The Passion of Love in the Summa Theologiae of Thomas Aquinas 0813236851, 9780813236858

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations and Editions of Select Works of Thomas Aquinas
Foreword
Introduction
Part 1. The Nature of Love
1. The Hierarchy of Love: Natural, Sensitive, and Rational Love
2. The Momentum of Love: From Love to Desire to Joy
3. The Lexicon of Love: Amor, Dilectio, Caritas, Amicitia
4. The Order of Love: Love of Friendship and Love of Concupiscence
Part 2. The Causes of Love
5. The First Cause of Love: The Good
6. The Second Cause of Love: Knowledge
7. The Third Cause of Love: Likeness
Part 3. The Effects of Love
8. The First Effect of Love: Union
9. The Second Effect of Love: Mutual Indwelling
10. The Third Effect of Love: Ecstasy
11. The Fourth Effect of Love: Zeal
Conclusion
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The Passion of Love in the Summa Theologiae of Thomas Aquinas

T H O M I ST I C R E S S O U R CE M E N T S E R I E S Volume 24

Series Editors Matthew Levering, Mundelein Seminary Thomas Joseph White, OP, Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas Editorial Board Serge-Thomas Bonino, OP, Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas Gilles Emery, OP, University of Fribourg Reinhard Hütter, The Catholic University of America Bruce Marshall, Southern Methodist University Emmanuel Perrier, OP, Dominican Studium, Toulouse Richard Schenk, OP, University of Freiburg (Germany) Kevin White, The Catholic University of America

The Passion of Love in the Summa Theologiae of Thomas Aquinas Daniel Joseph Gordon Foreword by Dominic Legge, OP

The Catholic University of America Press Washington, D.C.

Copyright © 2023 The Catholic University of America Press All rights reserved The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standards for Information Science—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. ∞ Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from the Library of Congress Paperback ISBN : 978-0-8132-3685-8 eBook ISBN : 978-0-8132-3686-5

For my wife Freya “Sì lieta come bella.” Paradiso 2.28

“Trahe me: post te curremus.” Draw me: let us run after you. Song of Songs 1:3

“Pondus meum amor meus.” My love is my weight. Augustine, Confessions 13.9

“Amor sementa in voi d’ogne virtute / e d’ogne operazion che merta pene.” Love is the seed in you of every virtue And of every act that merits punishment. Dante, Purgatorio 17.104–5

Contents Contents

Contents

Acknowledgments xi Abbreviations and Editions of Select Works of Thomas Aquinas

xv

Foreword xix

Introduction

1

Part 1. The Nature of Love

1. The Hierarchy of Love: Natural, Sensitive, and Rational Love

19

2. The Momentum of Love: From Love to Desire to Joy

51

3. The Lexicon of Love: Amor, Dilectio, Caritas, Amicitia 70 4. The Order of Love: Love of Friendship and Love of Concupiscence

88

Part 2. The Causes of Love

5. The First Cause of Love: The Good

105

6. The Second Cause of Love: Knowledge

116

7. The Third Cause of Love: Likeness

126

x Contents

Part 3. The Effects of Love

8. The First Effect of Love: Union

143

9. The Second Effect of Love: Mutual Indwelling

154

10. The Third Effect of Love: Ecstasy

166

11. The Fourth Effect of Love: Zeal

177

Conclusion

186

Bibliography 195 Index 203

Acknowledgments Acknowledgments

Acknowledgments

I am grateful for the many people who made this book possible. At the University of Notre Dame, Joseph Wawrykow has been an outstanding advisor and mentor. His tireless dedication and generosity are truly extraordinary. I am enormously grateful for his expertise and friendship along the way. Khaled Anatolios, John Cavadini, and John O’Callaghan have also been generous mentors and superior models of philosophical and theological scholarship for me. A seminar with John O’Callaghan provided the proximate beginning to this project. Thanks are also due to Ann Astell, John Betz, Therese Cory, Fr. Brian Daley, SJ, Stephen Dumont, Sean Kelsey, David Lincicum, Christian Moevs, Christopher Shields, and Alexis Torrance. At the Pontifical Faculty of the Immaculate Conception, Thomas Joseph White, OP, and Dominic Legge, OP, especially encouraged my theological studies. Fr. Thomas Joseph, now at the Pontifical University of Thomas Aquinas, was instrumental in bringing this book to publication with The Catholic University of America Press. I am profoundly grateful for his friendship and counsel over the years. Fr. Dominic graciously agreed to write the preface for this work and has provided constant encouragement and good cheer along the road. Matthew Levering, at the University of St. Mary of the Lake, has also been an unfailing source of support. My thanks are also due to James Brent, OP, Brian Carl, John Corbett, OP, Gilles Emery, OP, xi

xii Acknowledgments Andrew Hofer, OP, Maria Kiely, OSB, John Baptist Ku, OP, Gregory La Nave, Dominic Langevin, OP, Jody Lewis, Shane Owens, Thomas Petri, OP, and Jordan Schmidt, OP, along with the many other friars and brothers of the Dominican Order, for their guidance and hospitality during my time of studies in Washington. I am also grateful for the donors at both the University of Notre Dame and at the Thomistic Institute who made possible my graduate theological education. The Richard and Peggy Notebaert Fellowship at Notre Dame and the Margaret Leo Thomistic Institute Scholarship made this work possible, in its foundations and in the writing of the book itself. At Yale University, the direction and friendship of Carlos Eire, Karsten Harries, Charles Hill, Giuseppe Mazzotta, and many others inspired me to embark on the intellectual life and to explore the worlds of history, literature, philosophy, and politics. I am also deeply grateful to Bill Lowe, David Mathers, and several others for introducing me, many years ago, to the classical worlds of Greece and Rome and to the Latin language. Many others not named here, especially friends and colleagues, have also left a deep impression on my worldview and studies. John Martino, at The Catholic University of America Press, provided a steady hand in guiding this project to completion, along with the other members of the Press, including Trevor Crowell and Brian Roach. Shannon Lee served as a superb copyeditor. My thanks also go to the two anonymous reviewers of this book, who offered valuable advice for revising this work. The remaining shortcomings of this book, in argument or design, are solely my responsibility. Most importantly, my deepest gratitude is due to my parents, Maurice and Dianna, for the gift of life, for the example of their love and marriage, and for the sacrifices they made to provide for my education. My brothers and sisters, along with their families, have also been an endless source of love, hope, and joy: Andrea, Steve, Jack, Caroline, Annie, Michael, Victoria, Nicholas, Kate, Tom, Mary, Iris, Phoebe, Mary, Kevin, and Enxhi—thank you, all. The world, and my

Acknowledgments xiii corner of it, is a much brighter place because of you. Lloyd, Katie, Michael, Emily, MK, Patrick, Jim, Sophie, Tommy, Claire, Ellie, John Paul, Lilly, and Danny—thank you for welcoming me into your family. Finally, thank you to my beautiful wife Freya, with whom I first discussed the possibility of writing this book, without whom it would not exist, and to whom I dedicate it, in gratitude for your love and friendship. Your patience, kindness, and playfulness show me every day the possibilities of love. July 25, 2022 Feast of St. James

Abbreviations Abbreviations

Abbreviations and Editions of Select Works of Thomas Aquinas



Comp. Theo. Compendium theologiae seu Brevis compilatio theologiae ad fratrem Raynaldum. Vol. 42, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia (Leonine Edition). Rome: Editori di San Tommaso, 1979.



De Ente De ente et essentia. Vol. 43, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia (Leonine Edition). Rome: Editori di San Tommaso, 1976.

De Hebdomadibus Expositio libri Boetii De ebdomadibus. Vol. 50, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia (Leonine Edition). Rome–Paris: Commissio Leonina–Éditions Du Cerf, 1992. In De Div. Nom. In librum Beati Dionysii De divinis nominibus exposition. 10th ed. Edited by C. Pera, P. Caramello, C. Mazzantini. Turin–Rome: Marietti, 1950.

De Virt. Quaestiones disputatae de virtutibus. Vol. 2, Quaestiones disputatae. Edited by E. Odetto. Turin–Rome: Marietti, 1965.



In Metaphysic. In duodecim libros Metaphysicorum Aristotelis expositio. 2nd ed. Edited by M.R. Cathala, R.M. Spiazzi. Turin– Rome: Marietti, 1971.



In Physic. Commentaria in octo libros Physicorum Aristotelis. Vol. 2, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia xv

xvi Abbreviations (Leonine Edition). Rome: Ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C. de Propaganda Fide, 1884.

Quodlibet Quaestiones de quolibet. Vol. 25, nos. 1 and 2, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia (Leonine Edition). Rome–Paris: Commissio Leonina–Éditions du Cerf, 1996.



SCG Liber de veritate catholicae Fidei contra errores infidelium seu Summa contra Gentiles (based on the Leonine Edition, with corrections). Edited by P. Marc, C. Pera, P. Caramello. Rome–Turin: Marietti, 1961.



Sent. Scriptum super libros Sententiarum magistri Petri Lombardi. Prologue: Les débuts de l’enseignement de Thomas d’Aquin et sa conception de la Sacra Doctrina avec l’édition du prologue de son Commentaire des Sentences de Pierre Lombard. Edited by Adriano Oliva. Paris: Vrin, 2006. Books I and II: Scriptum super libros Sententiarum. Edited by Pierre Mandonnet. Paris: Lethielleux, 1929. Books III and IV (dd. 1–22): Scriptum super libros Sententiarum. Edited by Maria Fabianus Moos. Paris: Lethielleux, 1933–47. Book IV (dd. 23–50): Commentum in quartum librum Sententiarum magistri Petri Lombardi. Vol. 7, no. 2, Opera omnia. Parma: Typis Petri Fiaccadori, 1858.

Sent. De Anima Sentencia libri De anima. Vol. 45, no. 1, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia (Leonine Edition). Rome– Paris: Commissio Leonina–Vrin, 1984.

Sent. Ethic. Sententia libri Ethicorum. Vol. 47, nos. 1 and 2, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia (Leonine Edition). Rome: Ad Sanctae Sabinae, 1969.



ST Summae theologiae. Vols. 4–12, Sancti Thomae de Aquino Opera Omnia (Leonine Edition). Rome: Ex Typographia Polyglotta S.C. de Propaganda Fide, 1888–1906.



Super I Cor. Super primam Epistolam ad Corinthios lectura. Vol. 1, Super Epistolas S. Pauli lectura. Edited by R. Cai. Turin–Rome: Marietti, 1953.

Abbreviations xvii



Super II Cor. Super secundam Epistolam ad Corinthios lectura. Vol. 1, Super Epistolas S. Pauli lectura. Edited by R. Cai. Turin–Rome: Marietti, 1953. Super Ioannem Super Evangelium S. Ioannis lectura. Edited by R. Cai. Turin­–Rome: Marietti, 1972.

Note on the texts: The Latin texts, and sometimes the translations, of many of these works are also available online through the Corpus Thomisticum (CorpusThomisticum.org), through the Aquinas Institute (Aquinas.cc), and elsewhere, although one should check the edition reproduced through these sources, since they may not always reflect the best printed edition. Note on the translation: Unless noted, English translations of the Latin text of Aquinas are my own. In some matters of phrasing, I have relied on Laurence Shapcote’s translation of the Summa theologiae, but have also frequently diverged from his choices. My own translations aim to render the text literally, which can sometimes make for a slightly more awkward English product than a freer translation. I hope, however, that what the translations lack in literary elegance they make up for in accuracy to the text.

Foreword Foreword

Foreword

“Make love your aim,” St. Paul tells us. This is because love, “the greatest” of the theological virtues, “never ends” (1 Cor 13:1–14:1). The First Letter of John could hardly be more emphatic about the centrality of love for the Christian life: “He who does not love does not know God; for God is love” (1 Jn 4:8.). As one of the great philosophers and theologians of the Western tradition, St. Thomas Aquinas has much to teach us about this most-important subject. In the present study, Daniel Gordon breaks open for us the penetrating wisdom of the Angelic Doctor on this crucial theme. Even though Gordon’s focus is a set of largely-philosophical texts in Aquinas—the passion of love in St. Thomas’s most famous work, the Summa theologiae—Gordon offers us no dusty tome or dry treatise. He makes this theme come alive in living color, as it were, offering clarity and fresh insights. As he puts it, he invites his readers to a kind of medieval symposium, where we will find the loves and desires of our twenty-first century lives illuminated by the emotional depth of Augustine, the poetic genius of Dante, and the theological wisdom of Aquinas. Love is the ultimate measure of the success of a human life. Our spiritual perfection increases in proportion to our growth in love. Indeed, according to St. Thomas Aquinas, our degree of love will determine our place in heaven:

xix

xx Foreword One will share more in the light of glory who has more charity, because where there is more charity, there is more desire, and desire in a sense makes one more apt and ready to receive what is desired. Hence, one who has more charity, will see God more perfectly, and will be more blessed.1

This means that success in life—and specifically, success in the Christian life—is not a matter of mastering some complex formula or arcane practices. It is quite simple in the end: it is to love. When our loves are rightly ordered in the truth, and above all, to God, then we can say with St. Augustine: “Love, and do what you will.”2 Gordon takes the centrality of love in Augustine and Dante as a starting point for his study of St. Thomas. His careful reading of Aquinas shows how the Angelic Doctor sets out a coherent order and persuasive reasons to support of the more poetic insights of those two authors. More specifically, Gordon shows that, as for Augustine and Dante, so also for Aquinas, “our loves grow into our virtues and our vices.”3 And therefore this impetus of desire, which sets us in motion towards what we love, will thus “determine the destiny of our lives,”4 drawing us either towards felicity or misery. One of the unique contributions of this book is that Gordon offers a theological reading of what is normally treated as a philosophical theme in Aquinas: love as a passion of the soul. Even though the passions of the soul pertain to our bodily nature, Gordon is right to see them as holding a crucial place in Aquinas’s anthropology—and that Aquinas’s teachings on the passion of love echoes throughout his theology. Gordon’s scholarship is impressive on this score: his theological approach prompts him to range widely throughout the works of Aquinas, furnishing new insights into how Aquinas’s wider thought illuminates his specific teaching on the passion of love. 1. ST I, q. 12, a. 6: “Plus autem participabit de lumine gloriae, qui plus habet de caritate: quia ubi est maior caritas, ibi est maius desiderium; et desiderium quodammodo facit desiderantem aptum et paratum ad susceptionem desiderati. Unde qui plus habebit de caritate, perfectius Deum videbit, et beatior erit.” The translation is mine. 2. Augustine, In Ep. Ioh. 7.8 (SC 75:358): “dilige, et quod vis fac.” 3. Infra, p. 6. 4. Infra, p. 7.

Foreword xxi In fact, one of the central theses of this book is that a reading of Aquinas on the passion of love must take account of the theological depths of Aquinas’s thought; readings that do not take this approach “fail to appreciate the full horizon of his thought, which is here essentially theological.”5 That may sound like a provocation to some Thomistic philosophers, but in Gordon’s exposition, it does not mean that Aquinas’s texts on the passion of love lose their philosophical character. Gordon remains attentive to the distinction between philosophy and theology, and to the importance of philosophy as a discipline, both as valuable in its own right, and as “indispensable to the project of theology.”6 Even so, Gordon shows how love is at the root of all action, and thus is at the heart of the dynamism of human life in its search for happiness, and above all, for God, which reaches its perfection in the theology of charity and of the beatific vision. In Part I, Gordon investigates the nature and kinds of love. He shows how Aquinas recognizes a rich constellation of meanings of the term “love.” Of central importance here is his discussion of appetite and desire, because it is our appetites—which are rooted in our nature—that ground and give rise to our loves. We do not choose our most fundamental loves; they are given by God. But we can channel the desires that arise within us towards our perfection or our destruction. And it is possible for us to distinguish an order of love, from things to persons, from concupiscence to friendship, from what is lower to what is higher. Part II explores the causes of love. The starting point is the good, which Gordon rightly identifies as what is perfective of one’s nature. It is in this context that beauty makes a first appearance, considered as a cause of love—a theme that has provoked much debate among contemporary students of Aquinas. Beauty appears again in Gordon’s examination of knowledge as a cause of love. One cannot love what one does not know—but even more poignantly, Gordon 5. Infra, p. 6. 6. Infra, p. 14, n. 23.

xxii Foreword shows how, for Aquinas, the contemplation of spiritual beauty and goodness is the cause of spiritual love. Indeed, wonder at and contemplation of the good stirs up our love, and this likewise gives impetus to renewed contemplation. (Do we not begin to sense here the dynamism of the contemplative life of heaven?) Part II concludes with a discussion of likeness as a cause of love and as the basis for communion. Part III leads the reader into the fertile field of love’s effects: union, indwelling, ecstasy, and zeal. We are united to what we love; indeed, love changes us and draws us out of ourselves. Gordon’s argument gains traction here: our loves shape our lives and begin to transform us into what we love. This is why it is so important for our moral lives that we train our loves. When we love what is below us, in a disordered way, we become less than we are. When we love what is above us, we become, in a way, more than we are . . . . The more perfect the object, the more perfect our love of it will perfect us.7

Love’s first effect, union, leads to its second effect, mutual indwelling. Gordon highlights that Aquinas’s philosophical analysis points to a beautiful revealed truth: “He who abides in love abides in God, and God in him.” (1 Jn 4:16.) After indwelling, Aquinas speaks of ecstasy, although, as Gordon explains, not in the way of modern romantics. Ecstasy has “a profoundly spiritual tone” for St. Thomas, and its height is found in reference to the contemplation of God, which draws us out of ourselves, away from lower things, and into God himself. The final effect is zeal: the intensity of love that seeks to exclude everything repugnant to the beloved. Gordon highlights Aquinas’s spiritual reading of zealous love: one who loves God above all things will try to repel whatever “contravene[s] the honor and will of God.”8 Daniel Gordon brings freshness and new life to St. Thomas’s 7. Infra, pp. 152–53. 8. Infra, p. 182.

Foreword xxiii treatment of the passion of love, because, while reading the Summa Theologiae with careful attention to historical and textual detail, he traces out the real import of Aquinas’s account love for the whole drama of human life, seen within the widest theological frame. What is more, Gordon’s literary references and astute human examples open up for the reader the philosophical treasures of Aquinas’s texts on the passion of love. This makes his book valuable indeed, since, as Aquinas teaches and Gordon underlines, the destiny of our lives depends on what we love, and how. Dominic Legge, OP Pontifical Faculty of the Immaculate Conception at the Dominican House of Studies, Washington, D.C. The Birth of John the Baptist, 2023

The Passion of Love in the Summa Theologiae of Thomas Aquinas

Introduction Introduction

Introduction

In the closing line of Paradiso, Dante speaks of God as “the love that moves the sun and other stars [l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle]” (Paradiso 33.145).1 As many readers will know, the word “stars” (stelle) is the last word of each canticle of the Commedia (Inferno 34.139; Purgatorio 33.145; Paradiso 33.145). The stars thus have the final word of each canticle and of the poem as a whole.2 To gaze at the night sky, filled with stars, provokes in us a profound wonder. Where did all of this come from? Where is it going? And how do I fit into the midst of it, into the tiny sliver of space and time allotted to my life? Dante concludes his Commedia with a reference to the maker of the stars. Divine love moves the stars, the universe, and our own lives. This love is the origin and end of our lives and the path we must follow to complete our pilgrimage. The stars 1. The standard critical edition of Dante’s Commedia is that of Giorgio Petrocchi. Dante Alighieri, La Commedia Secondo L’antica Vulgata, ed. Giorgio Petrocchi, 1st ed., 4 vols. (Milan: Mondatori, 1966). 2. The literature on this question, as with any point of Dante, is extensive. See, for example, the following. John Ahern, “Dante’s Last Word: The Comedy as a Liber Coelestis,” Dante Studies, no. 102 (1984): 1–14. Paulo Falzone, “Visione beatifica e circolazione celeste negli ultimi versi del Paradiso,” Bollettino Di Italianistica 7, no. 2 (2010): 46–77. John Freccero, “The Final Image,” in Dante: The Poetics of Conversion (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 245–57. Alberto Gessani, “Dante: Il libro del mondo e la visione d’amore,” in Il Poeta e Il Libro Del Mondo: Due Saggi Danteschi (Rome: Aracne, 2006), 15–70. Edward Hagman, “Dante’s Vision of God: The End of the Itinerarium Mentis,” Dante Studies, no. 106 (1988): 1–20. Stefano Prandi, “Dante e lo Pseudo-Dionigi: Una nuova proposta per l’immagine finale della Commedia,” Lettere Italiane 61, no. 1 (2009): 3–29.

1

2 Introduction thus beckon us on a journey home, kindling our desire for beauty and peace (see Purgatorio 14.148–51). The Approach of Aquinas: A Theological Reading of Love St. Thomas Aquinas is another thinker in the Christian tradition who peers deeply into the love that moves the sun and other stars. He argues that the lover does everything out of love (see ST I–II, q. 28, a. 6). Although he is more of a theologian than a poet, his questions on love in the Prima secundae of the Summa Theologiae (qq. 26–28) verge on the poetic and the lyrical.3 In these pages he speaks of the lover (amans), the beloved (amatum), friendship (amicitia), charity (caritas), union (unio), indwelling (inhaesio), ecstasy (extasis), zeal (zelus), fervor (fervor), wounding passion (passio laesiva), melting (liquefactio), delight (delectatio), enjoyment (fruitio), and much else besides.4 Scholars have written a great deal recently on the passions 3. As for poetry, one would be remiss not to mention his hymns for the feast of Corpus Christi (the hymn for vespers, Pange lingua; the hymn for matins, Sacris solemniis; the hymn for lauds, Verbum supernum; the sequence for the Mass, Lauda sion; and the devotional hymn, Adoro te devote). See Jan-Heiner Tück, A Gift of Presence: The Theology and Poetry of the Eucharist in Thomas Aquinas, trans. Scott G. Helelfinger (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2018). On the authenticity of these hymns, see Tück, Gift of Presence, 167–73. “The authenticity of the Office of Corpus Christi has been questioned time and again. This is partly because the witnesses of Bartholomew of Lucca and William of Tocco are relatively late and earlier sources do not mention Thomas’s authorship. Thus, for example, Reginald of Piperno, who was secretary, socius, and friend to Thomas in his last years, does not list the Office of Corpus Christi in his overview of Thomas’s works. Furthermore, the Office is listed in neither Petrus Calo’s biography of Thomas nor the extensive material of the canonization process. Beyond that, it is a conspicuous circumstance that the Dominican Order resolved to adopt the feast of Corpus Christi into its ordinarium only very late, specifically in 1318” (167). Nevertheless, Tück argues on behalf of their authenticity according to the research of Pierre-Marie Gy, Jean-Pierre Torrell, Wolfgang Kluxen, and Otto Hermann Pesch (173). See also Jean-Pierre Torrell, “Adoro Te: La plus belle prière de Saint Thomas,” in Recherches Thomasiennes: Études Revues et Augumentées (Paris: Vrin, 2000), 367–75. As Tück observes, “an investigation of Thomas’s poetic theology cannot waive considering it [the Adoro te devote], for it is indeed the testimony that expresses the Eucharistic spirituality of Aquinas with the greatest density and beauty” (229). 4. Translations of the Latin text of Thomas Aquinas, unless noted, are my own.

Introduction 3 in the thought of Aquinas.5 There are also copious studies specifically on love as well as many on charity.6 Without doubting the value of these works, there still seems to be room for a more systematic coverage of the questions on the passion of love presented in Summae Theologiae I–II, questions 26–28. Many of the Leonine editions of the text are available online at the Corpus Thomisticum (CorpusThomisticum.org) and through the Aquinas Institute’s Opera Omnia Project (available online at Aquinas.cc). For a fuller discussion of the works of Aquinas, see Jean-Pierre Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas: The Person and His Work, trans. Robert Royal (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005). A catalogue of the texts of St. Thomas, prepared by Gilles Emery, is also available at the end of Torrell’s book (330–61). 5. There are many helpful and excellent introductions to the passions in the works of St. Thomas. At least four monographs, following, are especially worth noting. Robert C. Miner, Thomas Aquinas on the Passions: A Study of Summa Theologiae: 1a2ae 22–48 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Nicholas E. Lombardo, The Logic of Desire: Aquinas on Emotion (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2011). Diana Fritz Cates, Aquinas on the Emotions: A Religious-Ethical Inquiry, Moral Traditions Series (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2009). Nicholas Kahm, Aquinas on Emotion’s Participation in Reason (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2019). For essay-length introductions to the passions in the moral theology of St. Thomas, see the following. Servais Pinckaers, “Reappropriating Aquinas’s Account of the Passions (1990),” in The Pinckaers Reader: Renewing Thomistic Moral Theology, ed. John Berkman and Craig Steven Titus (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 273–87. Peter King, “Aquinas on the Passions,” in Aquinas’s Moral Theory: Essays in Honor of Norman Kretzmann, ed. Scott MacDonald and Eleonore Stump (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2018), 101–32. 6. Anthony Flood has also written extensively on love, in particular, according to Thomas Aquinas. Anthony T. Flood, The Metaphysical Foundations of Love: Aquinas on Participation, Unity, and Union, Thomistic Ressourcement Series (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2018). Anthony T. Flood, The Root of Friendship: Self-Love and Self-Governance in Aquinas (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2014). For key references on charity, see 81n34. For a translation and set of essays on charity in Aquinas from various contributors, see Robert Miner, ed., Questions on Love and Charity: Summa Theologiae, Secunda Secundae, Questions 23–46 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016). For an introduction to the distinctiveness of the Thomasian position, see Jonathan Kanary, “Transforming Friendship: Thomas Aquinas on Charity as Friendship with God,” The Irish Theological Quarterly 85, no. 4 (2020): 370–88. Kanary writes: “Thomas Aquinas’s definition of charity in the Summa Theologiae as ‘a kind of friendship’ represents a distinctive and theologically significant development of both the Aristotelian and the Christian monastic traditions on which he builds” (370). See also the following. Joseph David Decosimo, Ethics as a Work of Charity: Thomas Aquinas and Pagan Virtue (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2014). Robert Miner, “Thomas Aquinas and Hans Urs von Balthasar: A Dialogue on Love and Charity,” New Blackfriars 95, no. 1059 (2014): 504–24.

4 Introduction While the subject of this book is the emotion or passion of love, Thomas provides a distinctively theological treatment of the topic, as his lexicon above indicates. Thus, Thomas nearly always discusses the passion of love in theological terms or at least in a theological context. For example, in his discussion of the nature of love, he also considers intellectual love and natural love (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1), friendship and charity (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1), and the “Godlikeness” of love (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1). In treating the causes of love, Thomas considers knowledge, goodness, and likeness, each of which can have a spiritual resonance, considering these causes in analogical terms. Thus, the discussion of the rational will in the Prima secundae can be understood as a spiritual kind of love (ST I–II, qq. 8–17; on “chosen love” [dilectio], see ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3). In considering the effects of love, Thomas thinks about mutual indwelling in Johannine terms: “He who abides in charity abides in God and God in him” (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2, sed contra). In speaking of ecstasy, he thinks of ecstatic contemplation and rapture with reference to God and even the ecstasy of God himself in his creative act (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3). The discussion of zeal also takes on a religious and Christological tone (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4). These final articles draw heavily on Pseudo-Dionysius and have a spiritual and theological aspect to them. The analysis of the affections is thus a thoroughly theological analysis that reveals how the whole human person points to God and finds its fullest explanation in God. Thomas thus transposes what might be a merely philosophical investigation into a theological key. We therefore call this present study a “theological reading” of the passion of love. It is theological in at least two senses. First, St. Thomas offers a theological reading of the passion of love insofar as he discusses the passion of love in a theological context. One must read what Thomas says about love in both a retrospective and a prospective sense. Retrospectively, one must recall that Thomas has already discussed in the Prima pars the love of God, both in itself (ST I, q. 20) and as a creative force (ST I, q. 45, a. 6), as well as the proper name of the Holy Spirit as Love (ST I, q. 37). Before reaching his discussion of

Introduction 5 human love, Thomas also discusses the purely immaterial love of the angels (ST I, q. 60). One can almost read these questions on angelic love as a foil against which one can understand the corporeal mode of human love and affection. Prospectively, the questions on the passion of love anticipate, in the Secunda secundae, the special kind of love that is charity (ST II– II, qq. 23–46). Finally, in the Tertia pars, St. Thomas will discuss the love of Christ as both human and divine (ST III, q. 18, a. 1). The human consideration of Christ’s love is attentive both to the passions of Christ’s soul (ST III, q. 18, a. 2) and to his willed acts of love (ST III, q. 18, a. 4).7 The treatment of the passion of love, discussed in the Prima secundae (qq. 26–28), is enriched, therefore, as following from the consideration of creative and divine love, itself presupposing essential divine love, which is the uncreated source of our created love. The discussion of the passion of love also serves to elucidate the study of Christ himself, who unites us to God, the origin and the end of all things (ST I, q. 2, proem). Second, the analysis of the passion of love is theological in the sense that theological sources and content are essential to the conversation. Regarding the content, Thomas discusses the virtue of charity (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3; q. 28, a. 2, sed contra), union with God (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1, sed contra), divine ecstasy (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3, sed contra), and the zeal of God (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4, sed contra). His sources are also properly theological. For his hierarchy of sources and their relative status—as proper/extrinsic and certain/probable—see Summae Theologiae I, question 1 (a. 8, ad 2). In these questions, he draws from Scripture as a proper and certain source of teaching (proprie and ex necessitate), citing 1 Kings, the Psalms, Proverbs, Song of Songs, Wisdom, Sirach, Hosea, John, Galatians, 1 Corinthians, Philippians, and 1 John. He also draws from the Church fathers as proper and probable sources (ex propriis sed probabiliter), including Augustine (City of God, On the Trinity, Confessions, 7. On this theme, see Paul Gondreau, The Passions of Christ’s Soul in the Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas (Scranton, PA: University of Scranton Press, 2009).

6 Introduction Eighty-Three Different Questions), Pseudo-Dionysius (On the Divine Names, On the Celestial Hierarchy), and John Damascene (On the Orthodox Faith). It is against this background that he takes up the philosophical resources of Aristotle as extrinsic and merely probable arguments (extraneus et probabilis) from the Topics, Ethics, De Anima, Politics, and Rhetoric, as well as from Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations. Thomas thus brings to bear a panoply of scriptural, patristic, and philosophical sources in these questions on love that, as we will see, are not merely ornamental additions but essentially inform the positions offered on love. From a historical perspective, therefore, the thesis of this book is that Thomas offers a consideration of love that is both philosophical and yet thoroughly theological. Exclusively philosophical investigations of the passions in the thought of Thomas Aquinas, illuminating as they are, fail to appreciate the full horizon of his thought, which is here essentially theological. The present book is therefore an invitation to this medieval symposium, which has more in common with the poetry of Dante—and our own ordinary lives—than with dusty scholastic disputes. It is a reminder that theology is a discourse born of faith, hope, and, above all, love. Two Theses: The Seed of Love and the Weight of Love What is the argument of this book? Dante and Augustine, the theological poet and the poetic theologian, would seem to sum it up best. The first point is that our loves grow into our virtues and our vices. As Dante wrote, through the mouth of Virgil, “Love is the seed in you of every virtue / and of every act which merits punishment” (Purgatorio 17.104–5).8 We will incline toward what we love until that 8. “Amor sementa in voi d’ogne virtute / e d’ogne operazion che merta pene.” Dante here is speaking not only of our affections but especially of our “mental” love, what we would call the will. The focus of this book is especially on the affection of love, but it does not neglect to consider our intellectual love as well.

