit of this view pertains to how the Eucharist enables Christ to be edible while avoiding the charge of cannibalism. The threat of cannibalism is a worry for any proponent of Corporeal Mode theories of the Eucharist, but the threat might seem to be especially forceful here.25 Yet, this version of the Corporeal Mode can meet that objection in this manner. Cannibalism is the eating of a human body. Human bodies are entities that have a specific genetic and molecular makeup. On pure/simple substance dualism, human 23

24

25

In some liturgical traditions, the minister holds up a piece of consecrated bread, thus indicating it and directing the audience’s attention to it, and says, ‘Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sin of the world.’ Or, as Adams comments, ‘Taking their cue from Augustine, scholastic philosophers reasoned that angels and intellectual souls cannot be extended in a place because they are simple and so lack parts that could be positioned at a distance from one another. But a human being’s intellectual soul is located in his/her body throughout his/her ante-mortem career. Hence, the intellectual soul must be whole in the whole body, and whole in each part of the body (which Scotus and Ockham call being definitively in place).’ Christ and Horrors, p. 300. This worry does not arise in Hypostatic Impanation since on that theory the human nature of Christ is completely circumvented in the union between the elements and the divine Word. The Sacramental Impanation model faces this charge, but it will be dispensed with in the next chapter.

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souls are typically, but non-necessarily, connected to human bodies. In this Eucharistic state of affairs, Christ’s human soul is attached both to a human body and to a Eucharistic body or a bread-body. The faithful do not consume the human body, but rather the breadbody. Consequently, the charge of cannibalism is avoided while it still being apt that the faithful eat ‘the body of Christ’. Sacramental Impanation Hypostatic Impanation posits a hypostatic union between the elements and the divine Word; Natural Impanation posits a natural union between the elements and the human soul of Christ; Sacramental Impanation proffers a sacramental union between the elements and the human body of Christ.26 This sacramental union in Sacramental Impanation is another instance of an instrumental union. Recall that we previously adopted the description from the tradition of the hypostatic union as akin to the natural union between the body and soul; this notion rode on the back of the idea that the natural union is the soul using the body as the body uses an instrument. In Sacramental Impanation, the body of Christ uses the consecrated bread as an instrument. As such, the bread becomes part of Christ’s body in the manner as the human nature becomes part of the composite Christ. Thus, the sacramental union is an instrumental union just as the hypostatic and natural unions are. This view is such that during the Eucharist the divine Word is hypostatically united to an instance of human nature, in this human nature the body and soul are naturally united to one another, and the 26

As noted previously, the phrase ‘sacramental union’ is of Lutheran pedigree. Like Luther, by this term I only mean to indicate that there is some union between the consecrated elements and the body of Christ, this union is like the hypostatic and natural unions, and this union occurs in the sacrament of the Eucharist. I do not intend the term to indicate that the union itself is a sacrament. Rather, the term ‘sacramental’ is being used adjectivally to modify ‘union’, meaning it is a union of or relating to a sacrament.

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bread/wine are sacramentally united to the body/blood of the human nature that is hypostatically united to the divine Word. Adams, utilizing some medieval metaphysical terminology, articulates this view: Like a human soul, the human body of Christ is not a complete individual substance, but only part of one. If one allows with Ockham that God could make an individual substance nature depend on a substance part, then one could say that the human body of Christ is the proximate assumer of the bread nature.27

One need not endorse all Adams has to say about substances and substance natures in order to accept Sacramental Impanation. The notion here is that as the divine Word is the proximate assumer of an instance of human nature in the Incarnation, likewise is the human body the proximate assumer of an instance of bread in the Eucharist. Where the Incarnation allows one to point towards the Incarnate Christ and say, ‘this is God’, Sacramental Impanation allows one to point towards the consecrated bread and say, as Eucharistic liturgies do, ‘This is the body of Christ.’ What is important for this view is giving a robust account of the direct connection between the consecrated elements and the body of Christ; the bread becomes the private instrument of the body of Christ. In this manner, Sacramental Impanation hopes to score a conceptual point against the other types of impanation which could only triangulate a connection between the elements and the natural body of Christ. On Sacramental Impanation, Christ’s human body is the ‘proximate assumer’ of the elements, whereas on the other views it was the divine Word or the human soul that proximately assumes the elements. How does Sacramental Impanation fare in regards to the Chalcedonian Pattern? On this view of the Eucharist, the two items that are being held together, in a manner analogous to the two natures of Christ, are the bread and the human body of Christ. The unity principle is achieved in that Sacramental Impanation posits as tight 27

Adams, Christ and Horrors, p. 306.

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a union between the body of Christ and the elements, as one finds in the hypostatic and natural unions. It may be that those unions are difficult to explicate, but Sacramental Impanation wants to maintain that the sacramental union is no more difficult than those unions, and is in fact an instance of the same category of union. With respect to the principle of ‘abiding distinction’, this can be achieved by considering the relation of parts to wholes. Sacramental Impanation is comfortable referring to the consecrated bread as parts of Christ’s body; there are, of course, parts of Christ’s body that are not the consecrated bread. Similarly, it might be imprecise to specify just where one’s wrist starts and forearm ends, but these are still distinguishable. Likewise, the bread remains what it is and is thus distinguishable, even as it is incorporated into a greater whole that is Christ’s body. Finally, in regards to the ‘asymmetrical ordering principle’, wholes are always given some degree of conceptual priority over the parts that compose them. The bread becomes part of the whole of the body, and important as the bread is, the whole body takes a measure of precedence over its parts. Sacramental Impanation is the version of impanation that I will defend as the most attractive and satisfactory in light of the linguistic, Chalcedonian, historical, and liturgical desiderata. Hence a more robust discussion of this variety of impanation will come in the next chapter. In what follows in this chapter is an evaluation of all three varieties of impanation, a specific historical survey of these models through the history of Christian theological reflection, and finally a discussion of some deficiencies of Hypostatic and Natural Impanation that will lead to the deeper constructive explication of Sacramental Impanation in the next chapter. Benefits of All Three Impanation Types A number of important themes from previous chapters come to bear on these three Eucharistic models. First, the linguistic analysis of Chapters 2 and 4 brought us to the point at which we are 211

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in want of an account of the Eucharist that makes sense of the aptness of the predications ‘is bread’ and ‘is the body of Christ’ when referring to the consecrated bread. Chapter 2 also included a focus on the continued presence motif of the Last Supper and Road to Emmaus narratives. Therein, I describe how Christ wishes to assure his disciples that although he is in one sense leaving them, he would remain present to them by way of the Eucharist. Thirdly, this presence motif dovetails with the account of omnipresence in Chapter 3, which trades significantly on the idea that presence is action and action can be had in degrees. Although God is omnipresent by acting everywhere in the cosmos, it is also apt to refer to God as being there in specific holy locations (e.g., the Unburnt Bush or the Holy of Holies) due to a concentration of divine activity at those locations. These themes conjoin in my discussion of Christology wherein the Incarnation is portrayed an action-composite whereby the Word forms a union of private instrumentality in the act of using the assumed human nature. This active union relation grounds such predications of Christ as ‘is God’ and ‘is a human being’. The move in this chapter is to see these impanation models make use of the previous chapters’ themes and focus on a union relation between the elements and one or other of the various concrete particulars in Christ to provide a metaphysical account undergirding the linguistic desiderata. I think all three models achieve this to a certain extent. For instance, all three models posit causal connectivity at work, and the union relations are instrumental unions of a private kind. Hence, the emphasis on the activity of the operator that is central to my account of the Incarnation is also central to all three impanation varieties. These incarnational models of the Corporeal Mode can all hold that, as the Incarnation is a contingent state of affairs, so too are the instrumental unions that join the consecrated elements to Christ dependent upon the action of the Word. Likewise, the presence as action motif arises when we conceive of the Word using the elements, acting on the location of those elements, and thus bringing about the Word’s presence at those locations. 212

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As such, these theories help to address a common debate within Eucharistic theology with respect to how long the presence of Christ endures in relation to the elements. For some hold that the presence of Christ obtains only during the Eucharistic liturgy; some hold that the presence obtains only in the act of reception of the elements by the faithful; and some hold that the presence obtains until the elements are consumed or destroyed (thus, they can be reserved for later use, for example to bring to the sick). These models have a simple answer to this question. On Rogers’ video game analogy, Nick Playing obtains only when Nick is actually using Nick’s Character, and, by extension, the hypostatic union obtains only when the Word is using his human nature. Likewise, the second hypostatic union of Hypostatic Impanation, the second natural union of Natural Impanation, or the sacramental union of Sacramental Impanation all obtain only when the Word is using the elements. Since instrumental unions only obtain when the instrument is being used, we can say that the presence of the operator endures as long as the instrument is in use. But it is up to the operator, the Word, to determine when to use the various concrete particulars and when to cease to use them. As with the Incarnation, Christ can lay down the Eucharistic elements at any time. There might be good theological reason for him to continue in action with them long past the liturgy, or reception, or the like, but nothing requires him to do so. One might express just such a theological motivation for holding to the enduring presence of the Word in the elements. Adams articulates her Eucharistic theory (to my mind, Hypostatic Impanation, although not by that name), in the context of her Christological theodicy. Keen to emphasize the manner in which God has expressed radical solidarity with humans through identification with us in our very natures, she pushes her Eucharistic theory to the point of showing how the elements provide the Word the ability to identify with humans even in the nadirs of their corporeal existence. She comments: 213

Varieties of Impanation Just as the Divine Word could (but  – according to medieval doctrine – never in fact will) lay down the human nature It assumed, so the Divine Word could lay down assumed bread natures at any time – once the bread enters the mouth, once it starts to be digested, only after it has ceased to be bread anymore, etc. My own estimate of what it takes to defeat horrors drives me to reverse medieval reluctance: for the Body of Christ to pass through the digestive process according to its bread nature would represent a continuation of Divine solidarity that descends to the depths of human degradation to be God-with-us!28

On the impanation models I  have offered, Christ forms a private instrumental union with the bread and the wine. For Adams, this union continues even past the digestion process. My impanation types do not require a particular moment for when the union between Christ and the elements is dissolved. Rather, all they require is that the onus is on Christ to stop acting with the elements at the time of his choosing. This provides creative space to articulate potential theological reasons why Christ ceases to unite himself with the elements at a certain time. Adams’ suggestion here provides a segue to address one potential question concerning the instrumental action explication of these impanation types. For one might wonder just what could Christ be doing with the bread since bread is so inept? A  human nature has all manner of latent capacities just waiting to be utilized by the divine Word to enable an instrumental union; but the capacities of bread and wine are exceedingly minimal. However, the mere physicality – and thus locatedness – of the bread provides all the capacities Christ needs. Adams proposes that Christ uses the bread to achieve 28

Ibid., emphasis orginal. For Adams’ further application of impanation to pastoral theology, see her ‘Biting and Chomping Our Salvation! Eucharistic Presence, Radically Understood’, in Redemptive Transformation in Practical Theology: Essays in Honor of James E. Loder, Jr, eds. Dana R. Wright and John D. Kuentzel (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 2004), pp. 69–94.

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radical solidarity with humans in their physical degradation. But any number of other creative theological reasons why Christ uses the bread could be adduced: to encourage the faithful recipients; to bring about the sanctification of the recipients; to renew the created order; and so on. The bare minimum of real presence theories attempts simply to proffer an account wherein the body of Christ is really present. Clearly, presence is a seemingly minimal activity, but it is an activity nonetheless. The divine Word uses the bread to be present  – to be located  – and this action indeed brings about Christ’s presence. Yet, this is not circular reasoning. For God used the location of the Unburnt Bush to communicate to Moses, and this brought about God’s presence at the location of the Unburnt Bush such that it was apt to say, ‘God is there’. Christ says in the Gospels that despite his going to the Father, he will remain present with and to his followers. The consecrated bread provides a means for making good on this promise. Further, similar objections that are made to three-part, concretecompositional Christology can also be brought against a Eucharistic arrangement that wants to preserve both the bread and the body of Christ in the Eucharist. It might seem as though these concrete particulars are ‘just sitting there’ adjacent to one another, being mereologically ad hoc, and not really unified. However, as with the responses to these objections in the Incarnational discussion, so too are these objections blocked in the Eucharistic state of affairs. Rather than an appeal to mereology, conceiving of the Eucharist as a state of affairs highlights the causal unity that obtains between the concrete particulars on all three models. Moreover, it is in fact the instrumental union that sanctions the use of the predication ‘is the body of Christ’; so on this view, a robust account of the causal union is required to achieve the liturgical linguistic desideratum. Hypostatic Impanation, Natural Impanation, and Sacramental Impanation are all German-Nuremberg theories for explicating Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. All posit the continued existence of the bread/wine, contra Roman manner explications; all posit a 215

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robust union between the elements and its proximate assumer, contra German-Wittenberg. All three varieties of Impanation present via media options for navigating a course between Rome and Wittenberg. These types differ according to what the type says about which concrete particular of Christ is the proximate assumer, which entails a different type of union in each case. In the next chapter, I  adopt Sacramental Impanation as the best model to display the Corporeal Mode of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. However, before defending this claim, I  offer a survey of the incarnational explanatory motif in the tradition of Eucharistic theology.

A Specific Historical Survey Pertaining to Impanation Adams refers to impanation as a ‘minority report’ of Eucharistic metaphysics.29 That is, while Western discussions of the metaphysics of the Eucharist in the last millennia have tended towards evaluating Roman-transubstantiation, impanation often appears as either an interlocutor, opponent, or even sometimes a preferable option. In this section, I note key instances in the tradition that give credence to the notion that impanation has historical precedence within the Christian theological tradition. While these authors may not all be expressing Eucharistic positions that are explicitly one of the types of impanation elucidated in the preceding, they all share a concern to either utilize the Incarnation as an explanatory motif or offer descriptions of the Eucharist harmonious with the concerns of impanation. My purpose in this section is to show that the models of this chapter are not ones I just invented sitting in my armchair. Rather, the concerns that impanation – and specifically Sacramental Impanation  – seeks to address are ones that weave like a thread through much of the tradition’s reflection on the Eucharist.

29

Ibid., p. 296.

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Patristic Soundings First, we can make reference to one of the first post-apostolic discussions of the Eucharist, which is found in the writings of Justin Martyr. The apologist writes: For not as common bread and common drink do we receive these; but in like manner as Jesus Christ our Saviour, having been made flesh by the Word of God, had both flesh and blood for our salvation, so likewise have we been taught that the food which is blessed by the prayer of His word, and from which our blood and flesh by transmutation are nourished, is the flesh and blood of that Jesus who was made flesh.30

Justin here specifically uses the Incarnation as a means for describing the Eucharistic action. In like manner as the Incarnation is the Word in flesh and blood, so too are the bread and wine the flesh and blood of the Word. Irenaeus of Lyons similarly shows a German Corporeal Mode concern to maintain the reality of the bread as well as the presence of Christ’s body. Irenaeus writes in Adversus haereses 4.18.5: But our opinion is in accordance with the Eucharist, and the Eucharist in turn establishes our opinion. For we offer to Him His own, announcing consistently the fellowship and union of the flesh and Spirit. For as the bread, which is produced from the earth, when it receives the invocation of God, is no longer common bread, but the Eucharist, consisting of two realities, earthly and heavenly; so also our bodies, when they receive the Eucharist, are no longer corruptible, having the hope of the resurrection to eternity.31

30

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First Apology 66 in The Ante-Nicene Fathers: Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to AD 325, vol. 1: the Apostolic Fathers – Justin Martyr – Irenaeus, ed. Alexander Roberts (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1979), p. 185. Adversus haereses 4 in The Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol.1, p. 486.

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The ‘two realties’ of the bread and the body of Christ that Irenaeus sketches can correspond to the twofold reality of Christ – his divinity and humanity  – in the Incarnation, which is a focus of my argument. Another example can be drawn from the conversation between a Eutychian heretic (Eran.) and an orthodox theologian (Orth.) as written by the fifth-century bishop Theodoret of Cyrus: Orth. – Tell me now the mystic symbols which are offered to God by those who perform priestly rites of what are they symbols? Eran. – Of the body and blood of the Lord. Orth. – Is it really the body or is it not really so? Eran. – It is really the body. Orth. – Good. For the image must have its archetype. For painters also imitate nature and depict the images of the things that are seen. Eran. – True. Orth. – If then the divine mysteries are antitypes of that which is really the body therefore even now the body of the Lord is a body not changed into the nature of Godhead but filled with divine glory. Eran.  – Opportunely have you introduced the subject of the divine mysteries. For from this I  will show you the change of the Lord’s body into another nature. Answer then my questions. Orth. – I will answer. Eran. – Before the priestly invocation what do you call the gift that is offered? Orth.  – It is not right to say clearly for perhaps some who are uninitiated are present. Eran. – Let your answer be phrased enigmatically. Orth. – Food of such and such grain. Eran. – And by what name do we call the other symbol? Orth. – This name too is common signifying a kind of drink. 218

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Eran. – But after the consecration what do you call these? Orth. – The body of Christ and the blood of Christ. Eran. – And do you believe that you partake of the body of Christ and of His blood? Orth. – I do so believe. Eran. – As then the symbols of the Lord’s body and blood are one thing before the priestly invocation and after the invocation are changed and become different so the body of the Lord after the ascension was changed into the divine substance. Orth.  – You are caught in the net of your own weaving. For even after the consecration the mystic symbols do not depart from their own nature. For they remain in their previous substance and figure and form and they are visible and tangible as they were before. But they are regarded as being what they have become and they are believed so to be and they are worshipped as being those things which they are believed to be.32 There are a number of interesting points of observation in this discussion relating to the nature of Christ’s body after the ascension, the point of consecration of the Eucharistic elements in the liturgy, and others. For our purposes, the most important aspect of this dialogue is the last part of the orthodox theologian’s statements. Here two things apply to our analysis: the appeal to the Incarnation as a motif for discussing the Eucharist, and the metaphysical status of the elements along German lines. For, on the latter, he indicates that the bread and wine remain in ‘their own nature’ and yet are also the body and blood of Christ. Further from Theodoret, in the context of the monophysite controversies, he makes the following comments regarding the Incarnation and the Eucharist: 32

In Darwell Stone, A History of the Doctrine of the Holy Eucharist, vol. 1 (London: Longmans, Green, 1909), pp. 99–100.