Introduction 7 inclination becomes in us a second nature. The second point is that our habits, in turn, will determine the destiny of our lives. As Augustine so poignantly wrote (and who would know better than this erstwhile lover?): “Pondus meum amor meus”—my love is my weight (Confessions 13.9).9 Nothing escapes the gravity and weight of love in our lives. Thus, the point is twofold: love is the seed of all our virtues, and it is the gravity of our lives. Or, to join the two ideas, one might simply put it this way: we become what we love. Our loves, then, are not self-justifying. And our resolve to love in accord with the truth of reality often falters. There is perhaps something antiromantic about this view of love. The nineteenth-century Romantics sometimes seem to have pursued emotional exuberance for its own sake, feeling less of a need to measure this passion than did earlier composers and artists.10 This Romantic strand of the tradition is alive in our own day, now transposed to a moral, social, and political key.11 In contrast, Augustine and Thomas represent a premodern view that sees love not as something automatically and in9. On the recasting of this Greek, possibly Plotinian, philosophical idea in the thought of Augustine, see Joseph Torchia, “‘Pondus meum amor meus:’ The Weight-Metaphor in St. Augustine’s Early Philosophy,” Augustinian Studies 21 (1990): 163–76. As Torchia observes, “Augustine’s interpretations of the soul’s pondus are bound up with a uniquely Christian conception of ordo, wherein the human soul, as a free agent, exists in a scheme established by God for the realization of the greatest good. In the context of his ethical eudaimonism, the soul’s pondus can lead it toward those goods which can be lost involuntarily, or toward that changeless Good which insures an unending satisfaction in its possession. For Augustine, true freedom lies in this latter movement, that liberation from a striving after transitory goods which culminates in union with God, the final resting place of the soul’s love” (172–73). 10. Of course, this is more of a caricature of Romanticism than a portrait. While much Romantic literature, visual art, and music did display a great emotional exuberance, it was not without measure. One does, however, see a greater tendency toward excess of emotion than in earlier periods. Think of Beethoven’s works at the very early beginning of the Romantic era—not to mention those of Chopin, Liszt, Mahler, and Wagner, if one considers those all as Romantic composers—in comparison to the earlier and arguably more “measured” music of Mozart. 11. Alasdair MacIntyre has written of emotivism as a moral theory. To paraphrase this view, something is good insofar as I feel that it is good (“hurrah!”) and bad insofar as I feel it to be bad (“boo!”). See Alasdair MacIntyre, “Emotivism: Social Content and Social Context,” in After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 3rd ed. (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), 23–35.

8 Introduction trinsically good but as a force that can sculpt our lives into something beautiful and noble or into something ugly and wretched. Love can lead to virtue as much as it can lead to vice (though its natural bent is toward goodness). Love is good insofar as it draws us toward good, and love is evil insofar as it draws us toward evil. That indeterminacy should not diminish our high esteem for love, but it should lead us to regularly and honestly question our loves: Are they leading us deeper into the truth of reality? Or deeper into our own illusions? The questions related to love are manifold, and they do not admit of easy answers. Most obviously, for starters: What is love? Are there different kinds of love? What are these, and what is the relationship among them? Is there a hierarchy of loves? Are some loves better or worse than others? What are the causes of love? Why do we choose to love one thing over another? Is this choice to love predetermined? Is it the result of rational judgment? Or is it something that merely “happens” to us? Finally, what are the effects of love? Where does it lead us? Are some loves perfective of the lover and the beloved while others are pernicious and destructive? To follow up on that last question, if our loves lead to our ultimate perfection or destruction, we should take great care over the loves we choose to cultivate. We should know what causes love so as to better promote the higher loves within us. We should also know the effects of love so as to better appreciate its beauty and its power to shape our actions. If love is like a kind of gravity, then it will determine the orbit of our life and the weight of our character. And if happiness has something to do with the quality of our loves, we should pay attention to what we love and why—and perhaps ask some difficult questions. Are our loves in order? Are there some loves we have neglected that demand a higher allegiance or a greater fidelity? The most important purpose of such an exercise is not to measure others but to examine ourselves. In fact, the writing of this book has been as much an examination of conscience for myself as it has been an intellectual investigation. And so, I offer this study not so

Introduction 9 much as to present my original thoughts on the question, as if I were an authority on the matter—which, of course, I am not—but as one who seeks to learn from a tradition comprising the insights of men and women who are far more competent to discuss the question than I. This book is therefore not a final answer to any of these questions on love but an invitation for others to join, enrich, correct, and contribute to an important discussion that I have but lately entered. Two Classic Works on Love: Lewis and Pieper To that end, it would be important to note that many classic works have been written on the topic of love.12 Two popular works come to mind. The first of these is The Four Loves (1960) by C. S. Lewis.13 In this work, Lewis considers the distinctions between storgē (love as affection), philia (love as friendship), erōs (ecstatic love), and agapē (love as charity). Each of these words cannot really be condensed into a parenthetical explanation. Erōs, for example, has a much richer connotation than we normally give it due. Far more than being a “merely” romantic or sexual love, it can also encompass any kind of “going out” of oneself toward another in a kind of possessive ecstasy (91–115). Affection is the love that a parent would have for a child or that siblings might have for one another. More broadly, it might also be the genuine companionship one has with familiar colleagues at school or work (31–56). Friendship, as Lewis famously describes it, is a mutual love of two people gazing toward some third thing (57–90).14 One finds another self who loves what 12. In addition to the following recommendations, see footnote 6 above. The above works are more scholarly. The works discussed in this section are more popular and classic introductions to the topic. For a fuller discussion of Lewis, as well as the intellectual background that gave rise to the text, see the chapter entitled “The Lexicon of Love.” 13. C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves (New York: Houghton, Mifflin, Harcourt, 2012). Page numbers that follow are from this edition. 14. As Lewis writes, “Lovers are always talking to one another about their love; Friends hardly ever about their Friendship. Lovers are normally face to face, absorbed in each other; Friends, side-by-side, absorbed in some common interest” (Four Loves, 61).

10 Introduction one also loves. Lewis describes the beginning of this friendship as arising from an exclamation and surprise: “You, too, love what I love.”15 While lovers look at one another, friends look out toward a shared love. The deepest kind of friendship is thus a shared love of God (116–41). Charity, the love of God, and others for the sake of God, is, for Lewis, the genius of Christianity.16 Throughout this work, Lewis tends to approach the question from a Greco-Christian perspective. While the contribution of Lewis is not technically a scholarly work, having little regard for staking out a claim in the secondary literature, it is a classic in its own right, perhaps not to be exceeded in its concision, accessibility, and insight. The second work that comes to mind is Über die Liebe (On Love) by Josef Pieper, better known as part of his study of the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity.17 The work of Pieper discusses the theological virtue of charity in the writings of Thomas Aquinas, along with its other meanings in regard to the power of erōs, for example, and even the “love” of food and drink. For Pieper, the many meanings of love coalesce around the creative love of God who wills us into being: “It is good that you exist.” These two works are exemplary. I include them here as key references. Still, neither of these works looks in any great detail at the questions on the passion of love in the Prima secundae of the Summa Theologiae (ST I–II, qq. 26–28). Indeed, I do not know of a popular 15. Thus Lewis: “Friendship arises out of mere Companionship when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till that moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, ‘What? You too? I thought I was the only one.’ ” (Four Loves, 65). 16. Lewis distinguishes at this point between gift-love and need-love: “God, as creator of nature, implants in us both Gift-loves and Need-loves. The Gift-loves are natural images of Himself; proximities to Him by resemblance which are not necessarily and in all men proximities of approach” (Four Loves, 127). Lewis later writes: “That such a gift love comes by Grace and should be called Charity, everyone will agree” (129). Charity, Lewis says, also entails a kind of need-love for God, supernaturally bestowed, and a need-love for one another (129). 17. Josef Pieper, Über die Liebe (München: Kösel, 2014). For an English translation, see the final part of Josef Pieper, Faith, Hope, Love (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1997).

Introduction 11 introduction to these three questions at all, let alone a sustained and recent scholarly treatment of them. And yet, these questions in the Summa promise to provide rich food for contemplation and valuable inspiration for action. There is thus a space and need for a work that introduces and comments on these three questions on love in the Summa, according to the light of St. Thomas, a preeminent witness to the depths of the Christian theological tradition. On Method and Style: A “Systematic” and “Historical” Study This study, then, will present what one might call a Christian and, more particularly, a Catholic view of love, as springing from the Catholic Church, but also as the patrimony of all humanity, in the original sense of catholicity. To some extent, the fact that these views come from Thomas—or even that these views are Christian or Catholic—is not particularly relevant. The arguments can be judged on their own terms and in light of the reader’s own experiences. It is thus written not merely for persons of faith but for any seeker of truth and beauty. Further, although this work aims to present a Christian view of love, it is obviously not the only Christian take on the matter. The books that have been written on the topic are innumerable. This work merely aims to present one reading of one view of love from one theologian in the tradition and according to one interpretation of those texts. One might thus think of the views presented here as being a leitmotif in the much richer symphony of Christian thought.18 18. I think here of the insights of von Balthasar on unity and pluralism in creation and revelation. Hans Urs von Balthasar, Truth Is Symphonic: Aspects of Christian Pluralism (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1987). “The unity of the composition comes from God. That is why the world was, is and always will be pluralist (and—why not?—will be so increasingly). Of course, the world cannot get an overall view of its own pluralism, for the unity has never lain in the world either formerly or now. But the purpose of its pluralism is this: not to refuse to enter into the unity that lies in God and is imparted by him, but symphonically to get in tune with one another and give allegiance to the transcendent unity” (9).

12 Introduction To be clear, the goal in writing the following pages is not to provide a demonstrative argument for every claim made about love— nor is it an academic paper aiming to answer a narrow question in conversation with a select group of other scholars. The following pages will contain arguments, and these arguments are not irrelevant to academic debates.19 But that is not really the point. The specific goal, instead, is (1) to present a compelling view of love that is oftentimes at odds with our contemporary presuppositions and (2) to show why one might want to take this alternative view seriously as a corrective, or at least not dismiss it prematurely. This work is thus an invitation to think about the nature of love in light of our present situation, against the chiaroscuro of our yearnings for happiness and our disappointments in seeking it. Finally, a word about the style. The present study is something of a hybrid between a long-form essay and an exposition of part of the Summa. As a commentary on an earlier theological work, it falls into a medieval and early-modern genre. Although this kind of writing might sound terribly boring, as it sometimes is, it has the advantage of allowing the writer to adhere to the words of a master so as to carefully follow the thread of his or her thought. As an essay, it takes into account present concerns and proceeds in an exploratory way. I hope this gives the commentary a contemporary feeling that will dull the edge of boredom that it might otherwise provoke. I hope, further, that this dual style will render the unfamiliar more familiar so that readers may become interested enough to drink from the medieval sources for themselves. In terms of method, I tend to be skeptical of an overly rigid division between “systematic” and “historical” theology, although I rec19. My intention throughout is to suggest areas where scholarly debate is ongoing. Usually, these notes will be descriptive rather than polemical, suggesting the disagreement without necessarily resolving it. For the most part, I have also limited these discussions to the footnotes, so as not to interrupt the flow of the exposition. Nevertheless, I hope to make the point that one must read Thomas Aquinas on theological terms to grasp the fullness of his thought on the passion of love. The Summa is not in places merely philosophical; the whole is theological (see ST proem).

Introduction 13 ognize that one can theorize a great deal about the relationship between these two approaches. It seems to me, on the one hand, that systematic theology, if it is not to become myopic, must make careful reference to the archive of traditions. On the other hand, historical theology—if it is to be properly theological and not merely historical—must be prosecuted in an orderly way that seeks not only to inquire what some figure thought, indispensable as that step may be, but also to ask whether or not the position is actually true.20 Nevertheless, if we are to think in historical and systematic terms, this work tends to lean toward the historical side insofar as it seeks to retrace the thought of Thomas Aquinas on the question of love, as best as we are able to do from our limited vantage point of the present day. It is systematic insofar as it follows the ordered thought of St. Thomas on the question of love and in so doing hopes to glimpse something of the truth about the subject of the passion of love.21 It is also systematic in that, while focusing on the thought of Aquinas, it will take into account other relevant philosophical and theological resources. According to this method, we will argue on behalf of three theses. The first we might call historical: (1) in order to properly expos20. On the question of integrating the “historical” and “systematic” tasks of theology in modern Dominican theology, see Thomas Joseph White, “The Precarity of Wisdom: Modern Dominican Theology, Perspectivalism, and the Tasks of Reconstruction,” in Ressourcement Thomism, ed. Matthew Levering and Reinhard Hütter (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 92–123. We ought not see the paths of Chenu and Garrigou-Lagrange as mutually exclusive, though these figures obviously came into conflict and do not admit of any automatic resolution. 21. Still, I prefer not to think of the theology of Thomas as a system, which might imply that it is either complete or closed off from further development. It seems to me that it is something closer to an open program of research (to borrow a phrase from James Brent) in which the subject matter—God and the whole of creation—remains ever mysterious, beyond us, and therefore open to ever deeper contemplation. The Summa, of course, is an unfinished work, and it is not insignificant, I think, that Thomas produced several theological “syntheses” (to use a term from Gilles Emery), none of which follows the same order (for example, the Compendium Theologiae, the Summa contra Gentiles, the Summa Theologiae, and the Scriptum, if one is willing to consider that work as being synthetic). Thomas himself thus points to the richness of the subject and its multifaceted inexhaustibility.

14 Introduction it Aquinas, one must read the Thomasian account of the passion of love in theological terms.22 Not to do so either will cause befuddlement on the part of the reader—when, for example, he comes upon a discussion of divine ecstasy, charity, and numerous scriptural references—or will risk a too superficial and merely philosophical reading.23 From a systematic and conceptual perspective, we will attempt to illuminate both (2) how love is the seed in us of every virtue and every vice, following the insight of Dante, and (3) how it is the gravity or weight (pondus) of our lives, drawing us toward felicity or misery, as Augustine knew. Regarding the outline of topics, the first part of this essay will explore the nature and kinds of love: especially the distinction between natural, sensitive, and rational love, along with a few other key distinctions (ST I–II, q. 26). The second part will examine the causes of love: goodness, knowledge, and likeness (ST I–II, q. 27). And the third part will investigate the effects of love: union, mutual indwelling, ecstasy, zeal, and action (ST I–II, q. 28). The first chapter, in laying out the background for the rest of the book, will be longer than the others. It can be read in preparation for the rest of the book, although one could also profitably skip to particular sections about the kinds of love, the causes of love, or the effects of love, as one needs. Part 1 of the book will also involve a more complete apparatus of footnotes, since it lays the foundation for much of what comes later in the book and introduces a wide range of philosophical concepts that require greater exposition. Parts two and three, therefore, will be more self-contained. 22. I will use the term “Thomasian” to refer exclusively to the thought of Thomas Aquinas. I reserve the term “Thomistic” for the thought of later commentators and disciples who aim to interpret the Common Doctor. 23. I do not use the term “merely philosophical” in a pejorative sense. Philosophy for St. Thomas is indispensable to the project of theology as helping to manifest (ad manifestandum) the truths of the faith (see, for example, ST I, q. 1, a. 8, ad 2: “Utitur tamen sacra doctrina etiam ratione humana, non quidem ad probandum fidem, quia per hoc tolleretur meritum fidei; sed ad manifestandum aliqua alia quae traduntur in hac doctrina. Cum enim gratia non tollat naturam, sed perficiat, oportet quod naturalis ratio subserviat fidei.”

Introduction 15 Regarding the footnotes: this work can be read in two ways. (1) The undergraduate reader or interested nonspecialist can profitably read through the text without much attention to the footnotes. Of course, he or she may consult them as desired. (2) The graduate reader or professional may find the footnotes useful insofar as they point out areas for further reading, occasional scholarly debates, or contextual asides. The inclusion of Latin texts is intended as a courtesy for readers who may want to quickly check the ipsissima verba of Thomas without hunting down the reference. There are thus two “layers” to the book, and one need not feel duty bound to consult the footnotes if they distract from the reading of the main text. One can glean the main arguments from the body of the text and check the notes as one wishes. We should begin our exploration of the passion of love by recalling that Thomas was a faithful disciple of Augustine.24 In a deeper sense, beyond any of the theses we hope to explore, the ultimate goal of this study is to rightly understand the ancient wisdom of Augustine against all its facile misinterpretations: “Love, and do what you will.”25 24. On this aspect of Aquinas, see Michael Dauphinais, Barry David, and Matthew Levering, eds., Aquinas the Augustinian (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2007). 25. Augustine, Sermo 110.8 (Homily 7 on 1 Jn 4:4–12): “Dilige et quod vis fac.” Behind both Thomas and Augustine, of course, we recall that “God is love, and he who abides in love, abides in God, and God abides in him” (1 Jn 1:46).

Part 1 The Nature of Love

Chapter 1

The Hierarchy of Love

1

The Hierarchy of Love: Natural, Sensitive, and Rational Love Amor Naturalis • Amor Sensitivus • Amor Intellectivus [ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1]

We are beings in love. In this regard, Dante was right: “Neither creator nor creature ever was without love.”1 Virgil here is speaking to Dante the pilgrim at the exact midpoint of the Commedia, in canto seventeen of the Purgatorio. Virgil goes on to explain in some of the most oft-quoted lines of the poem how love is the seed of virtue and vice. In some ways these tercets capture the whole program of what one finds in the questions on love in Thomas Aquinas: natural and chosen love, the possibility of erring through excess and defect, the final end of God as being the ultimate measure of our loves, and the good and evil fruit that love can bear: The natural is always without error, but mental love may choose an evil object or err through too much or too little vigor. 1. “ ‘Né creator né creatura mai’ / cominciò el, ‘figliuol, fu sanza amore / o naturale o d’animo; e tu ’l sai’ ” (Purgatorio 17.91–92). Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, trans. Allen Mandelbaum (New York: Knopf, 1995).

19

20

Chapter 1 As long as it’s directed toward the First Good and tends toward secondary goods with measure, it cannot be the cause of evil pleasure; but when it twists toward evil, or attends to good with more or less care than it should, those whom He made have worked against their Maker. From this you see that—of necessity— love is the seed in you of every virtue and of all acts deserving punishment.2

All this should be evident from our experience of living in the world. We are shot like arrows toward a target.3 Our desires are manifold and unrelenting. Many of them are not of our making. We do not choose, for example, our hunger for food and our thirst for drink. We do not choose our tiredness or our demand for sleep. We do not choose our need to breathe. But even among these basic needs we find an end-directedness: a fittingness and congruence between what we are as human beings and what we desire.4 The list also extends to 2. Purgatorio 17.91–105 (Mandelbaum translation). 3. Thomas is fond of citing the analogy of the archer and the arrow (sicut sagitta a sagittante) with regard to natural teleology. See the citation in ST I, q. 2, a. 3, in his argument for the existence of God, starting from the governance of the world. In this passage he is referring to creatures that do not have intelligence. 4. Of course, the exact nature of what we naturally desire has become a belabored and labyrinthine scholarly debate among interpreters of St. Thomas. Regardless of where one stands on the issue, the disputes in the twentieth century on nature and grace have highlighted the complexity of the question. To put the question simply: Does man have a natural desire for the beatific vision? If so, would that imply that man has a natural desire for the “supernatural” or what is above his nature? And would that compromise the gratuity of grace? One begins to see how the relationship and distinction between nature and grace is at the root of this question. We will not attempt to adjudicate the answer here. One could hardly hope to do so in a footnote. The seminal text, of course, is from the Jesuit theologian Henri de Lubac. Henri de Lubac, Surnaturel: Études Historiques, ed. Michael Sales (Paris: Desclee de Brouwer, 2017). For de Lubac, it seems that we have a natural desire for the supernatural: “Désir naturel du surnaturel: c’est en nous l’action permanente du Dieu qui crée notre nature, comme la grâce est en nous l’action permanente du Dieu qui créel’ordre moral” (193). Notwithstanding disputes one may take with de Lubac, his writing is at times stunningly beautiful: “Nous comprendrons que la mesure de notre désir est la mesure même de notre dépendance” (188). For an English translation, see Henri de Lubac, The Mystery of the Supernatural, trans. Rosemary Sheed (New York: Herder & Herder, 1998).



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higher goods. We yearn for friendship and for companionship. We yearn to be known as we are—in all of our successes and failures, however difficult this might seem to us. We demand justice in the face of discrimination, peace in the face of violence, concord in the face of turmoil. We also desire to know, not merely for the sake of making or doing something, but for its own sake.5 We glance at the stars and wonder at the expanse of the universe. Where did all of this come For a relatively positive appreciation of de Lubac’s contribution, see the following. Nicholas Healy, “Henri de Lubac on Nature and Grace: A Note on Some Recent Contributions to the Debate,” Communio 35 (2008): 535–64. Simon Oliver, “Radical Orthodoxy and Henri de Lubac,” in T&T Clark Companion to Henri de Lubac, ed. Jordan Hillebert (London: T&T Clark, 2017), 393–418. On Oliver’s view, “the vision of God is connatural only to God and cannot be achieved by humanity’s natural power, even though the desire for that ultimate end is apparently natural.” This, for Oliver, is a paradox that one must accept. For some responses, which tend toward questioning the position of de Lubac, see the following. Serge-Thomas Bonino, ed., Surnaturel: A Controversy at the Heart of Twentieth-Century Thomistic Thought (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2009). Lawrence Feingold, The Natural Desire to See God According to St. Thomas Aquinas and His Interpreters, 2nd ed. (Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2010). Thomas Joseph White, “Imperfect Happiness and the Final End of Man: Thomas Aquinas and the Paradigm of Nature-Grace Orthodoxy,” The Thomist 78, no. 2 (2014): 247–89. Reinhard Hütter, “Aquinas on the Natural Desire for the Vision of God: A Relecture of Summa Contra Gentiles III, c. 25 après Henri De Lubac,” The Thomist 73, no. 4 (2009): 523–91. Hütter offers some helpful comments on how this exegetical question on the writings of Thomas could have generated so much controversy. Citing a neglected study by William O’Connor, Hütter observes: “Since the days of the principal sixteenth-century commentators on Aquinas’s thought on the natural desire for the vision of God, one can usefully distinguish between a tradition of minimizing and a tradition of maximizing interpreters. These two tendencies of interpretation draw in differing ways upon two series of texts in the vast corpus of the angelic doctor. In the first series of texts, Aquinas understands the desire to know the essence of the First Cause as a natural desire; in the second series he holds that the desire to know the divine essence is supernatural. Both series of texts run from the early through the later works and Aquinas sees no need anywhere to reconcile them” (523–24). On the twofold happiness, of man, see, for example, ST I–II, q. 62, a. 1: “Est autem duplex hominis beatitudo sive felicitas, ut supra dictum est [ST I–II, q. 5, a. 5]. Una quidem proportionata humanae naturae, ad quam scilicet homo pervenire potest per principia suae naturae. Alia autem est beatitudo naturam hominis excedens, ad quam homo sola divina virtute pervenire potest, secundum quandam divinitatis participationem.” 5. One immediately thinks here of the first lines of Aristotle’s Metaphysics: “All men by nature desire to know.” “Πάντες ἄνθρωποι τοῦ εἰδέναι ὀρέγονται φύσει” (Metaphysics 980a21).

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from? Where is it all going? And what is my place in this dizzying array of constellations? This first chapter is an attempt to think through some of those questions in a preliminary way so as to situate the later discussion about love. We will attempt to place the passion of love within a wider horizon that includes our natural love and our intellectual love. It will be one of the more conceptually difficult chapters in the book, since it aims to set up the metaphysical foundations of love, as regards the direction of our nature and the divine source from which that orientation arises. It is also one of the longest chapters in the book as it seeks to establish the needed background, with additional footnotes to point the reader toward more intricate discussions of these topics. One need not master all of this material to profitably engage the later articles of Aquinas. In fact, one might want to read quickly through these pages to get a sense of direction, without getting lost in the details. If questions arise after finishing later sections of the book, one can return to this chapter and the discussion in the footnotes for further consideration. Three Appetites As just noted, we are beings in love. Some of these loves are chosen. But some loves are not. All of this is to say that we exist with an “appetite” that is not of our choosing.6 We are hungry for truth and goodness and beauty. Our hunger manifests our appetite. We can choose not to eat, but we cannot choose not to be hungry. We can choose not to sleep, but we cannot choose not to be tired. We can choose not to pursue friendships, but we cannot choose not to feel the ache of lone6. As many scholars have observed, the Latin word appetitus resists translation. Robert Miner writes, “The Latin term appetitus has resonances that the English word ‘appetite’ lacks. . . . In its main signification, the term denotes a ‘reaching toward something’ ” (Thomas Aquinas on the Passions, 16). Miner cites Eleanor Stump’s various renderings of the word: desire, tendency, inclination, attraction (16). On Miner’s account, in its “most proper” sense it is “a stretching forth or reaching out to what an agent wants but lacks” (16n4).



The Hierarchy of Love 23

liness. As St. Thomas puts it, “Every appetite is on account of some need, because it is not had.”7 In some sense our desires are written into what we are—that is to say, our natures.8 Our freedom is thus, perhaps, not as radical as we might first conceive.9 Thomas explains this goal-directedness, and our loves, in terms of appetite. As noted, the term “appetite” (appetitus), in this and other passages, does not have the same connotations as the English cognate. The term comes from the Latin verb petere, meaning “to seek,” and the prefix ad, meaning “toward.” Appetite in this sense is a “seeking toward” or “seeking after” something. It is thus, broadly, an inclination or desire toward some general or specific good. “Appetite” thus names a certain kind of goal-directedness, a longing after the good. It is not unlike the ache that a lover might feel for his beloved, unconsciously guiding his thoughts and feelings. “Appetite” can also name the desiring powers in general, as opposed to the desire itself. In this sense, Aquinas speaks of the sensitive appetite, the intellectual appetite, and the natural appetite. In this usage, the ability, faculty, or power to desire is named on account of the desire itself. The sensitive appetite, for example, is a passive power, an ability to be acted upon by something that provokes a particular emotional response, such as joy or sadness. The intellectual appetite, also called the will, is the power by which we choose on 7. In Physic. I, lect. 15, n. 8: “Appetitus autem omnis est propter indigentiam, quia est non habiti.” 8. St. Thomas discusses the meaning of nature, following Aristotle, in his De Ente et Essentia: “Tamen nomen naturae hoc modo sumptae videtur significare essentiam rei, secundum quod habet ordinem ad propriam operationem rei” (n. 10). Nature names the essence of a thing, what it is, in light of its order toward action. Our nature describes what we are (rational animals) and therefore how we act (growing, sensing, thinking, and so on). 9. For Aquinas, we are not free not to desire happiness. Put in positive terms, all human beings desire happiness. On this account, even the suicidal person would be seen as pursuing his happiness, thinking of it perhaps as an end to the perception of present or future suffering. See ST I–II, q. 5, a. 8 (on whether every man desires happiness): “Respondeo dicendum quod beatitudo dupliciter potest considerari. Uno modo, secundum communem rationem beatitudinis. Et sic necesse est quod omnis homo beatitudinem velit. Ratio autem beatitudinis communis est ut sit bonum perfectum.” Every man desires happiness, understood generally as the perfect good.

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the basis of a free judgment.10 We will return to these distinctions in greater detail, but the main point for us here is this: all of these appetites have this in common—a directedness toward some proper end. In sum, the term “appetite” can name either (1) a specific desire or (2) the capacity by which we desire. So, on the one hand, this term can signify desire: “appetite is nothing other than the inclination of the one seeking toward something.”11 On the other hand, it can name the ability in virtue of which we love, desire, and so on. As noted above, three different appetites provide the basis for three kinds of love. Natural appetite corresponds to natural love; sensitive appetite corresponds to sensitive love, or what we call the passion of love; and rational appetite, the will, corresponds to rational love.12 We will explore these three appetites and loves in turn. As St. Thomas proceeds, he distinguishes three desires and shows how these desires point toward a proper principle of love. He thus moves backward from desire toward love, from effect to cause, and, generally, from what is better known to us toward what is less known to us.13 Natural Desire: Starting from Divine Knowledge Thomas first considers the natural appetite. This is one of the most difficult, though important, concepts in this study, so the following quotation might at first seem rather obscure: 10. See ST I, q. 80, a. 2, on the distinction of the sensitive and intellectual appetite. Thomas distinguishes them according to their objects: one has a sensible object; the other has an intelligible object: “Quia igitur est alterius generis apprehensum per intellectum et apprehensum per sensum, consequens est quod appetitus intellectivus sit alia potentia a sensitivo.” 11. ST I, q. 8, a. 1: “Omnis autem appetitus non est nisi boni. Cuius ratio est quia appetitus nihil aliud est quam inclinatio appetentis in aliquid. Nihil autem inclinatur nisi in aliquid simile et conveniens.” On this article, see also III Sent. d. 26, q. 2, a. 1; III Sent. d. 27, q. 1, a. 2. 12. “Sensitive appetite” is an awkward translation of the Latin, as indicating that there is something fragile or touchy about it. One might better say “sensate appetite,” as indicating that it is a sense-based power, though this translation, too, lacks literary elegance and runs, again, into the problem of translating appetitus. 13. One could argue that desire is better known to us as being a motion. We are more apt to notice what is in motion than to notice things at rest. If love is at rest, being the principle of desire, it will be less noticeable.



The Hierarchy of Love 25

Love is something belonging to the appetite, since the object of each is the good. So as there is a difference of appetite there is a difference of love. For there is a certain appetite not following on the apprehension of the one desiring but [following on the apprehension] of another, and an appetite of this sort is called natural. For natural things seek what belongs to them according to their nature, not through their own apprehension, but through the apprehension of the one who establishes the nature.14

Again, we can say that every desire follows from a different love. Natural desire follows from natural love. Spiritual, or intellectual, desire follows from spiritual love. Sensitive or sensate desire follows from sensitive love. Not surprisingly, Thomas here traces our natural desire back to our nature, and he traces our nature back to God.15 Since God is the author of our nature, the goal-directedness of our nature, above all, toward happiness, follows from divine design.16 In this sense, our natural desire, rooted in our natural appetite, flows from the creativity of God.17 14. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “Respondeo dicendum quod amor est aliquid ad appetitum pertinens, cum utriusque obiectum sit bonum. Unde secundum differentiam appetitus est differentia amoris. Est enim quidam appetitus non consequens apprehensionem ipsius appetentis, sed alterius, et huiusmodi dicitur appetitus naturalis. Res enim naturales appetunt quod eis convenit secundum suam naturam, non per apprehensionem propriam, sed per apprehensionem instituentis naturam, ut in I libro dictum est.” 15. On the definition of natural appetite, see ST I, q. 78, a. 1: “Appetitus naturalis est inclinatio cuiuslibet rei in aliquid, ex natura sua, unde naturali appetitu quaelibet potentia desiderat sibi conveniens.” We desire certain things in virtue of certain powers only because those powers are first in a certain nature (and able to desire what they desire in virtue of being in that nature). So, for example, a squirrel may desire to eat a certain acorn in virtue of its sensitive appetite, following on sense cognition, but this desire itself is grounded in its natural desire for self-preservation. The squirrel perceives the form of the acorn with its sense. It does not perceive its self-preservation. 16. Of course, our desire for any particular good is elicited, or drawn out, by our exposure to those goods, whether it be the good of friendship or of a chocolate eclair. But the primal orientation toward the good is from God. 17. There is some ambiguity in the body of the article. Thomas refers to the natural, sensitive, and rational appetite. He notes that each of these appetites “follows on” some apprehension, either of God or of the desiring creature. This would seem to suggest that the appetite under consideration is not the capacity to desire but the desire itself, since desire follows on apprehension. Further, it would not make sense to say that the capacity for sensitive or rational desire follows on apprehension, but that the apprehension informs the power. We have chosen to discuss the appetites here as capacities or powers, since these powers are the basis for the subsequent loves we will discuss. However, it is

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The “natural appetite” in man is the appetite of our nature: the path upon which our nature sets us.18 But what does it mean to have a nature? And what does this have to do with love? To name the nature of a thing is to name what it is. To have a certain nature is to have a distinct way of being in the world—to grow and live and die according to a certain pattern.19 Concretely, as noted earlier, we do not choose many of our desires or longings, such as the need to breathe, sleep, eat, or drink, let alone the need for friendship, truth, and justice.20 The ultimate longing for completion that we all feel, on the view of Thomas, is the desire for happiness. The desire for happiness is the cause of everything else that we do.21 In this sense, it is important to note that St. Thomas himself seems to first identify three kinds of desire and derives from them three kinds of love. This procedure makes sense insofar as desire, which is a motion, is more sensibly obvious to us than love, which is the principle of that motion. Aquinas thus moves from discussing what is more noticeable to us (desire) toward discussing what is less noticeable (love)—that is, from effect to cause. 18. On the discussion of natural appetite in man as ordered toward happiness, in the context of a question on angelic will, see ST I, q. 60, a. 2 (emphasis added): Respondeo dicendum quod in angelis est quaedam dilectio naturalis et quaedam electiva. Et naturalis dilectio in eis est principium electivae, quia semper id quod pertinet ad prius, habet rationem principii; unde, cum natura sit primum quod est in unoquoque, oportet quod id quod ad naturam pertinet, sit principium in quolibet. Et hoc apparet in homine et quantum ad intellectum, et quantum ad voluntatem. Intellectus enim cognoscit principia naturaliter, et ex hac cognitione causatur in homine scientia conclusionum, quae non cognoscuntur naturaliter ab homine, sed per inventionem vel doctrinam. Similiter in voluntate finis hoc modo se habet, sicut principium in intellectu, ut dicitur in II Physic. Unde voluntas naturaliter tendit in suum finem ultimum, omnis enim homo naturaliter vult beatitudinem. Et ex hac naturali voluntate causantur omnes aliae voluntates, cum quidquid homo vult, velit propter finem. Dilectio igitur boni quod homo naturaliter vult sicut finem, est dilectio naturalis, dilectio autem ab hac derivata, quae est boni quod diligitur propter finem, est dilectio electiva. 19. Aristotle refers to nature more precisely as “the principle of motion and rest in that to which it belongs, primarily and per se” (see Physics 2.1, 192b20–23). It is, more briefly, an intrinsic principle of motion and rest. For example, humans develop and mature in line with certain normative patterns. Porcupines, oak trees, and sea anemones develop along other lines. Despite the material differences obtaining among different members of the same species, they follow a similar pattern of being in the world, having the same kind of nature. 20. On this view, any notion of totally unconditioned freedom would be illusory. Our freedom is already ordered toward a certain end, happiness, although we might move toward that end in any number of ways. 21. On the metaphysical necessity for positing a single end of human life, see ST I–II, q. 1, a. 4: “Sic ergo ex neutra parte possibile est in infinitum procedere, quia si non esset



The Hierarchy of Love 27

the final goal of human life. Thomas takes the strong view of this position: “It is necessary that all things which man desires, he desires on account of the last end” (ST I–II, q. 1, a. 6). Nothing escapes the “gravity” of the final end of life. In Aristotelian terms, it is the final cause of our actions. Our nature sets us on the path to these desires, which culminate in the ultimate desire: for happiness. One might think here of happiness in terms of satisfaction, in the sense of having enough (satis). If one does not feel satisfaction in any particular area, one will go on seeking satisfaction. If this desire for satisfaction is ordered toward creatures, the result will be disastrous, since we have an infinite desire, whereas created goods are finite. For St. Thomas, one must direct our restlessness toward God, the perfect good, who gives rest to our striving. The only other alternative would be a kind of annihilation of desire, which for St. Thomas would probably seem implausible apart from the annihilation of the creature itself, along with its natural desire. Where do these natural longings come from, these longings we do not choose? As St. Thomas points out in this text, our natural desires do not follow upon our own apprehension. It is written into our hearts “by the one establishing the nature” (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1). According to St. Thomas, of course, the founder and author of our nature is the God who creates us.22 Our nature and its telic directionality come from a higher intelligence that sets us on our way, not as a watchmaker who sets a clock, but as one who holds us in existence at every moment of our lives.23 ultimus finis, nihil appeteretur, nec aliqua actio terminaretur, nec etiam quiesceret intentio agentis; si autem non esset primum in his quae sunt ad finem, nullus inciperet aliquid operari, nec terminaretur consilium, sed in infinitum procederet.” Without a single end, no action would take place, because the end is first in intention. Without an ultimate intention, there can be no action. 22. At this stage in the text, St. Thomas takes this point for granted. On the existence of God, much has been written. The locus classicus of this position, though regularly questioned and even maligned (sometimes fairly, sometimes not), is still ST I, q. 2, a. 3. St. Thomas, of course, has written a great deal elsewhere, as in the Summa contra Gentiles and the De Ente et Essentia. On the understanding of God as creator, see ST I, q. 40, especially a. 1. 23. This is the argument of the fifth way (quinta via) in ST I, q. 2, a. 3 (ex gubernatione rerum).

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In fact, Thomas believes that the goal-directedness of creatures points us back to God. In the fifth way for demonstrating the existence of God, for example, the Common Doctor starts from “the governance of the world” (ST I, q. 2, a. 3). In this argument, the purposiveness of unintelligent creatures implies the existence of a governing mind that moves all things toward their end.24 Many critics suppose that modern theories of evolution by natural selection render this argument irrelevant.25 Interestingly, however, St. Thomas does not speak about living beings here at all. He refers, rather, to “natural bodies” (corpora naturalia). These might very well include 24. Another common objection to the fifth way (quinta via) equates the argument with claims for intelligent design. The fifth way is decidedly not an intelligent design argument, which argues from the complexity of the world to a designing intelligence. The fifth way does not argue from the existence of complexity in the world but from the phenomenon of purposiveness—that is, of being ordered toward an end, which would seem to presuppose an intention. This purposiveness might be as simple as a stone’s tending to fall to the earth. See ST I, q. 2, a. 3: “The fifth way is taken from the governance of things (rerum). For we see that some things which lack cognition, namely, corporeal bodies, operate on account of an end, which appears from this, that they always or frequently act in the same way, as they achieve that which is best; so, it is clear that they do not act by chance, but they arrive at their end from an intention. And those things which do not have cognition do not tend into the end unless directed by something knowing and intelligent, just as the arrow by the archer. Therefore, there is something intelligent, by which all natural things are ordered toward the end, and this we call God.” 25. For an (affirmative) Thomistic response to evolution, see Nicanor Austriaco et al., Thomistic Evolution: A Catholic Approach to Understanding Evolution in the Light of Faith, 2nd ed. (Washington, DC: Cluny Media, 2019). See especially the discussion of the fittingness of evolutionary creation (141–48). The topic has spawned some debate, even among interpreters of Aquinas. For example, Nicanor Austriaco’s affirmative account of the compatibility of Thomasian natural philosophy and evolution through natural selection conflicts with the position of Michael Chabarek, who holds that the two are not compatible. Austriaco et alia state that arguments from intelligent design, while perhaps suggestive, are not demonstrable. Chabarek makes more room for these types of arguments. See Michael Chaberek, Aquinas and Evolution (Lexington, KY: Chartwell Press, 2017). For another affirmative account of evolution and Thomasian natural philosophy, see Mariusz Tabaczek, “The Metaphysics of Evolution: From Aquinas’s Interpretation of Augustine’s Concept of Rationes Seminales to the Contemporary Thomistic Account of Species Transformism,” Nova et Vetera 18, no. 3 (2020): 945–72. On the question of chaos theory and Thomasian natural philosophy, see Wojciech P. Grygiel, “The Metaphysics of Chaos: A Thomistic View of Entropy and Evolution,” The Thomist 66, no. 2 (2002): 251–66.



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the elements, either as we conceive of them or as St. Thomas did, in terms of earth, air, fire, and water.26 Given certain initial conditions, these elements act in stable and predictable ways. Stones fall to the earth. Fire rises toward the sky. Water freezes at a certain temperature. Why do these bodies act in these ways at all? To ask the question another way: Why are there any “laws of nature” in the modern sense? Evolution does not explain these laws but presupposes them for its unfolding.27 Thomas suggests, in a bold way, at least to our ears, that the only adequate explanation for purposive actions in nature must be an intelligence that foresees and directs all things toward their end. Purposive action thus presupposes intelligence. For things to act consistently for an end, whether they know it or not, requires foreknowledge of that end, even if that knowledge is in the mind of another. An (insufficient) analogy might be the foreman directing his workers on a construction project: the foreman alone knows the complete end, in terms of the final blueprint, but the individual workers carry out their tasks in accord with that end, even though they may not realize the end to which their individual actions tend.28 The point of bringing up the fifth way, the argument from the 26. For an introduction to the natural philosophy of St. Thomas, see his De Principiis Naturae. Joseph Bobik, Aquinas on Matter and Form and the Elements: A Translation and Interpretation of the De Principiis Naturae and the De Mixtione Elementorum of St. Thomas Aquinas (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1998). Bobik discusses Thomasian natural philosophy in light of contemporary physics in pp. 243–316. 27. For an accessible introduction, from a nontechnical perspective, to some of these arguments for the existence of God and their background in natural philosophy, see chapter 3 (on natural theology) in Edward Feser, Aquinas (Oxford: Oneworld, 2009). For a more creative approach to arguments for the existence of God by the same author, ranging beyond Aquinas, see Edward Feser, Five Proofs of the Existence of God (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2017). Neither book purports to be a strictly historical exegesis of Aquinas, but they are helpful starting points for those interested in further exploration. 28. The analogy is insufficient, not least because the individual workers do have knowledge of some proximate end, such as bricklaying or carpentry, even if they do not have knowledge of the final end, in terms of how the workers coordinate to bring about the whole, finished structure. The purposive action of air or fire does not involve such knowledge on the part of the elements, though they are still directed consistently toward some end.

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purposiveness of natural bodies, is not to provide any compelling defense of it here. Readers can look elsewhere for those debates.29 The point for Thomas is that we do not choose many of our desires or the shape of our existence as rational animals. These are given to us. And our happiness depends on living in accord with the end given. According to Thomas, only the infinite good, God, will satisfy. Something other than God—wealth, honor, glory, power, pleasure—will leave the seeker restless for more. To paraphrase Thomas in this question, only the infinite can satisfy an infinite desire (ST I–II, q. 2, a. 8).30 For many readers, this point will be empirically verifiable. Experience suggests that we all desire happiness. Even those who seem to thwart or sabotage their happiness are seeking it, though in a misguided way. Thus, the man who directs his whole life toward accumulating wealth probably equates happiness with wealth. We could say the same thing about the person who seeks pleasure or prestige or power. Who among us has not at some time felt the pull of these alternatives to genuine happiness? On such a reading, the will to power is nothing other than a misguided attempt at happiness (see ST I–II, q. 2, a. 4). Again, radical freedom, if understood in terms of totally unconditioned freedom, is a metaphysical impossibility for Aquinas (see ST I–II, q. 1, a. 4). While all men desire happiness in a vague way, not all men understand that in which happiness consists (ST I–II, q. 5, a. 8).31 29. For an accessible starting point, see the texts cited in n. 27 above. 30. See ST I–II, q. 3. For an introduction to Aquinas on happiness, see the following. Josef Pieper, Happiness and Contemplation (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1998). For Pieper, “Man desires happiness by nature, that is, in the same manner as the falling stone seeks the depths. ‘By nature’ means: by virtue of his creation” (5). For a historical study of happiness across the career of Aquinas, see Servais Pinckaers, “Aquinas’s Pursuit of Beatitude: From the Commentary on the Sentences to the Summa Theologiae,” in The Pinckaers Reader: Renewing Thomistic Moral Theology, ed. John Berkman and Craig Steven Titus (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 93–114. See also Pinckaers, “Beatitude and the Beatitudes in Aquinas’s Summa Theologiae,” in Pinckaers Reader, 115–29. 31. Jean-Paul Sartre is far from being the first to suggest such a notion of freedom. William of Ockham (d. 1347) suggests something like it. On the account of Servais Pinckaers, “According to Saint Thomas, freedom was rooted in the soul’s spontaneous



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Thomas uses the example of the archer and the arrow to make his point: the arrow would not fly toward the target, consistently and accurately, unless directed by an archer. Thomas concludes the argument thus: “Therefore, there is something intelligent, by which all natural things are ordered toward the end, and this we call God” (ST I, q. 2, a. 3). Just as the archer shoots an arrow toward the target, so does God shoot man toward his target. This final end of life, the “target” of human existence, is happiness. And happiness, ultimately, is to be with God, who is the perfect and infinite good, who alone can satisfy the limitless longing of the heart. The first love is thus a love not of our choosing. It is our love for happiness, for a final and perfect rest of the will that yearns for nothing more. Only the infinite can satisfy this hunger. Sensate Desire and Rational Desire: Starting from Human Knowledge There are two other kinds of appetite, besides the natural one. These are probably more familiar to us and more intuitive to grasp. The first corresponds to the emotion or passion of love.32 The other corinclinations to the true and the good. His entire moral doctrine was based on the natural human disposition toward beatitude and the perfection of good, as to an ultimate end. A person can never renounce this natural order of things, nor be prevented from desiring it. For Ockham, the state of being ordered to happiness, however natural and general, was subject to the free and contingent choice of human freedom. This meant that I could freely choose or refuse happiness, either in particular matters presented to me or in general, in the very desire which attracted me to it, owing to the radical indifference of my freedom.” Servais Pinckaers, “Freedom of Indifference: The Origin of Obligational Moral Theory,” in The Sources of Christian Ethics (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1995), 332–33. 32. “Passion” is a technical term for Aquinas, and it does not necessarily map onto our conception of emotion or feeling. See ST I–II, q. 22, aa. 1–3. As Servais Pinckaers observes, “For Saint Thomas the term ‘passion’ does not carry the pejorative connotation that it acquired in the modern era, signifying a violent sentiment that overpowers reason. It simply concerns sensate movements. We could speak of the sentiments or the emotions, either good or bad.” See Pinckaers, “Reappropriating Aquinas’s Account of the Passions (1990),” in Pinckaers Reader, 274. See also Nicholas Lombardo: “ ‘Passion,’ writes Aquinas, ‘is a movement of the sense appetite caused by imagining good or evil’ [ST I–II, q. 22, a. 3]. This pithy definition, borrowed from John Damascene [De Fide Orthodoxa, 2.22] and replete with Aristotelian

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responds to rational love or what we often call the will. Immediately after his discussion of the natural appetite, Thomas writes about these two other appetites: There is another appetite following the apprehension of the seeker, but it follows from necessity, and not from free judgment. And this is the sensitive appetite in brute animals, which nevertheless, among men, partakes of freedom to some degree, inasmuch as it obeys reason [inquantum obedit rationi]. And there is another appetite following on the apprehension of the seeker according to free judgment [secundum liberum iudicium]. And such is the rational or intellective appetite, which is called the will.33

In contrast to natural desire, which does not follow from an apprehension of the one desiring, these two latter desires do derive terminology, summarizes his understanding of the passions of the soul. A passion is a physiological and psychological response to the apprehension of a sensible good or a sensible evil, that is, an object that is known through the senses, and judged to be either good or evil. There are two important moments in the structure of passion: the apprehension of an object, and then the passion itself, in which the object acts upon the sense appetite through this apprehension and elicits movement from the sense appetite.” Nicholas E. Lombardo, The Logic of Desire: Aquinas on Emotion (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 20. The passions play a critical role in the moral life for Aquinas. For a less conventional approach to the ethics of Thomas Aquinas, see Eleonore Stump, “The Non-Aristotelian Character of Aquinas’ Ethics: Aquinas on the Passions,” Tópicos 42, no. 1 (2013): 27–50. Stump writes: “Taking Aquinas’s ethics as fundamentally Aristotelian has become almost scholarly dogma by now, and there is some reason for it. Aquinas’s ethics is a virtue ethics, centered around a list of the virtues that includes some which, at least on the surface, appear to be identical to those on Aristotle’s list: wisdom, justice, courage, and temperance” (29). On the other hand, and this is the argument of Stump, “Aquinas recognizes the Aristotelian virtues, but he thinks that they are not real virtues. In fact, Aquinas goes so far as to maintain that the passions—or the suitably formulated intellectual and volitional analogues to the passions—are not only the foundation of any real ethical life but also the flowering of what is best in it” (31). Aquinas thus presents us with a “passionate” ethics. For a reading of Aquinas that takes a “less positive” evaluation of the passions, see Leonard Donald Gordon Ferry, “Passionalist or Rationalist? The Emotions in Aquinas’ Moral Theology,” New Blackfriars 93, no. 1045 (2012): 292–308. 33. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “Alius autem est appetitus consequens apprehensionem ipsius appetentis, sed ex necessitate, non ex iudicio libero. Et talis est appetitus sensitivus in brutis, qui tamen in hominibus aliquid libertatis participat, inquantum obedit rationi. Alius autem est appetitus consequens apprehensionem appetentis secundum liberum iudicium. Et talis est appetitus rationalis sive intellectivus, qui dicitur voluntas.”



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from knowledge proper to the one desiring.34 The word “apprehension” (apprehensio) comes from the Latin verb that means “to grasp” (prehendere). To apprehend something is to grasp it, to know it, by either the senses or the understanding. One does not feel the passion of love, broadly construed, except in the presence, literal or imagined, of something lovely. Further, this apprehension does not arise from a free judgment (non ex iudicio libero). Although it follows upon a kind of knowledge, the loving response itself does not flow from a judgment of reason. The apprehension or “grasping hold of ” here is sensate, not intellectual. This is true for all of the passions. They follow, first of all, on some sensate knowledge.35 So, for example, when a husband and wife reunite after a long time apart, the ordinary emotional response would be love, which elicits a desire to be together, for union, and the result is joy when the lovers are together, delighting in one another’s actual presence. One might see the expression of these emotions in their recognition of each other (eliciting love), in their striving toward each other (expressing desire), and in their embrace (expressing joy). Alternatively, to take a less palatable example, one could think of the emotional response to a threat. So, when you see a barking rottweiler running at you, frothing at the mouth, the initial response might be one of revulsion and immediate fear, leading one to take action. The passions of love and fear here are not freely chosen, in some sense, but arise almost by necessity from the situation.36 34. Recall that natural desire follows on the apprehension of God himself. Sensitive and intellectual desire follow from an apprehension of the senses or the intellect of the desiring creature. 35. See Lombardo, Logic of Desire: “When he discusses the passions, Aquinas often refers to the object of a passion without any qualifier such as ‘sensible.’ It is simply an object, or a good, or an evil. However, it is evident that, for Aquinas, the proper object of the sense appetite is a sensible object. First, in his view that sense appetite responds to sense cognition (see especially ST I 81.1), Aquinas makes plain that the objects of sense appetite are known through sense cognition, and thus must be sensible. Second, Aquinas specifies the object of concupiscible passions as ‘a straightforward sensible good or evil,’ and the object of irascible passions as ‘a good or evil that is arduous or difficult’ (ST I-II 23.1; see also ST I-II 46.3)” (20n2). 36. Of course, the passions are responses to a perceived good or evil. Insofar as the

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Although these emotions follow from some kind of a sensation real or imagined—seeing or imagining the beloved, for example— the passion of love can also “participate” in reason, insofar as it obeys the reason and will.37 Thus, in the case of the reunited lover and beloved it seems that the passion does not arise solely from the sight of their face, the touch of their hand, the smell of their perfume and clothing, or the sound of their voice. The perception of the goodness of being with one’s beloved—especially the goods attendant on that union that are not directly perceptible to the senses, such as friendship—informs our love and desire. With regard to the obedience of passion to reason, this happens insofar as our universal reason informs our particular reason, which informs our passions.38 With reemotions participate in reason, and reason can discern good and evil, reason can also influence the response of our passions. The necessity that arises is thus not entirely outside of our control, though it might seem like that in the immediate moment. 37. For a historically nuanced monograph on this topic, see Nicholas Kahm, Aquinas on Emotion’s Participation in Reason (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2019). Kahm studies the participation of the passions in reason within the Scriptum, De Veritate, De Malo, De Virtutibus in Communi, and the Summa Theologiae. On these points, see also Lombardo, Logic of Desire, 94–117. “[Aquinas] holds that it is natural for any cognition-dependent appetite, the sense appetite as well as the will, to be moved by reason and by reason’s command [see ST I, q. 81, a. 3; ST I–II, q. 53, a. 1; q. 68, a. 4]. Consequently, in humans but not in animals, the passions can be ‘rational by participation’ ” (95). On the emotions as being rational by participation, Lombardo cites the following: ST I–II, q. 56, a. 4, ad 1; q. 56, a. 6, ad 2; q. 60, a. 1. He also notes that the phrase is present in Aristotle: Ethics 1.13, 1102b13 [μετέχουσα μέντοι πῃ λόγου], b26 [λόγου δὲ καὶ τοῦτο φαίνεται μετέχειν], b30 [καὶ ὅλως ὀρεκτικὸν μετέχει πως]. The passions participate (μετασχεῖν) or share in reason. 38. See especially ST I, q. 81, a. 3: “Respondeo dicendum quod irascibilis et concupiscibilis obediunt superiori parti, in qua est intellectus sive ratio et voluntas, dupliciter, uno modo quidem, quantum ad rationem; alio vero modo, quantum ad voluntatem.” The passions thus obey not only reason but also the will. Regarding reason: “Et ideo patet quod ratio universalis imperat appetitui sensitivo, qui distinguitur per concupiscibilem et irascibilem, et hic appetitus ei obedit. Et quia deducere universalia principia in conclusiones singulares, non est opus simplicis intellectus, sed rationis; ideo irascibilis et concupiscibilis magis dicuntur obedire rationi, quam intellectui. Hoc etiam quilibet experiri potest in seipso, applicando enim aliquas universales considerationes, mitigatur ira aut timor aut aliquid huiusmodi, vel etiam instigatur.” In sum, universal reason informs the particular reason, which can modify the strength of a passion such as anger or fear. So, for example, while it might seem terrifying to someone to parachute out of a plane, a knowledge of the physics governing, for example, air resistance, terminal velocity, and so on might help allay (though perhaps not



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gard to the obedience of passion to the will, this happens insofar as the will consents to and permits the passion to take its course. The emotions therefore participate in both the intellect and the will, as our universal reason informs our particular reason and as the will consents to the passion’s movement.39 Similarly, one does not love some spiritual good in a visceral way—say, a love of justice—unless one first perceives something of the nature of justice. This “visceral” love for justice would seem to involve, again, the work of (a) universal reason informing (b) particular reason informing (c) the passions. For example, we may believe justice is the perpetual will to render to another his due.40 If we then witness or experience an event that is unjust—to the degree that we have the virtue of justice and are able to identify injustice in particular cases—we will be more deeply moved, on an emotional or passionate level, by that injustice. The universal reason can thus inform the particular reason, which can increase or decrease the intensity of the passion. Thomas makes an important distinction here between the passions and acts of the will. Both arise from some apprehension, either a sensation or an intellectual conception. For Thomas, the intellectual appetite, the tendency toward some intelligible good, is distinct from the emotions or passions. The desire for justice is distinct from the desire to eat a piece of chocolate cake. Love for justice, properly speaking, since it is not material cannot be sensed, although one may feel the emotion of hope or anger concomitantly with the love of juseliminate) the rather understandable fear. One would then apply this universal knowledge to the particular case. 39. See also Elisabeth Uffenheimer-Lippens, “Rationalized Passion and Passionate Rationality: Thomas Aquinas on the Relation between Reason and the Passions,” The Review of Metaphysics 56, no. 3 (2003): 525–58. “Right moral behavior entails not the suppression of the passions but the development of the right attitude toward these sensitive appetites and to everything they stand for. It means making the passions of the soul an integral dimension of our ethical life” (558). 40. On the definition of justice, see ST II–II, q. 58, a. 1: “Et si quis vellet in debitam formam definitionis reducere, posset sic dicere, quod iustitia est habitus secundum quem aliquis constanti et perpetua voluntate ius suum unicuique tribuit.”

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tice. This is different from the visceral passion of love, as such, that one might feel toward another person, such as a mother for her child (in terms of storgē) or a lover for the beloved (in terms of erōs). Of course, the love for a child or spouse can and should extend beyond the physiological realm, but that does not erase the legitimate physical and emotional kind of love. The intellectual appetite is therefore distinct from the sensitive appetite insofar as the sensitive appetite tends toward a sensible and material good while the intellectual appetite, the will, tends toward an intelligible and immaterial good.41 To summarize this in a nutshell, these two kinds of desire arise from two kinds of knowledge: sensate desire arises from sensate knowledge, whereas rational desire arises from intellectual knowledge. Three Loves These three appetites—natural, sensate, and rational—are the basis for the three loves that go by the same names. We have a natural love in virtue of our natural appetite, a sensitive love in virtue of our sensitive appetite, and a rational love in virtue of our rational appetite. We will look at these loves in turn. Natural Love: “Connaturalitas” for Natural Goods Thomas first discusses natural love and the natural appetite: And in each of these appetites, love is the principle of motion of the one tending into the end loved. And, in the natural appetite, the principle of this motion, which can be called natural love, is the connaturality of the seeker with that which the seeker tends, just as the connaturality of a heavy body with the ground [ad locum medium] is because of its weight [per gravitatem] and can be called natural love.42 41. Although the interpretation of the phrase is controverted among scholars, Aristotle seems to have some notion of intellectual appetite, or what might be better translated as rational desire (ὄρεξις διανοητική) (Ethics 6.2, 1139b5). He also refers to deliberative desire (ὄρεξις βουλευτική) (Ethics 3.5, 1113a10; 6.1, 1139a23). 42. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “In unoquoque autem horum appetituum, amor dicitur illud quod est principium motus tendentis in finem amatum. In appetitu autem naturali, principium huiusmodi motus est connaturalitas appetentis ad id in quod tendit, quae dici



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These natural loves are woven into every thread of our being: “Natural love is not only in the powers of the vegetal soul but in all the powers of the soul and also in all the parts of the body and universally in all things.”43 Ultimately, we all desire a happiness that is in accord with our nature as knowers and lovers.44 Whether we wish it or not, we all desire by nature to breathe, to drink, to eat, and to sleep, even if we are sometimes deprived of these goods or intentionally forego them for a higher purpose.45 The person who undertakes a hunger strike does not for that reason cease to desire to eat. We also naturally desire higher goods such as truth, justice, and companionship.46 Natural love is the principle of all of the natural motions potest amor naturalis, sicut ipsa connaturalitas corporis gravis ad locum medium est per gravitatem, et potest dici amor naturalis.” 43. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1, ad 3: “Amor naturalis non solum est in viribus animae vegetativae, sed in omnibus potentiis animae, et etiam in omnibus partibus corporis, et universaliter in omnibus rebus” (Laurence Shapcote translation). 44. According to Pinckaers, “Saint Thomas’s table [of natural inclinations ordered toward happiness] adopts and arranges elements provided by Aristotelian and Stoic traditions. Its origin merits a special historical study. Suffice it to say here that it had already been proposed by Cicero in his De officiis (1.4), and so clearly that Saint Thomas’s work might have been an adaptation of it, although he made no mention of the Latin philosopher” (Servais Pinckaers, “Natural Inclinations at the Source of Freedom and Morality,” in The Sources of Christian Ethics [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1995], 405). “This text of Cicero provides the best possible introduction to the teaching of the Angelic Doctor on natural inclinations” (406). Despite the similarity between the teaching of St. Thomas and Cicero and Aristotle, the Angelic Doctor sets his teaching apart in important ways. “Saint Thomas’s moral teaching was shaped by the theological virtues, which alone could win happiness for man, that is, the complete fulfillment of his natural inclinations. Notable among these was the desire to see God, which combined the desires for truth and for happiness” (408). 45. These actions would derive from the natural desire for self-preservation. These acts (breathing, eating, and so on) manifest the natural order of our nature. It is not as if our nature performs some acts by itself according to certain inclinations. Nature names what we are. It is the basis for our acting. Nature does not eat. Man eats in virtue of his being a man (having a certain nature) and having an appetite, teeth, a stomach, and so on. The point of all this is to highlight that nature does not act—the individual subject acts in virtue of his or her nature and powers. All our inclinations have, as it were, a rootedness in our nature, even if that nature “merely” exists (rather than “acting”). 46. The inclination toward truth (especially the truth about God, our final end) is fourth on the table of natural desires that Aquinas presents in ST I–II, q. 94, a. 2. The desire for justice and companionship would derive from the fifth natural inclination, to live in society with others.

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of the human person.47 Even the desire for truth and goodness flow from our natural love for these ends, insofar as our intellect and will themselves are rooted in our nature. Even if we choose counterfeit goods, the desire for a universal good is ineradicable.48 Our natural love will shape all of our actions, whether those be for good or for ill. Either way, they will have a basis in nature. Pinckaers, following Aquinas (ST I–II, q. 94, a. 2), identifies five natural inclinations. These include: “1. the inclination to the good; 2. the inclination to self-preservation; 3. the inclination to sexual union and the rearing of offspring; 4. the inclination to the knowledge and truth; 5. the inclination to live in society.”49 St. Thomas offers three enumerations: our natural desire (1) as substances, for 47. On natural inclinations, see Pinckaers, “Natural Inclinations at the Source of Freedom and Morality,” 400–456. “The place and function attributed to natural inclinations mark a decisive split between the two concepts of freedom we have been studying, as well as between the types of morality they produce. In contrast to freedom of indifference, freedom for excellence has its source and foundation in the chief natural human inclinations” (400). See also Matthew Levering, “Natural Law and Natural Inclinations,” in Biblical Natural Law: A Theocentric and Teleological Approach (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 140–88, here (following below) 164–66: In describing what he calls the fourteenth‐century “nominalist revolution”, Servais Pinckaers observes of William of Ockham: “A significant feature of Ockham’s critique of the Thomist conception of freedom was his rejection of natural inclinations outside the kernel of the free act. Notably, he rejected the inclination to happiness, which pervades the moral doctrine of the Summa Theologiae and, in keeping with all previous tradition, forms its initial moral question.” As Pinckaers shows throughout his Sources of Christian Ethics, the question of happiness forms the heart of ancient and patristic moral theory, in contrast to modern focus upon duty and obligation. . . . Freedom thus emerges from nature, given that our nature is spiritual nature and therefore is inclined to being, good, and truth. As I would put it, such nature is never neutral, but rather is a complex ordering toward ends. . . . This complex teleological constitution is the fundamental given of human creatureliness, not constructed by human rationality or freedom. Human rationality both speculatively and practically discerns the natural, unified ordering of human nature, which is constituted by bodily and spiritual inclinations and thereby always teleologically drawn.” 48. Aquinas puts it, rather forcefully: “Manifestum est autem quod nullus homo potest per voluntatem a beatitudine averti, naturaliter enim, et ex necessitate, homo vult beatitudinem, et fugit miseriam” (ST I, q. 94, a. 1; Man naturally and by necessity desires happiness and flees misery). 49. Pinckaers, “Natural Inclinations at the Source of Freedom and Morality,” 407.



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self-preservation; (2) as animals, for reproduction; and (3) as rational beings, for truth and society. The first precept, from which these derive, is to do good and avoid evil. One thus seeks the good in accord with one’s nature as a substance, as an animal, and as a rational being. The good is thus that which fulfills and perfects our nature. Presumably, the desire to breathe, eat, and sleep flows from the natural desire for self-preservation. One could say the same thing about other concrete actions related to life in society, the pursuit of truth, and so on. The notion of connaturality that St. Thomas mentions suggests a certain fittingness between the nature of the seeker and the end he seeks. For humans, truth is connatural to us—it is fitting to our nature as knowers of the sensible and intelligible world. Goodness is also connatural to us, especially the intelligible goods, the greatest of which is God, who is goodness itself. On a simpler level, Thomas considers the example of a stone. According to medieval natural philosophy, a stone falls to the ground because it is seeking its own place at the center of the earth, the center of the universe. Its downward movement has something to do with the nature of the stone. Although modern physics gives a different explanation of this phenomenon, the more fundamental idea still holds: each thing moves in line with the direction of its nature, whether or not it is an intelligent agent.50 Stones fall to the ground. Fire rises to the air. Acorns grow into oak trees. Tadpoles grow into frogs. And humans naturally seek the good and the true, in accord with the direction of their intellects and wills.51 To say that these goods are connatural to us is to 50. The existence of physical natural laws, in our own day, manifests something like this principle. On quantum systems and Thomasian natural philosophy and metaphysics, see Ignacio Silva, “Werner Heisenberg and Thomas Aquinas on Natural Indeterminism,” New Blackfriars 94 (2013): 635–53. “Few things could have in common two men who lived eight centuries apart. Thomas Aquinas and Werner Heisenberg, however, share at least two: their understanding of nature as a system which is not determined into the future and the Aristotelian terminology they chose to describe this fact” (635). 51. To be sure, there are some serious disputes about how these natural inclinations provide a foundation for the precepts of the natural law and the moral life. That question extends beyond the scope of this study, but the reader should be aware of the question.