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Varieties of Impanation As before the bread is consecrated we call it bread, but after the grace of God has consecrated it through the agency of the priest it is no longer called bread but counted worthy of the name of the body of the Lord, although the nature of bread remains in it, and we speak not of two bodies but of one body of the Son, so in this case when the divine nature was united to the body the two natures made one Son, one Person.33

In light of my arguments in Chapters 2 and 4, I certainly disagree that the consecrated bread is ‘no longer called bread’, even if I agree that it is called ‘the name of the body of the Lord’. Clearly, Theodoret teaches that the bread remains substantially bread, although it becomes the body of Christ. With the bread remaining, Theodoret proffers a German manner Corporeal Mode concern. The emphasis on the Incarnation leans the description more towards GermanNuremberg, rather than German-Wittenberg. Moreover, the emphasis on there not being two bodies but one seems to push against German-Wittenberg, Hypostatic Impanation, and Natural Impanation. Thus, this statement seems to be best interpreted as working with a Sacramental Impanation model, for Sacramental Impanation best preserves the unity of the body of Christ, as will be shown in the next chapter. A similar line of reasoning against the Eutychians can be found in Pope Gelasius, also from the fifth century. My project has been to use the Incarnation as a motif for explaining the Eucharist, but both Theodoret and Gelasius are concerned with an inverse project of defending the Incarnation by means of the Eucharist. Gelasius writes: The Sacrament which we receive of the body and blood of Christ is a divine thing. Wherefore also by means of it we are made partakers of the divine nature. Yet the substance or nature of the bread and wine does not cease to be. And certainly the image and likeness 33

Ibid., p. 100.

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A Specific Historical Survey Pertaining to Impanation of the body and blood of Christ is set out in the celebration of the mysteries. Therefore it is plainly enough shown to us that we must think this in the case of the Lord Christ Himself which we confess, celebrate, and receive in the case of the image of Him. Thus, as the elements pass into this, that is the divine substance by the operation of the Holy Ghost, and none the less remain in their own proper nature, so they show that the principal mystery itself the efficacy and virtue of which they truly make present to us, consists in this, that the two natures remain each in its own proper being so that there is one Christ because He is whole and real.34

Clearly this is a German manner statement with a Hypostatic Impanation explication being the best specification of this manner. Gelasisus indicates that the elements pass into ‘the divine substance’, but since they do not ‘cease to be’, a union between the elements and the divine nature is envisioned. This union would most reasonably be found in the person of the Word, thus Hypostatic Impanation. Stone notes how a principle adduced by Leonitus of Byzantium is not specifically applied to the Eucharist, although the statement contains resources that are relevant to the present investigation. For Leonitus writes: The supernatural leads up and elevates the natural, and empowers it for more perfect actions, such as it could not accomplish if it remained within the limits of the natural. The supernatural therefore does not destroy the natural but educes and stimulates it both in its capacity for actions of its own and in its receiving power for those things which are beyond this capacity.35

One need not necessarily read this as a statement on the Eucharist, but the possibility is there. That is, one might hold the elements to be elevated by participation in Christ’s body, rather than their ceasing

34 35

Ibid., p. 102. Ibid., p. 135.

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to exist or their being annihilated or ‘destroyed’. Stone makes this commentary on this passage: Leontius gives instances of the operation of this principle in the elevation of natural material by art; and applies it to the truth of the abiding reality of the human nature of our Lord when used by Him in the Incarnation. Though not explicitly referring to the Eucharist, this passage may be mentioned here as a notable instance of the principle which, at an earlier time, led Theodoret and Gelasius to insist on the continued existence of the elements of bread and wine in the Eucharist.36

A similar statement is made by Ephraim of Antioch when he says, ‘So the body of Christ which is received by the faithful does not depart from its perceptible substance and remains indivisible from the spiritual grace.’37 Thus, we can see that the theme of the bread and wine remaining in their substance, while also being the body and blood of Christ, has early precedence in the history of the Church. Further, the interaction between the doctrines of the Incarnation and the Eucharist in the minds of the Fathers is apparent. Medieval Soundings Jumping forward a few centuries to the early middle ages brings us to Moses Bār Kēphā. He was a ninth-century bishop of the Syrian Church. The bishop writes regarding the Eucharist: Just as in the case of the holy Virgin Mary the Father willed that the Son should become incarnate, but the Son came down into the womb of the Virgin and became incarnate, and the Spirit also came down to the Virgin and caused the Son to be incarnate of her:  so here also in the case of the altar:  the Father wills that the Son be united hypostatically to the bread and wine, and that they become 36 37

Ibid., p. 135. Ibid., p. 136.

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A Specific Historical Survey Pertaining to Impanation His body and His blood; but the Son comes down that He may be hypostatically united to them; and the Spirit also comes down that He may unite them to Him, even as He caused Him to be incarnate of the Virgin.38

Clearly here the Incarnation is being used as an explanatory motif for the Eucharist. What is more, the language used of another hypostatic union obtaining in the Eucharist as occurred in the Incarnation obviously resonates with the concerns of Hypostatic Impanation. I am especially keen to note how this passage draws a comparison between the Holy Spirit’s role in the Incarnation and the Spirit’s role in uniting the elements to Christ. This foreshadows a similar move I make in the next chapter regarding the bridging of the spatial gap between the elements and the human body in Christ that is requisite for Sacramental Impanation to occur. John Quidort of Paris presents, to my mind, the most thorough analysis of impanation in the tradition. John was a Dominican writing around the turn of the fourteenth century. Although in his treaties on the Eucharist he was keen to state that he would endorse whatever position on the metaphysics of the Eucharist was officially determined by the Roman Catholic authorities, he nevertheless discusses at length the metaphysical possibility and benefits of impanation. For instance, he says: For the substance of the bread to remain under its own accidents in the Sacrament of the altar can be understood in two ways. First, the substance of the bread may be held to remain in the Sacrament of the altar under its own accidents in a subject of its own; and this is untrue because in this case there would not be association of properties (communicatio idiomatum) between the bread and the body of 38

George, Bishop of the Arab Tribes and Moses Bār Kēphā, Two Commentaries on the Jacobite Liturgy, eds. and trans. R. H. Connolly and H. W. Codrington (London: Williams and Norgate, 1913), p. 60. I found this reference in the very helpful and engaging recent monograph by David Grumett, Material Eucharist (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016).

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Varieties of Impanation Christ, nor would it be true to say, ‘The bread is the body of Christ’ or ‘My flesh is really food.’ Secondly, the substance of the bread may be held to remain under its own accidents, not in a subject of its own, but in relation to the being and subject of Christ, so that in this way there would be one subject in the two natures. And this is true.39

The latter view has the ring of Sacramental Impanation. John describes connection between the elements and the body and blood of Christ, such that they are incorporated into his body and blood, while not losing their own substance. Although at the Council of Trent it is clear that the Roman Catholic Church defines the appropriate Eucharistic metaphysics to be that of Roman-transubstantiation, both German-Nuremberg impanation and the German-Wittenberg position (under the name ‘consubstantiation’) retain utility as foils for the majority opinion. James McCue has argued that almost no one before the fifteenth century thought that the Roman Catholic Church had officially declared that Roman-transubstantiation was the only viable option on the metaphysics of the Eucharist. Rather, most theologians simply took it that the Roman Church had been attempting to secure the real corporeal presence in its earlier pronouncements, not the specific metaphysics of how this occurs.40 Here I exposit some of William of Ockham’s analysis of the metaphysics of the Eucharist. To Ockham’s mind, all that has been codified via Lateran IV was the term ‘transubstantiation’, but what that term means metaphysically can be understood in various ways. So, he says that transubstantiation can be understood in a number of ways:

39

40

Stone, A History of the Doctrine of the Holy Eucharist, vol. 1, p. 362. See the edition and helpful commentary in John Hilary Martin, ‘The Eucharistic Treatise of John Quidort of Paris’, Viator 6 (1975): 195–240. James F. McCue, ‘The Doctrine of Transubstantiation from Berengar through Trent: The Point at Issue’, Harvard Theological Review 61.3 (1968): 385–430.

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A Specific Historical Survey Pertaining to Impanation 1. The substance of the bread remains and the body of Christ coexists with this substance. The substance of the bread bears the accidents; the body of Christ does not, but merely coexists. 2. The substance of bread suddenly leaves that place for another place. The accidents remain and the body of Christ coexists with them. 3. The substance of bread is reduced to matter and the matter exists either without form or under another form, and this either in the same or in another. The body of Christ coexists with this matter and with the accidents. 4. The substance of bread is annihilated.41

The first option seems clearly to fall into the German manner of views, whereas the second through fourth are all Roman manner explications. On this delineation, Ockham comments: It is evident that the first is possible. This can come about through the simple coexistence of the true body of Christ and the substance of bread. It is no less difficult for quantities to coexist or for substance to coexist with quantity than for substance to coexist. But as is evident in the case of large bodies existing in the same place, one quantity can coexist in the same place with another. Similarly, substance can coexist in the same place with quantity, as in the case of the body of Christ. Therefore it is possible for substances to coexist in the same place.42

Clearly, he is willing to embrace the possibility of a German manner view. But then, beyond mere possibility, Ockham actually makes the comment that what I am calling a German view would be a preferable perspective. He states, The first view can be held since it does not contradict reason or any biblical text; and of all the explanations offered it is the most 41

42

William of Ockham, Commentary on the Sentences IV, q. 6, in McCue, ‘The Doctrine of Transubstantiation from Berengar through Trent’, p. 409. Ibid., pp. 409–10.

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Varieties of Impanation reasonable and the easiest to hold since fewer difficulties follow from it than from any other. For it is evident that of all the difficulties that are said to follow from this sacrament the greatest is that there is accident without subject. But this does not follow on the first view. Therefore, etc. But suppose that you object that the greatest difficulty is the simultaneous existence in one place of two bodily substances. I reply that for two bodily substances to coexist is no more difficult or marvellous [sic] than for substance and quantity so to exist. The accidents [species] of the host no more allow the co-existence of another host than does a substance with its accidents allow the co-existence of another substance. For we see that the accidents of the host exclude an unconsecrated host just as though the substance of the bread were still present in the consecrated host; and this does not happen because of the body of Christ since this is not opposed to one quantity more than the other. Thus it appears that no difficulty attends the first view that does not attend the second.43

In no uncertain terms, Ockham says that what I call German theories – of which impanation is one – are no more metaphysically difficult than Roman-transubstantiation. But further, it would be even easier to hold to this view because it does not have the subsequent difficulties of holding to the sensible properties of the bread existing where there is no longer bread. An Anglican Sounding Moving out of the medieval period and into the Reformation stream, I  offer a point of connection with the Anglican tradition. We can attend to the teaching of Bishop Lancelot Andrewes (1555– 1626), who holds to a Corporeal Mode perspective on the presence of Christ, while maintaining the continued existence of the bread, 43

Ibid., p. 410, my emphasis.

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and patterning a union between the two based on the Incarnation. Andrewes writes: . . . the Sacrament consisteth of a heavenly and of a terrene part; the heavenly – there the word too, the abstract of the other; the earthly – the element . . . The gathering or vintage of these two in the blessed Eucharist is as I  may say a kind of hypostatical union of the sign and the thing signified, so united together as are the two natures of Christ . . . That even as in the Eucharist neither part is evacuated or turned into the other, but abide each still in his former nature and substance, no more is either of Christ’s natures annulled, or one of them converted into the other, as Eutyches held, but each nature remaineth still full and whole in his own kind.44

The bread and the body are both real and present in the Eucharist, just as the divine and human natures are real and present in the Incarnation. One finds a similar expression that Bishop Andrewes makes in the context of an antitransubstantiation polemic: At the coming of the almighty power of the Word, the nature is changed so that what before was the mere element now becomes a divine Sacrament, the substance nevertheless remaining what it was before . . . There is that kind of union between the visible Sacrament and the invisible reality (rem) of the Sacrament which there is between the manhood and the Godhead of Christ, where unless you want to smack of Eutyches, the manhood is not transubstantiated into the Godhead.45

Thus, we can here see that the impanation themes have been woven like a thread through the history of theological reflection on the doctrine of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. 44

45

Lancelot Andrewes, ‘Sermon of the Nativity Preached on Christmas Day, 1622’, Works, vol. 1 in Stone, A History of the Doctrine of the Holy Eucharist, vol. 2, p. 258. Lancelot Andrewes, Works, in Stone, A History of the Doctrine of the Holy Eucharist, vol. 2, p. 265.

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An Eastern Orthodox Sounding Finally, moving closer to the present in this historical survey, I offer the reflections of an Eastern Orthodox theologian from the last century, Sergei Bulgakov. I do not intend to imply that all of Orthodox Eucharistic theology can be found in Bulgakov, nor that my constructive incarnational model of the Eucharist is identical to all that Bulgakov has to say about the doctrine. Rather, his treatment in The Holy Grail and the Eucharist presents a few key motifs that will be helpful for this present study.46 Against Roman-transubstantiation, Bulgakov makes this endorsement of a Eucharistic position clearly in the German manner camp:  ‘In this world and for the life of this world, the bread and wine remain bread and wine.’47 Bulgakov often uses the term ‘transmutation’ to refer to whatever the change is that occurs at the consecration. I do not think this need be read as a technical term; it is rather a term to refer to whatever that phenomenon is that is the change of the bread and wine from pre-consecration to postconsecration. But of this change, Bulgakov responds: Having in mind the meaning and power of the transmutation, one can say not only that the bread and wine are the body and blood of 46

47

Recall that my project in this section is not to show that my model(s) are identical to ones in the past. Rather all I am trying to show here is that there is consonance between some of the concerns and nuances of my model(s) and some of the concerns and nuances of these perspectives from the past. The simple charge I am attempting to circumvent is that my model is some newfangled idea I made up without any concern for the Christian tradition. There is much in the Eucharistic theology of Bulgakov and other Orthodox theologians – such as Schmemann and Zizioulas – that is incredibly enriching. I do not find the views sketched here to be exactly the same as theirs, but nor do I find these models at odds with the concerns they have. One particular component of Orthodox Eucharistic theology is an emphasis on the Eucharist as an eschatological in-breaking of the new creation. I find this emphasis highly attractive, even if that notion does not feature in my present analysis. To pursue this motif further, I would especially commend the collection of essays by John Zizioulas in The Eucharistic Communion and the World. Bulgakov, The Holy Grail and the Eucharist, p. 89.

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A Specific Historical Survey Pertaining to Impanation Christ but also that, conversely, the body and blood of Christ in the sacrament are the bread and wine.48

This statement indicates a linguistic state of affairs of real predication by syntactical equivalence, which was the conclusion of my Hunsinger-inspired linguistic analysis of Chapter  4. Again, against the idea that the bread and the wine cease to be present, Bulgakov avers: No transformation is required for transmutation, because, by God’s will, the body and blood of Christ are – in this place, in this given sanctuary – this bread and wine, since they are, and they do not need to be transformed into anything for this purpose. On the contrary, they must preserve their nature, and if this nature is destroyed, the sacrament loses its power.49

The bread and wine continue to be as they were prior to the consecration; this is as I have described what occurs in my three versions of impanation. This next passage, while long, shows a number of key themes that resonate with my analysis in this chapter and the next. Bulgakov writes: The institution of the Eucharist during the abiding of the Lord in the world connects the accomplishment of this sacrament with bread and wine as materials of this world. By virtue of His spiritual body the Lord makes them truly His body and blood. According to the Lord’s own words, the bread and wine are His very body and blood, and this identification is not subject to any limitation connected with doubt or reinterpretation. Here one cannot distinguish the substance, which supposedly was transmuted, from the accidents, which were not transmuted but remain themselves. The bread and wine completely and wholly, without any limitations, become the salvific 48 49

Ibid., p. 111. Ibid.

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Varieties of Impanation body and blood. It is, however, precisely the bread and wine that are transmuted, that is, not the qualityless [sic], abstract matter of this world (‘earth’), which does not even exist, but a specific type of this matter, with qualities, namely bread and wine, which, as materials of this world, do not change but now belong not to themselves and not to this world but to Christ’s glorified, spiritual body.50

The Orthodox theologian is here concerned to highlight that the bread and wine continue as they were, matter of this world, and yet are elevated to become the body and blood of Christ. These elements in fact belong to the body of Christ. A  final point from Bulgakov reinforces a general Christological approach to discussion of the Eucharist. He avers, ‘the question of the transmutation of the eucharistic elements is a christological question not a cosmological one. This question is posed and resolved within the limits and on the basis of Christology.’51 Such a theological motif is what all three types of impanation attempt to embrace. I offer these soundings from the tradition to show that the constructive work of the types of impanation I  offer has historical antecedents. The German Corporeal Mode concerns of maintaining the reality of the bread and the body of Christ, along with the German-Nuremberg emphasis to exposit this dynamic along incarnational lines, run like a thread through the history of reflection on the Eucharist. I do not pretend an anachronistic thesis that my models of impanation are precisely what my theological progenitors intended. Rather, I see these contemporary varieties as efforts to clarify the range of conceptual options available for perspectives on the Eucharistic presence that take similar starting points as have been taken in the past. In Chapter 7, I will offer Sacramental Impanation as that model which best reflects these starting points. In what immediately follows, however, I motivate this last claim by highlighting some shortcomings of the other impanation types. 50 51

Ibid., p. 88. Ibid., p. 102, emphasis original.