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say nothing more than that they are in agreement with our ultimate ends as rational animals.52 Although humans may not actually seek the authentically true and the good, which should be obvious to any reader of the news, the true and the good remain the goal of our natures, insofar as these alone are perfective of our intellect and will. Evil is properly a deprivation of a due good and thus leaves the will restless, while error fails to perfect the intellect and arises from misapprehension, false judgments, or faulty reasoning. In either case, the intellect does not attain the work for which it is equipped—that is, to know the truth. Sensate Love and Rational Love: Coaptatio for Sensible and Intelligible Goods Following his identification of natural love as arising from the natural appetite, St. Thomas turns his attention to a description of senOn this point, see Stephen Brock, “Natural Inclinations in the Promulgation of Natural Law,” in The Light That Binds: A Study in Thomas Aquinas’s Metaphysics of Natural Law (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2020), 96–123. Brock identifies the central text as ST I–II, q. 94, a. 2: “Omnia illa ad quae homo habet naturalem inclinationem ratio naturaliter apprehendit ut bona” (Reason naturally apprehends as good all things toward which man has a natural inclination). Such an inclination for Brock is not prerational. Instead, Brock reads this “natural inclination” text in the following way: “I maintain that Thomas is taking the natural inclination text to be self-evident, and that its truth is even easy to perceive—once the meanings of its terms are rightly understood” (110). Further, “It is talking about natural inclinations of the will. Reason does incline us to things. It does so precisely by apprehending them as good, as desirable. What reason naturally apprehends as good, the rational appetite—the will—naturally desires. The very notion of a natural inclination of the will includes the notion of its object’s being naturally apprehended by reason as good. Man, as man, is naturally inclined to certain things, because reason naturally apprehends them as good. To say that all the things to which man has natural inclination, reason naturally apprehends as good, is simply to say that all the things to which reason naturally inclines man are things that it naturally apprehends as good” (110). 52. By way of conclusion, we can consider the view of Pinckaers: “If we cast a glance over all the natural human inclinations, we see that they form a sheaf of closely linked yearnings and energies. We do indeed have to distinguish them, for the sake of analysis and clear perception, but we must never forget to regroup them again in a dynamic synthesis, for they act only together, as members of an organism. This coordination of our faculties and inclinations is characteristic of freedom for excellence, as contrasted with freedom of indifference, which divides our faculties and separates our inclinations from each other” (“Natural Inclinations at the Source of Freedom and Morality,” 452).



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sate love and rational love: “Similarly, the adaptation [coaptatio] of the sensitive appetite or the will to some good, that is, the ‘complaisance’ with the good [complacentia boni], is called sensitive love or intellectual or rational love. Therefore sensitive love is in the sensitive appetite, just as intellectual love is in the intellectual appetite.”53 St. Thomas adds to his taxonomy of love in this text. In the discussion of natural love he refers to a connaturality (connaturalitas) between the lover and the beloved. “Connatural” is a suitable word that speaks to the natural fittingness of the lover with the beloved. In this text, he speaks of fittingness in terms of an adaptation (coaptatio) between the lover and the beloved. Further, he describes love as a kind of “complaisance” with the good (complacentia boni)— that is, a kind of “being pleased with” the beloved that logically precedes any motion toward it or possession of it. Love is the principle of that motion toward the beloved, while the motion toward the beloved is the precondition for the lover’s rejoicing in the presence of the beloved. In other words, love is the condition of desire and desire is the condition of joy, as we will see. There would not be a motion toward the beloved unless it were first regarded as loveable. St. Thomas clearly speaks here of two kinds of love. Regarding each of these appetites, any given desire or motion must have a principle of its desire or motion, since nothing comes from nothing.54 The principle of the given desire is love. The first is sensitive love, which follows on the sensation of a sensible object. The desire to eat filet mignon, for example, does not come about unless there is already a kind of fittingness or correspondence between the eater and this particular food. A vegetarian might still have a natural desire for food, and yet, he would not desire to eat the steak. The right kind of 53. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “Et similiter coaptatio appetitus sensitivi, vel voluntatis, ad aliquod bonum, idest ipsa complacentia boni, dicitur amor sensitivus, vel intellectivus seu rationalis. Amor igitur sensitivus est in appetitu sensitivo, sicut amor intellectivus in appetitu intellectivo.” 54. The Parmenidean axiom is that nothing comes from nothing (in Latin: ex nihilo nihil fit). Creation ex nihilo, or creation from nothing, indicates that the world does not come from preexisting matter. It still comes from a principle—namely, the divine creator. God himself does not come “from” anything but simply is existence itself.

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love, or fittingness, is absent, which perhaps arises from an alternative judgment about the relative goodness of that particular food. The universal inclination toward preservation is there, but the desire for this particular steak is not. That is all to say that sensate love follows on a particular sensation of a particular good. The second kind of love is intellectual or rational, which follows on the understanding of some intelligible object. St. Thomas calls the intellectual appetite the will. The will is thus not a static entity. It is already in motion, already and always tending toward the good in a general way.55 This tendency presupposes an intellectual love, a correspondence or fittingness between the lover and the object loved. For example, a person’s decision to pursue the common good of a community—be that of a sports team, a university, a family, a city, or a church—cannot come about unless that person already sees a kind of congruence between that wider and broader end and his own more circumscribed ends. The intellectual love for the end— say, political justice—inspires him to move toward that end and to rejoice in it as he attains it, perfecting both himself and others within the political community. The will thus presupposes some love, some prior congruence between the one who wills and the object willed. This love is the reason that explains why the person chooses to work toward that good in the first place. The apprehension of an intelligible good thus moves the will, the rational appetite, toward action. To state a few obvious points, congruence, as meaning a kind of fitting together, is another kind of metaphor. In material terms, we might say that there is a congruence or fittingness between a square peg and a square hole, while there is not one between a square peg and a round hole. The two do not “fit” together. While there might be a good fit between sunlight and plant nutrition, sunlight does not directly contribute much to the digestion of animals (although it is obviously necessary in other ways). There is, however, a congruence 55. To refer to the will as being “in motion” is something of a metaphor, since the will is not material. To speak of it as being in motion is to note that it is already ordered toward some defined end (bonum universale).



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between plants, as food, and animals. The plants make good food for animals. There is a fit between the kind of thing a plant is and the ability of an animal to digest it. In terms of human desires, there needs to be the right kind of fit between the good known and the nature of the one knowing it. Division of the Sensate Appetite: The Concupiscible and Irascible Powers St. Thomas finally mentions that sensitive love is in the concupiscible appetite as opposed to the irascible appetite.56 “And it belongs to the concupiscible appetite since it is said with respect to the good absolutely, not with respect to the arduous good, which is the object of the irascible appetite.”57 In this context, the term does not have any connotation of sin, which one might suspect in an Augustinian context. Rather, by virtue of the concupiscible appetite, we desire the good simply speaking, in particular, without reference to its being difficult to attain. In other words, the concupiscible appetite corresponds to a good or evil object in an absolute way. 56. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “Et pertinet ad concupiscibilem, quia dicitur per respectum ad bonum absolute, non per respectum ad arduum, quod est obiectum irascibilis.” On the division of these appetites, see Christopher A. Bobier, “Thomas Aquinas on the Basis of the Irascible-Concupiscible Division,” Res Philosophica 97 (2020): 31–52. Bobier admits the basic distinction between the concupiscible and irascible but asks what makes a good arduous. He further argues that the irascible appetite regards useful goods whereas the concupiscible appetite regards pleasant goods. Bobier raises important questions. “It is only good or the lack of good that moves the appetite, and since there are two goods that actualize the sensory appetite—the useful (or arduous) and the pleasant—there are two powers—the irascible and the concupiscible. Consequently, although it might seem peculiar to us today, it would seem that Aquinas’s primary justification for the division is that there are distinct kinds of goods that elicit distinct responses” (50). In support of his reading, Bobier cites the Disputed Questions on the Soul (13, corpus): “It is necessary that the sensory appetite, which moves in response to sensory cognitions, is divided into two powers. This is because a thing is sought after [appetibile] either because it is pleasant and suitable to the senses, and the concupiscible power moves toward this; or because it affords the agent the capacity to enjoy pleasant things” (48). Admittedly, this consideration seems to drop out of one consideration of the two appetites in the Summa (ST I–II, q. 23, a. 1). 57. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “Et pertinet ad concupiscibilem, quia dicitur per respectum ad bonum absolute, non per respectum ad arduum, quod est obiectum irascibilis.”

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Three emotions arise from this consideration of the good in general, as considered without reference to the difficulty of attaining it. The concupiscible passions that are related to a good object are (1) love, considering the good as fitting to the subject; (2) desire, considering a future good as sought but not possessed; and (3) joy, considering the good as now possessed. The concupiscible passions related to an evil object are (1) hatred, considering the evil as unfitting to the subject; (2) aversion, considering a future evil to be avoided; and (3) sorrow, considering the evil as now present.58 Six emotions therefore belong to the concupiscible appetite. Three arise in relation to a good object, which is fitting to the subject (love, desire, joy); and three arise in relation to an evil object, which is unfitting to the subject (hate, aversion, sorrow). The other kind of appetite, the irascible, is also difficult to translate. Of course, the word “irascible” means “prone to anger,” which is one of the passions of the irascible appetite. The irascible appetite is thus named after anger, one of the more visibly distinctive emotions. One might also call it, very loosely speaking, the “emergency” appetite. Its object is the good that is difficult to attain or the evil that is difficult to overcome or avoid. Recall again that “appetite,” in reference to both the concupiscible appetite and the irascible appetite, names the power or ability to feel the relevant emotions. It is distinct from “appetite” as naming the emotion of desire or any general “tending toward” that takes place in a natural object for its connatural end. The irascible appetite gives rise to five emotions or passions. The passions corresponding to the arduous good are (1) hope, in the face of an arduous, future good that one deems possible to attain; and (2) despair, in the face of an arduous, future good that one deems 58. In each case, there is a dynamism of the passions. The later passions build on the prior ones. Usually, there is no joy without prior desire and there is no desire without love. Similarly, there is no sorrow without aversion and no aversion without hatred. Even if these emotions are not temporally distinct, they are really distinct. Love and desire might arise simultaneously, temporally speaking, but they are not the same passion: desire presupposes love. See especially ST I–II, q. 23, aa. 2–4.



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impossible to attain. The passions corresponding to the arduous evil are (1) fear, in the face of an arduous, future evil that one shrinks from; (2) daring, in the face of an arduous evil that one nevertheless approaches; and (3) anger, the last of the irascible passions, and perhaps the most difficult to describe. Anger involves the perception of an injustice that includes the desire for revenge or the righting of a wrong. It arises especially from sorrow over a present evil. There are thus five emotions belonging to the irascible power: two of these arise in relation to an arduous good (hope and despair) and three in relation to an arduous evil (fear, daring, and anger). Interestingly, anger would then seem to arise from sorrow. Anger thus moves us out of sorrow, away from the present evil, which we have been unable to avoid. If hatred is derivative of love—and only arises insofar as something we love is threatened—hatred, aversion, and sorrow point us toward some good. Anger is thus a kind of emotional reflex that moves us out of sorrow and points us toward the good threatened by the present evil. On this reading, joy is the only perfectly “resting” emotion. Love points toward and finds its fulfillment in joy (possession of the good). Hatred culminates in sorrow, but sorrow is less “stable” than joy, since anger moves us out of sorrow to confront the evil. The evil is then overcome to protect some good that the evil threatens. In the overcoming of that evil for the sake of some good, which we desire to possess, we arrive back at joy. It seems, then, that the natural telos of the emotional life is joy. In it alone is the truest rest.59 In total, Thomas identifies six concupiscible passions (two trios corresponding to good and evil simply: love, desire, joy; hatred, aversion, sadness) and five irascible passions (the passion of anger 59. Thomas suggests something along these lines, moving from sadness to anger and revenge to joy: “Omnes passiones irascibilis incipiunt a passionibus concupiscibilis, et in eas terminantur; sicut ira nascitur ex illata tristitia, et vindictam inferens, in laetitiam terminatur” (ST I–II, q. 81, a. 2). He also suggests how joy and sadness are “principal” passions in the sense of completion and finality: “Gaudium et tristitia, principales dicuntur, quia sunt completivae et finales simpliciter respectu omnium passionum” (ST I–II, q. 25, a. 4).

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plus two duos, corresponding to the arduous good and evil: hope and despair, on the one hand; fear and daring, on the other). One might also count anger with fear and daring as responding to an arduous and present evil. The irascible passions of hope and despair, regarding the arduous good, and daring and fear, regarding the arduous evil, seem to be modifications—emergency adaptations, as it were—that build on the more basic emotions of desire and aversion.60 In the face of an arduous good, we naturally wish for the good (in desire). However, in order to overcome or prudently avoid the difficulty, we have the passions of hope and despair. In the face of an arduous evil, we naturally turn away from it (in aversion). However, in order to overcome or move away from it, we have the passions of fear and daring. These irascible passions thus seem to presuppose the more basic concupiscible passions of desire and aversion. In sum, whereas the concupiscible appetite considers objects as good and evil simply speaking, the irascible appetite regards good and evil objects as being arduous realities, difficult to acquire or difficult to avoid in the future or at present. St. Thomas concludes his response by stating that love is a concupiscible power and not an irascible power since love regards the good in itself, simply speaking, without any reference to its being difficult to attain, as is the case with the objects of the irascible appetite.61 What does all of this have to do with love? As we will see, love is the first mover and engine of all these emotions, giving them their initial energy. Thomas states elsewhere that love is the principle of the concupiscible passions.62 One cannot desire something unless 60. See ST I–II, q. 25, a. 1: “Spes enim supra desiderium addit quendam conatum, et quandam elevationem animi ad consequendum bonum arduum. Et similiter timor addit supra fugam seu abominationem, quandam depressionem animi, propter difficultatem mali.” 61. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1. 62. See ST I–II, q. 25, a. 2. The passions that have a good object precede those that have an evil object, since goodness precedes evil, with evil being a privation of the good: “Naturaliter autem est prius bonum malo, eo quod malum est privatio boni. Unde et omnes passiones quarum obiectum est bonum, naturaliter sunt priores passionibus quarum obiectum est malum.” In the order of execution, love is the first of the concupiscible



The Hierarchy of Love 47

it is first loved. Further, one cannot rejoice in something unless it is first attained, which presupposes motion toward the object, which presupposes a love for it. Of course, the joy we have in merely knowing a person or thing is also a premonition of deeper union, but this preliminary joy is itself the fruit of love, as the thing is foreknown. St. Thomas also states that we only hate a thing insofar as it is opposed to what we love.63 Hatred, and the attendant passions of aversion and sorrow, are thus derivative of the passion of love. We will therefore hate something to the degree that we love its opposite. We will hate death as far as we love life. We will hate suffering as far as we love well-being. Hatred, as a passion, can thus be morally good, though it can be misguided. A rightly ordered person will hate evil insofar as it is evil. This does not mean that one should hate someone who commits the evil, since that would contravene the law of charity. But one should hate the evil they commit insofar as it destroys the goodness and life that is in the world. Hate, then, should have a place in our emotional lives, insofar as it clues us into what threatens to destroy the things we love. Again, such hatred should not diminish the charity that a Christian must always manifest to all persons. Finally, all of the irascible passions are derivative of the concupiscible passions.64 There is no hope or despair over an arduous good unless there is first a love for it in the first place. We do not feel hope in reaching the summit of a mountain unless we first desire to make passions that are ordered toward a good object: “Et ideo secundum hunc ordinem [the order of execution], amor praecedit desiderium, et desiderium praecedit delectationem.” 63. See ST I–II, q. 29, a. 2: “Unde necesse est quod amor sit prior odio; et quod nihil odio habeatur, nisi per hoc quod contrariatur convenienti quod amatur. Et secundum hoc, omne odium ex amore causatur.” 64. See ST I–II, q. 25, a. 1: “Et sic patet quod passiones irascibilis et principium habent a passionibus concupiscibilis, et in passiones concupiscibilis terminantur.” To be more precise, St. Thomas in the same article describes the irascible passions as being “mediate” between the concupiscible passions. The irascible passions presuppose the concupiscible passions that imply movement and lead to those that imply rest. See also ST I–II, q. 81, a. 2: “Omnes passiones irascibilis incipiunt a passionibus concupiscibilis, et in eas terminantur.”

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the climb. Again, there is no fear or daring over an arduous evil unless there is first a hatred for it. The soldier does not fear the bullets of the enemy without first knowing, and hating, the reality of death, even if he chooses to face this evil for the greater good of his brothers-in-arms and his country, whom he loves. To put it simply, love is the root of all other concupiscible desires, and the concupiscible desires are the root of the irascible desires. It follows that love is the first emotion, that from which all the others flow, albeit in a certain order: love moves our desire, which calls on hope when needed, and ends in joy; hatred, arising in opposition to a love, moves us to aversion, which calls on daring when needed, though the attempt may end in sorrow, which calls on anger to right the present wrong. In each case, as the root of the concupiscible appetite, love is the root of all the emotions and passions.65 Love: A Constellation of Meanings Love is therefore an analogical term.66 In sum: three kinds of love correspond to three kinds of appetite. Natural love belongs to the natural appetite. Sensate love belongs to the sensory appetite. Intellectual love belongs to the intellectual appetite. Further, we can identify these three kinds of love on the basis of three kinds of desire: 65. See ST I–II, q. 27, a. 4: “Respondeo dicendum quod nulla alia passio animae est quae non praesupponat aliquem amorem” (There is no other passion of the soul which does not presuppose some love). 66. That is to say, the same word—“love”—can refer to different realities in distinct but related ways. It seems that no two interpreters of St. Thomas Aquinas have identical understandings of analogy. Aquinas usually thinks of analogy in terms of our language— that is, as a logical and not a metaphysical tool (see ST I, q. 12). Aquinas, for example, does not tend to speak of an “analogy” or even a “chain” of being, though this is a common understanding of Aquinas and medieval thought. For some starting points, see the following. Gregory P. Rocca, Speaking the Incomprehensible God (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2012). Joshua P. Hochschild, The Semantics of Analogy: Rereading Cajetan’s De Nominum Analogia (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010). Ralph McInerny, Aquinas and Analogy (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1996). David Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1973).



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natural desire points to natural love, sensate desire points to sensitive love, and rational desire points to rational love. Behind these abilities to desire and love there is also the knowledge from which that love and desire arise: the knowledge of God, who creates our natures, making us for a certain end; sensate knowledge, which is known by the creature as such; and intellectual knowledge, which is proper to some kinds of creatures. From these three kinds of knowledge, we can classify three kinds of love, three kinds of desire arising from love, and three powers, abilities, capacities to love. One word, “love,” is used to describe three different realities— natural love, sensate love, and intellectual love—and yet there is something common to them and an order obtaining among them. What is common to each kind of love is that it is a conformatio and complacentia, as we will see in the next chapter, between the appetite and the object of desire. Love changes the lover to be more like the beloved. The order obtaining among them suggests that there is a hierarchy of loves. Natural love is the basis for all other loves. The natural appetite, the tendency of our nature as rational animals—toward goodness, the preservation of our existence, reproduction and the education of offspring, truth, and society—gives all our other loves their basic direction. For example, my love for a salmon filet only exists because I am oriented in the first place toward self-preservation according to my nature. Regarding the intellectual appetite, our intellectual love, or our will, for bringing about justice in a political or economic community presupposes a natural orientation toward the love of truth and justice, in accord with our nature as social animals, even if this tendency is thwarted by ourselves or others. The sensitive and the intellectual appetites thus presuppose the orientation of the natural appetite. In a real sense, then, we do not choose our most fundamental loves and their subsequent desires. These loves are given to us as gifts from the creator, orienting us toward all that is true and good and beautiful, in the sensory and in the intelligible realms. And yet, we can channel these desires for good or for evil ends, toward the

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perfection of ourselves and others or toward our own destruction. The life of love is thus a great journey, in which the mystery of the human heart reveals itself in its capacity for good and evil. In the following chapter, we will see the ways in which love changes us. While love is the principle of our action, we cannot act in love unless we are first acted upon. Even the free choice to love is itself elicited, ultimately, from the goodness of the beloved, whether that goodness is presently actualized or merely in future potential. In short, before love is an action, it is a passion.

Chapter 2

The Momentum of Love

2

The Momentum of Love: From Love to Desire to Joy Amor • Desiderium • Gaudium [ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2]

Love changes us. This truth seems to be in keeping with the popular view of love that love is merely something that happens to us. It comes to us from outside of us. The passion of love often seems to be something outside of our control. The trope of star-struck lovers such as Romeo and Juliet suggests this view. While their tragic ending should be something of a warning to readers, the popularity of the story suggests some truth about the passion of love as a force coming from outside of us. St. Thomas does not neglect this basic datum of our experience. In his terms, he calls love a passion. “Passion” in this technical sense means more than just a strong emotion, though a strong emotion can certainly be a passion. In scholastic terminology, derived from an Aristotelian philosophic taxonomy, “passion” and “action” go together. “Passion” literally signifies a “being acted upon,” whereas “action” signifies an “acting upon” another.1 These are both accidents in the Aristotelian sense—modifi1. St. Thomas puts it succinctly: “Passion is the effect of an agent on the patient” (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2). The term “passion” (passio) can have other meanings in other

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cations of the substance that “underlies” the accidents.2 “Passion” can also mean, more specifically, what we would call a feeling or an emotion. The questions on love under discussion are thus part of contexts. St. Thomas, commenting on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, distinguishes between four senses of passion (In Metaphysic. V, lectio 20, no. 8–11). Briefly, these four are passion as the third species of quality, passion as a proper category in itself, passion as a harmful alteration, and passion as an extremely harmful alteration: Ponit ergo primo, quatuor modos, quibus passio dicitur. [1] Uno modo dicitur qualitas, secundum quam fit alteratio, sicut album et nigrum et huiusmodi. Et haec est tertia species qualitatis. Probatum enim est in septimo physicorum, quod in sola tertia specie qualitatis potest esse alteratio. [2] Secundus modus est, secundum quod huiusmodi actiones qualitatis et alterationis, quae fiunt secundum eas, dicuntur passiones; et sic passio est unum praedicamentum, ut calefieri et infrigidari et huiusmodi. [3] Tertio modo dicuntur passiones, non quaelibet alterationes, sed quae sunt nocivae, et ad malum terminatae, et quae sunt lamentabiles, sive tristes: non enim dicitur aliquid pati secundum hunc modum quod sanatur, sed quod infirmatur; vel etiam cuicumque aliquod nocumentum accidit: et hoc rationabiliter. Patiens enim per actionem agentis sibi contrarii, trahitur a sua dispositione naturali in dispositionem similem agenti. Et ideo magis proprie dicitur pati, cum subtrahitur aliquid de eo quod sibi congruebat, et dum agitur in ipso contraria dispositio, quam quando fit e contrario. Tunc enim magis dicitur perfici. [4] Et quia illa, quae sunt modica, quasi nulla reputantur, ideo quarto modo dicuntur passiones, non quaecumque nocivae alterationes, sed quae habent magnitudinem nocumenti, sicut magnae calamitates et magnae tristitiae. Quia etiam excedens laetitia fit nociva, cum quandocumque propter excessum laetitiae aliqui mortui sint et infirmati; et similiter superabundantia prosperitatis in nocumentum vertitur his qui ea bene uti nesciunt. 2. In more precise terms, an accident is that which is proper to exist in another and not through itself. As Thomas writes, “Accidentis esse est inesse” (Quodlibet IX, q. 3, ad 1, in a eucharistic context; see also ST I, q. 28, a. 2, in a trinitarian context: “Accidentis enim esse est inesse”). Admittedly, St. Thomas calls this a “natural dependence” (naturalis dependentia) that falls outside the essence of an accident. Thus, the accidents of bread and wine can remain present, miraculously, in the sacrament of the Eucharist. A substance (or, more properly, subsistence) is that which is proper to exist through itself and not in another. In a trinitarian context, St. Thomas describes substance in this sense as “a subject or suppositum which subsists in the genus of substance” (ST I, q. 29, a. 2). “For according as it exists by itself and not in another [per se existit et non in alio] it is called a subsistence, for we say that those things subsist which do not exist in another but exist in themselves [quae non in alio, sed in se existunt]” (ST I, q. 29, a. 2). So a stone or a tree or a dog or a human is an example of a substance. They exist in their own right. The particular color of a stone, the height of the tree, the barking of the dog, and the tan skin of a human are all accidents—they exist only in virtue of the substance. Without the dog, there would be no bark. Without the human, there would be no tan skin. Accidents can come and go with respect to the same subject. So the skin of a man can become pale or tan without changing the nature of the man.



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the treatise on the passions.3 So, when we speak of the “passion” of love, as the title of this book does, the allusion is not only to the passion we feel but also to the technical language of Aristotle that St. Thomas inherits.4 “Passion” can thus signify any kind of being acted upon, including emotionally. All of this sounds a little heady, but the basic idea is that love does signify a change that occurs within us. On a physiological level, this much is obvious. One might think of the experience of infatuation. The pulse quickens, the pupils of the eyes dilate, the vocal cords tighten up, and so on. The body changes in response when it catches sight of the beloved. St. Thomas describes all of this in terms of passion. Love, especially the bodily sort, signifies a being acted upon by another. In this sense, it is not merely the result of choice or decision, though there is, of course, a relationship between the universal reason and the passion of love, as we discussed earlier, insofar as the passions are ultimately subject to reason—not in a “despotic” way, as the hand is subject to the will, but in a “political” way, as if by persuasion.5 3. St. Thomas does not refer to these questions as a “treatise” on the passions. Later interpreters used the term “treatise” to describe sets of questions in the Summa. One sees this at work, for example, in the Summa Summae S. Thomae of Charles René Billuart (d. 1757), who speaks, for example, of the tractate on human acts (tractatus de actibus humanis) and so on. One also thinks of the treatise De Deo Uno, the treatise De Deo Trino, and the rest. While this may have been useful for instituting a standard theological curriculum in modern (post-Tridentine) seminaries, it can also very often obscure the organic unity of the questions (for instance, St. Thomas does not divide the discussion on God into two parts in the Summa, but into three). So, instead of speaking of a treatise, one might more accurately speak simply of a set of questions in the Summa. 4. For a more historical consideration of passion in the ancient Greek world, see David Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006). See especially the chapter on love in the ancient world (169–84). 5. See ST I, q. 81, a. 3, ad 2: “Sic igitur anima dicitur dominari corpori despotico principatu, quia corporis membra in nullo resistere possunt imperio animae, sed statim ad appetitum animae movetur manus et pes, et quodlibet membrum quod natum est moveri voluntario motu. Intellectus autem, seu ratio, dicitur principari irascibili et concupiscibili politico principatu, quia appetitus sensibilis habet aliquid proprium, unde potest reniti imperio rationis.” On the participation of the passions in reason, see also ST I–II, q. 60, a. 1. Of course, one might place oneself in a situation where romantic infatuation is likely

54

Chapter 2 Love as a Passion: The Reception of Form and Motion

Thomas gives a precise description of love as a passion, as being an effect of an agent: Passion is an effect of the agent in the patient. A natural agent brings about the effect in the patient in two ways. First, the agent bestows a form and, second, the agent imparts motion following from the form, just as what produces [generans] [the body] gives the body weight and motion following from it. And heaviness itself, which is the principle of motion toward a connatural place on account of weight, can be called in some way a natural love.6

The language of “patient” and “agent,” as well as the outdated scientific example, might seem a little stilted from our perspective, but the implications are clear. First, the term “patient” simply signifies that which is acted upon. The Latin word patiens is related to the Latin verb patior, which can mean “to suffer,” hence the English cognate “patient.” But, more broadly, it can mean anything that is acted upon by another, just as a patient is acted upon by the doctor. The name “patient” vividly describes the reality here of being acted upon or undergoing. Second, the term “agent” signifies that which acts upon another. The Latin term agens is related to the verb agere, which can mean “to compel” and “to drive” or, more broadly, “to act” or “to effect” or “to do.” The perhaps awkward language of “agent” and “patient” might be thought of in more vivid terms as the one compelling or urging, on the one hand, and the one undergoing or being urged, on the other hand. So passion, as Thomas says, is a being acted upon, an effect of the to happen. In that case, the person is in a way responsible for what “happens” to him or her, even if it is a being-acted-upon. 6. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Respondeo dicendum quod passio est effectus agentis in patiente. Agens autem naturale duplicem effectum inducit in patiens, nam primo quidem dat formam, secundo autem dat motum consequentem formam; sicut generans dat corpori gravitatem, et motum consequentem ipsam. Et ipsa gravitas, quae est principium motus ad locum connaturalem propter gravitatem, potest quodammodo dici amor naturalis.”



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agent in the patient. Think then of a baseball and a pitcher: the pitcher imparts a certain motion to the ball by throwing it, and the batter, striking the ball, gives it a contrary motion. The ball is the “patient” being acted upon by the “agents” of the pitcher and batter. A “natural agent” is one that acts according to a nature in bringing about something like it. St. Thomas states that the natural agent brings about a twofold effect in the patient: form and motion.7 In this regard, he speaks of a “generator” (generans), indicating something that brings about another, usually something substantial, in the strict sense. For example, a father and mother are natural agents and, with God, “generators” of a child, a new substance.8 They act to produce a new child in virtue of their nature that has a similar human form. A certain motion follows on this form—namely, the child’s natural appetite and love for happiness. A rational animal, from the first moment of its existence, is already “fit” for happiness and moving toward or away from it in some way. Or, to use another example, one might think of a plant giving rise to another plant. The oak tree “gives” form to another in generating an acorn, which contains the form of the oak tree in potency, and that informed matter implies a certain natural motion—that is, to grow into an oak. Natural agents, by imparting a natural form to a thing, also provide it with a certain motion to its end. So, what does any of this have to do with the passion of love? 7. Thomas uses the example of a natural body, probably earth, that has a certain gravity or weight (gravitas in Latin can also simply mean “weight,” as in the English cognate). Since modern and medieval physics diverge on many of these points, we will draw out the principle with other examples. So although the example of St. Thomas may be outdated, the principle behind it seems to be sound: natural agents, in generating a new substance, impart form and motion to it. A dog that gives birth to a puppy has communicated a natural form to that new dog, and the natural form imparts a certain motion to it—that is, to grow and develop along canine lines. 8. The case of human generators is more complicated than other types of generation since the spiritual soul of the person is not given by the parents but is directly endowed by God. The parents dispose certain matter to receive that form. See ST I, q. 98, a. 2: “Ex parte vero animae, quae incorruptibilis est, competit ei quod multitudo individuorum sit per se intenta a natura, vel potius a naturae auctore, qui solus est humanarum animarum creator.”

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Well, the two effects of a natural agent, form and motion, are also the effects that the beloved brings about in the lover: “In the same way the desired object [appetibilis] gives to the appetite [appetitus], first, a certain adaptation to it, which is the complaisance for the desired object, from which follows a motion toward the desired object [appetibilis].”9 The beloved, so to speak, brings about a new form in the lover, and from that form there follows a certain motion. The beloved literally “informs” and shapes the lover. In a way, we become what we love. This motion terminates in union with the beloved person or possession and enjoyment of the lovely thing, in the case of inanimate objects. It seems to me that this “conformation” on the part of the appetite is not the same kind of conformation that happens with sensate or intellectual knowing. In that case, there is also a conformation: the form of the thing known is, in some sense, in the knower. In the case of love, a new form is imparted to the appetite, but it is not necessarily the form of the thing known as such. The passion of love is itself a new form in the lover, from which arise the other passions, such as desire and the motion toward the beloved. Interestingly, in these questions on love, Thomas rarely speaks of conformatio, although there are exceptions.10 Thomas instead usually prefers to speak of complacentia, but also refers to this change of the appetite in terms of aptitudo, coaptatio, and immutatio.11 It is as if he is suggest9. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Sic etiam ipsum appetibile dat appetitui, primo quidem, quandam coaptationem ad ipsum, quae est complacentia appetibilis; ex qua sequitur motus ad appetibile.” 10. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3: “Unde ipsum delectabile secundum sensum, inquantum appetitum sibi adaptat quodammodo et conformat, causat amorem.” Even in this case, Thomas prefaces the verb conformare with the verb adaptare, as if alluding to his earlier use of coaptatio (for example, in ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2). 11. See, for example, the following discussions of love. ST I–II, q. 25, a. 2: “Ipsa autem aptitudo sive proportio appetitus ad bonum est amor, qui nihil aliud est quam complacentia boni.” ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “Et similiter coaptatio appetitus sensitivi, vel voluntatis, ad aliquod bonum, idest ipsa complacentia boni, dicitur amor sensitivus, vel intellectivus seu rationalis.” ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Sic etiam ipsum appetibile dat appetitui, primo quidem, quandam coaptationem ad ipsum, quae est complacentia appetibilis; ex qua sequitur motus ad appetibile.” ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Prima ergo immutatio appetitus ab appetibili



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ing a distinction between the way in which we know, through conformation, and the way in which we love and desire. One can see a kind of analogy between the uses of conformatio, since the appetite does take on a new form that arises from and is oriented toward the object that is known and then loved. Still, in some real sense, love corresponds to the form imprinted on the lover by the beloved.12 Desire corresponds to the motion of the lover toward the beloved, following that form. And joy corresponds to union between the beloved and lover in a kind of rest. These passions—love, desire, and joy—belong to the concupiscible appetite, which has a good or evil thing for its object. Love, desire, and joy, of course, relate to the good object. Hatred, aversion, and sorrow relate to an evil object. In terms of the earlier analysis of form and motion, love is the informing of the appetite. Desire is the motion that follows that form. Joy is rest in presence. Love and Immutatio of the Appetite: The Circularity of Love, Desire, and Joy St. Thomas speaks of this motion from love to desire to joy in terms of a circular motion. So, he says, “The appetitive motion acts in a circle . . . for the appetible moves the appetite, placing itself somehow in its intention, and the appetite really tends into the appetible as a consequence, so that the end of the motion is at its beginning.”13 vocatur amor, qui nihil est aliud quam complacentia appetibilis; et ex hac complacentia sequitur motus in appetibile, qui est desiderium; et ultimo quies, quae est gaudium.” ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2, ad 2: “Unio pertinet ad amorem, inquantum per complacentiam appetitus amans se habet ad id quod amat, sicut ad seipsum, vel ad aliquid sui.” ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1: “Amor importat quandam connaturalitatem vel complacentiam amantis ad amatum.” ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1: “Sed quantum ad vim appetitivam, amatum dicitur esse in amante, prout est per quandam complacentiam in eius affect.” ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2, ad 1: “Amatum continetur in amante, inquantum est impressum in affectu eius per quandam complacentiam.” 12. See, again, ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3, for the use of conformare. The whole discussion of form and motion in ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2, also suggests the legitimacy of using the terminology of “form” and “in-forming.” 13. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Nam appetitivus motus circulo agitur, ut dicitur in III de anima, appetibile enim movet appetitum, faciens se quodammodo in eius intentione;

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Using a circle to describe the motion of the appetite poses some interpretive difficulties.14 But consider the desire for a freshly baked eclair. I walk into a room and see a chocolate eclair on the table. If et appetitus tendit in appetibile realiter consequendum, ut sit ibi finis motus, ubi fuit principium.” 14. Thomas makes a brief allusion to De Anima 3.10 (appetitivus motus circulo agitur). In this passage of the Summa, Thomas seems to take the notion of the circularity of appetitive motion metaphorically. The appetible object moves the appetite, and then the appetite rests in the appetible object. The appetible object thus initiates the motion in love and terminates that same motion in joy. Aristotle seems to have understood the circular motion in terms of final cause and terminus, although he illustrates this with the physical example of a ball-and-joint socket. Christopher Shields offers some helpful observations on this passage. See Aristotle, De Anima, trans. Christopher Shields, Clarendon Aristotle Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). “When contending that the starting point (archē) in intentional action is the same as its end point (teleutē), Aristotle means that for a particular action, the goal first moves the faculty of desire as its final cause and then also serves as the terminus of the action, that in which it is completed” (note to 433b19–30). On the example Aristotle uses, Shields notes the following: “His illustration serves not to explicate how the first moving cause is also the terminus, however, but rather how one and the same state of affairs can yet differ in being, insofar as it is both the starting point and the end point. A hinge, as Aristotle is thinking of it, is a ball-and-socket joint, such as the hip. (The term translated as ‘hinge’ (gigglumos) is used in Greek both for a metal door hinge and for a ball-and-socket joint.) The idea is that the curvature of the swivel in such cases is both convex, from the standpoint of the ball, and concave, from the standpoint of the socket. In this sort of joint, the socket remains motionless while the ball pivots within” (note to 433b19–30). What makes all of this slightly more difficult is that St. Thomas comments on the text of the De Anima in a more literal way. On this view, the circle is not merely a metaphor for a metaphysical principle but something closer to a physical truth. Sent. De Anima III, lect. 15, no. 15: “Deinde cum dicit nunc autem summarie determinat de organo motus localis: et dicit, in summa, quod primum movens organice oportet tale esse, ut in eodem sit et principium et finis motus, sicut in quadam circulatione, in qua est gibbosum et concavum, quorum unum est quasi finis, et aliud quasi principium.” St. Thomas also alludes to the cardiocentric view of Aristotelian biology and his account of motion: “Nam cor in eadem parte corporis confixum manet, sed movetur secundum dilatationem et constrictionem, ut causet motum pulsus et tractus; et sic quodammodo est mobile, et quodammodo quiescens” (Sent. De Anima III, lect. 15, no. 18). On the Thomasian revision of Aristotelian cardiocentrism, see Marjorie O’Rourke Boyle, “Aquinas’s Natural Heart,” Early Science and Medicine 18, no. 3 (2013): 266–90. For an annotated translation and outline of the De Motu Cordis, see V. R. Larkin, “St Thomas Aquinas on the Movement of the Heart,” Journal of the History of Medicine 15, no. 1 (1960): 22–30. The position of Thomas, especially as regarding the location of the internal senses, was influenced by the work of Nemesius of Emesa, misattributed in the medieval period to Gregory of Nyssa through the Latin translation (De natura hominis) by



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I am not particularly hungry, I might simply admire this beautifully baked confection. This is something like the passion of love, considered in the sensitive appetite. It is distinct from desire, which is the later motion. But if I am hungry, desire follows on love, so I move toward the eclair, pick it up, and begin to eat it. Without this prior love, there would not be any motion. I then relish the delicacy and rest contentedly in joy. The circle is complete. The beginning of the circle is the perception of the eclair and the consequent “love” of it. The closing of the circle, which returns to the beginning, is the enjoyment of the eclair. The eclair is thus the beginning and end of the motion, as whetting the appetite and then giving rest to it through enjoyment.15 St. Thomas sums up the circular movement of the concupiscible appetite well: “The first change [immutatio] of the appetite by the appetible, therefore, is called love [amor], which is nothing other than the complaisance [complacentia] for the appetible; and from this complaisance there follows a motion into [toward] the appetible, which is desire [desiderium]; and finally rest [quies], which is joy [gaudium].”16 Here again is the pattern: from love to desire to rest or joy. The momentum of love is like a snowball, gathering force as it rushes downhill, transforming itself into something larger: love Burgundio of Pisa. According to Pekka Kärkkäinen, “In ancient philosophy, there were some precursors of the notion of the internal senses. In the late fourth century, Nemesius of Emesa located the organs of some mental faculties in distinct ventricles of the brain.” Pekka Kärkkäinen, “Internal Senses,” in Encyclopedia of Medieval Philosophy, ed. Henrik Lagerlund, 2 vols. (Dordrecht: Springer, 2011), 564–67. See also Emil Dobler, Falsche Väterzitate bei Thomas von Aquin: Gregorius, Bischof von Nyssa, Oder, Nemesius, Bischof von Emesa?: Untersuchungen über die Authentizität der Zitate Gregors von Nyssa in den gesamten Werken des Thomas von Aquin (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 2001). Emil Dobler, Nemesius von Emesa und die Psychologie des menschlichen Aktes bei Thomas von Aquin (S. Th. Ia-IIae, Qq. 6–17): Eine quellenanalytische Studie (Werthenstein: Verlag, 1950). 15. The metaphor of “whetting” the appetite is in itself interesting. To sharpen a knife is to whet it. Hence the term “whetstone,” upon which you sharpen a blade. Whetting the appetite gives it a new form, a new sharpness, which makes it more effective at its proper function. In the case of a knife, cutting. In the case of appetite, desire. 16. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Prima ergo immutatio appetitus ab appetibili vocatur amor, qui nihil est aliud quam complacentia appetibilis; et ex hac complacentia sequitur motus in appetibile, qui est desiderium; et ultimo quies, quae est gaudium.”

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picks up desire and then picks up joy. Love itself is like the core of the snowball. Desire yields to joy. But both of these presuppose a present love. If we suddenly stopped loving something, we would neither desire it nor enjoy its presence. The reference to “appetite” (appetitus) and “the appetible” (appetibilis), just like the earlier mentions of “agent” and “patient,” might sound a bit artificial in English. The appetible is merely the object of desire. So, in the earlier example, the eclair is the appetible, the object of desire. “Appetite,” as we saw in the first chapter, is a word with many meanings. It can refer to (1) desire in particular—namely, the passion that tends simply toward an absent good.17 Or it can refer to (2) the capacity in virtue of which one loves, desires, enjoys, and so on.18 The power of appetite seems to be named from its most obvious effect: the motion toward a beloved object.19 Consider how things in motion catch the eye more than what is at rest.20 A cardinal flying through the air will grasp our attention more than a bird in a tree. So we name the power of appetite from its most obvious act, that of desire, although the power of appetite itself names our ability to love, desire, rejoice, and so forth. The passions 17. ST I–II, q. 8, a. 1: “Appetite is nothing other than an inclination of the one seeking toward something.” The context is also illuminating: “Omnis autem appetitus non est nisi boni. Cuius ratio est quia appetitus nihil aliud est quam inclinatio appetentis in aliquid. Nihil autem inclinatur nisi in aliquid simile et conveniens. Cum igitur omnis res, inquantum est ens et substantia, sit quoddam bonum, necesse est ut omnis inclinatio sit in bonum.” 18. St. Thomas uses “appetite” in this sense in ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1. See also ST I, q. 80, a. 1, on the presence of the appetitive powers in the soul and ST I, q. 80, a. 2, on the distinction of the sensitive and appetitive powers. 19. See ST I–II, q. 25, a. 2, ad 1: “Hoc modo nominatur aliquid, secundum quod nobis innotescit, voces enim sunt signa intellectuum, secundum philosophum. Nos autem, ut plurimum, per effectum cognoscimus causam. Effectus autem amoris, quando quidem habetur ipsum amatum, est delectatio, quando vero non habetur, est desiderium vel concupiscentia. Ut autem Augustinus dicit, in X de Trin., amor magis sentitur, cum eum prodit indigentia. Unde inter omnes passiones concupiscibilis, magis sensibilis est concupiscentia. Et propter hoc, ab ea denominatur potentia.” 20. Troilus and Cressida, 3.3: “Things in motion sooner catch the eye / than what stirs not.” William Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, ed. David Bevington, The Arden Shakespeare (London: Bloomsbury, 2015). Ulysses is rebuking Achilles here for retiring to his tent, while Ajax receives the praise of the Greeks.



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themselves are acts of the power. Similarly, our power or ability to see, in virtue of the eyes, or hear, in virtue of the ears, is distinct from the act of seeing or hearing. A sign of this is that our ability to see or hear does not cease to exist when we cease to see or hear, as when we are asleep. Our ability to do something is thus really distinct from our actually doing it. We retain the ability to see and hear when we are asleep, although we are not exercising those powers by actually doing so. The same is true for the passions. The acts of loving and rejoicing are distinct from our ability to love and rejoice. When Thomas refers to love as the “first change” (immutatio) of the appetite (appetitus), he is referring to a kind of conformation between the appetite and the appetible. One might think of the appetite as soft clay in the hand of a potter. The potter might first smooth the clay into a ball so as to make it receptive to other forms, as for a coffee mug. Similarly, love is the first change of the appetite. Just as the potter can introduce new forms into the clay without destroying the old forms—say, by adding a spiral engraving to the outside of the cup— so also the appetite can receive a further “informing” by the desired object in the passions of desire or joy. So love does not cease in the presence of desire or joy, even though they both belong to the same concupiscible appetite. Rather, love is the presupposition for the existence of either desire or joy. To extend the analogy, the spiral designs on a clay cup, or even the glaze that is applied to the clay, giving it a new color, does not destroy the shape of the original mug but actually presupposes its existence. There would be no glazed cup unless there were already a mug in the first place. Love is the first change of the concupiscible appetite with regard to the good object, while desire and joy are subsequent changes that come to the appetite, supervenient on love. One might then ask: Why do we speak of only one appetite if it has many acts? Why not say that there is one power that corresponds to love, one that corresponds to desire, and one that corresponds to joy? In this case there would not be one power, but three. The reason, at least for Thomas, is that we know a power through its

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object.21 The proper object of the sight is color. The proper object of the hearing is sound. The proper object of taste is flavor. These objects point toward one power—the power for seeing, hearing, and tasting.22 Further, it seems that when the organ of one of these is destroyed, the others can remain. So someone without the power of hearing can still taste, and someone without the power of seeing can still hear. If the proper object of the concupiscible appetite is the sensible good, simply speaking, then it would seem to be one power, even if it has different acts, just as the power of seeing is one power, although it can exercise itself in many distinct acts and can see many different kinds of colors. Love as a Passion: The Parallel Case of the Will At the beginning of this article, St. Thomas asked whether love was a passion. He concludes in the following way: “Therefore, because love consists in a certain change of the appetite from the appetible, it is clear that love is a passion, indeed properly, as it is in the concupiscible appetite. And, in a common way, by extending the name, as it is in the will.”23 The reasoning goes along these lines: a passion names a kind of being-acted-upon or undergoing; love is the first change of the appetite by the appetible; so, love, as a change brought about by another, is a kind of being-acted-upon. The prior discussion of appe21. See ST I, q. 77, a. 3: “Potentia, secundum illud quod est potentia, ordinatur ad actum. Unde oportet rationem potentiae accipi ex actu ad quem ordinatur, et per consequens oportet quod ratio potentiae diversificetur, ut diversificatur ratio actus. Ratio autem actus diversificatur secundum diversam rationem obiecti.” Further, “Genera vero potentiarum animae distinguuntur secundum obiecta” (ST I, q. 78, a. 1). 22. While the power for seeing is distinct from the power for hearing, Aquinas is happy to categorize these distinct powers into a single genre of power, the sensitive powers. Aquinas distinguishes five genera of powers: vegetative, sensitive, appetitive, locomotive, and intellectual (ST I, q. 78, a. 1). 23. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Sic ergo, cum amor consistat in quadam immutatione appetitus ab appetibili, manifestum est quod amor est passio, proprie quidem, secundum quod est in concupiscibili; communiter autem, et extenso nomine, secundum quod est in voluntate.”



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tite thus applies not only to the sensitive appetite, but, in an extended way, to the will itself, which is the intellectual appetite. What is loved must first be known, whether it is known by the senses or by the reason. And what is loved involves a change on the part of the appetite, be it sensate or rational. The implication is that the will also in some way experiences or acts in love, desire, and joy.24 Love would seem to be the congruency between the will and the beloved object; desire would indicate the movement of the will toward the beloved object; and joy would name the rest that the will attains when it enjoys the beloved in its presence. The circular motion is similar for both powers. Admittedly, the motions of the will are more nuanced than the motions of the sensitive appetite. St. Thomas describes the acts of the will in great detail in earlier questions of the Prima Secundae of the Summa Theologiae. Later commentators on St. Thomas have categorized these acts according to a twelvefold schema that involves both the will and the intellect.25 Every change in the will presupposes a change in the intellect. The intellect, as it were, informs the will, just as the sense powers (or the imagination) inform the sensitive appetite. The acts of the will and intellect, as regarding human action, according to the common schema, derive from Charles René Billuart.26 24. The qualification “in some way” is important. Since the will is not a corporeal organ, it does not exhibit corporeal changes. The passions, on the other hand, do involve a physiological change on the part of the subject. 25. The following schematization is indebted to Charles René Billuart (1685–1757). Charles René Billuart, Summa summae S. Thomae sive compendium theologiae, vol. 2 (Liège: Apud Everardum Kints, 1754). See, in particular, Dissertatio III, proem (p. 35) [transcription mine]: “Sunt autem sex actus a voluntate eliciti; tres circa finem, scilicet, simplex volitio, intentio, et fruitio; et tres circa media, scilicet, consensus, electio, et usus activus. His sex actibus voluntatis correspondent ex parte intellectus quinque actus dirigentes, et unus ex parte potentiarum executivarum. Ex parte intellectus duo circa finem, scilicet, simplex apprehensio et iudicium: Tres circa media, nempe consilium seu consultatio, iudicium practicum seu discretivum mediorum, et imperium. Ex parte potentiarum aliarum, usus passivus.” 26. I have decided to include the schema of Billuart, if only because it has become an important part of the Dominican pedagogical tradition. Pinckaers and Westberg provide important qualificaitions to Billuart’s schema. Readers should be aware of the

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Servais Pinckaers has questioned this approach.27 Daniel Westberg, more recently, has also offered a valuable perspective on this question.28 Without further ado, stages marked with an (a) are acts of the intellect, while those marked with (b) are acts of the will. Those stages included under the same numeral (1–6) are paired together, such that the act of the will follows from the preceding act of the intellect. There are thus six pairs of acts ([a] and [b]) adding up to twelve acts. The first four regard the end or goal of the action in itself: (1a) apprehension of the end [apprehensio]; (1b) simple volition [simplex scholarly debates regarding how faithful Billuart is to the text of St. Thomas and how the twelve-step schema may muddle the order that St. Thomas himself proposes. 27. Servais Pinckaers disputed the interpretation of Billuart, suggesting four steps instead of twelve. Servais Pinckaers, “La structure de l’acte humain suivant Saint Thomas,” Revue Thomiste 55, no. 2 (1955): 391–412. For another perspective on the topic, see also Teófilo Urdánoz, “Esencia y proceso psicológico del acto libre, según Santo Tomás,” Estudios Filosóficos 2 (1953): 291–318. Odon Lottin, “Psychologie de l’acte humain,” Recherches de Théologie Ancienne et Médiévale 29 (1962): 250–67. Lottin also questions the degree to which Billuart is faithful to the text of St. Thomas. On the use of John Damascene (mediating Maximus the Confessor) and Nemesius of Emesa (Pseudo-Gregory), see R. A. Gauthier, “Saint Maxime le Confesseur et la psychologie de l’acte humain,” Recherches de Théologie Ancienne et Médiévale 21 (1954): 51–100. 28. Westberg suggests six steps (or eight, in cases that require deliberation over the means and end). Daniel Westberg, Right Practical Reason: Aristotle, Action, and Prudence in Aquinas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994). See especially “Stages in Human Action” (119–35). Westberg notes how the table of Billuart found its way into the work of Oesterle, Bourke, Gilby, and Gardeil (see 120n2). Westberg also provides a description of the Aristotelian background, which Aquinas read in light of contributions from Stoicism, John Damascene, and Nemesius of Emesa: “The interpretation proposed here is that where Aristotle had one term for one stage with two aspects (‘noetic’ and ‘orektic’), Thomas saw that the terms provided by the Damascene tradition could be considered as just more precise labels for these cognitive and appetitive elements. Aristotle saw the process of action as basically desire–deliberation–choice. Thus where Aristotle put prohairesis, Thomas saw it as the same stage, but subdivided it into iudicium (cognitive) and electio (appetitive). Similarly, for the stage of bouleusis, Thomas has consilium (cognitive) and consensus (appetitive); and for the first stage, where he does modify Aristotle, he makes apprehensio and intentio the cognitive and affective elements respectively. The admitted lack of a stage of execution in Aristotle’s account has been seen as a weakness, and it may be that this is the primary Stoic contribution to the philosophy of action, a background reflected in the terms imperium and usus. What is important to note is that Thomas was able to see these latter elements also as fitting into the cognitive-appetitive scheme, constituting the final stage of action” (134).



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volitio] or velleity; (2a) judgment of possibility [iudicium] that the end is attainable; and (2b) intention [intentio] of the end by the will. Four acts regard the means to the end: (3a) deliberation [consilium seu consultatio] over the many means that are available to attain the end; (3b) consent [consensus] to these means by the will; (4a) judgment [iudicium practicum] about a particular choice as a means to the end; and (4b) election [electio] of a means to the end by the will. Steps (4a) and (4b) together constitute what we refer to as free judgment or free choice. The intellect and will working together judge and elect one means to the end as being best. The choice is free because no finite good can compel our will to choose it, since our wills are ordered toward the infinite good. Only an infinite good can fully compel our will. The final four steps regard the execution of the act: (5a) judgment of command [imperium] involves the formulation of an order to act in such and such a way; (5b) “use” [usus activus] is the will’s execution of this command, in some cases involving the motion of the body; (6a) judgment of fruition follows on the completion of the act, determining whether the end was worthwhile and executed well or badly; and (6b) “fruition” [fruitio] signifies the resting of the will in the good attained.29 These steps are outlined in far greater detail and according to a different order in the Summa.30 The analysis of the human act in the 29. While Westberg rightly criticizes aspects of the Billuartian schema and helpfully examines the order that Thomas proposes, his proposal does not seem to adequately account for fruitio (ST I–II, q. 11). The reason for excluding fruitio is that the end attained might simply be a means to a further end. He also notes how Etienne Gilson and Josef Pieper also concluded their account of action with usus (see Westberg, Right Practical Reason, 132n36). Further, he sees no need for the first two stages in the Billuartian schema. Apprehensio and intentio are adequate. “Here again, seeing the context of discussion as one of the production of particular actions and not the moral life in general is helpful. The process of action must begin with an attainable object, because one cannot intend an end which is impossible. There can be speculative thought about impossibilia but certainly no practical reasoning.” (133). While there is much sense in this reading, especially as it hews closely to the text, it may be that we could mistakenly consider certain moral acts that, upon reflection, turn out to be impossible, due to a change in circumstances or for some other reason. 30. As does Pinckaers, Westberg takes issue with the schema of Billuart and attempts

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Summa Theologiae has generated a great deal of scholarly controversy in the past several decades, as the footnotes indicate. And while Billuart’s schematization may have some shortcomings in terms of its fidelity to Aquinas, his presentation at least indicates the conceptual complexity of the human act, the difficulty in grasping its aspects, and the exegetical challenges of interpreting ST I–II, questions 11–16, and their context.31 To return to the question of love, desire, and joy, the challenge would be to map the aspects or stages of human action and perhaps correlate them analogically with the passions.

to explain more clearly the order of St. Thomas: “Thomas’s treatment, which has seemed disordered to previous readers, does follow a definite pattern in the Summa. Intention is treated in I–II, q. 12, with the reason component given special attention in 12.1 ad 3 and 12.3 ad 2; then decision is treated in q. 13, with electio of the will in 13.1 and iudicium of the reason in 13.1 ad 1, ad 2, and 13.3. Then Thomas discusses deliberation, means-end reasoning, as a special stage when required. It is optional, and therefore not an essential or a constitutive part of the process of action. Counsel and consensus, the cognitive and affective aspects of deliberation, are discussed in separate qq. in 14 and 15; usus and imperium, which make up execution, are also discussed separately, in questions 16 and 17. The treatment in separate questions does not need to indicate that they are chronologically sequential in the process of action, but that Thomas considered that they required more distinct treatment than the stages of intention and decision. In any case, this understanding of Thomas’s treatment of stages with double components makes the teaching in the Summa coherent, unlike the illogical sequence in the Billuart schema” (Westberg, Right Practical Reason, 131–32). Instead, Westberg proposes “four double steps or eight components,” which include the following stages: “(1) intention (apprehensio+intentio); (2) deliberation (consilium+consensus); (3) decision (iudicium+electio); (4) execution (imperium+usus)” (130–31). Westberg also helpfully places the analysis of human action in the broader context: “Thus Thomas’s treatment is quite orderly and consistent: general consideration of good, beatitude as the ultimate end (qq. 1–5); voluntary and involuntary (q. 6); circumstances (q. 7); the will (q. 8); the way the will is moved (qq. 9, 10); right relation of the will to the end (q. 11). It is only with q. 12 that Thomas begins his special discussion of the actual process of human action” (133). Again, this assumes fruitio to be distinct from the analysis of human action. 31. Of course, the reality is even more complex than this schema. One can certainly have many ends and means so that the attainment of one end might simply be the means to a further goal. In this sense, unity of life derives from all of our actions being ordered toward one end, happiness, properly understood. All of the ends and means chosen in each of our actions either take us closer to that goal or further from it.



The Momentum of Love 67 Love and Receptivity: “Fove Quod Est Frigidum”

So, stepping back to the question of love, then, both the sensitive appetite and the intellectual appetite are “passions” in some sense, at least insofar as they involve a change (immutatio) of the appetite.32 The sensitive appetite, informed by sense data, takes on a new “shape” in the form of love, desire, and joy (or hatred, aversion, and sorrow). Similarly, the intellectual appetite, or the will, informed by the intellect, takes on a new “shape” in the form of volition, intention, election, and so on. In what sense do these different acts of the will correspond to the passions of love, desire, and joy? It seems that the act of fruition, the twelfth and final step, most obviously corresponds to joy. Both involve a kind of rest in the presence of the beloved. The first act of the will, simple volition, would seem to correspond to love.33 There is not yet a motion toward the thing, so much as a conformation between the will and the object willed. The intermediate acts of the will—consent, election, and use—would all seem to belong to desire as being a kind of motion of the will toward the desired object. In the case of both the sensitive appetite and the intellectual appetite, then, there is (1) a congruency between the appetite and the appetible followed by (2) a motion toward the desired object followed by (3) a rest in the presence of the desired object. We generally call these movements love, desire, and joy. Still, one should probably not press the analogy between the passions and will too far, since the anatomy of the passions and human action belong to fundamentally different domains, one of which is physiological and material, while the other is of a higher, immaterial order. The upshot is that, on this view, love is not equivalent to either 32. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2: “Prima ergo immutatio appetitus ab appetibili vocatur amor, qui nihil est aliud quam complacentia appetibilis; et ex hac complacentia sequitur motus in appetibile, qui est desiderium; et ultimo quies, quae est gaudium.” 33. One could also say that love would correspond to intentio, assuming that simplex volitio is more a category of Billuart than of Aquinas. Again, this is a disputed point in the scholarship.

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desire or the motion toward the end. As St. Thomas puts it, “Love, although it does not name the motion of the appetite tending into the appetible, nevertheless names the motion of the appetite by which it is changed by the appetible, as the appetible is pleasing to it.”34 So, love does name a motion but not the motion of the lover toward the beloved. Rather, love is the adaptation of the lover to the beloved. It is a change that takes place in the lover on account of and in response to the beloved. In this regard one sees the importance of docility and pliability in the realm of love. One who is insensible and rigid cannot love. The heart that is hardened cannot be moved or informed by any object of love. The heart, speaking of it as the sensitive appetite, is not unlike wax. Hard wax becomes brittle. When you try to seal it with a signet ring, the stamp does not take. Perhaps the wax even breaks. After being in the presence of a flame, however, the wax softens. It is now able to receive the form of the signet. While this analogy is most apt in regards to knowledge, as the wax receives the form of the signet, something similar happens to the will, at least insofar as it changes in response to the beloved. In order to love well, therefore, we need to have hearts that are open and receptive to the world. Christian virtue is not a matter of inflexibility and coldness, but a matter of being open to the world in all its beauty and splendor. Of course, this is also true in our relationships, above all with God: “If today you hear his voice, harden not your heart” (Ps 95:8; Heb 3:15). One also thinks of the hymn Veni, Sancte Spiritus: “Flecte quod est rigidum, / fove quod est frigidum, / rege quod est devium.” (Bend what is rigid; melt what is frigid; rule what is twisted.) If love is a change of the heart by the beloved, the hardened heart cannot feel love.35 34. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2, ad 3: “Amor, etsi non nominet motum appetitus tendentem in appetibile, nominat tamen motum appetitus quo immutatur ab appetibili, ut ei appetibile complaceat.” 35. The first sparks of love can help to melt the hardened heart. Perhaps it is with this in view that St. Thomas speaks of the proximate effects of love, including melting (liquefactio) and warming (fervor). “Cordis congelatio vel duritia est dispositio repugnans amori” (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 5, ad ea).



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Of course, it would not be a virtue to be open to any kind of love. Rather, one needs to be open to loves that are perfective of our nature as rational animals. This might sound obvious, but the truth is rather beautiful. As animals we can sense the beauty of the world: the crashing waves of the ocean, the soaring majesty of the mountains, the black expanse of a night dusted with stars, the forest budding with life in the spring. The natural delight we take in these sights and sounds and smells also gives birth to a higher kind of knowledge. We are not merely animals. Our reason alerts us also to higher goods: those of justice, truth, friendship—and sacrifice to preserve these. We must be open to loving all of these goods, not only for our own sake, but for the sake of those around us. The congruency or fittingness between natural and spiritual beauty with our own rational and animal natures indicates the love we have for them. The true lover is the one who is open to the goodness of creation and willing to be changed by it, in accord with his own unique way of being and acting in the world, given to him by the creator of the universe. Now that we have some sense of what love is—as (1) a passion brought about in us by the beloved and as (2) the principle of motion toward the beloved—we are in a better position to discuss our common words for love, our lexicon of love. As we will see, the complexity of our speech about love—its polysemic potential, so to speak—reflects the complexity of love itself.

Chapter 3 The Lexicon of Love

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The Lexicon of Love: Amor, Dilectio, Caritas, Amicitia [ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3]

The Four Loves by C. S. Lewis may be one of the more familiar books on this perennial topic.1 In this marvelous little book, Lewis describes four different Greek words for love. These are storgē (στοργή), filia (φιλία), erōs (ἔρως), and agapē (ἀγάπη). The Oxford don describes these “four loves” in a way helps us to see into the Greek view of the world. The discussion of agape also verges into the unique contribution of Christianity.2 1. In scholarly circles, one would also have to mention the influential work by Anders Nygren. Anders Nygren, Agape and Eros (London: SPCK, 1953). Lewis apparently read Nygren’s work in 1934. He took issue with the “antithesis” Nygren suggests between eros and agape, considering the former to be self-regarding and the latter as self-giving (207). See Jason Lepojärvi, “Praeparatio Evangelica—or Daemonica? C. S. Lewis and Anders Nygren on Spiritual Longing,” The Harvard Theological Review 109, no. 2 (2016): 207–32. 2. For another attempt to bridge the gap between eros and agape, see the encyclical Deus Caritas Est (2005) by Pope Benedict XVI. “True, eros tends to rise ‘in ecstasy’ towards the Divine, to lead us beyond ourselves; yet for this very reason it calls for a path of ascent, renunciation, purification and healing” (no. 5). “Yet eros and agape—ascending love and descending love—can never be completely separated. The more the two, in their different aspects, find a proper unity in the one reality of love, the more the true nature of love in general is realized” (no. 7). “Fundamentally, ‘love’ is a single reality, but with different dimensions; at different times, one or the other dimension may emerge more clearly. Yet when the two dimensions are totally cut off from one another,

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As we noted in the introduction, these Greek words are not easily translated into any one English equivalent. That does not imply anything unique about these words as much as it regards the difficulty of the task of translation. Many words in other languages have a semantic context that does not overlap neatly with one English equivalent. In one sense, each of these words could be translated as love, in a general way. That said, storgē means something like the bond of affection between family members and familiar acquaintances. Filia is fairly close to the English word for friendship. Lewis famously describes a friend as someone who loves what you love. An exclamation of joy results from this meeting of the minds in the realization: “You, too?” For Lewis, the image of friendship is two people looking toward a common love. Perhaps it is a love of music, hiking, cooking, or reading. The friendship will be stronger and higher the more noble is their common object of love. Erōs names what we commonly think of as romantic or sexual love. One might, to a limited degree, contrast this kind of love with friendship, although one would not want to push the contrast too far, since one would hope that two lovers would also be friends. The image for erotic love is two people looking not outward but more toward one another, gazing into each other’s eyes. The common view of “erotic” love, however, is badly misunderstood in our culture. In the writings of Pseudo-Dionysius, the erōs of God moves him to become man out of love for humanity.3 This kind of erotic love is incorporeal and spiritual. One might better describe it as ecstatic, in the Greek sense of the etymology, as a “going out” of oneself. The word literally means “to stand outside” the result is a caricature or at least an impoverished form of love” (no. 8). “God loves, and his love may certainly be called eros, yet it is also totally agape” (no. 9). Benedict here cites Pseudo-Dionysius (The Divine Names IV, 12–14), who calls God both eros and agape (no. 9, n. 7). Benedict XVI, Deus Caritas Est (Washington, DC: United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2006). St. Thomas was also aware of the Dionysian approach to the divine love in terms of amor and extasis: see De Divinis Nominibus, c. 4, lect. 9–10. 3. See John M. Rist, “A Note on Eros and Agape in Pseudo-Dionysius,” Vigiliae Christianae 20, no. 4 (1966): 235–43. Rist is also critical of Nygren’s understanding of eros: “In the tradition of Platonism from the time of Plato himself eros is seen not only as an appetitive, self-centered power, but as expansive and generous” (235).