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Deficiencies of Hypostatic and Natural Impanation At this point in the chapter, we have in place a few key features. First, having reviewed the Corporeal Mode theories of the presence of Christ in the Eucharist, I pursued the Nuremberg family of the German manner. This led to an analysis of three types of impanation as incarnational models of the Eucharist, which were exposited utilizing the three-part, concrete, compositional model of Christology. With this analysis in place, I  showed that impanation theories  – even if not by that name – constitute an important minority report in the history of theological reflection on the metaphysics of the Eucharist. In this final section, I  will observe that Hypostatic and Natural Impanation suffer from two key deficiencies to which Sacramental Impanation is not subject (Sacramental Impanation has its own troubles, but I will address those in due course). Both Hypostatic and Natural Impanation may fall prey to a small worry about reincarnation and a substantial worry about the inability to account for the body of Christ in the Eucharist to stand in continuity with the human body in Christ. Reincarnation Both Hypostatic and Natural Impanation are instances of reincarnation when that term is taken quite literally to mean the entering again into another body. This might prove worrisome for Christians not typically inclined to include ideas of reincarnation in their conceptual framework. Of course, it should be clear from the preceding that the instance of reincarnation that Hypostatic and Natural Impanation assert are far cries from the full-fledged doctrines of reincarnation found in some of the world’s other religions. One of the key distinctions between the reincarnation instantiated in these types of impanation and other versions of reincarnation is that in neither Hypostatic nor Natural Impanation does Christ cease to be appropriately related to the instance of human nature of the first 231

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Incarnation. That is, Natural Impanation does not describe, for instance, that Christ died, with his soul being separated from his body, to have his soul rejoin physical matter in the Eucharist, only to have his soul separated again from physical matter to await union with another instance of physical matter. Rather, Natural Impanation holds that all the while the human soul in Christ is being joined and separated from the sacramental elements, it retains its connection to its natural human body. A similar account can be given for Hypostatic Impanation; at no time does the Word need to be decoupled from its human nature in order to form another incarnation in the sacramental elements. Despite the dissimilarities of the notion of reincarnation in Hypostatic and Natural Impanation and in non-Christian versions, some may balk at holding that Christ again and again and again becomes newly joined to physical matter, either via his divine person or his human soul. This phenomenon would seem to diminish the uniqueness of the divine act that occurred at the Annunciation.52 It seems that the tradition wants to hold that the Incarnation is a onetime event that has lasting implications, not a reoccurring feature of the world. Whereas Hypostatic and Natural Impanation hold that incarnations occur again and again and again, I will show later that Sacramental Impanation holds that the one Incarnation is extended to each instance of the Eucharist. Continuity A more serious worry regarding Hypostatic and Natural Impanation is the difficulty they have with connecting recipients 52

There certainly can be analogous parallels drawn between the Annunciation and the Eucharist, especially the epiclesis in the liturgy. The Holy Spirit comes upon the Virgin Mary and in so doing the Word unites with the human nature being formed in her womb. Analogously, the Holy Spirit comes upon the gifts of bread and wine and the Word unites himself with these elements. Of course, all the versions of impanation can speak this way; the distinctions are in what aspect of the Word joins with the elements and how.

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of the Eucharist to the human body in Christ that is the participant in the various activities of salvation history. In neither Hypostatic nor Natural Impanation is there a direct connection  – a direct union – between the Eucharistic elements and the human body in Christ. Rather, Hypostatic Impanation connects the elements to the divine person of the Word in Christ, while Natural Impanation connects the elements to the human soul in Christ. This results in two undesirable implications:  that these views diminish the importance of the first Incarnation and that the body consumed in the Eucharist does not stand in continuity with the body born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, ascended to the right hand of the Father, and so on. On the first undesirable implication, neither Hypostatic nor Natural Impanation require for their success the first Incarnation to have ever occurred in the manner that the Nicene Creed and ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon teach. These versions of impanation have no current need for Christ to be Incarnate ‘of a rational soul and a body’; Chalcedonian Christology could be false and these versions of impanation could still be true. On Hypostatic Impanation, the Word need not have been incarnate from the Virgin Mary and instead could simply regularly incarnate in the bread and wine. Or, on Natural Impanation, the Word could become ‘incarnate’ merely in a ‘rational soul’ but not a ‘body . . . of Mary the Virgin Theotokos’ and still regularly impanate and invinate himself in bread and wine. Hypostatic Impanation entails that Christ need not ever have had a human nature, Natural Impanation entails that Christ need not ever have had a human body, and yet the kind of presence, action, and unions of these impanation types could still occur. The worry here is not that these versions of impanation are inconsistent with Chalcedon, they certainly are consistent, but rather that much of Chalcedon could be false while these versions are still true. Yet, an incarnational model of the Corporeal Mode that takes Chalcedonian teaching as its guide should utilize the teaching contained therein. This does not pan out for Hypostatic 233

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and Natural Impanation as neatly as it does for Sacramental Impanation. The proponent of Hypostatic Impanation could retort that the first Incarnation is the archetype for all other Eucharistic incarnations (or incarnation-like actions, such as impanations), that we would not even conceive of a Eucharistic incarnation if it were not for the first Incarnation that occurred in the womb of the Virgin Mary. Perhaps this is the case, but it still remains that for these views the first Incarnation is does not have a metaphysical connection to the Eucharist. In relation to what occurs in the Eucharist, the metaphysics of the first Incarnation is reduced to an explanatory motif, but all the metaphysical realities of the first Incarnation do not need to come into play in the metaphysics of the Eucharistic Incarnation. I  am not here arguing for the metaphysical impossibility of Hypostatic or Natural Impanation, rather the argument is that there is disharmony with the Chalcedonian guidance. If an explication of the Eucharist better utilizes the full teaching of Chalcedon, that would be a superior model of the Eucharist. A second undesirable implication of Hypostatic and Natural Impanation is the manner in which they circumvent the natural human body of Christ. I take it that those who hold to Corporeal Mode theories of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist desire to make some direct connection between the consecrated elements and the body of Christ that was a key component of the Word’s activities described in the Gospels. The Eucharistic body is, in some sense, the very same body that was born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, and so on. In this manner, the Eucharist is connected to the entirety of Christ’s earthly career. Let me offer a few selections from the tradition to illustrate this desideratum. For instance, in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, the official Church of England liturgy for over three hundred years and still the standard for the Anglican Communion worldwide, this prayer is made during the Eucharistic liturgy:

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Deficiencies of Hyp ostatic and Natural Impanation Almighty God, our heavenly Father, who of thy tender mercy didst give thine only Son Jesus Christ to suffer death on the Cross for our redemption [. . .] and did institute, and in his holy Gospel command us to continue, a perpetual memory of his precious death [. . .] grant that we receiving these thy creatures of bread and wine, according to thy Son our Saviour Jesus Christ’s holy institution, in remembrance of his death and passion, may be partakers of his most blessed body and blood.53

This prayer, just prior to the consecration, connects the elements, the ‘creatures’ of bread and wine, with those events that Christ’s body underwent while on earth. The suffering on the cross, the passion, and the death of Christ, all activities that occurred in his body, are called to connect with the elements of bread and wine. For another example, I think Nicholas Cabasilas, a fourteenth-century Byzantine theologian, is representative of the Corporeal Mode tradition, when he says of the consecrated bread: [The bread of the Eucharist is] the most holy Body of the Lord, which really suffered the outrages, insults, blows; which was crucified and slain, which under Pontius Pilate bore such splendid witness; that Body which was mocked, scourged, spat upon, and which tasted gall. In like manner the wine has become the blood which flowed from that Body. It is that Body and Blood formed by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, which was buried, which rose again on the third day, which ascended into heaven and sits on the right hand of the Father.54

Clearly, Cabasilas is interested in commending to his readers that the body and blood which is found in the Eucharist is the very 53

54

Many versions of the 1662 edition of the Book of Common Prayer can be found at http://justus.anglican.org/resources/bcp/england.htm. Nicholas Cabasilas, ‘Commentary on the Divine Liturgy’, chapter 27, in Hans Joachim Schulz, The Byzantine Liturgy: Symbolic Structure and Faith Expression (Collegeville,

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same which participated in Christ’s conception, passion, death, and resurrection. Finally, I  note one last example of this motif. This is from the eleventh-century statement, ‘Ego Berengarius’, which Berengar of Tours signed to confess his views on Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. Much medieval Eucharistic theology has taken place in the wake of this statement: I, Berengarius, believe in my heart and openly profess that the bread and wine that are placed on the altar are through the mystery of the sacred prayer and the words of our Redeemer substantially changed into the true and proper life-giving flesh and blood of Jesus Christ our Lord; and that after the consecration is the true body of Christ, which was born of the Virgin, as an offering for the salvation of the world hung on the cross, and sits at the right hand of the Father; and (is) the true blood of Christ which flowed from his side; not only through the sign and power of the sacrament but in his proper nature and true substance; as it is set down in this summary and as I read it and you understand it. Thus I believe, and I will not teach any more against this faith. So help me God and this holy Gospel of God.55

The consecrated bread is the ‘true body of Christ . . . born of the Virgin . . . hung on the cross . . . sits at the right hand’. Undoubtedly, a connection between Christ’s earthly career and the sacramental elements is imperative for the Corporeal Mode tradition. These diverse selections from these historical sources all express the desideratum that there is a relation between the Eucharistic elements and the natural body and blood of Christ. Passionately and repeatedly these statements are at pains to emphasize that what is received in the Eucharist has direct continuity with the body of

55

MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), p. 129; and Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson, The Eucharistic Liturgies: Their Evolution and Interpretation (London: SPCK, 2012), p. 182. In Bradshaw and Johnson, The Eucharistic Liturgies, p. 225.

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Christ that we hear of in the Gospels. The same body of the Word that was assumed in the Incarnation is found on the altar at the Eucharist. By circumventing the full human nature in Christ, neither Hypostatic nor Natural Impanation can express this identity. Moreover, according to Natural Impanation, to what does the term ‘body of Christ’ refer? It refers to a particular parcel of matter, any parcel of matter, which is appropriately related to the soul in Christ. But while being aptly referred to by this term, the sacramental bread and the human body are not the same body. They are not related save as both being united to the soul in Christ, but they are not directly united to one another. Likewise, this analysis applies to Hypostatic Impanation. Herein the sacramental bread is united to the Word, and the Word is joined to the human nature in Christ – and this includes the human body – but this human body is therefore only joined to the Eucharist by a series of intermediaries, a triangulation. On these models, the liturgical utterances are apt, but a key theological desideratum is unsatisfied. In commenting on her own arguments for, what I take to be, Hypostatic Impanation, Adams issues this pronouncement: Making the Divine Word the proximate assumer56 might seem to make it more natural to say that the Divine Word has not one but two bodies – an organic human body and a bread body. And so it would not follow that the Body of Christ that is really present on the altar is numerically the same one that Mary bore. So almost ‘Ego Berengarius’, but not quite!57

And thus like in Natural Impanation, ‘this’ body is not the body born of Mary Theotokos, crucified under Pontius Pilate, and so on. The proponent of either Hypostatic or Natural Impanation is not without rebuttal to this worry about continuity. For she can

56

57

In distinction from the body being the proximate assumer, as Sacramental Impanation holds. Adams, Christ and Horrors, p. 306.

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introduce the notion of transitivity with respect to the concrete particulars being in private instrumental unions with one another. That is, because the unions that obtain in the Eucharistic state of affairs all participate in the Christological state of affairs, the connection between the sacramental elements and the natural human body in Christ is secured. For instance, the Natural Impanation theorist can say, ‘Look, the Eucharistic bread gets us to the human soul in Christ in virtue of the private instrumental relation of the second natural union. Then, conceptually, we can move to the natural human body. In virtue of real concomitance, all the concrete particulars that are appropriately related to one another are part of the package of the composite Christ. We need not so easily separate body and soul in Christ, it is all “in there”, so to speak.’ But what is key about the three-part, concrete, compositional model of Christ is that all the concrete particulars are parts of Christ, and it is a mistake to ‘confuse’ one part for another. Certainly it is the case that any of the three parts have claims to being ‘Christ’, his parts all compose him. But one part is not another part. It does not seem that the Hypostatic or Natural Impanation theorist can sustain the claim that is being made of the Eucharistic bread, ‘this is the body of Christ’. If by ‘body’ we mean ‘the body born of Mary the Virgin, etc.’, we must avoid confusing the parts. Perhaps this response to the rebuttal is not satisfying. The Sacramental Impanation theorist can simply concede and say that her view of impanation is no more, but also no less, preferable to Hypostatic or Natural Impanation. Advocates of any of these German-Nuremberg views will still assert superiority over other Corporeal Mode views, due to their abilities to make use of incarnation metaphysical dynamics. The deficiencies discussed here may not be severe enough to warrant disregarding Hypostatic or Natural Impanation as attractive Corporeal Mode theories, Sacramental Impanation does not need these other theories to fail in order to be attractive in its own right. However, in discussing and explaining Sacramental Impanation in more depth, I  will argue that the 238

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immediate connection that Sacramental Impanation provides between the Eucharistic elements and the natural human body in Christ, as well as the manner Sacramental Impanation is able to make use of the Chalcedonian resources, gives this view an edge over the others. And it is to this constructive engagement with Sacramental Impanation that I now turn.

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7

Sacramental Impanation: An Incarnational Model of the Eucharist

We present before Him not mere bread and wine, but that which, without physical change of substance, consecrated by the words of our Lord and the power and the grace of God, is verily and indeed, not carnally, but mystically, sacramentally, spiritually, and in an ineffable and supernatural way, the body and blood of our Lord. E. B. Pusey1

In this chapter, I present an exposition of Sacramental Impanation as an incarnational model of the Eucharist that is consistent, coherent, and attractive and adheres to the Chalcedonian principles outlined in Chapter 5. The main aspect of this theory’s attractiveness has to do with the manner in which it makes use of the metaphysical state of affairs of the Incarnation. If one does not find harmony with the Incarnation to be a desideratum for an explication of the Eucharist, one may not find this an attractive move. However, given the historical survey of Chapter 6, it should be clear that many theologians in the tradition have seen this a fruitful enterprise. This chapter is narrowly focused on deploying the Sacramental Impanation model. The Epilogue shows more thoroughly and systematically how this model intersects with the biblical–theological, linguistic, and conceptual foundational material of the first few chapters. In what follows, I first offer a constructive exposition of the model, along with a favourable evaluation of the theory. I then show this model of the 1

A Letter to the Right Hon. and the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of London in Explanation of some Statements Contained in a Letter by the Rev. W. Dodsworth (Oxford: John Henry Parker, 1851), p. 25.

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Eucharist to be in congruence with George Hunsinger’s discussion of the Eucharist. I move then to address some potential objections to this model, the responses to which allow me to highlight further this theory’s strengths. Finally, I elucidate some of the benefits of this model of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. As a proponent of a faith-seeking understanding motif of theological injury, I take it that the Incarnation is ultimately a mystery. I take it that the Eucharist is as well. However, the claim resting in the background to this chapter is that the Eucharist is not more mysterious than the Incarnation. Thus, a move made here is to assert that any difficulties that Sacramental Impanation faces as a viable explication of the metaphysics of the Eucharist are no more problematic than the metaphysical challenges that Chalcedonian Christology faces. Sacramental Impanation may indeed present an odd state of affairs for the reality of the Corporeal Mode of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist, but it is no odder than the ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon’s explanation for the reality of Christ’s dual natures. In fact, as will become clear in the forthcoming discussion, Sacramental Impanation has recourse to the very same metaphysical resources that I  employed in my presentation of the three-part, concretecompositional model of Chalcedonian Christology.

Sacramental Impanation, Enabling Externalism, and the Chalcedonian Tutelage Sacramental Impanation states that in the Eucharist, a union, the sacramental union, obtains between the consecrated elements and the natural human body in Christ. This union needs to be intimate enough such that it underwrites the metaphysical state of affairs that the liturgical locution, ‘This is the body of Christ’, expresses. Taking a cue from incarnational dynamics, Sacramental Impanation holds that the sacramental union is of the same kind of union as the hypostatic union – which itself is of the same kind of union as 241

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the natural union between body and soul. In my exposition of the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation, I made use of the reasoning of Thomas Aquinas, Oliver Crisp, and Katherin Rogers to describe the hypostatic and natural unions as instances of private instrumental unions. Sacramental Impanation, thus, describes the sacramental union as another instance of a private instrumental union. Enabling Externalism and the Eucharist In Chapter 5’s exposition of the private instrumental relations that obtain in the hypostatic and natural unions, I utilized the Extended Mind Thesis and Richard Cross’ discussion of enabling externalism. Likewise, then, to characterize the sacramental union, my exposition of Sacramental Impanation employs the notion of private instrumentality according to enabling externalism. In fact, to some extent, applying enabling externalism to the Eucharist is easier than it is in the case of the Incarnation for we have more frequent experience of this sort of phenomena than we do the extension of a divine person into a human nature. For recall Cross’ presentation of Scotus’ theory of enabling externalism: [T]he motive power in a hand can use a knife to cut up a body, in so far as [the knife] is sharp. If this sharpness were in the hand as its substance, then the hand could use it for the same operation, and nevertheless it would be accidental to the hand (in so far as the motive power is in it) that sharpness is in it, and vice versa, because sharpness gives the hand no perfection pertaining to [motive] power.2

Further, consider Cross’ commentary on this passage: ‘The idea is that the knife and the body form something with a unity as tight as would obtain in the case that the blade were straightforwardly a part of the body (in the manner, say, of Johnny Depp’s Edward 2

Cross, ‘Vehicle Externalism’, p. 190.