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of oneself in a movement toward another. So, in this sense, erotic love is not so much about oneself as about finding another. In our own day, figures as diverse as Pope Benedict XVI and Hans Urs von Balthasar have picked up on the Dionysian reading of erōs, as seeking another person in a way that is open to purification.4 This is perhaps a better description of erōs, which is centered on “the other” in terms of gift and, especially in a fallen world, on the sacrifice that often accompanies that gift and union. The final kind of love that Lewis describes is agape. It is proverbial, at least in some circles, that agape cannot be translated into English, though that seems a bit extreme. While it has a linguistic history prior to Christianity, it especially comes to take on the nuances captured in our word for charity, taken in a theological sense. This kind of love seeks to improve the situation of another, without regard to the status of the one receiving the love. The beloved need not be a family member, acquaintance, friend, or love interest. The person might be a stranger, poor, and in need. The word “charity” is a somewhat problematic translation because it has now come to mean “charity work” or “almsgiving.” In the theological tradition, the description of charity as the love of God for his own sake and the love of neighbor for the sake of God is closer to the mark. It is thus a kind of universal love, which the examples of “charity” for those in need gesture toward, as when we think of Mother Teresa or Damien of Molokai. In any event, Lewis highlights this kind of love as a Christian contribution or enrichment of the Greek tradition. The Common Referent of the Four Loves: A Principle of Motion The work of Lewis on these four kinds of love is certainly a classic. However, one might wonder what other traditions have to say about love. The Latin tradition also has its own lexicon for love, and 4. See Benedict XVI, Deus Caritas Est (no. 5–9), and von Balthasar’s The Glory of the Lord, 1:119.



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these words feature prominently in an article from the Summa of St. Thomas. After he has discussed the three kinds of love—natural, sensitive, and intellectual, which correspond to our three appetites, or abilities, for desire—he turns to his words for love.5 The order of exposition follows this logic: with some understanding of a philosophical analysis of love, in terms of power, act, and object, one can analyze the words for love more precisely. St. Thomas opens with characteristic concision: “Four names are found belonging in some way to the same thing—namely, love (amor), dilection (dilectio), charity (caritas), and friendship (amicitia).”6 These are the four Latin loves of St. Thomas. Perhaps the most difficult one to translate is dilectio, which I have transliterated into English, a little awkwardly, as “dilection.”7 In different Latin contexts, it can mean love, affection, sexual love, loyalty, favor, devotion, allegiance, and even love of God or the love personified by Christ.8 We will see how St. Thomas characterizes dilectio and on what basis. Importantly, Thomas notes that all four of these words, from amor to caritas, refer “in some way” (quodammodo) to the same thing. Thomas does not immediately specify in this article what that “same thing” is, but we might surmise, based on earlier articles in the Summa, that each refers to a principle of motion in some appetitive power. This principle of motion can refer to the nature in general, to the body, as in sensitive love, or to the intellect, in rational love. This is the common core of the word “love.” The principle as such, as we have seen, is the complacentia boni, a taking pleasure in the good, in a general way, as distinct, for example, from the delight following from the good as now attained.

5. See ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3. 6. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3: “Respondeo dicendum quod quatuor nomina inveniuntur ad idem quodammodo pertinentia, scilicet amor, dilectio, caritas et amicitia.” On this article, see also I Sent., d. 10, expositio litterae; III Sent. d. 27, a. 2, a. 1; De Div. Nom., c. 4, lect. 9. 7. Rational love, as we will see, is a kind of “chosen” love—specifically, rational love. 8. See “dilectio” in Richard Ashdowne, D. R. Howlett, and R. E. Latham, eds., Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015).

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Chapter 3 Amicitia: Friendship as a Habit

Thomas then distinguishes and orders these common words for love. Despite their similarity, as referring in some way to the same thing, “nevertheless, they differ in this: that friendship, according to the philosopher in Book VIII [8.5] of the Ethics, is like a habit; but love and dilection are signified by way of act or passion; and charity can be taken in either way.”9 This compressed division of the four loves requires some unpacking. One might first consider how love and dilection are signified by way of act or passion. Thomas earlier described how love (amor) is a passion. In the last chapter, we noted how love involves a change or transformation of the appetitive power (sensitive or intellectual) by the beloved object. In that sense, we can speak of love as being a passion, as something that, in the first place, we undergo, something that changes us. Each love would seem to be a passion insofar as it involves a change. Each love would also seem to be a persisting act insofar as the effect of that change remains in existence: the appetitive power is now “in act” or in conformity with, informed by, the beloved object. Interestingly, Thomas distinguishes friendship (amicitia) and charity (caritas) from love (amor) and dilection (dilectio). Friendship is distinct insofar as it is like a habit. The Latin for “like” in this text is quasi. We might say in English that friendship is a quasi-habit: approaching the nature of a habit but not entirely possessing the nature of a habit. St. Thomas also makes passing reference in this text to “the philosopher,” by whom he means Aristotle.10 In one sense, friendship would seem to be like a habit since it involves a stable dis9. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3: “Differunt tamen in hoc, quod amicitia, secundum philosophum in VIII Ethic., est quasi habitus; amor autem et dilectio significantur per modum actus vel passionis; caritas autem utroque modo accipi potest.” 10. For resources discussing Aristotle on friendship, see Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics: Books VIII and IX, trans. Michael Pakaluk, Clarendon Aristotle Series (Oxford: University Press, 1998). On civic friendship in particular, as a political habit, see Paul W. Ludwig, Rediscovering Political Friendship: Aristotle’s Theory and Modern Identity, Community, and Equality (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2020).



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position of benevolence toward the friend. This feeling can be a “stable disposition” in the soul, which is the definition of a habit.11 However, insofar as the emotion involves a feeling that is precisely toward another (ad aliquid), it also seems to express a relation of sorts between the two friends. For Aristotle, habit and relation are two distinct categories of being; they are two distinct kinds of “accidents,” to use the scholastic terminology. As a stable disposition, friendship is like a habit; as being “toward another,” it seems closer to a relation.12 We thus speak in terms of friendship as being a relationship, insofar as it requires for its development mutual reciprocity. Excursus on Friendship: Its Definition and Threefold Division This is hardly the last word on friendship in the Summa, of course. The question of friendship returns, perhaps surprisingly, when Thomas devotes twenty-five questions to charity in the beginning of the Secunda Secundae where he also discusses the theological virtues of faith and hope.13 (For comparison, the present book is a partial commentary on a mere three questions in the Summa.) He thus covers a great deal of ground there on charity and friendship, which he barely mentions here. St. Thomas will also consider friendliness or sociability in greater detail as part of the consideration of justice in the Secunda Secundae, which is the second of the cardinal virtues, the others being prudence, fortitude, and temperance.14 There is thus far more 11. See ST I–II, q. 49, a. 1: “Si autem sumatur habere prout res aliqua dicitur quodam modo se habere in seipsa vel ad aliud; cum iste modus se habendi sit secundum aliquam qualitatem, hoc modo habitus quaedam qualitas est, de quo philosophus, in V Metaphys., dicit quod habitus dicitur dispositio secundum quam bene vel male disponitur dispositum, et aut secundum se aut ad aliud, ut sanitas habitus quidam est. Et sic loquimur nunc de habitu. Unde dicendum est quod habitus est qualitas.” 12. Perhaps in this sense friendship is a quasi-habit, though I am open to correction on this point. 13. See ST II–II, qq. 23–47. 14. Importantly, the discussion of “friendship” (ST II–II, q. 114) in the questions on

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to say on the four loves named above. Since this book focuses on what seems to be the more neglected teachings contained in ST I–II, qq. 26–28, we will only note a few points here. What then might we briefly say about friendship?15 Perhaps the most helpful adumbration one might make to our discussion would include a definition and division of friendship. As noted earlier, St. Thomas follows Aristotle in his understanding of friendship, which “the philosopher” discusses in Book VIII of the Ethics. St. Thomas wrote a lengthy commentary on the Ethics, so he was quite familiar with the position of Aristotle.16 Interestingly, St. Thomas also discusses charity in terms of friendship with God, so one can find his views on friendship there. The first article of the first question on charity famously affirms that it is a kind of friendship (ST II–II, q. 23, a. 1). He notes there that friendship requires “love with benevolence” (amor qui est cum benevolentia). To be benevolent, according to its Latin etymology, is literally to be “willing good” (and perhaps not merely wishing the good) toward another. This is what distinguishes our love of, say, a fine wine, which we love for our own sake, from our love for another person. But this is not enough for friendship. It also requires a kind of mutuality. I am not, for example, friends with the pope or the president, though I may wish them well in a general way. To be friends with another, the other person must also wish me some good.17 Further, justice is more about the virtue of affability (“amicitia quae affabilitas dicitur”) than it is about perfect or complete friendship. 15. On friendship, see the following suggestions. Anthony T. Flood, The Root of Friendship: Self-Love and Self-Governance in Aquinas (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2014). Jonathan Kanary, “Transforming Friendship: Thomas Aquinas on Charity as Friendship with God,” The Irish Theological Quarterly 85, no. 4 (2020): 370–88. Rik Van Nieuwenhove, “Saint Thomas Aquinas on Salvation, Making Satisfaction, and the Restoration of Friendship with God,” The Thomist 83, no. 4 (2019): 521–45. Jean Porter, “De Ordine Caritatis: Charity, Friendship, and Justice in Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae,” The Thomist 53, no. 2 (1989): 197–213. 16. See Sent. Ethic. 8–9. 17. In some attenuated sense, perhaps Catholics are “friends” with the pope, presuming that both the pope and the individual Catholic wish one another well in a communion of prayer and spiritual goods. Still, one would not consider this a friendship in the



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as St. Thomas specifies, “mutual benevolence is founded upon some sharing [communicatio].”18 To be a friend is thus to will the good for another, as other, and to share in a certain kind of communion with that other person. Or, to put it more simply, friendship is mutual benevolence, which requires time and interaction to cultivate. It is thus a habit one can learn. One might “communicate” or commune with a friend in several ways. What is common among the friends provides the basis for the friendship. Consider how friends look outward toward a shared love. For Aquinas, following Aristotle, there are three kinds of friendship corresponding to three kinds of goods.19 “Diverse kinds of friendship are understood according to the diversity of end, and according to this there are said to be three kinds of friendship, namely friendship of use [amicitia utilis], friendship of pleasure [delectabilis], and true friendship [honesti].”20 A friendship of utility is based on the mutual usefulness of the persons to one another.21 It is the kind of friendship that might obtain among colleagues at work. The princiordinary sense of the word, which requires knowledge and time, especially in becoming accustomed to one another’s modus vivendi (see Aristotle, Ethics 5.8). 18. For a similar idea in Aristotle, see Ethics, 1156b19–23. Each kind of friendship requires some kind of communication or similarity of loves, even if it is a love of something trivial, merely delightful, or useful. 19. Regarding Aristotle on friendship, see Lorraine Smith Pangle, Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). See especially chapter 2, “Three Kinds of Friendship,” 37–56. Aristotle mentions this threefold division in the Ethics, 1104b30–31. For a fuller account of friendship in these terms, see Ethics, 1156a3–5. More broadly on this theme, see Ethics 8.3–8.6. 20. ST II–II, q. 23, a. 5: “Diversae autem amicitiarum species accipiuntur quidem uno modo secundum diversitatem finis, et secundum hoc dicuntur tres species amicitiae, scilicet amicitia utilis, delectabilis et honesti.” 21. As Pangle observes: “Friendships of utility are commonly found between opposites, Aristotle says, such as the pairing of rich and poor, or ignorant and learned— or perhaps we should say rich ignorant and poor learned, since each must find in the other something that he needs (1159b12–24). They are also found between those who have similar things to offer at different times, as do guest and host in traditional Greek guest-friendships (1156a30–31), and in general between allies. Aristotle suggests repeatedly that friendships of utility are most characteristic of old, crabbed men, who are incapable of giving anyone pleasure and narrowly intent on gain” (Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship, 40).

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pal bond that exists is for the sake of doing some work well. A friendship of pleasure focuses on some enjoyable good that the friends share in common.22 Sports fans who are loyal to the same team, concertgoers at the same symphony, or art devotees at the same gallery might share this kind of friendship. By a true, complete, or integral friendship (amicitia . . . honesti), Thomas seems to be referring to the “honest” or true good, which is the perfect good of the other as other, not merely in the realm of utility or pleasure, but for his whole and humane flourishing.23 In a friendship of pleasure or utility, the other persons are useful or pleasant for me. In a true friendship, the relationship is no longer about my benefit, but about the genuine good of the other.24 Indeed, the good of the other in a true friendship is seen precisely as my own good. The true friend is an alter ego, another self, who wishes for the other what he wishes for himself.25

22. Pangle writes: “Friendships of pleasure, by contrast, are much closer to the best form of friendship. Aristotle says that they are characteristic of the young, who live by their emotions and whose desires change rapidly. Like the desires that spawn them, such friendships are transient, but as long as they last they are warm and heartfelt, and the friends do cherish one another’s company (1156a31–b6)” (Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship, 40). 23. The meaning of “honesty” here is lost in our contemporary speech. The phrase an “honest man” approaches the meaning of this term. To be an “honest man” in the broad sense is not only to be the kind of person who tells the truth but also to be the kind of person who is generally trustworthy, capable, virtuous, and so on. 24. Pangle calls this “perfect” friendship. “In this best form of friendship, Aristotle says that the partners love each other for themselves, cherishing each other for their characters and not for some incidental benefit that they provide each other” (Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship, 43). Pangle also asks about the relationship of the three kinds of friendship. Are these three kinds of friendship mutually exclusive? Or do they form a kind of hierarchy, with the lower containing the higher? It seems that two true friends, who wish the other well for the sake of the other, could also be business associates in another context or enjoy attending a sporting event together as fans of the same team. In this case, it seems that two true friends could also enjoy the benefits of a friendship of utility and pleasure. 25. See Aristotle, Ethics, 1155b29–31. Aristotle here discusses the difference between our love of wine and the love of a friend. We “love” wine for our own sake. We love a friend for the sake of the friend.



The Lexicon of Love 79 Amor and Dilectio: Acts and Passions of the Soul

In whatever sense friendship is a quasi-habit, as noted above, it clearly appears to be something different from the passion of love (amor) or dilection (dilectio). These two kinds of love are more appropriately described in terms of action and passion.26 Again, these two distinct Aristotelian genres of being are distinct from habit, understood here in the category of quality. Love (amor) would seem to refer to the whole phenomenon of love in general but also, specifically, to the passion or emotion of love. Dilection specifically names a chosen love, related as it is etymologically, Aquinas surmises, to electio, an “election” or “choice.” To put the whole conversation in context, Aristotle believes that there are ten highest genres of being, which he describes in his logical work the Categories.27 The primary division in the work is between substance and accident.28 “Substance,” at least primary substance, names what we think of as distinct individuals: plants, trees, cats, dogs, and humans. Substances exist in their own right.29 “Accidents” are modifications or properties of substance. They exist in virtue of substances. There are nine kinds of accidents according to Aristotle: quantity, quality, relation, when, where, position, possession, action, and passion.30 Setting aside the attempt to justify this 26. See ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1: “Amor autem et dilectio significantur per modum actus vel passionis.” 27. Aristotle, Aristotle’s Categories and De Interpretatione, trans. J. L. Ackrill, Clarendon Aristotle Series (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963). 28. There are nine accidents, which, with substance, make up a total of ten categories or predicaments. See Aristotle, Categories, 1b25–27: “Τῶν κατὰ μηδεμίαν συμπλοκὴν λεγομένων ἕκαστον ἤτοι οὐσίαν σημαίνει ἢ ποσὸν ἢ ποιὸν ἢ πρός τι ἢ ποὺ ἢ ποτὲ ἢ κεῖσθαι ἢ ἔχειν ἢ ποιεῖν ἢ πάσχειν.” 29. On substance, see Aristotle, Categories, 2a12–4b19. As Ackrill notes, “The discussion of substance in Metaphysics Z and H goes a good deal deeper than does this chapter of the Categories. Aristotle there exploits the concepts of matter and form, potentiality and actuality, and wrestles with a whole range of problems left untouched in the Categories” (note to Categories, 2a11). 30. This is something close to the traditional rendering of the nine accidents. A better

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schema, one can see the background against which Thomas makes his division of our words for love.31 Friendship is a habit, which is a kind of quality. Love and dilection are described in terms of the categories of action and passion. They thus exist in the lover in distinct ways. Insofar as both sensate and rational love involve a change on the part of the faculty, they are passions. One must be acted upon by an object in order to love it. However, one might also consider them acts insofar as the being-acted-upon produces in them a certain, actual way of being, which becomes the principle of the other emotions such as desire, joy, and so on. We will add some further precisions to amor and dilectio in the final section of this chapter, but we can note, for now, that they name an action or passion more than they properly name a habit. These realities are not beyond habituation, of course, but they are not themselves the habits. Caritas: A Habit and Act To round out his initial division of the four loves, Thomas states that charity can be taken “in either way” (utroque modo). In its context, this phrase might seem ambiguous. Does St. Thomas mean that charity can be taken in terms of either action or passion? Or does he mean that it can be taken in terms of either action and passion, like love and dilection, or in terms of habit, like charity? The latter optranslation of the Greek, but possibly more confusing to the English reader, as sounding more mechanical, would translate these categories as: how much? (quantity), how? (quality), toward another (relation), when? (time), where? (place), to lie (position), to have (possession), to act (action), to be acted on (passion). The Greek terms are more concrete than the Latin translations. The common English translations are, often enough, translations of the Latin. The upshot is that the English translations of the categories tend to sound more abstract than the concrete Greek terms. Regarding the accidents in particular—on quantity, see Aristotle, Categories, 4b20– 6a36. On relation, see 6a37–8b24. On quality, see 8b25–11a3. On the other accidents, see 11b1–14. For a helpful division of the text, see Paul Studtmann, “Aristotle’s Categories,” in Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy online, Spring 2021. 31. On the reasons for this division, see Paul Studtmann, The Foundations of Aristotle’s Categorial Scheme (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2008).



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tion seems more likely: one might describe charity either as a habit or as an action. In a later analysis, in the Secunda Secundae of the Summa, Thomas describes charity as a theological virtue.32 A virtue, of course, is a good habit.33 In this sense, it is like friendship, which is also a habit. But one might also think of charity in terms of action and passion. It might be thought of as a passion insofar as it is a virtue that is infused by God into the human soul, effecting a change in the person, which would count, perhaps loosely, as a passion or an “undergoing” in the person. In this sense, charity would seem to be both like friendship as a habit and like love and dilection as a passion of the soul, although “passion” here is being used analogically, since one reality is material and the other is spiritual. It could also be understood in terms of an act, when a charitable person is presently acting from charity. Excursus on Charity: Its Definition and Order Many studies take up the topic of charity in Aquinas, and although we cannot discuss the topic in any great detail, we would be remiss not to say something more about this virtue of virtues.34 To sketch 32. See ST I–II, q. 55, a. 3: “Unde virtus humana, quae est habitus operativus, est bonus habitus, et boni operativus.” See also ST I–II, q. 62, a. 3; ST II–II, q. 23, aa. 3, 4, 6. 33. See ST I–II, q. 55, a. 4. 34. On charity, see the following suggestions. Michael S. Sherwin, By Knowledge and by Love: Charity and Knowledge in the Moral Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005). Christopher J. Malloy, Aquinas on Beatific Charity and the Problem of Love (Steubenville, OH: Emmaus Academic, 2019). Joseph David Decosimo, Ethics as a Work of Charity: Thomas Aquinas and Pagan Virtue (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2014). Jean-Pierre Torrell, “Charity as Friendship in St. Thomas Aquinas,” in Christ and Spirituality in St. Thomas Aquinas, trans. Bernhard Blankenhorn (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 45–64. Robert Miner, ed., Questions on Love and Charity: Summa Theologiae, Secunda Secundae, Questions 23–46 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016). See also Guy Mansini, “Aristotle and Aquinas’s Theology of Charity in the Summa Theologiae,” in Aristotle in Aquinas’s Theology, ed. Gilles Emery and Matthew Levering (Oxford: University Press, 2015), 121–38. “Charity is friendship with God. And God is love. But God is not friendship. For there to be friendship with God there must be

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things in outline here, we can observe that, for St. Thomas, charity is, essentially, integral friendship with God.35 Charity is, of course, a theological virtue.36 It is “theological” insofar as (1) it is infused in the soul directly by God, (2) has God as its object, and (3) is made known to us through the revelation of God.37 It is a “virtue” insofar as it is a good habit, which is a stable disposition—in this case, of the soul. The act of charity is to will the good of God for his own sake and not for any end that one might obtain, thus distinguishing it from the theological virtue of hope, which wills the good with an eye to receiving the reward of heaven for oneself and as entrusting oneself to God, who provides the assistance to attain that end.38 Again, charity is a love of God for his own sake and a love of one’s neighbor for the sake of God.39 The subject of charity is thus the will.40 St. Thomas famously considers charity the form of the virtues, not as the formal cause of the other virtues, but insofar as “the acts of all of the other virtues are ordered toward their ultimate end through charity” (ST II–II, q. 23, a. 8). By giving the act a certain “order toward the end,” charity also gives it a certain form, not in an essential or exemplary way, but effectively.41 St. Thomas also created persons, and, in the actual order of redemption, a created humanity assumed by a divine Person. Charity names the abundance of divine love for what is beyond God. It is in that way the ecstasis of divine love” (138). 35. See ST II–II, q. 23, a. 1: “Amor autem super hac communicatione fundatus est caritas. Unde manifestum est quod caritas amicitia quaedam est hominis ad Deum.” 36. See ST I–II, q. 62, a. 3. 37. On the meaning of “theological” in this case, see ST I–II, q. 62, a. 1: “Et huiusmodi principia virtutes dicuntur theologicae, tum quia habent Deum pro obiecto, inquantum per eas recte ordinamur in Deum; tum quia a solo Deo nobis infunduntur; tum quia sola divina revelatione, in sacra Scriptura, huiusmodi virtutes traduntur.” 38. See ST II–II, q. 23, a. 6: “Fides autem et spes attingunt quidem Deum secundum quod ex ipso provenit nobis vel cognitio veri vel adeptio boni, sed caritas attingit ipsum Deum ut in ipso sistat, non ut ex eo aliquid nobis proveniat.” 39. On the object of charity, see, for example, ST II–II, q. 23, a. 5, ad 1: “Deus est principale obiectum caritatis, proximus autem ex caritate diligitur propter Deum.” See also ST II–II, q. 25, a. 1: “Habitus caritatis non solum se extendit ad dilectionem Dei, sed etiam ad dilectionem proximi.” 40. See ST II–II, q. 24, a. 1: “Et ideo caritatis subiectum non est appetitus sensitivus, sed appetitus intellectivus, idest voluntas.” 41. See ST q. 23, a. 8: “Manifestum est autem secundum praedicta quod per



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notes the Augustinian “order” of charity: one should love God first, one’s soul second, one’s neighbor third, and one’s body fourth.42 The effects of charity are joy, peace, and mercy.43 Further exterior effects of charity are beneficence, almsgiving, and fraternal correction, which Thomas considers as a kind of alms.44 Wisdom is the gift of the Holy Spirit perfecting charity, making one more docile to receive the prompting of God.45 In sum, charity is a theological virtue perfecting the will, which has as its object God and oneself and one’s neighbor for the sake of God. It is, in its essence, a good habit that brings about a friendship with God that overflows to a love for all people. We thus have the analysis of St. Thomas regarding four “loves” of the Latin language: amor, amicitia, dilectio, and caritas.46 Amor is the broadest word for love and includes dilectio and caritas in its range. Dilectio is a certain kind of amor. Caritas is a certain kind of dilectio. One might thus imagine concentric circles with caritas at the center, the most specific kind of love, surrounded by dilectio, a more general kind of love, surrounded by amor, the most general kind of love. “Friendship” or amicitia names a kind of love but, since it is closer to a habit than a passion, it seems to fall into its own category. These four terms for love help to give some form to the earlier discussion of natural, sensitive, and intellectual love, while distinguishing further how some intellectual loves can be elevated to a higher, spiritual caritatem ordinantur actus omnium aliarum virtutum ad ultimum finem. Et secundum hoc ipsa dat formam actibus omnium aliarum virtutum.” St. Thomas also speaks of charity as being, in some sense, an efficient cause, as imposing a form on the other virtues by ordering them to their end: “Caritas dicitur esse forma aliarum virtutum non quidem exemplariter aut essentialiter, sed magis effective, inquantum scilicet omnibus formam imponit secundum modum praedictum” (ST II–II, q. 23, a. 8, ad 1). 42. See ST II–II, q. 26. 43. See ST II–II, qq. 28–30. 44. See ST II–II, qq. 31–33. 45. See ST II–II, q. 45. 46. One could consider other Latin words for love, but St. Thomas focuses on these terms, motivated perhaps less by comprehensive philological concerns and more by a philosophical analysis of the reality.

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plane in terms of charity. It also helps to see how friendship, though born from love, is also distinct from it, as a sort of habit. We now turn to how these distinct loves stand in relation to one another in a kind of hierarchy. Amor, Dilectio, Caritas: A Nested Hierarchy In the second half of the article (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3), Thomas further specifies the relationship between love (amor), dilection (dilectio), and charity (caritas). Recall how in the first half of the article, he explains how all three can be signified in terms of action or act, one of the ten categories of being that come from Aristotle. Thomas now distinguishes them further: “Nevertheless, act is signified differently by these three”—namely, love, dilection, and charity.47 For love [amor] is more general [communius] than the others [dilectio and caritas], for every dilection or charity is love, but not conversely. For dilection [dilectio] adds above love a preceding choice [electio], as the name itself indicates. So, dilection is not in the concupiscible appetite but only in the will, and it is in the rational nature alone. But charity adds above love a certain perfection of love, inasmuch as that which is loved is esteemed to be of great price [magni pretii aestimatur], as the name itself signifies.48

This dense passage requires some explication. First, Thomas considers love (amor) in relation to dilection and charity. He notes that every dilection and charity is a kind of love, but not every love is charity or dilection. To make that more concrete, consider the following: we would not count our love for fine wine as charity, and yet it would still somehow be a kind of love, one that is in the sensi47. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3: “Differenter tamen significatur actus per ista tria.” 48. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 3: “Nam amor communius est inter ea, omnis enim dilectio vel caritas est amor, sed non e converso. Addit enim dilectio supra amorem, electionem praecedentem, ut ipsum nomen sonat. Unde dilectio non est in concupiscibili, sed in voluntate tantum, et est in sola rationali natura. Caritas autem addit supra amorem, perfectionem quandam amoris, inquantum id quod amatur magni pretii aestimatur, ut ipsum nomen designat.”



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tive appetite. We would, however, generally consider an act of charity—say, worshipping God or giving food to the hungry out of love for God—as an act of love. Amor, or “love” generally speaking, in its wide semantic valence, is thus a broader term than “dilection” or “charity” both in the English and the Latin languages. So “love” in this sense (amor) can cover both the love of wine and the love of God. “Charity” only names our love for God. Second, St. Thomas considers dilection. If every dilection is a kind of love, but not every love is a kind of dilection, what does dilection add to the general meaning of love? He notes that dilection is a specific kind of love, one that proceeds from the will. Dilection thus belongs to the intellectual appetite, whereas love can name an act of either the natural, the sensitive, or the rational or intellectual appetite. So, the love one might have for beautiful sunsets, which are a good of the senses, is distinct from the rational love one might have for truth or justice or even for God. Rather charmingly, I think, Thomas uses the apparent etymology of the word dilectio to make his case.49 Dilection (dilectio) is a kind of love that involves a preceding choice (electio). The pun on electio and dilectio is not a warrant for the argument, but it is a helpful way of remembering the distinction. So, in the linguistic world of Aquinas, “dilection” names an act of the will, the intellectual appetite, but not an act of the sensitive appetite. Third, Thomas looks at charity. It would seem that every charity is an instance of dilection, but not every dilection is a case of charity. For example, one might choose to study geometry. This is an act of the will seeking a kind of intelligible truth. In that sense, it is a kind of dilection, or chosen love, that belongs to the intellectual appetite. But the decision to study geometry for purely human motives would not be an act of charity.50 Still, every act of charity is an act of the 49. Thomas is also aware that etymology does not determine present meaning. See ST I, q. 13, a. 2, ad 2: “In significatione nominum, aliud est quandoque a quo imponitur nomen ad significandum, et id ad quod significandum nomen imponitur.” The connection, I think, is still a helpful mnemonic device. 50. Perhaps one could study geometry out of charity, if one did so in order to better

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will. The difference here, Thomas notes, is that charity considers its object of love to be of great price. In the Christian context, charity, as a love of God for his own sake and a love of neighbor for the sake of God, does indeed have a great good as its object. In fact, the object of charity is nothing less than goodness itself, the infinite good of God.51 St. Thomas again explains his argument etymologically. Caritas originally meant, in the Roman world, something costly or precious. It then came to signify a particular kind of “costly” love: one that was both of great value, as having a great object, and one that would cost the lover in sacrifice. To sum up: amor is the broadest term for love, covering both our affective loves and our spiritual loves. Dilectio is a more specific kind of love than amor, covering only acts of chosen love—that is, acts of the will. Caritas is an even more specific kind of love than dilectio— namely, a spiritual love that has God as its ultimate object and end. These three realities thus form what one might call a nested hierarchy of loves. Amicitia, or “friendship,” to add a fourth term for love, is more of a habit than it is an act of passion, and thus stands in another category of being. Conclusion This initial division of our words for love according to the Categories of Aristotle might seem overly pedantic. However, the precision of the categories allows one to accurately describe these kinds of love in terms of action, passion, and habit. These have precise definitions, which helps to dispel some of the fuzziness that can surround discussions of love. We can rightly think of love as something “happening” to us, even quickening our heartbeat, and in the same breath speak of a decision to love another person, despite our feelings to the contrary, as an act of the will and perhaps even as understand forms of argumentation, in order to study philosophy, in order to study theology—or perhaps simply out of love for God. 51. See ST II–II, q. 25, a. 1.



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flowing from the virtue of charity. These are not contradictions or shortcomings in our language of love. They point to a continuum of realities, from the material to the spiritual, which have in common a fontal quality, as being the principle of the other emotions or of other actions, and as arising from an adaptation and response to the good. The key is to properly distinguish these meanings and to place them in their proper order, so one can see what is similar to each of these vastly different realities, without forgetting what separates them. What St. Thomas might lose in romance he gains in precision. Let the reader judge his decision. In the following chapter, we discuss the fourth and final article of the question on the nature of love (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4). Rather fittingly, we will consider the distinction between love of concupiscence and love of friendship. This distinction makes sense of how we can rightly say, perhaps confusingly, both that we love a good meal and that we also love our neighbor. This apparently flattening feature of our language is not a peculiarity of English, as we will see. And indeed, to use the term “love” in these different ways does not diminish the meaning of love but rather shows the vast extension of the phenomenon in our lives in an analogical way. What do these two kinds of love have in common, if anything? How exactly do they differ? And what does this distinction tell us about rightly ordering the tangled threads of our many loves?

Chapter 4 The Order of Love

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The Order of Love: Love of Friendship and Love of Concupiscence Amor Amicitiae • Amor Concupiscentiae [ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4]

The word for “love” in English is quite flexible. Someone might say, for example, that he loves a certain wine. We also say that we love our friends and family. Or we might mention how we love to vacation in a certain spot. How can one word cover so many different contexts? Some critics of the English language might think that this wide usage of the word “love” diminishes its significance. What profound meaning can the word have when we say that we love chocolate and then say that we love our family? Is there not something demeaning about that? Interestingly, this does not seem to be a problem restricted to English.1 The same word in Latin (amor) can have a very wide usage, too. St. Thomas, citing Aristotle, speaks about how someone can have a love of wine and a love of one’s friends: “We are said to love some things because we desire them, just as ‘someone is said to love wine on 1. Not all Romance languages (such as Italian, Spanish, French) follow this custom. In Spanish, for example, the case is a bit different. I “love” (amo) my family, but I “like” (a mi me gusta) wine.

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account of the sweetness which he desires in it’ as is said in Book II of the Topics. But we do not enjoy friendship with wine, or other things, as is said in Book VIII of the Ethics. Therefore, the love of concupiscence is one thing and the love of friendship is another.”2 So, in this final article on the nature of love (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4), Thomas offers a final division of love—into love of concupiscence and love of friendship—which plays an important role in his discussion of the causes and effects of love.3 To grasp the later teaching, we must therefore pay careful attention to this final division of love. In short, these distinctions between the love of friendship and the love of concupiscence will show how one kind of love is ordered toward another. To love something for our own sake and benefit is to love it with the love of desire, or, more literally, the love of concupiscence (amor concupiscentiae). One can thus love wine, although the wine is not loved for its own sake but for the sake of the one enjoying it. To love another person for his own sake, and not for our own, is to love that person with the love of friendship (amor amicitiae). Importantly, this “love of friendship” is not simply the love one has for a friend. One seems able to love in this way in relation both to oneself and even to an enemy, neither of whom is properly a friend at all. This linguistic ambiguity should be noted from the outset, although we will clarify the point later on. What, then, is the basis for this division between love of concupiscence and love of friendship? What does it tell us about love that we did not know before? St. Thomas writes, referencing Aristotle again, that “just as the philosopher says in Book II of the Topics, ‘to love is to will good to another.’ Therefore, in this way, the motion of love tends toward two things: [1] toward the good which someone 2. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4: “Sed contra, quaedam dicimur amare quia ea concupiscimus, sicut dicitur aliquis amare vinum propter dulce quod in eo concupiscit, ut dicitur in II Topic. Sed ad vinum, et ad huiusmodi, non habemus amicitiam, ut dicitur in VIII Ethic. Ergo alius est amor concupiscentiae, et alius est amor amicitiae.” 3. On this article, see also ST I, q. 60, a. 3; ST II–II, q. 23, a. 1; II Sent. d. 3, part. 2, q. 3; III Sent. d. 29, a. 3; IV Sent. d. 49, q. 1, a. 2, qa. 1, ad 3; De Virt. q. 4, a. 3; In De Div. Nom. c. 4, lect. 9 and lect. 10.

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wishes for someone, either for himself or for another, and [2] and toward the person for whom he wishes the good.”4 Here we encounter the familiar definition of love as willing the good of another. And yet, as noted in the sed contra of the article, St. Thomas already recognizes some difficulties that arise from this formulation. We love wine, but we do not wish good to it. Rather, we wish the good of the wine for ourselves, for our friends, and perhaps even for our enemies, if we should wish them some good. Still, we are rightly said to love the wine, even if it is only for the sake of the person who drinks and enjoys the wine itself. Love of Friendship and Love of Concupiscence: Their Distinction and Order Thomas makes sense of these two kinds of love by making a distinction. “Therefore, one has a love of concupiscence [amor concupiscentiae] for that good which someone wishes for another. But one has a love of friendship [amor amicitiae] for the one to whom [cui] someone wishes the good.”5 In other words, we experience a love of concupiscence for the good desired. But we have a love of friendship for the one for whom the good is desired. Someone may thus love a beach house, not for its own sake, but for the sake of those who will enjoy it: for oneself, one’s family, and one’s friends. The “love” for the beach house is a love of concupiscence. The love for 4. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4: “Respondeo dicendum quod, sicut philosophus dicit in II Rhetoric., amare est velle alicui bonum. Sic ergo motus amoris in duo tendit, scilicet in bonum quod quis vult alicui, vel sibi vel alii; et in illud cui vult bonum.” 5. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4: “Ad illud ergo bonum quod quis vult alteri, habetur amor concupiscentiae, ad illud autem cui aliquis vult bonum, habetur amor amicitiae.” Importantly, Thomas elsewhere seems to suggest that love of concupiscence is ordered to the love of self, whereas the love of friendship is ordered to the love of another. See ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4, ad 1, ad 3 and ST I–II q. 28, aa. 1–3. While such an interpretation seems at odds with the corpus of this article (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4), Thomas may simply use the same phrase in different contexts to describe distinct but related phenomena. This second usage of love of friendship (amor amicitiae) seems to be closer to what Thomas elsewhere means by love of benevolence (amor benevolentiae).



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one’s friends and family, for whom one loves the beach house, is the love of friendship. As the Latin suggests, St. Thomas sees both of these loves as a kind of amor. But they are two different kinds of love, one of friendship and one of concupiscence. Concupiscence here does not imply anything sinful about the love, as one might suspect in an Augustinian context. We might also simply call the love of concupiscence a love of desire, mindful, however, that love and desire are two distinct passions for St. Thomas.6 The stock example for love of desire is the love for wine. It is not loved for its own sake but insofar as it is good for oneself or another. Thomas calls the other love a love of friendship. This kind of love wills the good for another (or even for oneself). It is that for whom one wishes the good as opposed to the good itself which one desires. The love of wine therefore serves a further love, a love for oneself or another. The love of desire thus seems ordered toward the love of friendship. As St. Thomas notes, “This division is according to before and after [prius et posterius].” There is, in other words, a priority between these two kinds of love. “For that which is loved with the love of friendship is loved simply and for itself [simpliciter et per se], but that which is loved with the love of concupiscence is not loved simply and for itself, but for another [alicui].”7 When St. Thomas uses the term simpliciter, he means simply, absolutely, without reference to another. One could contrast this with loving something relatively, for the sake of some further end. The phrase per se can have many meanings, but here it would seem to mean for itself, for its own sake, or on account of itself, as opposed to loving something on account of, or for the sake of, another (alicui). At the risk of sounding too repetitious, therefore, the wine is loved for the sake of the person 6. Recall that concupiscence and the concupiscible appetite is named from the desiring power. To call something the love of concupiscence is, in more familiar words, to call it a love of desire. 7. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4: “Nam id quod amatur amore amicitiae, simpliciter et per se amatur, quod autem amatur amore concupiscentiae, non simpliciter et secundum se amatur, sed amatur alteri.”

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who drinks it. The person who drinks it is loved for his own sake and not for some further end. Indeed, the wine would not be seen as desirable at all unless it were good for someone. To sum it up, wine is for friends, and not the other way around. A Metaphysical Analogy: Absolute and Relative Love This basic distinction between the love of friendship and the love of concupiscence can be taken deeper. Thomas takes a more metaphysical turn in his analysis of love, speaking of being, goodness, and the convertibility of the two, in order to highlight this distinction of loves: For just as being simply [ens simpliciter] is that which has existence, but being relatively speaking [ens secundum quid] is what is in another; so the good simply speaking [bonum simpliciter], which is convertible with being, is what has goodness, while what is good for another is good relatively [bonum secundum quid]. Consequently, the love by which something is loved as it is good in itself is love simply [amor simpliciter], but the love by which something is loved as good for another is love relatively [amor secundum quid].8

At first, this paragraph might seem surprising and even downright perplexing. St. Thomas has been talking about love, and now he turns to a discussion of the kinds of being, goodness, and their convertibility. Rest assured, this metaphysical excursion serves the discussion of love. The first point of orientation is to note that Thomas sets up a triad—being (ens), good (bonum), and love (amor)—and then considers each term under two aspects: simply speaking (simpliciter) and relatively speaking (secundum quid). There are thus six key terms: being, simply and relatively speaking; good, simply and relatively speaking; and love, simply and relatively speaking. Thomas coordinates these terms to more deeply plumb the depths of love. 8. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4: “Sicut enim ens simpliciter est quod habet esse, ens autem secundum quid quod est in alio; ita bonum, quod convertitur cum ente, simpliciter quidem est quod ipsum habet bonitatem; quod autem est bonum alterius, est bonum secundum quid. Et per consequens amor quo amatur aliquid ut ei sit bonum, est amor simpliciter, amor autem quo amatur aliquid ut sit bonum alterius, est amor secundum quid.”



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St. Thomas is drawing a complex analogy between kinds of goodness and being, on the one hand, and love, on the other hand.9 The analogy rests on a distinction, mentioned earlier, between what exists simpliciter and what exists secundum quid. Recall that simpliciter means “absolutely,” or “without reference to another.” In contrast, secundum quid means “relatively,” or “with reference to another.” (For background, the phrase secundum quid literally means “according to what,” suggesting its own relativity.) So, for example, someone might love a lobster dinner or perhaps a well-seasoned meal of tofu. This could be a kind of love simpliciter. He loves the lobster or the tofu without any further qualification. The same person might say that he loves bitter medicine. This love does have some qualification. It is loved secundum quid. The person does not love the medicine tout court, but under some aspect—namely, insofar as the medicine helps him to become healthy again. The bitterness of the medicine may even be repulsive, which is why we might at first think it odd for someone to say that he loves such medicine. What, then, does that have to do with being, goodness, and love? Well, Thomas notes that being, goodness, and love each involve a distinction between what exists simpliciter and what exists secundum quid. Something can exist simply speaking or in a relative way. Something can be good simply speaking or in a relative way. And something can be loved simply speaking or in a relative way. He thus draws an analogy between being and goodness and love. In terms of being, Thomas seems to have the distinction between substance and accident in mind.10 Primary substances exist in their own right. These 9. On the transcendentals in the thought of Thomas Aquinas, see Jan Aertsen, Medieval Philosophy and the Transcendentals: The Case of Thomas Aquinas, Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 52 (Leiden: Brill, 1996). Jan Aertsen, “The Philosophical Importance of the Doctrine of the Transcendentals in Thomas Aquinas,” Revue Internationale de Philosophie 52, no. 2 (1998): 249–68. More broadly, see Jan Aertsen, Medieval Philosophy as Transcendental Thought: From Philip the Chancellor (ca. 1225) to Francisco Suarez, Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 107 (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 10. The reference to relative being as being “in another” is a tip to the reader that St. Thomas has accidents in mind here. Accidents, as a mode of being, exist in another, in virtue of being “in” a substance.

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substances exist simply (simpliciter). Individual rocks, trees, animals, and humans exist in themselves, per se, and not in virtue of another. To be sure, for St. Thomas, they are also dependent on God for their existence in the first place, but they are not dependent on any further created thing for their existence in itself. Accidents, unlike the primary substances noted above, do not exist in their own right (per se). Accidents exist relatively or in relation to another (secundum quid). The location of the rock, the color of the tree, the homeostatic temperature of the animal, the knowledge of the human—all of these exist in and through another (per aliud) and not in themselves (per se). There is no location unless there is a preexisting body; there is no color without a surface; there is no homeostatic temperature without a living body; there is no knowledge without a mind and, indeed, without an object that is known by the knower in virtue of his mind. In metaphysical terms, accidents exist in virtue of substances. Substances exist in their own right.11 St. Thomas then notes that “being” (ens) and “good” (bonum) are convertible. What this means is that whatever exists is good and that whatever is good also exists. (This does not mean that every imaginable good thing exists, but only that any actually existent thing is in some way good.) Something that is good in itself is good simply (simpliciter).12 Something that is the good of another is good relatively (secundum quid). The meaning of simpliciter and secundum quid is context dependent. One might think, for example, in terms of means and ends. For the painter, the end is the painting. The painting, in this sense, is a good in itself. From the perspective of the painter who has the painting in mind, the paintbrush and the paint are not goods in themselves, but ordered toward a further 11. Of course, St. Thomas holds that substances themselves exist in virtue of the creative act of God. 12. One could also argue that God alone is good, simply speaking, and without further qualification. See ST I, q. 6, a. 3: “Solus Deus habet omnimodam perfectionem secundum suam essentiam. Et ideo ipse solus est bonus per suam essentiam.” The meaning and extent of the simpliciter thus requires some specification.



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good. They are good insofar as they help the artist finish a painting. In the order of ends, the painting produced is good simpliciter while the paint and paintbrush are good secundum quid, as being useful for the painting.13 But note that the painting might itself be a means to some further end—for example, to decorate a space, to bring delight to others, and perhaps even to manifest and contemplate the beauty of the created world itself. The meaning of good simpliciter and secundum quid is thus context dependent. The only ultimate good would be God himself who alone is infinitely and essentially goodness. At this point it might be helpful to recapitulate the steps of the argument. First, there are two kinds of being—beings simply speaking, which are substances; and beings relatively speaking, which are accidents. Second, since being is convertible with goodness, such that every being is a good thing and every good thing is a being, the distinction between absolute and relative being must map onto the distinction between goodness simply, what is good in itself, and relative goodness, what is good for another.14 There may be a loose implication that goodness is itself substantial or accidental, with accidental goodness existing for the good of the substance, although that does not seem to be the point given the context of discussing love of concupiscence and love of friendship in terms of their relative ordering. But a person can love one substance for the sake of another substance—for example, as one loves wine for the sake of a friend.15 13. Of course, the paint and the paintbrush have their own kind of proper goodness, as does any creature, according to the convertibility of being and goodness. In this sense, the paint and paintbrush can be good simpliciter, simply in virtue of their existence, or without reference to another. To be more precise, in the hierarchy of ends, the only good that is perfectly good simpliciter is God. Every other good is for the sake of God. 14. Again, we are using “absolute” here to refer not to God, the supreme good, but to any good that is considered to be good in itself according to some order or scheme of means and ends. 15. The degree to which wine is a substance, given that it is a human artifact, is disputable in regard to the exegesis of Aristotle, but Thomas often refers to the “substance” of bread and wine in eucharistic contexts. See, for example, SCG IV, c. 63, n. 4: “Substantia panis convertitur in substantiam corporis Christi, et substantia vini in substantiam sanguinis eius.” See also ST III, q. 75, a. 4: “Tota substantia panis convertitur in totam substantiam corporis Christi, et tota substantia vini in totam substantiam sanguinis Christi.”

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Next, St. Thomas connects his discussion of being and goodness to love. Since love has the good as its object, there must be two kinds of love: one that has the relative good as its object and one that has the absolute good as its object. This returns us to our prior division of love into the love of concupiscence and the love of friendship. On the one hand, the love of concupiscence has the relative good as its object, as being good for another. On the other hand, the love of friendship has the absolute good as its object, as being good in itself.16 The love for wine is the love of a relative good, as being good for a friend. The love of a friend has a good that is loved for its own sake—for the good of the friend in himself—without qualification.17 St. Thomas thus lays bare the metaphysical foundation beneath the division of the love of concupiscence and the love of friendship, since love has the good as its object and goodness itself falls into two categories (relative and absolute). The Angelic Doctor summarizes the position in his reply to the first objection: “Love is not divided into friendship and concupiscence, but into love of friendship and love of concupiscence. For we call a friend one to whom we will some good, but that which we will for ourselves we are said to desire.”18 So, friendship is not the same as the love of friendship. The love of friendship may have as its object either another or oneself, whereas one is not normally said to be a friend of oneself. Properly speaking, friendship regards another person. We might then speak 16. We can schematize the analogy in the following way: substance (being simply) : accident (being relatively) :: goodness simply speaking : goodness relatively speaking :: love of friendship : love of concupiscence. 17. One might say that even the love of friendship admits of degrees. In one sense, the wine is loved for the good of the friend, and the friend is loved for his own sake. In another sense, at least from the perspective of charity, even the friend himself is loved in a kind of relative way, as being loved on account of God. It is thus important to remember, as we have said, that the distinction of good simpliciter and good secundum quid is context dependent. 18. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4, ad 1: “Ad primum ergo dicendum quod amor non dividitur per amicitiam et concupiscentiam, sed per amorem amicitiae et concupiscentiae. Nam ille proprie dicitur amicus, cui aliquod bonum volumus, illud autem dicimur concupiscere, quod volumus nobis.”



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of friendship for oneself metaphorically. Similarly, the love of concupiscence is not concupiscence or desire simply speaking. As noted above, love is the principle of desire, not desire itself. Although love involves a motion or change on the part of the lover, the emotion proximately moving the lover toward the beloved is desire. In short, the “love of friendship” should not be confused with “friendship,” properly speaking. Similarly, the “love of desire” should not be confused with “desire,” properly speaking. There is, however, some likeness between these names. Thus, “friendship” involves a love for its own sake, just as “love of friendship” involves an absolute good. Again, “desire” names a motion toward a good, although the motion is not for its own sake, but for the sake of being in the presence of the beloved, just as love of desire has as its object the good in a relative sense, as opposed to a good in its own right. The Order of Love: From Things to Persons This article (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4) is certainly the most metaphysically ambitious of the four on the nature of love in general. What is the takeaway from these fine distinctions? Or does this amount to nothing more than scholastic hairsplitting? It seems to me that the distinction between the love of concupiscence and the love of desire can help us to make sense of and clarify our experience of love in the world. It is not improper to say that we love watching a sunset, that we love playing baseball, that we love dancing, or that we love a certain piece of music. These are all legitimate loves. However, none of these loves is for its own sake. We generally love these things for some further end: for ourselves, for our family, for our friends, and even for strangers. The upshot to the discussion is that love has a certain order toward it. This order places people at the end of the line, as the ultimate object of love. And charity, as noted above, orders our love of people toward our love for God. As that order makes clear, love

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has a hierarchy to it. We first encountered this hierarchy in ST I–II, question 26, article 1. We learned there that three kinds of love correspond to three kinds of appetite: natural, sensitive, and rational. The natural appetite has a foundational character to it. Without natural love, no other love would exist. For there to be a particular sensate or intellectual love, there must first be an agreement, harmony, consonance, fittingness, or congruence between what we are and what we love. Bears tend to build their dens on the sides of mountain slopes. Cranes tend to build their nests in wetlands and marshes. Clown fish tend to live in or near coral reefs. These tendencies, though obvious, name a kind of love, a natural love, that moves all things toward their proper end. The particular placement of the dwelling or nest may be left up to the animal, but the tendency to some kind of location seems innate—that is to say, inborn and natural. Our own desires for food, sleep, society, and meaningful work seem to fall into the same category. Yet there is another hierarchy of love, not according to the order of our appetites, but according to the order of means and end. Some goods are relative, and some goods are absolute. Since love has the good for its object, there will also be relative loves and absolute loves. This distinction adds further nuance to the hierarchy of love. One might simplify this to say that things are loved on account of persons. That is generally true. But one might also love one person on account of another person, as in the case of charity, where one loves the creature for the sake of the creator. This is not to diminish the dignity of the human person, but to ennoble it, such that one can love the creature with the greatest love possible, recognizing that the origin and end of that person is ultimately God. This love guarantees, in fact, that one can recognize and honor the full dignity of the human person. And so, while we generally love things for the sake of persons, there is also some sense in which we can love some things for the sake of other things, as when we purchase a hiking pack for the sake of hauling around camping equipment, and another sense in which we can love some persons for the sake of other persons, which is most clearly evident in the case of charity.



The Order of Love 99 In Retrospect: On the Nature of Love

At the end of this question on the nature of love, where do we stand? In the first article (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1), St. Thomas notes how three kinds of knowledge give rise to three kinds of love, which give rise to three kinds of desire. These loves and desires, in turn, arise from three appetites or desiring powers—natural, sensitive, and rational. One might think of these as (1) our natural fittingness for certain goods, as (2) what is pleasing to our senses, and as (3) what is in agreement with our will. The object of each is the good, either as apprehended by God, as known by our senses, in a particular way, or as understood by our intellect, in a universal way. Natural love, reflecting the orientation of our nature, is the precondition for every subsequent love.19 In the second article (ST I–II, q. 26, a. 2), Thomas observes how love, as a sensation and as an act of the will, involves a change on the part of the desiring power. To love is to be changed from the outside, by the object of love. As Thomas observes in the third article, these loves go by different names (see ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1). Amor can refer to any kind of love. Dilectio corresponds to rational or chosen love. Caritas is a particular kind of dilectio that has a great good as its object—namely, God. Friendship (amicitia) is in one way a love but is more appropriately called a habit or a quasi-habit. These names for love remind us that “love” is an analogical term, so that the same name can have distinct yet related meanings and refer to different things, but according to a certain order among them. What seems common to these words for love is that each manifests a “resonance” with the good (complacentia boni). In the final article, St. Thomas argues for another division of our loves. Love of concu19. See ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1, ad 3: “Amor naturalis non solum est in viribus animae vegetativae, sed in omnibus potentiis animae, et etiam in omnibus partibus corporis, et universaliter in omnibus rebus, quia, ut Dionysius dicit, IV cap. de Div. Nom., omnibus est pulchrum et bonum amabile; cum unaquaeque res habeat connaturalitatem ad id quod est sibi conveniens secundum suam naturam.”

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piscence (amor concupiscentiae) has as its object a relative good— that is, a good that is good in reference to either oneself or another, as one loves a slice of pizza or a glass of wine. Love of friendship (amor amicitiae) has as its object an absolute good—that is, a good that is willed for its own sake, as one might love a friend or spouse. In these four articles, St. Thomas thus paints a detailed portrait of love that makes sense of our experience. One should note a few important points that challenge our common conception of love. First, love is not merely a matter of whim. There is an order to our loves that depends on our nature. We naturally desire happiness. Although we can be mistaken about the means to this end, the desire for happiness, for the universal good, is the condition for loving any particular good.20 Natural desire, in other words, undergirds every particular desire. There can be no love for a particular kind of food, for example, unless there is first a love, an order toward, preservation and growth in general. Again, there will be no love for this or that community unless there is first a love for and order toward sociability. There will be no love to study a particular domain of knowledge unless there is first an orientation of our nature toward the truth itself. Second, love is not identical with desire. Rather, love is the principle of desire, which follows on a congruence or fittingness between the desirable object and our nature, sensation, or will.21 It follows that in order to desire something one must first be aware of and experience its fittingness and suitability for oneself. For example, we 20. See, again, ST I–II, q. 26, a. 1, ad 3 on natural love as being in all the powers of the soul. 21. Recall that our loves are distinguished by our appetites: natural, sensitive, and intellectual. The natural appetite is established in our nature by God, in virtue of our creation as rational animals. The natural desire thus follows on the apprehension of God, not ourselves. For St. Thomas, we do not choose to want to be happy. We desire it in virtue of our nature. The two other desires arise from our own apprehension of some good. Such a good is either a sensible good, like a pastry, or an intelligible good, like truth and justice. Sensible goods correspond to the sensible appetite, and intelligible goods correspond to the intellectual appetite or will (see ST III, q. 26, a. 1). Love is thus a fittingness or congruence between the loved object and our nature, sensitive appetite, or intelligible appetite.



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naturally have a love for happiness. We might also love some freshly baked pastry in virtue of our sensitive appetite. We may also love justice in virtue of our will. Desire, then, following from love, is the motion toward the desirable object. We subsequently desire to pursue happiness, to eat the pastry, to work for justice. Third, love involves a change on the part of the lover. This change, the “passionate” character of love—taking “passion” in its literal sense as involving a change on the part of the one undergoing it—points to how one cannot love without first being receptive to the world, standing before it with an open mind and heart. One might call this the contemplative quality of the lover. To say that love is a passion is to say that the beloved object changes us. We must be moved and open to such change before we can properly be said to love. Even intellectual love involves a kind of change, though not a material one, initially on the part of the intellect, which is informed by the truth of reality and which may then present some object as good to the will.22 The will itself, rational desire, must then, metaphorically speaking, “lean into” the object known. Fourth, and finally, the love of concupiscence and the love of friendship point to a natural order in our loves—be it sensitive or rational—that distinguishes between the thing loved and the one for whom it is loved. We thus love a glass of good wine for our own sake and the sake of our friends. We love a beautiful sunset for ourselves, but also perhaps because we can share it with those to whom we are close. We may love the writings of a great philosopher or theologian, not ultimately for the written book itself, but for the knowledge that perfects the one who studies and teaches and contemplates it. Persons are thus the ultimate objects of love. And the persons for whom 22. As Thomas writes, to understand (intelligere) can be considered a passion in the broad, categorical sense: “Ad rationem passionis primo quidem pertinet quod sit motus passivae virtutis, ad quam scilicet comparetur suum obiectum per modum activi moventis, eo quod passio est effectus agentis. Et per hunc modum, etiam sentire et intelligere dicuntur pati” (ST I–II, q. 41, a. 1). More properly, passion signifies a movement of the appetitive power: “Magis proprie dicitur passio motus appetitivae virtutis” (ST I–II, q. 41, a. 1).

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we ultimately love all else, in charity, are the divine persons of the Trinity. This goal of union with the persons of the Trinity, from the perspective of faith, provides love with its ultimate ordering, according to Thomas, and helps to untangle the twisted skein of our desires so as to better weave it, as charity reveals, into the tapestry of providence.

Part 2 The Causes of Love The Good • Knowledge • Likeness Bonum • Cognitio • Similitudo

Chapter 5 The First Cause of Love: The Good

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The First Cause of Love: The Good Bonum [ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1]

Where do our loves come from? It seems sometimes that our loves come to us entirely from without—the love for a particular kind of cuisine, an inclination for a certain kind of work, a tendency to be friends with a certain type of person. These loves shape every aspect of our lives: the food we eat, the work we do, the friends who influence us, the way we use our free time, the gadgets and goods upon which we spend our money. When St. Augustine reflected that “my love is my weight” (pondus), he hit the truth. Love is a kind of gravitas, a weight, a gravity. This love can draw us toward what is best in the world. Or it can draw us to what is worst. We now have a better sense of the nature of love. Love is the principle of desire in the natural, sensitive, and rational appetites. Or, more precisely, it is the actual agreement, harmony, consonance, congruence, or fittingness between our nature or appetitive power and some object. When we speak of appetite here we simply mean the desiring power. Simply put, love arises from the fittingness that exists between the lover and the beloved. And so, according to the tendency of our rational and animal nature, we desire a certain kind of happiness, one that is the fulfillment of both our corporeal ratio105

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nality and our spiritual animality.1 In virtue of our sensitive appetite, we also desire certain goods that are pleasant to our senses. Finally, we desire those goods which are agreeable with our rational appetite or will. Sensate love is also a passion, in the sense that it involves a change in the lover prompted by the sensible grasp of that which is loved. A further and final distinction helps us to understand that to love, in the most general sense, is not merely to will the good of the other. That kind of love is proper to friendship, but it does not exhaust the phenomenon of love. One might also love certain lesser goods, in a certain way, which are not ends in themselves, as we love a good meal. The basic notion associated with love is that it is a kind of actualized fittingness or “rightness” between the lover and the beloved. What brings about this sense of fittingness? St. Thomas turns his attention to this query in the following question of the Summa (ST I–II, q. 27).2 The short answer is that the causes of love are goodness, knowledge, and likeness.3 If one wants to strengthen a love, one would do well to reflect on its goodness, to learn more about it, and to see the likeness between oneself and the beloved. If one wants to detach from a certain love, perhaps a vicious love, one would benefit from reflecting on how that object is an evil for the lover, which is a certain kind of knowledge, and to see that there is not a proper likeness between the lover and the object of love. Knowing the causes of love can thus help us to strengthen our better loves and root out the bad ones. The degree to which one knows good and evil—not merely habitually, but actually, turning to it at the time of decision, which only comes from much practice and prior reflection—will determine the degree to which one actually chooses the good and re1. This phrasing is intended to avoid any kind of anthropological dualism. Our rationality informs the unique way in which we exist precisely as animals—namely, as rational animals. And, on a more particular level, our corporeal passions can participate in our reason. See Nicholas Kahm, Aquinas on Emotion’s Participation in Reason (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2019). 2. See also ST I–II, q. 29, a. 1. 3. To be more precise, Thomas speaks of “the good” (bonum) and not “goodness” (bonitas).



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jects evil in critical, moral moments. But one can only reflect on the nature of right and wrong if one has some prior knowledge of the authentic good for the human person, flowing from a truthful knowledge of human nature. An Objection: Goodness and the Love for Evil In what sense is goodness the cause of love? The objections to this article are particularly instructive. In the first objection, St. Thomas quotes from the Psalms: “He who loves iniquity hates his soul” (Ps 10:6). Does this not show that evil is a cause of love? Might one love evil? In fact, to a greater or lesser degree, we all experience this attraction to evil in ourselves. We might know that something is not good for us—a friendship, a habit, a certain entertainment—and yet we love it. Evil, therefore, also seems to be a cause of love. What gives? In his reply to the first objection, Thomas adverts to an important principle: “Evil is never loved except under the aspect of the good, namely, inasmuch as it is relatively good and is [mistakenly] apprehended as simply good. And thus some love is evil inasmuch as it tends toward that which is not simply the true good. And in this way man loves iniquity inasmuch as through iniquity one arrives at some good such as delight or money or something of that sort.”4 This objection and the reply to it, at the head of the articles on the causes of love, highlight the moral significance of the matter. Love is not good in itself. It can draw us toward evil just as it can lead us toward good. Love in this sense is not above judgment. It is subject to judgment on the object of the love. Following this judgment, one 4. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1, ad 1: “Ad primum ergo dicendum quod malum nunquam amatur nisi sub ratione boni, scilicet inquantum est secundum quid bonum, et apprehenditur ut simpliciter bonum. Et sic aliquis amor est malus, inquantum tendit in id quod non est simpliciter verum bonum. Et per hunc modum homo diligit iniquitatem, inquantum per iniquitatem adipiscitur aliquod bonum, puta delectationem vel pecuniam vel aliquid huiusmodi.”

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can see that if the object of the love is good, the love will be good, so long as it is pursued in the right way and at the right time. However, if the object is evil, or the circumstances or intention askew, the love will also be evil.5 Nevertheless, St. Thomas will argue that goodness is a cause of love. According to the Common Doctor, even when a man loves evil, he does not love the evil for its own sake but only under the aspect of the good. Since everything that exists is in some way good, everything can be loved. The delight that a glutton enjoys from overeating is, in some way, good. The goodness here involves the tastiness of the food and perhaps the feeling of the food as it slides down the gullet and into the stomach, even though that good is enjoyed in a disordered fashion. One can multiply examples according to whatever bodily vice it might be, especially as one thinks of temperance and its regulation of the pleasures of food, drink, and sex. The delight that one finds in the activity manifests a correspondence to us in some way. We were built to experience delight and to find it agreeable. But the delight one might receive from overeating is only a relative good. And the measure of that activity is not good for us. Frequent overeating can lead to all sorts of obvious harm to our body. The same, of course, might be said about other excesses, and defects, in the cases of undereating, physical or intellectual laziness, and sexual disorders. One must see the proper and natural good in question to cultivate healthier habits of life. 5. For a fuller discussion on the nature of evil, see Richard J. Regan, trans., The De Malo of Thomas Aquinas (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). M. V. Dougherty, Aquinas’s Disputed Questions on Evil: A Critical Guide (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). See also Brian Davies, Thomas Aquinas on God and Evil (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). Davies writes: “Aquinas’s view of badness contrasts sharply with his view of goodness. For him . . . something good possesses a substantial form together with various accidental forms, while this is not the case when it comes to badness. According to Aquinas, badness has no actual existence (esse) and is neither something with a substantial nor an accidental form. Rather, it consists in the absence of anything actually existing (formally or accidentally)” (33). “For Aquinas, then, to speak of something as good is to say that it at least has what it needs to be what it is by nature. And this, of course, means that Aquinas thinks of goodness as involving the actual existence of something: a substance with what it needs in order to exist as the thing that it is” (33).



The First Cause of Love: The Good 109 Goodness: The Proper Object of Love

In what way, then, is the good a cause of love? Thomas first recalls, in the body of the article, one of his earlier conclusions that “love belongs to the appetitive power [potentia] which is a passive power [vis]” (ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1). In other words, the sensitive and rational appetitive powers are moved by some exterior object. In that regard, they are “passive” abilities—that is, abilities that are able to undergo a change by being acted upon.6 Sight, or any of the senses, would be another example of a passive power.7 Colored light acts on the organ of the eye and brings about a change in it that is communicated via neurons to various regions of the brain and somehow translated into our experience of vision as we know it. In contrast, other powers are active. They involve the ability not to be changed but to change another. The ability of a carpenter to transform a heap of wood into a rocking chair is an active power, as he orders and changes the wood in virtue of his knowledge of carpentry, the appropriate tools, and the motions of his hands and body. St. Thomas accordingly states that “as a result, the object of [the appetitive power] is compared to it just as the cause of its motion or act” (ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1). Just as colored light, the object of sight, moves the sight to the act of seeing, so, too, does the object of the appetitive powers move them to their own act or motion, such as love or desire. St. Thomas then links the object of the appetitive powers with the good. The following passage is conceptually dense, but worth citing in its entirety to preserve the flow of his thought: It is necessary, therefore, that the object of love is properly the cause of love. But the proper object of love is the good, because love implies a certain connaturality or complaisance [complacentia] of the one loving with the one loved [amantis ad amatum]; and the good for any given thing is

6. On passive powers in Aquinas, from a broader perspective, see, for example, Gloria Frost, “Aquinas on Passive Powers,” Vivarium 59 (2021): 33–51. 7. See ST I, q. 78, a. 3, on the senses: “Est autem sensus quaedam potentia passive.”