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Scissorhands character). The knife and the body become one subsisting thing.’3 The relation of efficient causality brings about unity, even identity. I here present again my generic version of the Parity Principle, gleaned from the insights of Andy Clark, David Chalmers, and Susan Hurley: If an activity were done by an extended entity alone, we would accept this activity to be an extended entity process. If the activity were done utilizing an enabling entity, then that enabling entity is part of the extended entity process, and, for that time, the enabling entity is part of the extended entity.

The Parity Principle provides us a way to categorize the following instances of enabling extension: For Scotus’ knife: Activity: cutting Extended entity: Scotus’ hand Enabling entity: Scotus’ knife In the canonical EMT illustration: Activity: cognition Extended entity: Otto’s mind Enabling entity: Otto’s notebook In the Incarnation: Activity: human activities Extended entity: the Word Enabling entity: the human nature in Christ In Sacramental Impanation: Activity: the Word’s bodily presence Extended entity: the natural human body in Christ Enabling entity: the consecrated elements

3

Ibid.

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During actions, extended entities and enabling entities form a unity, even an identity as ‘one subsisting thing’.4 However, I  offer a brief caveat on the action of the Eucharist; I do not intend to limit the action performed here to ‘the Word’s bodily presence’. I think that the traditional teaching on the Eucharist is clear that there are a number of actions that the Word can undertake in the Eucharist. Surely, at times, the Word is performing actions like encouraging the faith of recipients, convicting the hearts of recipients, uniting recipients to himself, assuring recipients of the truth of his promise, and the list could go on. On the enabling externalist theory, the specific action is not as important as there just being some action performed by the agent utilizing enabling entities. The simplest of causal activity is all that is required to say that an action is performed; it matters not what causal activity is executed. Thus, my choice of ‘the Word’s bodily presence’ is, on this understanding, arbitrary. Of course, the Corporeal Mode theorist thinks that bodily presence is one of the Word’s activities in the Eucharist, but one is not required to think this in order for the analysis to go through. Because of the private instrumental union that is formed between the natural human body in Christ and, say, the bread – to focus for convenience on just one of the elements – the body and the bread form one subsisting thing, they form a relation of identity. Clearly then if the bread is identical with the body, the predication, ‘This is the body of Christ’, is apt. The liturgical utterance has been underwritten by the metaphysics of a body extending itself to include a private instrument. I noted Bulgakov’s view of the Eucharist in the previous chapter and this ownership motif resonates with one of his emphases, ‘bread and wine [. . .] do not change but now belong not to themselves and not to this world, but to Christ’s glorified, spiritual body’.5 The bread belongs to, and is owned by, the Word as it become his body. 4 5

Ibid. Bulgakov, The Holy Grail and the Eucharist, p. 88.

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Of course, we must be clear as to what kind of identity is in play here. What the lessons of the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation teach is that the unions in play bring about the kind of identity in the manner that a part is identical with the whole of which it is a part. This is to say that, within the composite Christ, the human nature in Christ is Christ, but it is not all of Christ; the Word is Christ, but not all of Christ. The three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation is specifically about the three parts of the composite Christ. The same observation is true of our other examples of extension. Otto’s notebook is not the entirety of his mind, but it is part of it; the notebook is his mind. Edward Scissorhands’ scissor-hands are not the entirety of his arm, but they are part of him; the scissor-hands are his hands. Or suppose we think of a leg amputee who uses a prosthetic device, call her Sue. Sue’s prosthetic leg is not the entirety of her body, but it is part of her; the leg is her body. The same is easily said of the many parts of the human body. My hand or my foot are not the entirety of my body, they are parts of my body; but my hand still is an integral aspect of my body such that I refer to my hand as ‘my body’. It is no more accurate to gesture towards my torso and say, ‘this is my body’, than it is to thrust my fist in the air and utter, ‘this is my body’. It is no more accurate for someone to gesture in my general vicinity and say, ‘This is James’ body’, than it is for that person to place an index finger firmly into my bicep and make the same utterance. Likewise, the bread of the Eucharist is Christ’s body in virtue of being an extended part of his body, the wine of the Eucharist is Christ’s blood in virtue of being an extended part of his blood. I offer one more note on identity in Sacramental Impanation. This view is able to countenance the requisite conditions from the tradition that the body in the Eucharist is the same body born of the Virgin Mary, and so on. The instrumental–sacramental union that obtains in the case of Sacramental Impanation is between the natural human body in Christ and the consecrated elements. It is through the natural human body in Christ that the elements are 245

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incorporated into the composite Christ. The elements do not circumvent the natural human body – born of the Virgin, and so on – in order to be united to Christ (recall, this circumvention is what occurs in Hypostatic and Natural Impanation). Rather, it is the very same body, ‘which was born of the Virgin, as an offering for the salvation of the world hung on the cross, and sits at the right hand of the Father’,6 that is extended to include the bread. Chalcedonian Tutelage At this point, we may ask how closely Sacramental Impanation adheres to the lesson plans of the Chalcedonian principles and patterns outlined in Chapter  5. Recall that Coakley emphasized the ‘duality’ and ‘unity’ of the ‘Definition’, while Hunsinger drew attention to ‘inseparable unity’, ‘abiding distinction’, and an ‘asymmetrical ordering principle’. Let us take each of these principles in turn to show that Sacramental Impanation satisfies these desiderata. With respect to duality and abiding distinction, it might be supposed that all three German-Nuremberg models  – Hypostatic, Natural, and Sacramental Impanation  – as well as the GermanWittenberg model, satisfy this notion. Each of these theories proposes two of something. Yet, only Sacramental Impanation and German-Wittenberg proffer that both the elements and the human body in Christ subsist in the Eucharist. Thus, Sacramental Impanation satisfies the requirement for holding there to be duality in the Eucharist. This duality is on the order of the duality of hand and arm. The duality is an abiding distinction. The bread maintains its reality, even while participating in a larger whole by being incorporated into the human body in Christ. In regard to the unity, even inseparable unity, of Chalcedon, Sacramental Impanation fares much better than some of its Corporeal Mode competitors. Neither Roman-transubstantiation 6

Ego Berengarius, in Bradshaw and Johnson, The Eucharistic Liturgies, p. 225.

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nor German-Wittenberg is able to give a robust account of the unity between the body and the consecrated elements. Of course, in order for there to be a union at all, on the Chalcedonian pattern, there must be two relata. The hypostatic union is the uniting of two relata, the divine Word and an instance of human nature. The GermanWittenberg model maintains the duality of bread and body, but does not seek to give an account of how a unity is forged between these two relata other than to assert that the body is ‘in, with, and under’ the bread. This appears to be a union no more intimate than colocation. But then, akin to the Christological heresy of Nestorianism, a robust account of the unity of the duality is lacking. From an incarnational perspective, the union component of a Chalcedonian Eucharistic theology is also a problem for Romantransubstantiation. For transubstantiation gives a much different account of the union at work in the Eucharist than what we have on Chalcedonian Christology. On this view, the bread and wine have been evacuated of their substance with only the empirical qualities of the bread and wine remaining. This is a much different metaphysical state of affairs than what is present in the Incarnation and especially the three-part, concrete-compositional explication of it. This problem does not necessitate transubstantiation’s falsity, it merely points out that applying the metaphysics of transubstantiation to the Incarnation results in the Christological heresy of Docetism. Advocates of Roman-transubstantiation simply need to deny that the Incarnation is an apt motif for the Eucharist and this problem is avoided for them. Sacramental Impanation holds that the union between the elements and the body and blood of Christ is of the same kind as that which obtains between the divine Word and an instance of human nature and between his body and soul within his human nature. The Sacramental Impanation theorist can assert that this union is as strong or as weak as these other union relations. It may plumb the philosophical and theological depths to give an account of the natural union between body and soul or the hypostatic union, but 247

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the sacramental union in Sacramental Impanation is no more mysterious than these other unions. The last component of the Chalcedonian pattern is, as Hunsinger puts it, an ‘asymmetrical ordering principle’, whereby the divine emerges as primary over the human. In the Incarnation, this principle is stated to preserve the ontological superiority of the divine over the human nature. Christ is divine and human in that he is fully divine and human, but it cannot be that divinity and humanity are ontologically on par with one another. Further, it is the case that at the Incarnation it is a divine person who assumes a human nature, and the human nature is dependent upon the divine person. This indicates an asymmetry of ordering tipped towards the divine. Sacramental Impanation can also preserve this asymmetry, for a whole is always greater than its parts and is ordered as the higher principle over its parts. In all our examples of extension, the extended entity is prior to the enabling entity. The Extended Mind Thesis states that it is the mind that is extended into parts of the (heretofore thought) extra-mental world; it is the mind that is extended into the world, not the world into the mind, thus the priority of the mental. In our examples, Edward Scissorhands would still have an arm should his scissors cease to be a part of it, it would be a compromised arm, but still an arm. Otto would still have a forgetful, untrustworthy mind should he lose his notebook. Sue the prosthetic leg user would still have a human body should her prosthesis be removed. If the Word should lay down his human nature, he would still persist in being the divine Word. In a similar fashion, Sacramental Impanation preserves this Chalcedonian principle in stating that the Word extends his body and blood to include the consecrated bread and wine of the Eucharist. Finally, Sacramental Impanation follows the Chalcedonian tutelage in a manner that Hypostatic and Natural Impanation do not because Sacramental Impanation requires the Incarnation to have

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actually taken place in the way that Chalcedon describes. Recall that Hypostatic Impanation does not require any first Incarnation; the Word could simply impanate himself in bread at any time. Similarly, Natural Impanation only requires that the Word be united with a ‘rational soul’, but that soul need not be connected with a human body for this instance of impanation to occur.7 Sacramental Impanation – with its description of a union relation between the elements and the human body in Christ  – makes it requisite that the Word has become human with a ‘rational soul and a body’ in order for the act of extension to take place. The Word simply cannot extend his body to include the bread if he has no body. Moreover, Sacramental Impanation does not at all posit that a reincarnation occurs in the Eucharist. The action involved in the impanation does not once again incarnate or enflesh the Word or the human soul in Christ. Instead, the human body in Christ – the one body from the one Incarnation – extends to incorporate the elements in a participation with that body. Thus, Sacramental Impanation fits the Chalcedonian teaching more neatly than the other varieties of the German-Nuremberg model. Sacramental Impanation has the ability to maintain the Chalcedonian pattern, as exposited by Coakley and Hunsinger, and is able to do so better than Hypostatic or Natural Impanation. The patterns of duality/abiding distinction, unity, and asymmetry are all evidenced in my presentation of this view of a Corporeal Mode theory of the Eucharist. Sacramental Impanation has sat in the classroom of Chalcedon and has learned its lessons well enough to qualify as a thoroughly incarnational model of the Eucharist. This model of the Eucharist is not, however, without its difficulties. After a Hunsingerian interlude, I will turn to address some potential objections to this theory. 7

Recall this view requires a pure/substance dualist background story regarding the human person.

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Sacramental Impanation as a Variation on a Hunsingerian Theme The thought of George Hunsinger, especially his The Eucharist and Ecumenism, has been an underlying leitmotif throughout this work. I see the model I have presented in Sacramental Impanation as being ultimately in harmony with his Eucharistic theology. In fact, I think that my theory of Sacramental Impanation provides a metaphysical infrastructure that can underwrite the Eucharistic goals Hunsinger has in mind. To be clear, Hunsinger prefers the term ‘transelementation’ for his explication of the Eucharist. This is a term he finds in the Patristic Fathers, the Eastern Orthodox tradition, and some key sixteenth-century Reformers such as John Calvin, Thomas Cranmer, Martin Bucer, and Peter Martyr Vermigli. However, much of what he says transelementation delivers on, without an accompanying metaphysical explication, is achieved through Sacramental Impanation. Yet, my account of Sacramental Impanation provides a deeper metaphysical foundation that can undergird Hunsinger’s more linguisticlevel commitments. For those sympathetic to Hunsinger’s project and desirous of a more robust metaphysical account than he gives, this section shows how Sacramental Impanation provides such an account. However, first I offer this caveat: Hunsinger says outright that his view is not impanation. He explains: [Transelementation] is not a matter of ‘impanation’, because it does not hold that the substance of the bread is hypostatically united to Christ, or that Christ’s body has ‘become bread’ (for the reverse is true), or (as was sometimes said) that ‘God has become bread’.8

It should be clear at this stage in my analysis that Hunsinger’s worries do not touch Sacramental Impanation as I  have explicated it. First, a hypostatic union between the bread and Christ would be 8

Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, p. 77, parenthetical comments original.

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Hypostatic Impanation, not Sacramental Impanation. I  sense that Hunsinger is worried that impanation infringes upon the uniqueness of the hypostatic union. The Hypostatic Impanation theorist has a potential way of dealing with this objection – as noted in the previous chapter – but regardless, the Sacramental Impanation theorist can heartily agree with Hunsinger that the union between the elements and the body is not a hypostatic one. Secondly, Hunsinger assumes that impanation means Christ’s body has become bread, where on his model the reverse is the case. This objection has more weight to it, but Sacramental Impanation is also immune to it. Marilyn McCord Adams heads the impanation section of her history of later medieval theories of the Eucharist as ‘Christ’s Body Breaded!’.9 This is an unfortunate heading partly because of the images of fish and chips it conjures in the mind, but mostly because it does not facilitate the nuance Hunsinger alludes to in his parenthetical comment. On Sacramental Impanation, as I have outlined it, the entirety of the human body in Christ does not become bread, nor – like a piece of cod prior to going into the frying pan – does it become merely coated with bread. Rather, the body is extended to include the bread as a part. This is much more like the incorporation of the bread into the body. The bread participates in the body and, as St. Paul states, is a participation in the body of Christ. This Eucharistic state of affairs is just like what occurs on the enabling externalist interpretation of the three-part, concretecompositional model of the Incarnation that I  offered. The divine Word extends himself to include an instance of human nature, thus enabling him to be human. The human nature is what is incorporated into the life of the Word, and the human nature participates in the Word. Both this view of the Incarnation and Sacramental Impanation preserve Chalcedon’s asymmetrical ordering principle in a manner that Hunsinger’s characterization of impanation does

9

Adams, Later Medieval Theories, p. 262.

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not. Therefore, Hunsinger’s objection to impanation on this ground is not a defeater of Sacramental Impanation. Finally, Hunsinger would prevent transelementation from saying ‘God has become bread’. As mentioned previously, the transitivity of predicates – a communicatio idiomatum of sorts – might provide the context for any Corporeal Mode theory to say something like this. A  more worrying predication would be ‘bread has become God’. This worry might be more specifically targeted towards Hypostatic Impanation. The Sacramental Impanation theorist can avoid this predication and assuage Hunsinger’s worry on this score by emphasizing the notion of the bread being incorporated as a participant in Christ’s body. There might be a sense in which one could point to the human body in Christ and say, ‘This is God.’ Even though one is directing attention to only one part, one might simply mean the predication in light of the appropriate relations obtaining. It would not be appropriate to point to the human body in Christ and say, ‘This is the divine nature,’ just as it would not be appropriate to point to my knee and say, ‘This is my bicep.’ In the same sense, by Christological predication transitivity, it might also be apt to point to the bread and say, ‘This is God,’ or, ‘This bread has become God.’ If it is legitimate in this sense in Christology, it is legitimate in the Eucharist. However, I might counsel sticking to the liturgical formula. With this explicit but misguided rejection of impanation out of the way, there are a number of times when Hunsinger characterizes transelementation where his description could easily fit Sacramental Impanation as well. For instance, Hunsinger is keen to distinguish transelementation from Roman-transubstantiation. He says, ‘Transubstantiation focuses mainly on the idea of descent; transelementation, on that of elevation’ and ‘transubstantiation is a theory of descent and replacement; transelementation, a theory of ascent and enhancement.’10 These directional emphases are ones that have appeared from time 10

Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, pp. 74–75.

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to time in Eucharistic polemics, especially during the Reformation period. Often Reformed theologians were concerned that a theory such as transubstantiation or consubstantiation brought Christ down from heaven, and thus somehow invalidated the Creed – which indicates Christ’s location to be at the right hand of the Father. Rather, Calvin and Bucer emphasized the sursum corda of the Eucharistic liturgies whereby the Eucharist lifts up the hearts of the faithful to contemplate or feed on Christ’s body in heaven. In contradistinction, Roman theologians emphasized the benefits of Christ coming to us, down to where we are, to be with us. I think Sacramental Impanation can hold these polemical points to be of little consequence and both motifs of descent and elevation can be maintained. Corporeal Mode theories want to assert that Christ is there, on the altar, in the hands and mouths of the faithful: ‘This is the body of Christ.’ If the truth of the liturgical utterances requires a bodily descent to earth, then so be it. Sacramental Impanation, understood along enabling externalist lines, provides this. The human body in Christ is in heaven and on the altar. Sacramental Impanation can also provide an elevation motif. For even if that body is indeed in heaven, if the efficient causal union obtains, then there is a connection between the various locations of that body and the bread and wine. Hence, the elements are elevated in virtue of their connection with and participation in the rest of the body. Thus, Sacramental Impanation can accommodate both motifs of descent and ascent.11 Again against Roman-transubstantiation, Hunsinger states, ‘Transubstantiation asserts that one substance is transmuted into another; transelementation, that one object is suffused with another’s reality and power,’ and, ‘Transubstantiation envisions a more fixed relation, transelementation a more dynamic relation, between the living Christ and the conse crated [sic] element.’12 Likewise,

11

12

A worry about whether this makes the body of Christ spatially gappy will be addressed further on. Ibid., p. 74.

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Sacramental Impanation can deliver on the bread and wine being ‘suffused’ with the ‘power’ of the body and blood of Christ, thereby providing grounds for considering them as participating in the ‘reality’ of the body and blood. As the action motif of my explication of the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation and Sacramental Impanation conveys, the notion of power is an important aspect of these states of affairs. It is only in the dynamic activity of the Word using his human nature that the hypostatic union obtains; likewise, when the Word uses the consecrated elements through his body, they participate in the power of his body and are thereby joined with that body. Moving away from his antitransubstantiation polemics, Hunsinger offers some constructive descriptions of transelementation. In Hunsinger’s transelementation, a union occurs ‘between two interpenetrating wholes, according to the incarnational analogy, with its aspects of unity, distinction, and above all asymmetry (with the preceding belonging at every point to the living Christ in the power of the Spirit)’.13 Sacramental Impanation has all along sought to be tutored by the Chalcedonian pattern. Accordingly, these incarnational conditions of transelementation are easily satisfied by Sacramental Impanation. For Sacramental Impanation holds that the bread becomes a part of the body. But this is just the manner in which the human nature becomes a part of the composite Christ. Hence, just as it is licit to say that the two natures of Christ are ‘interpenetrating wholes’ that do not lose their wholeness in the act of the Word becoming incarnate, so too can we conceive of the body of Christ and the consecrated bread as interpenetrating wholes. Hunsinger repeatedly advocates the key notion of asymmetry that is important to both Chalcedonian Christology, transelementation, and Sacramental Impanation. Regarding his view of the Eucharist, he asserts, ‘While the bread would contain the body, the body would also, more importantly, contain the bread, and 13

Ibid., p. 75.

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the relation would not be symmetrical’, and further, ‘The body, not the bread, would emerge more clearly as the primary reality. The bread would be assimilated into Christ’s real, transcendent body more than the other way around.’14 These statements are apt descriptions of the response I  made with respect to Hunsinger’s objection to impanation. ‘Containment’ language seems a bit out of place in Sacramental Impanation. Containment has the ring of a static relation, and thus seems inapt to refer to the action motif of enabling externalism. As a manner of speaking, however, it could be innocuous. If all that is intended by the use of this term is that the sacramental bread is the body of Christ because it has been incorporated as a participant in Christ’s body by the Word extending his body to include it, then clearly ‘containment’ is suitable. Hunsinger’s further statements regarding asymmetry are ones that the Sacramental Impanation theorist, keen to follow Chalcedon, would be comfortable with. Hunsinger also offers a number of bullet points that situate some of the major commitments of the theory of transelementation. I  quote them here in full and then comment afterward. Transelementation holds: 1. that the consecrated bread becomes the body of Christ, by virtue of the epiclesis and the words of consecration, in the mode of a sacramental union; 2. that this sacramental union involves a koinonia relation of inseparable unity, abiding distinction, and fundamental asymmetry (cf. 1 Cor. 10.16);

3. that it is a matter of mutual indwelling between sign and reality, but with the living Christ himself as the active and preeminent factor in the Spirit; 4. that the elements are objectively elevated, empowered, and transfigured by the Holy Spirit into a wholly new form beyond themselves without relinquishing their ordinary characteristics; 14

Ibid., p. 63.

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5. that those characteristics are not destroyed but mystically reconfigured and contained by the new higher reality that supersedes them; 6. that the conversion of the elements is fundamental while yet being mystical and ineffable; 7. that the consecrated elements are ‘effective signs’, which really convey what they signify.15 With respect to the first point, Sacramental Impanation as a metaphysical theory makes no commitments regarding the method of bringing about the sacramental union, and thus is happy with this condition. My previous chapters outlined ways of conceiving of how the dominical words could bring about the consecration and renaming of the elements. But Sacramental Impanation would only insist that the union forms when the Word uses his human nature to act with the elements, and would leave to the Word the determination of the proper occasions for such use. The second point is clearly a Chalcedonian mainstay that has already been noted as applying to Sacramental Impanation. The third and seventh points, pertaining to the relation between sign and that which is signified, is not a theme that has emerged in my discussion of Sacramental Impanation. Yet, I see no reason why it could not also be a part of the account. The bread is the body of Christ by being an extension of the body. If parts are signs or pointers to the wholes of which they are a part, then certainly that relation obtains in this case. If points three and seven are to hold in the case of the Eucharist, the proponent of Sacramental Impanation would also want to insist that this same phenomenon obtains in the Incarnation: the human nature would be an ‘effective sign’ of the divine Word. Points four, five, and six all attempt to hold in tension the tendency to suppose that because something is mystical or mysterious it is somehow not real, but this is a false dichotomy. Sacramental Impanation, like three-part, 15

Ibid., pp. 77–78. The numbering is my own for the sake of ease of reference, Hunsinger simply includes bullet points in his text.

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concrete-compositional Christology, is an attempt to probe and explain instances of mystery. The Sacramental Impanation theorist does not pretend to have explained the totality of the Eucharist, but rather provided a plausible and attractive account for how the consecrated bread could be the body of Christ. Finally, Hunsinger offers this succinct description of transelementation:  ‘The bread is the instrument by which Christ bestows himself. Through having joined it to his life-giving flesh, the two are one.’16 Although Hunsinger intends this to be a summation of transelementation, I  could not write a more apt description of Sacramental Impanation. This statement has everything a Sacramental Impanation theorist could want:  (a) the continued existence of the ‘bread’; (b)  the notion of instrumentality with its emphasis on causal activity; (c) the asymmetrical ordering towards the divine person (‘Christ bestows himself ’, Christ is the agent); (d) Christ acting through the body (a ‘life-giving’ state of affairs); (e) the union being brought about by the action of Christ (‘through having joined’); (f)  duality (‘the two’); and finally (g)  unity (‘are one’). To this description of transelementation, the Sacramental Impanation theorist says, ‘yea, verily, and amen!’. At this point, one may be curious as to what the true distinction between Hunsingerian transelementation and Sacramental Impanation actually is. I  would perhaps only join myself in that curiosity. I am not claiming that transelementation is Sacramental Impanation in disguise, or vice versa. My hunch is that Hunsinger would be wary of too detailed a metaphysical explication of a Eucharistic model, and that transelementation  – as he elucidates it – makes no metaphysical commitments. But if the term ‘transelementation’ just refers to all that Hunsinger wants concerning the Eucharist with no metaphysical account, ‘Sacramental Impanation’ can simply refer to all that Hunsinger wants concerning the Eucharist with a metaphysical account. In the end, perhaps we ought not to 16

Ibid., p. 63.

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be too concerned with labels. Recall that Sacramental Impanation is just shorthand for ‘an incarnational model of the Eucharist’ that attempts to explicate the German-Nuremberg family conditions that (a)  Christ is substantially present, (b)  the bread and wine continue to be substantially present, and (c) a union obtains between Christ’s body/blood and the bread/wine modelled on the Incarnation. If the proponent of transelementation wants to make use of the incarnational metaphysics and exposition of Sacramental Impanation, so be it. There are other possible metaphysical accounts that can make sense of the German-Nuremberg (a)–(c), especially if one takes other Christological positions than three-part, concretecompositionalism  – for instance, the abstractist perspective on natures. Nevertheless, the preceding section at least indicates that Hunsingerian transelementation is in the German-Nuremberg family of Corporeal Mode theories of the Eucharist.

Objections to Sacramental Impanation With the Hunsingerian interlude complete, I move to address some potential objections to Sacramental Impanation. The responses to these objections afford me the opportunity further to clarify and specify this incarnational model of the Eucharist. In this section, I  will address four arguments:  first, an argument alleging that the enabling externalist motif is too permissive; second, an argument against the parthood conception of the body of Christ; third, an argument that enabling externalism is just plain crazy; and fourth, an argument regarding spatial gaps. The ‘Too Permissive’ Objection A first objection one might have to my exposition of Sacramental Impanation is that it is too permissive. For, if all that is necessary for a physical instrument to become part of one’s body is a causal union 258

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between the instrument and one’s body, then was not every object Christ ever used quite literally his body? What makes the Eucharistic elements more aptly called ‘the body of Christ’ than, say, the whip of cords Christ used to cleanse the Temple described in the narrative of John 2? We have to find a middle ground between saying that the union formed between Christ’s body and the bread is intimate enough to warrant predicating ‘is the body of Christ’ of the bread, and yet we also need an account that allows that not every instrument used by Christ ought also to receive that same predication. First, I  note that the strict proponent of enabling externalism accepts the entailment. The Extended Mind theorist simply grants that not only is Otto’s notebook part of his mind, but any and all instruments used in the cognitive process are properly considered part of mind. This liberal view of extension has it that any instrument used by a human is an extension of that human’s body. Whether the instrument is a prosthetic arm, a dialling wand, or an automobile, the instrument becomes part of the agent’s body in the act of efficient-causally using that instrument. However, as I  indicated in Chapter  5, I  have the intuition that there is a more intimate relation that obtains between instruments and agents that warrants a predication like, ‘is the body of ’. I sketched that this kind of objection was one that Thomas Aquinas faced when he offered his instrumental account of the hypostatic union. The response to this objection in the Christological realm is thus open to the Sacramental Impanation theorist. Thomas introduced the distinction between – what I call – private and common instrumentality. There are certain conditions that were met in the Incarnation that made the human nature in Christ the ‘very own’ nature of the Word in a manner beyond the relational dynamics that obtain between the Word and every other human nature.17 This is despite the fact that both the human nature in Christ and every human nature might be used by the Word (recall this is Thomas’ 17

SCG IV.41.11.

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response to his reading of Philippians 2.13, ‘God works in you’). Likewise did we see that Crisp argued for the ‘metaphysical ownership’ that the Word enjoys of his human nature that he does not enjoy with other human natures. Private instrumentality only obtains when the enabling entity is both used by and owned by the agent. This is the kind of instrumentality that occurs in the hypostatic union and the natural union, thus blocking the entailment that the Word is incarnate in all human natures the Word might ‘work in’ (on the order of common instrumentality). Accordingly, if we are to see the sacramental union patterned after these unions, then likewise can the Sacramental Impanation theorist hold that the sacramental union is an instance of private instrumentality. This countenances the phrase ‘the body of Christ’ being apt of the consecrated bread, but not the whip of cords of John 2. Therefore, I can add to the list of instances of private and common instrumentality from Chapter  5 (where (a)  are instances of private instrumentality and (b)  are instances of common instrumentality):  (a) Edward Scissorhands and his scissorhands versus (b) Scotus and his knife; (a) the Word and the human nature in Christ versus (b) the Word and every other human nature; and (a)  the human body in Christ and the Eucharistic elements versus (b) the human body of Christ and the whip of cords of John 2. The ‘Parthood’ Objection Sacramental Impanation is comfortable with referring to the consecrated elements as parts of Christ, specifically parts of the human body in Christ. However, the biblical/liturgical utterance that is the impetus for Corporeal Mode theories of the Eucharist is not, ‘This is part of my body,’ or, ‘This is part of the body of Christ,’ but rather, ‘This is my body,’ and, ‘This is the body of Christ.’ Does not a Corporeal Mode theory require that the recipients receive the whole body of Christ in the Eucharist? Why should we be satisfied with a metaphysical state of affairs that only gets us part of Christ? 260

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First, this is not a uniquely Sacramental Impanation trouble; all Corporeal Mode theories actually face this issue. When we say a theory is in the Corporeal Mode, do we just mean that Christ’s body is present in the bread, but not his soul or divine person? When a Corporeal Mode theorist says that the wine is the blood of Christ, does she mean just the blood and not the bones or flesh are present? Thomas Aquinas argues in his defence of Roman-transubstantiation that by ‘real concomitance’, Christ’s soul and divinity are also where his body and blood are.18 That is, since there are real unions among the various concrete particulars of the whole Christ, wherever the body is, so too are the rest of the parts that are unified to that specific part. If one has before them the human body in Christ, then by the natural union one also has the human soul, and by hypostatic union one has the divine Word. This same defence to the parthood objection is open to Sacramental Impanation. When one speaks on this view of the consecrated elements as part of the human body, we ought not think of them as some severed hand. Due to the relational dynamics of private instrumentality, the elements only become a part of the body as they are being used by the Word through his body. Thus, as any other part of the human body in Christ is united to the human soul and also to the divine Word, so too are the elements united to the soul and divine Word by way of their efficient union with the body. So, the parthood objection is no worse for Sacramental Impanation than it is for Roman-transubstantiation. Secondly, from the perspective of the recipient, moving from part to whole is just that dynamic that is in play throughout interactions with God Incarnate. For example, in the first chapter of the Fourth Gospel, Christ is described as the portrayal of the Father: ‘No one has ever seen God [i.e., the Father]; the only begotten God [i.e., Christ], who is in the bosom of the Father, he has made him known.’19 And similarly, later in the Gospel, in response to Philip’s request that 18 19

ST IIIa.76.1 r. John 1.18.

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Christ show the Father to the disciples, Christ says, ‘Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.’20 What the disciples saw and what directly was ‘made . . . known’21 was the human nature in Christ, the private instrument of the divine Word. In fact, the first object of the disciples’ perception was the human body in Christ, which is the private instrument of the human soul in Christ. A  perceiver naturally conceptually moves from body to soul. Thus the disciples looked on the one who spoke to them and perceived the human body in Christ, but then naturally intuit the soul. But whereas in regular humans the conceptual chain stops at the soul, in the case of Christ one moves further to conceive of the divine Word. Through the person of the Word, a perceiver arrives at the contemplation of the divine nature, the very nature that is shared by all three hypostases of the Trinity, such that the perceiver can finally arrive at the contemplation of God the Father. Thus, this conceptual route – from human body to human soul to divine Word to divine nature to the Father  – makes apt Christ’s statement, ‘Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.’ If this makes sense of this Christological/Trinitarian state of affairs, it can also work to respond to the parthood objection to Sacramental Impanation. A  faithful recipient of the Eucharist receives the consecrated elements of bread and wine. But the elements are sacramentally united to the human body in Christ; they are the private instruments of the body. At this point, a recipient can jump onto the aforementioned chain from the body in Christ to the soul and then on to the Trinitarian relations at the heart of the divine nature. Accordingly, Sacramental Impanation is just as comfortable referring to the consecrated elements as parts of the body of Christ as the concrete-compositional Christologist is in referring to the soul or body in Christ as parts of Christ. This, in fact, is the same 20 21

John 14.9. John 1.18.

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comfortability that the enabling externalism theorist feels in referring to Otto’s notebook as part of Otto’s mind. The enabling externalist refers to Sue’s prosthetic leg as part of Sue’s body, on the order of other parts of her body. In many cases of extension, we have linguistic conventions in place that allow us, under appropriate conditions, to refer to a part of a whole by the name of the whole. Hence, we can point to the human body in Christ and say, ‘That’s Christ,’ we can point to Sue’s body and say, ‘That’s Sue,’ and – on this Corporeal Mode theory – we can point to the consecrated elements and say, ‘This is the body of Christ.’ We must keep in mind that this referential state of affairs is a biblical/liturgical given; Scripture just gives us Christ’s utterance, ‘This is my body,’ and the liturgies just give us, ‘This is the body of Christ.’ Sacramental Impanation according to the private-instrumental, enabling-externalist explication provides a metaphysical story that undergirds a Corporeal Mode interpretation of these utterances. And part of this story is to employ a well-established linguistic practice of referring to parts by the name of their whole. A Brief Linguistic Interlude In Chapter 2, I made use of Hunsinger’s survey of the various options with which to describe the linguistic state of affairs of the dominical words. For instance, Hunsinger analysed Roman-transubstantiation as holding to a kind of identity statement. Similarly, he analysed German-Wittenberg to be a kind of synecdoche ‘because the word “bread” was used to refer to the body, yet the bread that did the containing was not identical with the body it contained’.22 Note especially that this is a pars pro toto – or, part-for-whole – synecdoche. Calvin holds the dominical words to be an instance of metonymy (of ‘association’, although Hunsinger wants to emphasize that ‘participation’ is also a viable explication of metonymy23). I  explicated 22 23

Hunsinger, The Eucharist and Ecumenism, p. 33. Ibid., p. 55.

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Alexander Schmemann’s view to entail an ‘epiphinal predication’ understanding of the dominical phrase. All this was to draw out the implications of Hunsinger’s own view of ‘real predication’ by syntactical equivalence. I take Sacramental Impanation as a metaphysical account of real predication by syntactical equivalence to entail interpreting the dominical words as an instance of synecdoche, specifically a totum pro parte – whole-for-part – synecdoche. That is, when we refer to the Eucharistic bread as ‘the body of Christ’ we are referring to the part by the name of the whole. The bread is part of the body in Christ, and in virtue of being a part, we refer to it by the name of the whole, ‘the body of Christ’. This kind of predication is the same linguistic phenomenon as when I refer to my arm or leg as ‘my body’: those parts take the name of the whole because of their union with the whole. This is also the same phenomenon as when one refers to Otto’s notebook as ‘the mind of Otto’: it is part of Otto’s mind, and – on a totum pro parte synecdoche – receives the name ‘Otto’s mind’. Or again, for Sue the prosthetic devise user, one can refer to her prosthesis as ‘her body’ as it is part of her body. Of course, the parts Christologist also utters a totum pro parte synecdoche when speaking of the components of Christ. One can refer to or point to the human nature in Christ and say, ‘This is Christ,’ where the name of the whole, ‘Christ’, accrues to the part – the human nature. Further, given what I have said about the relationship of the parts in Christ to the whole, we should not be worried about receiving only part of Christ in the Eucharist. The faithful recipients receive the whole Christ by means of the part. Categorizing the dominical phrase as a totum pro parte synecdoche expresses this metaphysical state of affairs. This should further assuage Hunsinger’s aforementioned worry about impanation, that impanation entails saying that ‘Christ’s body has “become bread” . . . or . . . that “God has become bread”.’24 When one says ‘Christ’s body is bread’, one utters a pars pro 24

Ibid., p. 77.

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toto synecdoche. Rather, for Hunsinger and Sacramental Impanation ‘the reverse is true’,25 the consecrated bread has become the body of Christ. Thus, a totum pro parte synecdoche interpretation gives us a clear, literal explication of the liturgical utterance, ‘this [bread] is the body of Christ’. The ‘Enabling Externalism Is Just Plain Crazy’ Objection This objection might be put as the ‘but will it preach?’ objection. For I can see the scoffer sitting in the first row pew, muttering to himself: C’mon, you mean to tell me that parts of the world are parts of my body? I know what a body is, and it ain’t a knife, a piece of bread, or any other instrument, its this stuff right here [slapping his arm]. You can’t build a whole Eucharistic theology on a crazy, idiosyncratic idea from the philosophy of mind!

The first response to the scoffer is to say that the attempt here is not to build a Eucharistic theology on enabling externalism. I am in no place arguing that one must think that the consecrated objects are the body and blood of Christ. Rather, as an instance of declarative theology, that is simply a given. The biblical and liturgical material just give us the dominical phrases, Corporeal Mode interpretations are a given as a majority position in the history of interpretation, and the incarnational analogy also has strong traditional support. The project here is not to rest Sacramental Impanation on enabling externalism, but rather to rest it on the Chalcedonian Christological metaphysical dynamics. This, I find, helpfully explicated by enabling externalism. However, at bottom, Sacramental Impanation is only committed to the German-Nuremberg family of conditions, which hold (a) Christ is substantially present, (b) the bread and wine continue to be substantially present, and (c) a union obtains between Christ’s 25

Ibid.

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body/blood and the bread/wine modelled on the Incarnation. The union described in (c)  is between the consecrated elements and the body of Christ, with that union being patterned specifically on the union between the divine Word and his human nature. Sacramental Impanation could potentially run on any metaphysical explication of Chalcedonian Christology, or perhaps even on non-Chalcedonian Christology. But the explication of Christology  – and specifically Chalcedonian Christology – that I am working with here is the threepart, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation. This view of Christ has defenders both in the tradition and in the contemporary literature, so at least this aspect of my proposal is not idiosyncratic. My explication of the three-part, concrete-compositional model of the Incarnation, and my specific application of it to the Eucharist is novel. But this explication attempts to make use of resources that are not novel to exposit a perspective on the Eucharist that is not novel. So, again, the charge of idiosyncrasy can be avoided here. Enabling externalism may not be the easiest concept to wrap the mind around, but at the end of the day the viability of Sacramental Impanation does not depend on it. Sacramental Impanation merely posits that whatever is the best and most robust explication of the relation between the divine Word and his human nature in Christ can be used to explain the relation between the human body in Christ and the consecrated elements in the Eucharist. Nevertheless, enabling externalism does seem plausible. And thus as a method for explaining Sacramental Impanation, it is useful for presenting a plausible account of the dominical words. I do not insist that enabling externalism is true; I  only seek to show that it is not patently false, is plausible, and is thus potentially useful for expositions of the Incarnation and the Eucharist. Hence, to the scoffer in the pew who still doubts this plausibility, let me offer this sermon illustration. Consider the state of affairs of a tennis player and a racket.26 The racket is an extension of the player’s body and bodily abilities. 26

The sports analogy was suggested to me by Adam Green.

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Within the context of the match, the racket and the player’s arms, hands, legs, and whole body form a unity that enables him to play at a level worthy of an opponent. A Roger Federer versus Andy Murray match is an enticing scene only if both of them are holding rackets. Should Murray decide to play without his racket, his prospects for engaging in the match would be negligible. Sure, he might be able to swat at a few of Federer’s serves with an open hand, but for the most part we would reckon him not to be playing tennis, but just fooling around on a tennis court. Racket-less Murray is of no competitive concern for Federer. Only when Murray extends his body to include his racket does this unified object become something that might handle the Federer serve. For the purpose of playing tennis, that is, of engaging in the activity of playing the match, Murray holds onto his racket, and uses his racket for tennis activities like serves, volleys, and lobs. The racket is distinguishable from his body, in that on changeovers he puts the racket down to grasp a bottle of water. But should he lose his causal unity with the racket at any time during a point  – say when lunging for a shot, he drops his racket – then he would lose his ability to participate in the point. We might even say that Murray’s racket gives him the ability to be in a location on the court that he would otherwise be unable to be at. Suppose Murray serves and volleys against Federer, and as he is coming to net Federer attempts a blistering down-the-line passing shot. Murray lunges, and stretches out his arm, and yet his hand only ever comes as close as 24 inches from the location of the ball. We might think that if a ball is 24 inches away from one’s outstretched hand, one would not be able to influence the direction of the ball. Yet, because Murray is grasping his racket, and can move his racket towards the ball, he can make contact with the ball via the racket face, influence the direction of the ball, and cause the ball to sail back over the net. Even though Murray’s organic body never came closer than 24  inches from the ball, he was still there at the location of the ball. I offer that he was artefactually there, even if not 267

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organically there. The use of the artefact of a tennis racket enables him to extend his body beyond the location of his organic body. He was bodily – artefactually bodily – where he was not organically bodily. The scoffer might still retort, ‘No one points to Andy Murray’s racket and says, “this is Andy Murray,” or, “this is the body of Andy Murray”.’ But we might ask Andy Murray how he conceives of his racket. It does not seem unthinkable to hear a professional athlete talk about their instrument as an extension of their body. In fact, it would not be out of the ordinary for professional athletes or professional artists to speak of their causal union with their instruments as an extension of their bodies, be it a tennis player with a tennis racket, the hockey player with his stick, the cellist with her bow, or the painter with the brush. Can Murray envision engaging in all the bodily activities of playing tennis without a racket? Can the painter envision her work without a brush? In all these examples, the union is only formed when the practitioner is using the instrument, but the union with an enabling device is necessary for the practitioner to effectively participate in the desired activity – the desired bodily activity. Furthermore, to counter the claim that enabling externalism is just plain crazy, let us consider instances when other bodily prosthetics are used to enable people to perform bodily activities, and especially the manner in which the user would conceive of the prosthesis. Take Sue, who had her leg amputated and then had a prosthetic leg attached to her. Sue might go through a process whereby she considers the prosthesis to be foreign and not her body. But over time, and through the action of repeated use, she may come to see her prosthesis as ‘incorporated’ into her body.27 For instance, one 27

‘Incorporated’ is a term of art in the embodiment literature. It seems that this is a similar phenomenon as what is being tagged by the term participation. The prosthesis is incorporated into the body is as though the prosthesis participates in the body. ‘Instead of remaining a mere tool, the prosthesis should become incorporated, it should become a part of the body.’ Helena De Preester and Manos Tsakiris,

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prosthesis user remarks, ‘Within my body schema, my prosthetic is as much a part of my body as my skin, blood, and organs.’28 If a prosthetic user personally attests to her prosthesis as being a part of her body, phenomenologically and artefactually, I  suggest we ought to be willing to allow for a conception of body that moves beyond the organic to include certain artefacts. And if Christ similarly attests to an artefact as being part of his body, we can also allow for this. Again, I do not envision Sacramental Impanation as resting on enabling externalism; it merely provides a way of conceiving of the union that could be obtaining between the body of Christ and the Eucharistic elements that undergirds Christ’s indicating that the artefact of a piece of bread is his body. The ‘Spatial Gaps’ Objection Maybe the scoffer is warming to the enabling externalist picture, yet he retorts, ‘But these artefacts (the tennis racket, the cello bow, etc.) or prostheses (leg, arm, etc.) are physically contiguous with the other parts of the whole. The human body in Christ body is not physically contiguous with the bread and wine of the Eucharist. Are you saying Christ’s body is spatially gappy?’ To which I respond, yes, indeed, this explanation of Sacramental Impanation holds Christ’s body to be spatially gappy, but this should not worry us. First, we must keep in mind that I have made a distinction between organic bodily parts and artefactual bodily parts. Sue could not deny that there is some distinction to be made between the organic leg that has been with her since the womb and her prosthetic leg. The point of this explication of Sacramental Impanation is not to find a way

28

‘Body-Extension Versus Body-Incorporation: Is There a Need for a Body-Model?’, Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences 8 (2009): 321–322. A full review of this literature is outside the scope of this present project, but see the bibliography of De Preester and Tsakiris. Elizabeth Wright, ‘My Prosthetic and I: Identity Representation in Bodily Extension’, Forum: University of Edinburgh Journal of Culture and the Arts 8 (2009): 1.

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for the bread and wine to be organic components of Christ’s body; only the Capernite theory among Eucharistic models would strive for that. Rather, the argument is that an artefactual bodily part is sufficient to undergird the predication in question. This leads to the question of whether an artefactual part of a body could be physically non-contiguous with the whole  – I  think that it could. Suppose Sue, the prosthetic leg user, has her prosthesis connected around the knee. The instrument is designed such that the nerves and muscles in her thigh are appropriately linked to the prosthesis. When Sue wishes to walk, the nerves and muscles in the thigh trigger complementary receptacles in the prosthesis and the appropriate motion is executed. I have tried to show that it is easy to see the prosthesis as her leg, a component part of her body – not, of course, an organic part, but an artefactual part. If one is with me this far, then I would argue that any issue of spatial gappyness goes away. For suppose that, instead of there being a connection between the nerves and muscles in Sue’s thigh and the prosthesis, these organic constituents are connected to a WiFi or Bluetooth antenna embedded within her knee. This is then appropriately linked to an appropriate receptor in the prosthesis. The prosthesis is then placed across the room from her organic body. Sue exercises the applicable components of her thigh, and the prosthetic foot flexes. In the performance of this action, on this construal, the prosthetic is just as much a part of her body as it was when it was physically contiguous. Hence, a spatial gap is of no consequence. A similar story can be told for the Eucharist. But first, to establish the setting for the story, I have to admit that I suppose that Christ presently has a human body that exists in this spatiotemporal realm, even as it has ‘ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father’. Whatever the properties are of a glorified human body, they are ones that make it such that the organic human body in Christ – even if the organic makeup is of glorified matter, a foretaste of the eschaton – is limited in spatiotemporality and still in this ontological realm. I do not know where Christ is in the universe, but 270

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I hold that there are some coordinates at which he is located. Now, I am not certain that what I have described in this book regarding Christology or Sacramental Impanation requires this supposition, but it is one to which I am independently committed. This supposition only amplifies the notion of a spatial gap between the organic human body in Christ and the consecrated objects on the altar. Yet, even with this strong view about the present locatedness of Christ, if there is no requirement that artefactual parts of bodies be spatially contiguous with the organic bodies of which they are a part, then an increase in space between them does not add any difficulty. All that is needed is an apt connection – which the WiFi/Bluetooth connection in the preceding illustration is an analogy for – between the human body in Christ and the consecrated elements such that private instrumentality can obtain. What kinds of apt connections might there be between the spatiotemporal body of Christ and the Eucharist? I think there are at least three possibilities, which I will here briefly discuss: (a) a connection via immediate action at a distance, (b) a telekinetic connection, or (c) a connection via the Holy Spirit. With respect to (a), in two articles, Richard Cross utilizes an account of immediate action at a distance in order to analyse related presence issues in the Eucharist, Incarnation, and omnipresence.29 He argues that his analysis of bodily presence dissolves a number of the differences between Roman Catholic, Lutheran, and Calvinist approaches to the matter of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. I find much of his study to be harmonious with my own thinking, even if I have not opted for his approach.30 What Cross does show in these 29

30

Richard Cross, ‘Catholic, Calvinist, and Lutheran Doctrines of Eucharistic Presence: A Brief Note towards a Rapprochement’, International Journal of Systematic Theology 4.3 (2002): 301–318; and ‘Incarnation, Omnipresence, and Action at a Distance’, Neue Zeitschrift für Systematische Theologie und Religionsphilosophie 45.3 (2003): 293–312. For instance, much of his analysis employs the distinction between circumspective and definitive presence. My model rests on no such distinction. My hunch is that my

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articles is that there is no logical contradiction within the notion of immediate action at a distance. With this notion in place, Cross moves to show how it might be conceived that a spatiotemporally located person like the Incarnate Christ can both be present at the location of the consecrated elements and omnipresent. If immediate action at a distance is coherent, then there is no blockage to Christ exercising the causal power needed through the consecrated elements to incorporate them into his body, even if they are not physically contiguous with his body. Similarly, it is not obvious to me that (b), telekinesis, is impossible. Perhaps I have watched Star Wars too many times, but I do not have the intuition that this phenomenon entails a logical contradiction. If it is indeed possible, then it would not be impossible for Christ, though spatiotemporally located somewhere non-contiguous with the elements, to use the elements in such a manner as to bring about an apt connection. However, if this were the connection between Christ and the elements, it would seem to be more in line with the account offered by Natural Impanation. On this model, the human soul or mind in Christ is connected to the elements, circumventing the human body in Christ. If one wished to block the collapse of a telekinetic explication of Sacramental Impanation into Natural Impanation, one would need to assert that Christ always performs some bodily activity as a means of executing the telekinetic Eucharistic connection. Perhaps like Luke Skywalker reaching for his lightsabre, Christ performs a bodily action that channels his telekinetic power to the elements. It would hence be possible to hold that a telekinetic explication of the private instrumental connection

action-as-presence motif would likely be reckoned to square with what Cross exposits as definitive presence. However, I am not concerned to utilize this distinction, and I think that a thick-grained account of presence is all that is required for my model to go through. Moreover, the Christology he exposits in ‘Incarnation, Omnipresence, and Action at a Distance’ explicitly rejects the kind of parts Christology I advocate here.

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between the non-contiguous human body in Christ and the elements does not collapse into Natural Impanation. Despite the possibility of (a)  and (b)  offering accounts of the connection that obtains in private instrumentality, I  do not actually think that immediate action is required for incorporation of an artefact into the body of a user. As the previous illustration with Sue’s WiFi or Bluetooth-connected prosthesis showed, even mediated action can be sufficient to undergird a predication of ‘This is my body’ uttered by Sue of her prosthetic leg. And I think the most theologically rich potential mediator to provide the apt connection between the human body in Christ and the consecrated bread and wine of the Eucharist is the Holy Spirit. Disputes between the Eastern and Western branches of the Church regarding the moment of consecration have often included disputes about the role of the Holy Spirit in the Eucharist. I admit that the Holy Spirit has been a bit absent from my present account of the Eucharist, but I noted from the outset that I think the Eucharist is a multifaceted doctrine and I am here focusing on but one facet. A fully orbed account of the Eucharist should of course include a robust account of the work of the Spirit in and through the Eucharist, but that has not been my present project. Yet the Spirit can be deployed at this point in the analysis to be seen as that apt connection to bridge the spatial gap between the consecrated elements and the human body in Christ. In fact, just this sort of move seems to be what John Calvin has in mind in his exposition of the Eucharist. I think Calvin would demur from Sacramental Impanation. Yet, if Cross’ and/or Hunsinger’s analysis is correct, the Reformed have resources from within their own tradition to accept a model like this. Regardless, what Calvin says, and I find plausible, is that ‘the Spirit truly unites things separated by space’.31 Calvin clearly holds that there is a spatial gap between the elements and the human body in Christ. Yet, for Calvin, the Spirit is that which bridges the gap between these two. I think this 31

Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, IV.17.10, p. 1370.

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is a theologically attractive way of conceiving how Christ exercises private instrumentality from his spatiotemporally located body through elements that are not physically contiguous with his body. If one is going to take this option, however, it is important to make clear that the causal power in use in this instance is that of the human body in Christ. If the power were due to the Spirit, one would risk inviting the confusion of bread and wine becoming the body of the Spirit, which is clearly not the state of affairs that Scripture or the liturgies ask us to clarify. Rather, the Spirit must be conceived of in this regard as only providing the requisite connection between the human body in Christ and the elements. When Sue moves her Bluetooth-connected prosthesis, she is not at all tempted to say, ‘This is the body of a Bluetooth connection.’ Nor would the Spirit’s mediatorial role diminish the fact that it is the body of the Second Person of the Trinity that is extended into the bread.32 I do not find these objections to Sacrament Impanation to be devastating to the model. Rather they have helped to hone and clarify just what the model entails. Perhaps one will never be able to satisfy completely the scoffer in the pew. But let my response to these objections serve to remove some potential impediments to coming to the altar.

Some Benefits of Sacramental Impanation I have already noted some of the attractive elements of the Sacramental Impanation theory. These include, for instance, the 32

Compare the line in the Eucharist liturgy from Rite II, Prayer A of the 1979 Episcopal Book of Common Prayer with respect to the gifts: ‘Sanctify them by your Holy Spirit to be for your people the Body and Blood of your Son, the holy food and drink of new and unending life in him.’ ‘By’ is, of course, an ambiguous preposition, but one plausible use of the term is to indicate means. Sue uses her prosthetic leg by (i.e., through the means of) a Bluetooth connection; sanctify the gifts by (i.e., through the means of) your Holy Spirit.

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manner in which it fits the linguistic realities of the dominical words as outlined in Chapter  4, or how Sacramental Impanation closely follows the Chalcedonian lesson plans deployed in Chapter 5. These benefits are in addition to the ones noted in the last chapter, which all three varieties of incarnational models of the Eucharist enjoy. In the Epilogue, I will thoroughly situate Sacramental Impanation within the biblical–theological framework of the first three chapters. But for the present, in this section, I outline three positive appraisals of Sacramental Impanation with respect to the location of the human body in Christ, the edibility of this body, and the manner in which this theory is conceptually economical. Location As noted before, Corporeal Mode theories of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist purport to be real presence theories. That is, these models hold that Christ is there at a location on the altar, or in the minister’s hands, or in the mouths of the faithful recipients. Sacramental Impanation, in kind, holds that Christ’s body is located at the location of the consecrated bread. Sacramental Impanation holds that this object to which the minister refers, this piece of bread located on the altar, is the body of Christ – with ‘this’ referring to every bit and piece of bread. The minister can place the consecrated bread at a location on the altar, say, in the centre of the corporal, and the body of Christ is there in the centre of the corporal. In fact, Sacramental Impanation says that Christ’s body is located on the corporal because of or in virtue of the bread’s location on the corporal. The bread actually is the body of Christ. The bread is part of the body of Christ, and thus the body is located at the location of its part in a normal manner that bodies are located where their parts are. Hence, the body of Christ is where the bread is. This is to say that in virtue of the bread’s location at certain places, the body of Christ is at those locations. But this says nothing more than our normal way of noting the locations of objects. For example, 275

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my body is presently located as seated on a desk chair. But, I  am also under a desk in virtue of my feet and legs being under a desk. Simultaneously, I  am on top of a desk in virtue of my hands that are typing on a keyboard that rests on a desk. In fact, I  am presently both under and on top of one and the same desk, all the while also being located to the side of said desk seated in a desk chair. Spelling out this mundane phenomenon in this manner may not be our normal way of describing the world – we might typically say I am seated ‘at’ my desk, even if parts of me are under and on top of the desk. But ask a few simple clarificatory questions, and the state of affairs becomes clear: Is the body of James under the desk? Yes, well, not all of it, but yes, a part of it. Is the body of James on top of the desk? Yes, well, not all of it, but yes, a part of it. Is the body of James next to the desk? Yes, well, not all of it, but yes, a part of it.

Likewise, it is apt to say of Christ’s body that it is on the altar, while it is also in heaven at the right hand of the Father; it might very well be on altars in Boston, Bristol, or Budapest as well. The body is in these various locations in virtue of it having parts in those locations. Described in this manner, a common worry about multiple location quickly dissolves. One argument made against Corporeal Mode theories of the Eucharist by proponents of Pneumatic Mode or No Non-Normal Mode theories is that Corporeal Mode theories force the body of Christ to be multiply located, and multiple location involves a contradiction or is impossible, and therefore Corporeal Mode theories are false. First, it is not clear that multiple locations, even being wholly multiply located, involves a contradiction.33 Location is a vague concept, and given this vagueness, we actually 33

See Adams, Later Medieval Theories, pp 115–124; Hudson, ‘Omnipresence’; Pruss, ‘Omnipresence, Multi-location’.

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have no trouble predicating multiple locations of ordinary objects in virtue of the location of their parts being in various locations. Thus, upon a moment’s thought, it is not odd to say that my body is both on top of and under one and the same desk: James’ body is under, on top of, and next to the desk. Is James’ body multiply located? Yes.

James’ body is not multiply located in the sense that it is now both in Boston and Bristol, but it is multiply located by having parts in various locations around an office desk. What worries proponents of non-Corporeal Mode theories is the supposition that the state of affairs of Christ’s bodily location on an altar removes this body from the right hand of the Father, a clear violation of the Creed.34 It must be remembered that none of the acts of extension we have discussed reduce or diminish the bodily presence of Christ at the right hand of the Father. Acts of bodily extension increase the locations of a body; they do not diminish it. In the previous illustration, Andy Murray was organic-bodily unable to be at the location of the tennis ball which was sailing past him upon Federer’s passing shot. But in virtue of his racket, Murray was enabled to be at that location. Being extended to the location of the tennis ball in virtue of his artefactual body part, however, did not move Murray’s organic body. Murray standing on the service line continues to be located on the service line even if by extending his racket he is also at a location that is not the service line. In application to the Eucharist, Christ’s body is located where the bread is, and his blood is located where the wine is. The elements enable Christ’s body and blood to be located on the altar.

34

And thus the impetus for Luther’s ubiquity doctrine. It should be clear from the standpoint of Sacramental Impanation that this Christological notion is unnecessary. Sacramental Impanation does not say it is necessarily false, just that the ubiquity doctrine is an unneeded conceptual move to secure Christ’s presence in the Eucharist.

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Edibility Any Corporeal Mode theory of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist has to find a way to say that the body of Christ is consumed in the Eucharist and yet Christians are not cannibals. The stipulated Capernite manner of the Corporeal Mode simply accepts that cannibalism does take place. Thankfully, this is only a hypothetical position in the Eucharistic presence spectrum. Other Corporeal Mode theorists have different ways of escaping this charge. For instance, the proponent of Roman manner theories (either Romantransubstantiation or Roman-annihilation) might say that because only the substance of Christ’s body  – but none of its sensible qualities  – are consumed, this theory does not amount to cannibalism. For the Roman theorist could argue that cannibalism is the consuming of the sensible qualities of a human body, which does not happen in the Eucharist on their view. Likewise, a GermanWittenberg theorist could say that the co-location of the body and blood of Christ ‘in, with, and under’ the elements does not amount to cannibalism because of the lack of sensible properties of Christ’s body and blood. Of course, the German-Nuremberg theorist notes that in these views it does not really seem as though the faithful are eating the body and blood of Christ. Rather it just so happens that the body and blood of Christ are where eating is taking place. On either Roman view or the German-Wittenberg view, it is merely the sensible qualities of bread that are manducated, not the body and blood of Christ. With respect to the charge of cannibalism, Hypostatic and Natural Impanation both have ways to evade this allegation. The Hypostatic Impanation theorist can say that cannibalism is the eating of a human body. But in the Eucharist the bread is the body of a divine person, and thus is not a human body at all. There is nothing cannibalistic about the consuming of a divine body. Likewise, the Natural Impanation theory  – with its necessary pure/simple substance dualist anthropology – holds that cannibalism is the consuming of 278

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a human body with a particular genetic and molecular makeup. In virtue of being connected to the human soul in Christ, the elements are the body of Christ, but it is not a human body; thus cannibalism is avoided.35 Sacramental Impanation is not immune to this worry, although it ultimately has defendable arguments against this allegation as other Corporeal Mode theories do. For Sacramental Impanation can make use of the aforementioned distinction between an organic body and an artefactual body. The Sacramental Impanation theorist would define cannibalism as the eating of an organic human body, but not the eating of an artefactual human body. This distinction would then be applied to our enabling externalism examples, as well as to the Eucharist. It would be weird to take a bite out of Otto’s notebook, it would be weird to take a bite out of Sue’s prosthetic leg, and it would be weird to take a bite out of Edward Scissorhands’ scissor-hand, but in none of these situations does cannibalism take place. Likewise, it might be weird to eat the body of Christ in the Eucharist, but being his artefactual body, this eating does not entail cannibalism. In fact, Sacramental Impanation has a story to tell for how by extending his body to include the consecrated elements Christ makes his body actually edible. By incorporating the sensible qualities of the bread and wine as participants in his body, the Word makes it such that those sensible qualities are indeed the sensible qualities of his body. One of the sensible qualities of bread is its 35

Perhaps the substance dualist will want to say that in virtue of a particular parcel of matter being connected to a human soul, that parcel of matter is a human body. Thus, on Plantinga’s example of Socrates’ soul being connected to an alligator body, in virtue of that union the alligator body is properly termed a ‘human body’ (even if it genetically is what we typically call an alligator body). If cannibalism is the eating of any parcel of matter that is related in the right way to a human soul, then Natural Impanation is a form of cannibalism. I suspect the Natural Impanation theorist would want to qualify the definition of cannibalism, as I have gestured towards, as being the consuming of a particular parcel of matter with a specific genetic and molecular makeup that is or was rightly related to a human soul. In this case, eating Socrates-in-an-alligator-body would not be cannibalism.

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edibility. Thus the Word takes on the edibility of the bread in order to make his body edible. This act of extension is indeed a great act of accommodation. In the way that the extension of the divine Word onto the human nature in the Incarnation is an accommodation to our human nature, so too is the Eucharistic extension an accommodation to the human embodied condition. Christ commands the eating of his flesh and the drinking of his blood. Absent an act of accommodation by recourse to his artefactual body, that command is tantamount to enjoining cannibalism. But because of the extension of his body to include artefactual parts, Christ makes it such that his followers are able to literally follow his order and eat his body, but without committing cannibalism. Economical As I have stated, the Sacramental Impanation theorist wants no more than to say that what occurs in the Eucharist is like what occurs in the Incarnation, and that the Incarnation has metaphysical resources to explain the Eucharistic phenomenon. This makes Sacramental Impanation metaphysically economical. Sacramental Impanation does not have to invent new metaphysical notions, categories, or phenomena other than those already employed in the Incarnation. Other Corporeal Mode theories such as Roman-transubstantiation or German-Wittenberg have to describe entirely new metaphysical arrangements. Sacramental Impanation merely makes use of the metaphysical resources already in play in the Incarnation. I am not prepared to contend that those other Corporeal Mode theories are metaphysically impossible – although I have stated that they do not follow the Chalcedonian tutelage – however, a Eucharistic explication that makes use of the metaphysical descriptions already in use in the Incarnation would seem to be preferable. It might be exotic to describe the union between two concrete particulars as a form of private instrumentality, but Sacramental Impanation holds that it is no more exotic than what is found in the union between Christ’s 280

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two natures. Thus, Sacramental Impanation has the benefit of being metaphysically economical. At this point, Sacramental Impanation as an incarnational model of the Eucharist has been fully deployed. Furthermore, I  have responded to objections to this model and sketched some important benefits of the model. Yet the dismissal has not yet sounded. When one engages in the examination of minutia as has occurred in this chapter, one risks missing the forest for the tree. In the Epilogue, I engage in a principled recapitulation of the argument. This serves to situate the detailed presentation of Sacramental Impanation in this chapter within the conceptual forest of the previous six.

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On the night that he was betrayed, our Lord Jesus Christ took bread; and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, ‘Take, eat; this is my Body which is given for you: Do this in remembrance of me.’ Likewise, after supper, Jesus took the cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them saying, ‘Drink this, all of you; for this is my Blood of the New Covenant, which is shed for you, and for many, for the forgiveness of sins: Whenever you drink it, do this in remembrance of me.’ The Order for the Administration of the Lord’s Supper or Holy Communion, Commonly Called the Holy Eucharist1

At the institution of the Eucharist, Christ uttered some difficult statements. Ministers standing in persona Christi have for centuries repeated these words week after week at celebrations of the Eucharist. Theologians throughout the Church’s history have attempted to explicate these difficult statements, the most difficult of which are the phrases, ‘This is my body,’ and, ‘This is my blood,’ when spoken of a piece of bread and a cup of wine. This monograph has offered a way of understanding these curious locutions. In short, I  have argued that when Christ uttered those words  – and when ministers do the same – the bread of the Eucharist is consecrated 1

The Anglican Church in North America, ‘The Order for the Administration of the Lord’s Supper or Holy Communion, Commonly Called the Holy Eucharist, Standard Text’ (2013), p. 12.

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and renamed, bringing about a metaphysical state of affairs much like the Incarnation, where that consecrated and renamed object both continues to be a piece of bread and becomes part of Christ’s body. This Epilogue brings together in summary form the key ideas that have been presented throughout the book. Now that the Sacramental Impanation model has been fully deployed, I can work back through the previous chapters in order to draw the conceptual threads of the material together. This Epilogue is structured less as a simple walk-through of the previous chapters, and more as a conceptual recapitulation of the argument. As indicated in Chapter 1, I see this project as an instance of declarative theology assisted by the handmaiden of analytic philosophy. I am taking many elements of the discussion of the Eucharist as givens. The Scriptural material concerning the Last Supper is a given; the liturgical form of the dominical words is a given; Christology according to the first seven Ecumenical Councils – with particular emphasis on the Council of Chalcedon – is a given. Because my proposal fits with these givens, I  think it a compelling and attractive proposal, but those who do not share these antecedent commitments to these givens may not.2 Nevertheless, the project here is to clarify and explain what the conjunction of all these givens entails in order to help us understand the difficult locutions of the Eucharist. In this project I am arguing to the truth of the first principle article of faith proposition that this is the body of Christ when ‘this’ refers to the consecrated bread of the Eucharist. This is the conclusion to the argument that I am attempting to make clear so that it can be imagined better. The first step in the analysis was to lay an exegetical and biblical– theological foundation for Sacramental Impanation. Especially important concerning the exegetical foundation is the manner in which the term ‘this’ in ‘This is my body’ relates to ‘my body’. Despite 2

Or perhaps one might possess further antecedent commitments, such as to a particular interpretive tradition or to a particular authoritative ecclesial community.

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the gender incongruity between these terms in Greek, I argued that ‘this’ and ‘my body’ do refer to one and the same object: the object in Christ’s hand at the moment of his uttering the phrase ‘This is my body’. The analysis fits with George Hunsinger’s ‘real predication’ linguistic model; Christ really predicated ‘his body’ of the bread that was in his hand. Hunsinger exposits real predication to entail the syntactical equivalence of ‘this bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ in the context of the Eucharist. The syntactical equivalence interpretation of real predication provided the impetus for the renaming analysis of Chapter 4. Chapter 4 argued that one of the Scriptural and liturgical givens of the Eucharist is that the consecrated object can be referred to both as ‘bread’ and as ‘the body of Christ’. Sacramental Impanation embraces this linguistic reality by holding that both the predicates ‘is bread’ and ‘is the body of Christ’ are apt of the consecrated object. The renaming proposal is an attempt to articulate how this linguistic given has come about and thus undergird the syntactical equivalence of real predication. The Eucharistic speech-act of renaming describes how Christ provides another singular term by which the consecrated object can be referenced. Thus, after the renaming speech-act, both ‘bread’ and ‘the body of Christ’ refer to the consecrated object. These terms stand in syntactical equivalence with one another in that they both refer to and identify the same object. However, as the Plantinga-style analysis of singular terms showed, this does not entail that these predicates themselves are identical. Rather, Sacramental Impanation understands these predicates to be syntactically equivalent (Hunsinger’s terminology) but also epistemically inequivalent (Plantinga’s terminology). The Eucharist is an instance of real predication by syntactical equivalence with epistemic inequivalence. This Eucharistic linguistic state of affairs is similar to what occurs in Chalcedonian explications of the Incarnation. The ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon indicates that both ‘is a human’ and ‘is God’ can be aptly predicated of Christ. These terms are really predicated of Christ 284

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and stand in a relation of syntactical equivalence with one another. However, they are also epistemically inequivalent. It would be quite possible – and in fact is at times actual in the Gospels – that someone could observe Christ and know he ‘is a human’ but not know that he ‘is God’. Since the linguistic states of affairs of the Incarnation and the Eucharist are so similar, and since there is precedence in the Christian theological tradition of applying the Incarnation to discussions of the Eucharist, I made the move to apply a particular metaphysical explication of the teaching of Chalcedonian Christology to the metaphysics of the Eucharist. I  argued that Sacramental Impanation is the best option for relating this specific metaphysical account of Chalcedonian Christology to the Eucharist. However, before I  here make the move from the linguistic to metaphysical analysis, I first pick up the biblical–theological threads pertaining to consecration and presence. Returning to Chapter 2, I showed that the narrative contexts of the Last Supper and the Road to Emmaus stories provide reasons for thinking that the issue of Christ’s presence is an important theme of the Eucharist. This, then, is what Sacramental Impanation argues that Christ uses the elements for; they are instruments of Christ’s presence. I do not argue that this is the only notion relevant to the Eucharist. As noted in Chapter 1, there are many, many aspects to the Eucharist, and the issue of Christ’s presence is but one of the many possible avenues of exploration related to this doctrine – albeit one of the more controversial in the tradition. That being said, attention to the narrative contexts of John 13–16 and Luke 24.13–35 reveals a suggestive leitmotif pertaining to the presence of Christ in the Eucharist. Combining these narratives with my discussion of divine omnipresence in Chapter 3 yields the notion that the Eucharist is a particular locus of Christ’s presence. The narratives of John 13–16 and Luke 24.13–35 set a scene for the idea that even though Christ is going away, he will remain present with his followers by way of the Eucharist. Although Christ would be in some sense separated from his disciples, first by the crucifixion 285

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and then by the ascension, he would continue to be bodily present to his disciples through the elements of the Eucharist. This teaching was to be of comfort to the distressed disciples and was the cause of great joy to the Emmaus disciples, provoking them to run back to Jerusalem from Emmaus to proclaim to the other disciples that Christ was ‘known to them in the breaking of the bread’.3 In fact, it appears as though the Emmaus disciples were themselves subject to epistemic inequivalence. Prior to the breaking of the bread, they knew that the one who was speaking with them was a human, but they did not know that it was Jesus. In the breaking of the bread, this epistemic inequivalence was removed and they knew who he was. Reading this narrative as a celebration of the Eucharist, we can say that Christ continued to be present with these disciples via the consecrated and broken bread. Far from being removed from them, Christ continued to be with them bodily. This bodily presence is, as I have described, not in Christ’s natural body, but in his artefactual body. Sacramental Impanation holds that the bread and wine become parts of Christ’s extended body and blood such that it is apt to say that Christ is bodily present where the bread and wine are. The faithful can say of the Eucharistic bread that Christ is here – this is the body of Christ. As with the analysis of the narratives surrounding the Last Supper, the theme of God’s presence with the faithful was an important component of my analysis of omnipresence and consecration. Chapter 3 argued that attention to God’s presence in particular locations helps us to conceive of God’s omnipresence. Both God’s particular presence and omnipresence are better understood along the lines of an action motif of presence, not the occupancy account of recent omnipresence models. That God is where God acts is the maxim borne out of consideration of specific instances of divine presence in Scripture. When God speaks from the midst of the Unburnt Bush, when God goes before his people in the pillar of fire, or when God acts in the 3

Luke 24.35.

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Holy of Holies, it is apt for God’s people to say that God is there, right there in the middle of the bush, right there in the pillar of fire, right there in the Holy of Holies. It is the divine activity in these locations that sanctions the notion of the divine presence at those locations. In harmony with this discussion of the divine presence as divine action, Chapter 5 argued that Katherin Rogers’ action model of the Incarnation is a coherent, consistent, and defensible explication of three-part, concrete-compositional Chalcedonian Christology. When the Word acts with his human nature, the hypostatic union obtains between his divine and human natures. In a similar manner as holy objects such as the Unburnt Bush or Mercy Seat are loci of divine activity (and thus presence), so too is Christ’s human nature a locus of God’s presence. When the Word acts with his human nature it is apt to say, ‘God is there,’ or, ‘God is present,’ at the location of the human nature in Christ. ‘This is God’ is an appropriate locution when spoken of the location of this human nature, including the body that comprises it. Furthermore, from my examination of instances of divine activity as divine presence there emerged a connection between the divine presence and holiness. I argued that holy objects or holy locations are loci for divine activity and thus divine presence. When objects become holy, when they are consecrated, they become owned by God in a manner that is beyond God’s normal ownership of all objects in the cosmos. This is the ‘use principle’ I highlighted as an important component of the definition of holiness. Consecrated objects are separated for a holy use, for God’s use. Holy objects thus belong to God to be used by God for God’s purposes. One use that God has for holy objects is that they be a particular locus of God’s presence. Conceiving of divine presence as divine action allows one to identify degrees of intensity of God’s presence in a manner that occupancy accounts of God’s presence cannot. Yet the degreed nature of the divine presence seems to be called for given the data of the Scriptural accounts of holy objects and holy locations. 287

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Again, we can we pivot from the argument of Chapter  3 to the Christology of Chapter 5. For as the concept of ownership plays an important role in the discussion of holy objects, so too does ownership serve to characterize the instrumental action of the Incarnation. The Word’s use of his human nature is what brings about the hypostatic union. But, as my analysis shows, the Word uses this human nature as his own. This is a different manner than the Word might use my or any other instance of human nature. Rather, the Word enjoys a unique, first-person, private-ownership relation with his human nature that is brought about by his instrumental use of that instance of human nature. To return to the linguistic state of affairs, this metaphysical state of affairs sanctions the aptness of the predicates ‘is a human’ and ‘is God’ when spoken of Christ. This cluster of notions related to Christ’s presence, divine omnipresence, consecration, and Christology all led, in my analysis, to the construction of Sacramental Impanation. As God is present in such holy locations as the midst of the Unburnt Bush, the Mercy Seat, and Christ’s human nature, so too can we say that God is there in the Eucharist. It should thus be clear how Chalcedonian Christology is so vital to Sacramental Impanation. Not only is it an explanatory motif, but in order for the analysis of consecration  – which states that consecration brings about the divine presence at the location of holy objects – to apply to the Eucharist, it must be the case that Christ is divine. For in the Eucharist, the holy object is the body of Christ. Yet, if Christ is not God, then the consecration analysis does not go through to the Eucharist. Nevertheless, since I adopt the Chalcedonian position that Christ is divine as a given, then instances of divine presence are indeed an apropos motif for understanding Christ’s presence at the location of the consecrated Eucharistic elements. However, Sacramental Impanation does not merely say that Christ is present in his person, his divine nature, or his human soul. Rather, Sacramental Impanation is a model of the bodily presence of Christ; it is a Corporeal Mode model of Christ’s presence in 288

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the Eucharist. Hence, Sacramental Impanation relies on a similar metaphysical analysis as one finds in models of the Incarnation to explain the linguistic realities of the Eucharist. As Christ uses the consecrated elements, he forms an instrumental, private-ownership relation with those elements. Because of this action, the elements become his body as his body is extended to include the bread and wine as artefactual parts of his body. The consecrated object is thus a locus for Christ’s presence precisely because it is his body. To return to the biblical material that formed the end of Chapter 1, Sacramental Impanation provides a consistent way for understanding St. Paul’s description of the Eucharist in 1 Corinthians 10.16. Paul states that the bread is a ‘participation’ in the body of Christ. Sacramental Impanation would contend that this koinōnía relation is not some static thing, but rather the participation of the bread in the body of Christ is brought about by the instrumental activity of Christ using the bread. The bread participates in the body as other body parts participate in the whole. Like the manner in which the human nature in Christ participates in the composite Christ on three-part, concrete-compositionalism, the instrumental activity that forms the private-ownership relation effects this participation. Thus, not only can Sacramental Impanation tell an underlying metaphysical story for the Last Supper scene from the Synoptics and 1 Corinthians 11, but it can account for the first commentary on the Eucharist as well. Finally, I  end with an ecumenical coda. The Eucharist is that Christian rite most suited to show forth unity of the Church. Yet, in the past five hundred years or so, the Eucharist has been the locus of just the opposite. The various branches of Christianity are distinguished by differing positions on a wide variety of theological topics. Nevertheless, the Eucharist is unfortunately counted among that number. I have demurred from aligning the Sacramental Impanation model with a specific ecclesial tradition. My soundings from the history of Christian theological reflection include Patristic authors 289

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whom nearly all Christians can claim as their ancestors, medieval theologians, an Anglican divine, and a modern Orthodox theologian. While I think Sacramental Impanation is particularly harmonious with the Eucharistic sensibilities of Anglicans and Orthodox, it will be up to the theological descendants of Luther, Calvin, Wesley, and the Pentecostal movement to determine whether Sacramental Impanation is harmonious with their antecedent commitments to the formularies of their specific traditions. Yet, Hunsinger goes to great lengths to show his version of transelementation is not unacceptable to Christians in the Orthodox, Lutheran, Anglican, and Reformed theological traditions, and even that there might be a ‘backdoor’ manner that the Roman Catholic Church could rest content with participants in the Eucharist assenting not to transubstantiation but transelementation. If Sacramental Impanation is simply a robust metaphysical explication of transelementation, then perhaps it can harvest these same potential ecumenical fruits. Here then is my own invitation to ecumenical convergence: Does Christ use the bread and wine of the Eucharist as his ‘very own’? If not, if the bread and wine are instruments only of the faithful, but not of Christ, then we have reached an ecumenical impasse. But I suspect that ecumenically minded Christians might be inclined to agree that Christ does so use the Eucharistic elements. And if he does use them, use them as his very own, use them in the manner that he uses his natural human body, use them in the manner that the divine Word uses his human nature, then it might just be possible, for the sake of ecumenical sharing, to utter without equivocation, in an act of real predication with syntactical equivalence and epistemic inequivalence, ‘This is the body of Christ.’

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Index

Adams, Marilyn McCord, 163, 196, 196n4, 202, 203n17, 208n24, 210, 213, 214, 214n28, 216, 237, 251 Alligator, 157, 159, 160, 206, 207, 279n35, 279n35 Alston, William P., 69n17, 71, 76, 78, 112, 117, 121, 128 Andrewes, Lancelot, 226 Anglican Church in North America, 9, 282n1 Anselm of Canterbury, 6 Augustine of Hippo, 55n56, 57, 58, 58n59, 144, 208n24, 292 Aureoli, Peter, 2, 5, 6, 7, 170 Austin, J. L., 63, 64, 65, 66, 117 Berengar of Tours, 236 Brown, Stephen F., 3n6, 6 Bucer, Martin, 20n30, 250, 253 Bulgakov, Sergei, 122n27, 193, 228, 228n46, 244 Cabasilas, Nicholas, 235 Calvin, John, 20, 42, 250, 253, 263, 273 Cannibalism, 208, 209, 278 Capernaum, 1 Capernite, 15, 23, 42, 194n2, 270, 278 Carson, D. A., 50 Cell phone, 81, 116n11, 131 Chalcedonian Pattern, 147, 199, 203, 204, 207, 210 Chalmers, David, 182 Church of England, 10, 93, 234 Clark, Andy, 182 Clemens, Samuel, 45, 131. See Twain, Mark Clement of Alexandria, 7n15, 93, 93n52, 300

Coakley, Sarah, 144, 144n1, 145, 165, 246 Consecration, 65, 99, 101 Consubstantiation, 18, 195, 198, 224, 253. See German-Wittenberg Corporeal Mode, 14, 15, 30, 38, 140, 208, 217, 220, 226, 230, 234, 235, 236, 238, 244, 246, 249, 253, 258, 260, 261, 263, 265 Craig, William Lane, 11 Cranmer, Thomas, 20, 21, 41n19, 71, 72, 73, 250 Crisp, Oliver D., 152n10, 155, 157, 158, 163, 166, 167, 179, 188, 188n88, 189 Cross, Richard, 163, 181, 181n78, 183, 184, 242, 271, 272, 272n30 Declarative theology, 2, 3n9, 169, 170 Deductive theology, 2 ‘Definition’ of Chalcedon, 143, 154, 168, 172, 195, 199, 233, 284 Dialling wand, 259 Dispositionalism, 164 Docetism, 198 Duns Scotus, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 242, 260 Durandus of St.-Pourçain, 2, 3, 7 Dyothelitism, 149, 150 Emmaus, 32n7, 51, 57, 58, 61, 212, 285, 286 Enabling externalism, 186, 269 Ephraim of Antioch, 222 The Episcopal Church, 9, 274n32 Epistemic inequivalence, 137, 139, 140, 141, 284, 286, 290 Extended Mind Thesis, 7, 182, 183n84, 184, 242, 243, 248 Flying Dutchman, 66, 117, 118

303

Index Gelasius, 220, 222 German manner German-Nuremberg, 17, 18, 24, 25, 195, 198, 215, 220, 224, 230, 238, 246, 249, 258, 265, 278. See Impanation German-Wittenberg, 17, 18, 19n29, 195, 197, 198n7, 216, 220, 224, 246, 247, 263, 278, 280 Godfrey of Fontaines, 2 Goodman, Lenn E., 92 Gregory of Rimini, 2 Hesperus, 45, 46, 131, 140. See Phosphorous, Venus Hick, John, 145 Holy of Holies, 98, 105, 212, 287 Holy Spirit, 20, 21, 51, 128, 164, 200, 223, 232n52, 235, 255, 271, 273, 274n32 Hudson, Hud, 86, 89, 90, 91, 93, 95, 104 Hunsinger, George, 27, 37, 38, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 48, 112, 128, 140, 147, 199, 246, 248, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 257, 263, 265, 284, 290 Hylomorphism, 161, 161n34, 163, 166, 174, 205n21 Hypostatic union, 108, 143, 157, 165, 169, 170, 174, 175, 176, 178, 180, 186, 190, 191, 198, 200, 201, 202, 205, 206, 209, 213, 223, 241, 247, 250, 251, 254, 259, 260, 261, 287, 288 Illocutionary Acts, 64, 66n11 assertive, 65, 67, 83 Eucharistic exercitive of consecration, 64 Eucharistic exercitive of renaming, 64 exercitive, 65, 66–71, 123 exercitive of consecration, 64 exercitive of renaming, 64 Impanation, 18, 24, 195, 196, 198, 199, 208 history, 199 Hunsinger, 196n3, 199 Hypostatic Impanation, 200, 201, 202, 202n14, 203, 204, 205, 207, 208n25, 209, 213, 215, 220, 221, 223, 232, 233, 234, 237, 249, 251, 252, 278

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Natural Impanation, 200, 202n14, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 211, 213, 215, 220, 231, 232, 233, 234, 237, 238, 246, 248, 249, 272, 273, 278, 279n35 Sacramental Impanation, 25, 201, 209, 213, 215, 216, 220, 223, 224 Instrumentalism, 189 Irenaeus of Lyons, 217, 218 John of Damascus, 176, 190 John Quidort of Paris, 223 Justin Martyr, 217 KORN, 114 Leonitus of Byzantium, 221 Lombard, Peter, 5 Loux, Michael, 11, 157, 157n27 Lowe, E.J., 11, 91n46 Luther, Martin, 17n25, 42, 200, 201, 201n12, 201n13, 209n26 Luz, Ulrich, 29 Marshall, I. Howard, 29n6, 52n50, 53 Matt, 66, 68, 69, 70, 79, 83, 84, 129 Mercy Seat, 97, 104, 105, 110, 287, 288 Merricks, Trenton, 153 Metonymy, 20, 42, 43, 60, 263 Moreland, J.P., 11 Morris, Thomas, 156, 179, 180 Moses Bār Kēphā, 222 Natural union, 164, 165, 167, 169, 170, 174, 176, 200, 201n12, 205, 206, 209, 213, 238, 242, 247, 260, 261 Nestorianism, 148, 166, 168n48, 176, 188n88, 198, 247 Nick, 171 Nicodemus, 1 Nixon, Richard, 31 No Non-Normal Mode, 14, 22, 30 Philadelphia-adeipnonism, 23, 42 Zurich-memorialism, 22 Norris, Richard, 146 Omnipresence, 19n29, 85, 204, 271 Orpington chicken, 158, 159, 207

Index Orthodox Church in America, 10 Osiander, Andreas, 17n26 Otto, 182, 184, 243, 245, 248, 259, 263, 264, 279 Parity Principle, 182, 182n83, 183, 243 Parsons, Josh, 89 Pawl, Timothy, 170n50 Peter of Candia, 3, 6, 6n13, 7 Phosphorous, 45, 46. See Hesperus, Venus Plantinga, Alvin, viii, 112, 130, 130n37, 130n38, 131, 131n39, 131n40, 131n41, 132, 132n42, 133, 133n46, 134, 134n48, 135n49, 136, 136n54, 138, 140, 152n10, 155, 155n17, 157, 157n24, 158, 158n28, 206, 206n22, 207, 279n35, 284 Pneumatic Mode, 14, 15, 18, 30, 44, 196n4 Antwerp-transignification, 19, 19n29, 20 Canterbury-parallelism, 20, 21 Geneva-instrumentalism, 20, 21 Prosthesis, 245, 248, 259, 263, 264, 268, 273, 274, 279 Pusey, E. B., 240 Qodesh, 72, 73, 73n22, 74, 97, 98, 100 Quine, W. V. O., 46, 132n42 Real predication, 36, 61, 123, 128, 131, 140, 141, 229, 264, 290 Renaming, 116 Rogers, Katherin, 163, 170–74 Roman manner Roman-annihilation, 16, 194, 195, 278 Roman-transubstantiation, 16, 19, 38, 40, 42, 194, 196, 197, 198n7, 204, 216, 224, 226, 228, 246, 247, 252, 253, 261, 263, 278, 280 Russell, Bertrand, 130 Sabbath, 52, 62, 73, 83, 84, 103, 103n65 Sacramental union, 195, 201, 209, 209n26, 211, 213, 241, 242, 245, 248, 255, 256, 260 Schillebeeckx, Edward, 19, 19n28, 19n29 Schmemann, Alexander, 46, 47n29, 228n46, 264 Scissorhands, Edward, 181, 183, 185, 243, 245, 248, 260, 279 his scissor-hands, 185, 191, 245, 260, 279 Searle, John, 65

Singular terms, 113 Speech-act theory, 63. See Illocutionary Acts Perlocutionary Acts, 65 Sentential Act, 64 Substance dualism, 161, 163, 180, 203n18, 205n21, 208 Sue, 39, 40, 129, 137, 138, 245, 248, 263, 264, 268, 269, 270, 273, 274, 274n32, 279 Swinburne, Richard, 11, 91n45 Synecdoche, 42, 263, 264, 265 Syntactical equivalence, 45, 61, 131, 140, 141, 229, 264, 284, 285, 290 Telekinesis, 272 Tesserathelitism, 149, 150 Theodoret of Cyrus, 218, 219, 220, 222 Theophany, 85, 96, 100, 101, 104 Theophilus, 93 Thirty-Nine Articles, 93, 142, 149 Thomas Aquinas, 16n24, 38, 39n15, 39n16, 163, 175n60, 180, 186, 189, 259, 261 Thompson, Marianne Meye, 50 Three-part, concrete-compositionalism, 162, 163n39, 168n48, 172, 173, 174, 177, 181, 202n14, 203, 215, 245, 247, 266, 289 Tim, 39 Tom, 64, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 83, 187 Transelementation, 250, 252, 253, 254, 255, 257, 258, 290 Transubstantiation, 13, 198, 224, 227, 247, 252, 253, 254, 290. See Roman-transubstantiation Twain, Mark, 45, 131. See Clemens, Samuel Unburnt Bush, 96, 98, 103, 104, 105, 212, 215, 286, 287, 288 van Inwagen, Peter, 11 Venus. See Hesperus, Phosphorous Vermigli, Peter Martyr, 20n30, 250 Wallace, Daniel B., 29 Westminster Catechism, 93 William of Ockham, 210, 224 Wyclif, John, 44 Zizioulas, John, 9, 10, 228n46 Zwingli, Ulrich, 22, 22n34

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