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that which is connatural and proportioned to itself. So it remains that the good is the proper cause of love.8

This second half of the response to the first article is rich in meaning. The argument here is basically a syllogism: (1) the object of love is the cause of the act of love; (2) the object of love is the good; so (3) the good is the cause of the act of love.9 We will unpack this rather dense syllogism, which may seem somewhat opaque to the reader in its abstractness. Note first, however, how St. Thomas states unequivocally that the proper object of love is the good. We do not love evil for its own sake, though we may be confused about what is good or evil for us. The good alone is truly delightful, though some evils may appear to be pleasant or may actually be pleasant in a relative way. Accordingly, the cause of the act of motion of love must be the good. So, just as colored light moves the power of sight to actually see, and just as waves of sound move the sense of hearing to actually hear, so, too, does the good move the powers of love to actually love. To put this in more general terms, the object of the passive power, which is the ability to be moved by another, moves the power to its own proper act. In this case, the good, the object of the appetite, moves the appetite to its own proper act, the first of which is love.

8. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1: “Oportet igitur ut illud sit proprie causa amoris quod est amoris obiectum. Amoris autem proprium obiectum est bonum, quia, ut dictum est, amor importat quandam connaturalitatem vel complacentiam amantis ad amatum; unicuique autem est bonum id quod est sibi connaturale et proportionatum. Unde relinquitur quod bonum sit propria causa amoris.” 9. A demonstrative syllogism, of course, is a kind of argument in which one statement, the conclusion, follows necessarily from other statements, called premises. If the premises are true, the conclusion must be true. An example of a syllogism is the following: all real numbers divisible by two are even; ten is a number divisible by two; so ten is an even number. For a true conclusion to follow necessarily from the premises, the syllogism must be sound (that is, the premises must be true) and the argument must be valid (following a proper logical form).



The First Cause of Love: The Good 111 The Good as Perfective of One’s Nature

St. Thomas offers another syllogism in support of the premise that the good is the proper object of the appetitive power. To restate it: (1) the object of love is connatural to the lover; (2) that which is connatural to the lover is that which is good for it; so (3) the object of love is that which is good for the lover. The reference to love in terms of connaturality or complaisance in the first premise returns us to the definition of love. It almost seems to be a reference to the three kinds of love that belong to the three kinds of appetite: natural, sensitive, and rational. The second premise is less familiar, at least in relation to our previous discussion. Thomas here equates the good with that which is connatural to something. To be “connatural” to a thing is to be in agreement with the nature of that thing. It is connatural for oaks to produce acorns and for roses to give forth flowers. It is connatural for birds to fly and fish to swim. It is connatural for antelopes to graze in the savannah and for lions to hunt antelopes. It is connatural for man to know the truth and to do the good.10 To state this position is merely to recognize that these activities are in accord with man’s nature as a rational animal, made to know and to love. To be in accord with the nature of the thing is to be somehow perfective of it. The grass that a rabbit eats is perfective of it, allowing it to grow and reach its full stature, giving it strength to avoid predators, to build a burrow, to reproduce, and so on. To be perfective of something is to help it to become complete. According to the Latin etymology of the word, to be “perfect” literally means to be “completely made” (per-facere). It is to realize the fullness of one’s abilities. 10. See ST I–II, q. 94, a. 2: “Hoc est ergo primum praeceptum legis, quod bonum est faciendum et prosequendum, et malum vitandum.” “Tertio modo inest homini inclinatio ad bonum secundum naturam rationis, quae est sibi propria, sicut homo habet naturalem inclinationem ad hoc quod veritatem cognoscat de Deo, et ad hoc quod in societate vivat.”

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What contributes to the realization of one’s powers is perfective and therefore good for that person. In terms of the human person, the truth is perfective of the intellect and the good is perfective of the will. These objects are perfective of their respective powers. A sign of this is that the false cannot be known in itself. A thing can only be known insofar as it is true. For example, one cannot know what a square circle is, even if one knows what it means to be a square and to be a circle. Nothing in the intellect or reality actually corresponds to the notion of a square circle. The intellect remains as empty as it was before. The intellect is thus not actualized. It remains imperfect, in the original sense of the word. Consequently, since falsehood is not perfective of the intellect, falsehood is not a good for man, no matter how much one might protest. The same could be said of evil, taking it as the defect of something due to a thing. To choose evil is not, on this account, the height of nobility, the rejection of bourgeois morality, and the assertion of one’s superiority. It is to destroy oneself, no matter how much one protests. Beauty: Another Cause of Love In the final response to the objections, St. Thomas raises an important question. In the objection, he quotes Pseudo-Dionysius to the effect that beauty is also a cause of love.11 In what sense is beauty a cause of love? This would seem to align with the experience of fall11. For a consideration of beauty as a transcendental, see Jan Aertsen, “Beauty in the Middle Ages: A Forgotten Transcendental?,” ed. M. C. Pacheco and J. Meironhos, Medieval Philosophy and Theology 1 (1991): 68–97. On Aertsen’s view (in 1991), “No texts affirm that the beautiful is a universal property of being or express explicitly the transcendentality of beauty. Yet most modern scholars hold that the beautiful in Thomas does have a transcendental status. A strong impulse to this trend in research stemmed from Maritain’s Art and Scholasticism” (72). The status of beauty as a transcendental in the thought of Thomas Aquinas has been an ongoing debate. “The beautiful is not for Thomas, as modern scholars suggest, a forgotten transcendental effecting a synthesis of the true and the good. The real situation is rather the reverse: the beautiful must be understood from the inclusion of the true in the good. The aesthetic is not in the Middle Ages an autonomous domain alongside the true and the good. The integration of the beautiful with other values did not need to be based on a



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ing in love. We love that which is beautiful. St. Thomas responds in the following way: “Beauty is the same as goodness, differing only by aspect. For since the good is that which all things desire, the good has the aspect of that in which the appetite is quieted; but it belongs to the aspect of the beautiful that the appetite is quieted by the sight or knowledge of the beautiful.”12 St. Thomas thus notes that the beautiful is also a cause of love, such that by seeing or thinking of some beautiful thing one naturally tends to love it. The experience of falling in love confirms this rather commonsense observation, as does the beauty of a sunset over the ocean, the falling of a spring rain, or the icing of snow over a forest—all of this appears as beautiful to us and inspires our desire to rest in it. Of course, the experience of some finite beauty leads us to realize that it is not the infinite beauty, awakening in us another desire for some deeper or more transcendent dimension of reality. The same could be said of distinct transcendental: it was implied in the transcendental order of truth and goodness” (97). Thomas Joseph White argues with Jacques Maritain, Etienne Gilson, and others for the status of beauty as a transcendental. He also notes the “reticence” of Aertsen’s later scholarship on this question. Thomas Joseph White, “Beauty, Transcendence, and the Inclusive Hierarchy of Creation,” Nova et Vetera 16, no. 4 (2018): 1215–26. “Aquinas can be read to affirm in an implicit way that beauty is a transcendental. . . . In short, Jacques Maritain, Etienne Gilson, and Pasquale Porro argue that beauty is a transcendental. Jan Aertsen, in his later scholarship, takes an opposing view” (1215–16). On the divine name of beauty, White observes that “God is essentially beautiful, and God has created all that exists in light of the eternal Word and Wisdom of God, who is the Son. Consequently, all that exists and that derives from God is in some way beautiful” (1218). For a thorough review of the entire question, see Michael Rubin, “The Meaning of ‘Beauty’ and Its Transcendental Status in the Metaphysics of Thomas Aquinas” (PhD diss., Washington, DC, The Catholic University of America, 2016). 12. The full quotation of the response is as follows. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1, ad 3: “Ad tertium dicendum quod pulchrum est idem bono, sola ratione differens. Cum enim bonum sit quod omnia appetunt, de ratione boni est quod in eo quietetur appetitus, sed ad rationem pulchri pertinet quod in eius aspectu seu cognitione quietetur appetitus. Unde et illi sensus praecipue respiciunt pulchrum, qui maxime cognoscitivi sunt, scilicet visus et auditus rationi deservientes, dicimus enim pulchra visibilia et pulchros sonos. In sensibilibus autem aliorum sensuum, non utimur nomine pulchritudinis, non enim dicimus pulchros sapores aut odores. Et sic patet quod pulchrum addit supra bonum, quendam ordinem ad vim cognoscitivam, ita quod bonum dicatur id quod simpliciter complacet appetitui; pulchrum autem dicatur id cuius ipsa apprehensio placet.”

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any finite good. A good meal with friends might lead both to a certain quieting of the desires and also to a kind of nostalgia for something that we have never known and for which we still yearn. It is the desire for that infinite goodness and unending beauty. “Late have I loved you, oh beauty ever ancient and ever new,” sings Augustine in the Confessions.13 God alone is truly good and truly beautiful. If the beautiful inspires love in us, it is because the beautiful is the good as known, as appearing to us and as known by us.14 Perhaps this is what we mean when we say that someone has lived a beautiful life, which seems to be one of the greatest of beauties. We see, precisely, the goodness of humanity come to life. For Thomas, the good and the beautiful are thus causes of love.15 13. Confessions 10.27.38: “Sero te amavi, pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova, sero te amavi! Et ecce intus eras et ego foris, et ibi te quaerebam, et in ista formosa, quae fecisti, deformis inruebam. Mecum eras, et tecum non eram. Ea me tenebant longe a te, quae si in te non essent, non essent. Vocasti et clamasti et rupisti surditatem meam: coruscasti, splenduisti et fugasti caecitatem meam: fragrasti, et duxi spiritum, et anhelo tibi, gustavi et esurio et sitio, tetigisti me, et exarsi in pacem tuam.” 14. White considers the relationship of beauty to truth and goodness: “We might say that beauty is the goodness of the truth of a thing, the delightfulness (or appetibility) of its intelligibility. To state things in this fashion is to place emphasis on the formal determination as the key element, rather than the splendor, a decision that gives primacy to the truth of the beautiful reality, emphasizing its goodness only secondarily. However, we could also say that beauty is the species or intelligible determination of goodness. This way of speaking places emphasis on the goodness of beauty but notes that it implies formal determination (and thus a truth) of a definite kind. This is why beauty invites admiration, while goodness perfects. Goodness is grounded in final causality, while beauty is grounded in formal causality. Beauty has the power to hold our gaze. Goodness has the power to give our lives ultimate purpose or meaning. The two are not to be confused, even if they are often found together” (White, “Beauty, Transcendence, and the Inclusive Hierarchy of Creation,” 1218–19). See also Aertsen, “Beauty in the Middle Ages.” He does not call beauty a transcendental but recognizes the relationship with truth and goodness: “The beautiful is therefore related to the true and to the good. Its relatedness can be approached in two ways. Viewed from the Greek tradition and the perspective of pseudo-Dionysius, the beautiful is identical with the good; it adds to it conceptually a relation to knowledge. Regarded from Thomas’s order of the transcendentals, the beautiful is to be taken as the extension of the true to the good. We can clarify this place of the beautiful further from the special relationship that exists between the true and the good” (96). 15. The exact nature of beauty in relation to the true and the good is a far larger topic. Besides the works of Aertsen noted above, see also Jan Aertsen, “The Triad True-Good-Beautiful: The Place of Beauty in the Middle Ages,” in Intellect and



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If we struggle to love higher things—charity for our neighbor, discipline at work, sacrifice for the sake of friendship—it might be that we do not yet see the goodness at play in these decisions. We do not yet see the beauty of the sacrifice, however strange that might seem. To speak in this way is not to adopt a masochistic attitude, sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice. It is, rather, to aim at discipline for the sake of a greater freedom, sacrifice for the sake of greater love, death for the sake of life. It is to choose a “no” so as to offer an even greater “yes.” That a thing be good in itself is thus not adequate to inspire love in us. We must also know its goodness for ourselves. While this may sound profoundly obvious and simple, it is not easily accomplished. We are too easily blinded by our habits and the customs of our society to see evil as good and good as evil. The therapy of desire, both sensate and rational, must begin with the therapy of contemplation, the conversion of our imaginative and intellectual vision. This kind of conversion takes place especially in the presence of the beautiful. We must see the world, and ourselves, as they truly are and could be. This leads us to the second cause of goodness that Thomas considers: knowledge. Imagination in Medieval Philosophy (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), 415–35. From a more phenomenological perspective, see Mark Spencer, “Beauty, First and Last of All the Transcendentals: Givenness and Aesthetic, Spiritual Perception in Thomism and Jean-Luc Marion,” The Thomist 82, no. 2 (2018): 157–87. See, too, Alice Ramos, Dynamic Transcendentals: Truth, Goodness, and Beauty from a Thomistic Perspective (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2012).

Chapter 6 The Second Cause of Love: Knowledge

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The Second Cause of Love: Knowledge Cognitio [ST I–II, q. 27, a. 2]

The first cause of love is goodness. If something is not good, one cannot love it. St. Thomas recalls this truth in the opening of this article: “The good is the cause of love by way of the object” (ST I–II, q. 27, a. 2). This is obvious in the case of rightly ordered loves. We admire the mother who sacrifices for the good of her children, waking up in the middle of the night to tend to her newborn infant. We esteem the father who struggles at a job he does not especially enjoy so that he can provide for his family. We appreciate the friend who makes a serious effort to stay connected with us, even when he or she lives far away. We recognize the athlete who disciplines himself to reach his goals. In each case, the person is seeking some good: the good of raising a family, providing for others, keeping a relationship alive, and so on. The good draws us out of ourselves, inspiring love in us, which moves us to action, even ones that come at a cost. Indeed, although we may seem to love something evil, we are actually loving it as somehow good. When we take the third serving of dinner or the fourth glass of wine, we are not really intending to give 116



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ourselves a stomachache or a headache. We are intending the delight of eating or drinking. The same goes for any of our disordered loves. These loves are of things that are good in themselves but have somehow fallen out of order. Even great evils—think perhaps of empires or countries that have unjustly dominated others—arise from the desire for some good, such as security, prosperity, freedom, or the righting of a perceived wrong. Although goodness is the cause of love, not every love of a good thing is good. We must love the good in the proper measure: in the right way, at the right time, for the right reason, and so on. Still, it may help us to know that even in our worst actions we seek some good. Nothing is beyond redemption. At the root of every evil action, even the most heinous, there is some inkling of the good that draws us forward, even if it has become seriously corrupted. This is not to condone evil or to diminish its perniciousness, but to believe that no one is beyond redemption. Starting from our own desires, each of us can find some good that we love, from which we can strike out on a new path. But how does one start on such a new path? How do we move forward when we have strayed from the right way and find ourselves, as Dante once wrote, in the middle of a dark wood? When we are lost in our own weakness and failures, how can we take the next step? Love as a Function of Knowledge St. Thomas provides the beginning of an answer to this question. It is not the whole of the answer, of course, but it does provide something of a starting point. He observes that knowledge is another cause of love.1 Since this point comes in the second article of the present question (ST I–II, q. 27), we might say that knowledge is the “second” cause of love.2 Our sensitive and intellectual loves depend on apprehension. The term “apprehension” refers, etymologi1. On this topic, see ST II–II, q. 26, a. 2, ad 1; I Sent. d. 15, q. 4, a. 1, ad 3. 2. To speak of a “first” or “second” or “third” cause of love is an interpretative suggestion. Aquinas does not speak in these terms. He does, however, present these causes in

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cally, to our “grasping” of something that we can know, either with our senses or with our understanding. When we say that a criminal has been apprehended, we understand that the criminal has been caught, perhaps nabbed by the collar. In order to love something in the sensible or intelligible orders, our senses must also first apprehend the good to be loved. We must grasp the good to be loved before we can love it. We must apprehend the good in some way, with our mind of imagination. We must nab the good by the collar and not let go. This is the basis for the scholastic axiom that nothing can be loved that is not first known. St. Thomas actually quotes Augustine to this effect in the sed contra of the article: “No one is able to love something that is not known.”3 To put it in simpler terms: you cannot love what you do not know. Consider love, or infatuation, at first sight. A man sees a young lady at a gathering and immediately falls for her. Perhaps it is a combination of the soft lighting, the attractive dress she is wearing, the sparkle of her eyes, or her laughter as she talks with her friends. In this case, it is precisely the sight of the woman that draws out the love in the man. Perhaps five minutes earlier, the man had neither seen nor heard of her. But the sight of the lady plunges him in love. Of course, this is not the most profound kind of love. It is more or less a sensible love based on a sensible knowledge. The man has seen and heard the woman, and this has inspired a certain love in him. It is a love that has begun in the senses, with a bodily basis in his seeing and hearing, which draws the man forward toward the woman. Still, this sensible love will hopefully inspire the man to get to know the woman on a deeper level. The sensible love might then blossom into a fuller, human love, one that is based both on the senses and the understanding. The man might then begin to love the woman for reasons of friendship that are not that order in the Summa, presumably not without reason. Goodness involves the beloved object itself. Knowledge and likeness regard our relation to that object. 3. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 2, sed contra: “Augustinus probat, in X de Trin. quod nullus potest amare aliquid incognitum.”



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based primarily in sensible knowledge. These might include a love of the person for higher motives—the good of her personal happiness, the good of raising a family, and so on. And insofar as our knowledge of the good grows, so, too, does our love. Perhaps we have the experience of knowing that something is good, but we do not do it. This seems to be the case for most of us. We know that exercising is good, but we find it difficult to rise earlier in the morning so that we can enjoy a run, stretch, or lift weights. Again, we know that it would be good to eat more nutritious foods, and yet we cannot quite bring ourselves to cut back on those tasty but unhealthy snacks. We know that it would be good to invest more in our friendships, but we find it hard to organize our time more effectively, leave work earlier, or have a difficult conversation with our supervisor to make our lives a little more balanced and humane. Certainly, there are sometimes difficult moral dilemmas that we face. In these cases, we may not know the right thing to do, even after serious reflection. But these instances, though important, are often few and far between. Most of the time, we more or less know what to do, but we struggle to do it. We know what is right, but we choose wrongly. We struggle to change our bad habits. In these cases, it might be helpful to deepen and strengthen our knowledge of the good to be done. We might have a vague idea that exercise is good for us. Perhaps we have felt a little better after running through a forest trail. But it also tires us out and seems a little boring. In this case, we might ask: Why exactly is exercise good for us? What physiological changes does it bring about in our body? What does the increase in certain hormones have to do with our feeling of well-being? How much exercise and what kind of exercise is necessary to bring that about? What are the long-term benefits of exercising? How long does it take to realize these? What kinds of exercise and what ways of exercising do I actually find enjoyable? With whom could I do this? Answering these questions—increasing our knowledge of the goodness of exercise—can prompt us to actually begin exercising. It provides motivation to tip us over the edge. The

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goodness of the outcome pushes us past the difficulty that initially prevented us from engaging in the activity. Habit change, of course, is not automatic, but it seems almost impossible without strong and deep knowledge of the good to be attained. This knowledge will then shape our loves. Very often, this will require intense reflection. It is not enough to know that something is superficially good for us. We must particularize the good: What would it be like for me, in my life, to have a fitness level that would allow me to be more energetic at work and present to my friends and family? This deeper reflection, connecting our goals to the rest of our lives, and doing the same for our bad habits, can have a significant impact on our behavior, especially when we repeat this reflection and bring it to mind in difficult moments of decision. Vision and Contemplation of Beauty: The Principles of Love St. Thomas further reflects on this rather commonsense view of the relationship between love, goodness, and knowledge. In the body of the article, he observes the following: The good is the cause of love by way of the object. But the good is not the object of the appetite except as it is apprehended. And therefore love requires some apprehension of the good that is loved. And, on account of this, the philosopher says in Book IX of the Ethics that bodily sight is the principle of sensible love. And, similarly, contemplation of spiritual beauty or goodness is the principle of spiritual love. In this way, therefore, knowledge is the cause of love, for the same reason that the good is the cause of love, that it cannot be loved unless known.4

4. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 2: “Respondeo dicendum quod, sicut dictum est, bonum est causa amoris per modum obiecti. Bonum autem non est obiectum appetitus, nisi prout est apprehensum. Et ideo amor requirit aliquam apprehensionem boni quod amatur. Et propter hoc philosophus dicit, IX Ethic., quod visio corporalis est principium amoris sensitivi. Et similiter contemplatio spiritualis pulchritudinis vel bonitatis, est principium amoris spiritualis. Sic igitur cognitio est causa amoris, ea ratione qua et bonum, quod non potest amari nisi cognitum.”



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This text neatly sums up what we have been discussing to this point. Nothing can be loved unless it is good. Even something that is evil for us is loved, ultimately, under the aspect of some good. But those goods cannot be loved unless they are first known. We cannot love what we do not know. This is true in the case of both sensible and intellectual loves. Regarding sensible loves, Thomas quotes Aristotle that the sense of sight is the principle of sensible love.5 Recall the example of love at first sight. The man falls in love with the woman only after seeing her. It is also true for intellectual loves. The contemplation of spiritual truth and beauty is the principle of spiritual loves. Love thus depends not only on the goodness of the object but on our knowing it. At this point, it would be helpful to reflect on a point that we have not yet emphasized. St. Thomas notes that the contemplation of spiritual beauty and goodness is the cause of spiritual love. This recalls our earlier discussion of how beauty, along with the good, is also a cause of our many loves. The reason for this is that beauty and goodness refer to the same thing while differing only in aspect, especially if we consider both as transcendental properties of being. The word “aspect” in Latin comes from the verb specere (to see) and the prepositional prefix ad (toward). In the physical sense, a face has many aspects. You might consider the profile of a face, a three-quarter view of it, or a frontal view. Each of these reveals a new aspect of the face. The face, however, is the same. Considering it under different aspects reveals new parts of the same thing. Aspectuality is a key element of the doctrine of the transcendentals. One can consider any being under different aspects—insofar as it exists, as it is true, as it is good, as it is beautiful, and so on. The thing has each of these properties, but under different aspects or considerations.6 The good and the beautiful do not refer to different things but to the same thing under different aspects.7 The good is that which all 5. See Pakaluk’s commentary on Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics: Books VIII and IX, trans. Michael Pakaluk, Clarendon Aristotle Series (Oxford: University Press, 1998). 6. See the discussion of beauty as a disputed transcendental in chapter 5. 7. See ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1, ad 3: “Pulchrum est idem bono, sola ratione differens.”

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desire.8 In other words, the good is that which inspires a desire in us that follows on love. The good is connatural to us, in accord with our nature, insofar as it is perfective of our nature. The two statements above define the good in terms of the effect it brings about: desire and perfection. The common definition of the beautiful that Thomas often gives is also a definition through the effect: the beautiful is that which pleases when seen.9 Some people scoff at this definition as being somewhat empty. But one must consider it for what it is: as a definition through the effect. It names something that is most obvious to us about beauty—namely, that we are delighted in the presence of it. A critic could thus judge the quality of a work based on the pleasure that it gives. Whatever its other merits, if a movie or book or painting is not enjoyable to see or read, it is probably not beautiful.10 Beauty adds to goodness something new: it considers the good insofar as it is known by either the senses or the understanding.11 Something can be considered good without being considered beautiful, at least in reference to us. Our natural desire for food, for example, arises spontaneously in us even if we do not see any food in front of us or have an understanding of what food is. But when this 8. See ST I, q. 5, a 1: “Ratio enim boni in hoc consistit, quod aliquid sit appetibile, unde Philosophus, in I Ethic., dicit quod bonum est quod omnia appetunt.” 9. See ST I, q. 5, a. 4, ad 1: “Pulchrum et bonum in subiecto quidem sunt idem, quia super eandem rem fundantur, scilicet super formam, et propter hoc, bonum laudatur ut pulchrum. Sed ratione differunt. Nam bonum proprie respicit appetitum, est enim bonum quod omnia appetunt. Et ideo habet rationem finis, nam appetitus est quasi quidam motus ad rem. Pulchrum autem respicit vim cognoscitivam, pulchra enim dicuntur quae visa placent.” See also ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1, ad 3: “Pulchrum addit supra bonum, quendam ordinem ad vim cognoscitivam, ita quod bonum dicatur id quod simpliciter complacet appetitui; pulchrum autem dicatur id cuius ipsa apprehensio placet.” 10. Of course, if the taste of a critic is malformed, his judgment will also be malformed. Aquinas speaks about judging through inclination in ST I, q. 1, a. 6: “Contingit enim aliquem iudicare, uno modo per modum inclinationis, sicut qui habet habitum virtutis, recte iudicat de his quae sunt secundum virtutem agenda, inquantum ad illa inclinatur, unde et in X Ethic. dicitur quod virtuosus est mensura et regula actuum humanorum.” 11. See, again, ST I, q. 27, a. 1, ad 3; I–II, q. 5, a. 4, ad 1.



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food is presented in an artistic way, we might even call it beautiful.12 The good is thus that which is desired in some way—on account of either our natural inclination or our sensible or intellectual apprehension of it. Beauty regards the good, but under the aspect of being known either by the senses or the understanding.13 The point of this excursion into the meaning of goodness and beauty is to highlight that the good and the beautiful are causes of love, since goodness and beauty refer to the same thing under different aspects.14 Contemplation, Wonder , and Love St. Thomas makes another important observation about contemplation. He considers how contemplation of the good and the beautiful is the principle of spiritual love. This one sentence in the writings of the Common Doctor could be the subject of much fruitful study. One cannot love the higher forms of what is good and beautiful without contemplation of them. This provides nourishing food for thought. We live in a culture that is immersed in noise and images: pop music fills supermarkets, car radios blare out noise on the streets, catchy billboards line urban highways, and internet ads fill 12. Some might object to calling food beautiful. It seems that a meal can be beautifully prepared, in the sense of presenting a delight not only to the taste but also to the eyes. If this example is too problematic, one can still think of sound arranged musically in a beautiful way or of color arranged in a beautiful composition. Aquinas himself observes that we do not normally speak of beautiful tastes and smells. See ST I, q. 27, a. 1, ad 3: “In sensibilibus autem aliorum sensuum, non utimur nomine pulchritudinis, non enim dicimus pulchros sapores aut odores.” 13. This discussion touches again on the doctrine of the transcendentals. One version of this teaching states that all things that exist are also true, good, and beautiful. See Jan Aertsen, “Beauty in the Middle Ages: A Forgotten Transcendental?,” ed. M. C. Pacheco and J. Meironhos, Medieval Philosophy and Theology 1 (1991): 68–97. Each of these words refers to the same thing but under a different aspect. “Goodness” refers to something as being desirable. “Truth” refers to something as being knowable. And “beauty” refers to something as being, somehow, both desirable and known. The status of beauty as a transcendental and the relationship of truth and goodness with respect to beauty, as noted in the previous chapter, is a scholarly dispute. Without getting into the details, it seems that all things can be beautiful and good even if they are not known or desired by us, since they can still be known and willed by God. 14. See ST I–II, q. 27, a. 1, ad 3.

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up most of the webpages we visit. Stepping out of this total immersion in the material (and materialistic) world can help us to contemplate a higher kind of beauty and goodness. The fine arts, good literature, and natural beauty provide a good place to start, helping us to turn away from lower sensible goods to higher ones that prove more fulfilling. Of course, “contemplation” in the wider sense of the word need not be an exclusively religious exercise. One might contemplate the dew on the grass in the morning, the rising of the sun, the chirping of birds, and the clouds that dance across the sky. These joys are available to most of us. This attentiveness to the world around us can also help us to disconnect from our immersion in the artificial worlds of computers, smartphones, and tablets, disposing us to look elsewhere for a more fulfilling kind of beauty. The contemplation of the natural world can also lead us to a higher kind of study that could take many forms: an interest in the night sky might prompt one to take up a study of astronomy and the constellations; a love of music might lead one to consider the mathematical underpinnings of the heptatonic scale with its major and minor modes; a love of fine art might lead one to make a philosophical investigation into beauty and the causes of the beautiful; a love of the physical world might lead one to inquire more deeply into natural science; and so on. A sensible and contemplative approach to the world leaves one open to cultivating a sense of wonder. Such wonder begins from the desire to know something that we do not quite grasp and rises on the hope that such knowledge is possible. The child naturally asks these sorts of questions. Why does the sun rise in the east and set in the west? How do geese know where to fly in the autumn? How many stars are in the night sky? Why do leaves turn color in the autumn, and how do they grow back in the spring? These are questions of wonder.15 15. In this vein, see Réginald Garrigou-Lagrange, The Sense of Mystery: Clarity and Obscurity in the Intellectual Life (Steubenville, OH: Emmaus Academic, 2017). See also the discussion of wonder (admiratio) Aquinas offers in his commentary on the Metaphysics of Aristotle (see lib. 1, lect. 3, n. 3–4). “Constat autem, quod dubitatio et admiratio ex ignorantia provenit. Cum enim aliquos manifestos effectus videamus, quorum causa



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If we have lost our wonder, which is the beginning of much knowledge, we might do well to cultivate it again. Wonder does not come easily to many of us. We often take for granted technological wonders, which in turn leave us too distracted to notice the more subtle wonders of the natural world. But to contemplate the goodness and beauty of this world, and of those people around us, can be the beginning of a new and deeper kind of love for the world in which we live, the people who live with us there, and the God who set the entire operation in motion. nos latet, eorum tunc causam admiramur. Et ex quo admiratio fuit causa inducens ad philosophiam, patet quod philosophus est aliqualiter philomythes, idest amator fabulae, quod proprium est poetarum.” The relationship between wonder, philosophy, and ancient myths in this section suggests parallels between wonder and theology.

Chapter 7 The Third Cause of Love: Likeness

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The Third Cause of Love: Likeness Similitudo [ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3]

St. Thomas begins this article by quoting a familiar proverb from Sirach (13:19): “Every animal loves its like” (ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3, sed contra).1 We all know the similar proverb, from our own culture, that birds of a feather flock together. Rather literally, cardinals live with cardinals, robins with robins, swans with swans, and so on. The same would seem to hold for animals of all species and sorts. Black bears live with black bears and not with aardvarks or caterpillars or chimpanzees. That seems to be natural enough. In human relations, we also see that people tend to be friends with others who are like them. Wealthy people are often friends with other wealthy people. The same tendency seems to hold for one’s level of education, religion, marital status, nationality, political affiliation, hobbies, and so on. Although there are many obvious exceptions to the rule, we can find it more difficult to be friends (or even friendly) with people who are far different than ourselves. This all suggests that likeness is a cause of love. 1. For parallel texts related to this article, see III Sent. d. 27, a. 1, a. 1, ad 3; De Hebdomadibus lect. 1; Super Ioannem, c. 15, lect. 4; Sent. Ethic. VIII, lect. 1.

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The Third Cause of Love: Likeness 127 Two Objections: Romantic Opposites and Professional Rivalry

And yet, we also know the saying that opposites attract. This would seem to imply that difference itself is a cause of love. This seems to be the case especially in romantic relationships. Oftentimes two very sociable people will end up in a relationship together. But it can also happen that an outgoing person enjoys being with a more reserved person. A talkative person is sometimes attracted to a quiet person. A go-getter might be attracted to someone who is a little more laid back. The causes for these attractions might be healthy or unhealthy. But the basic movement toward someone who is dissimilar would seem to have something to do with making ourselves complete. In the Symposium, Plato, through the mouthpiece of the comic poet Aristophanes, expresses this idea in a charming image (189c2– 193d5).2 We were all once whole, but were split in half at one point as a punishment from Zeus. On this view, our soulmate is literally our other half. Perhaps on a simpler level, the talkative person enjoys having someone to listen to him or her. The quiet person enjoys having someone to fill the silence. It works out for both parties (at least in the beginning). In this sense, we seem to be attracted to our opposite. To further complicate matters, we know that some likenesses provoke rivalry and jealousy. St. Thomas writes this in an objection: “It seems that likeness [similitudo] is not a cause of love. For the same thing is not the cause of contraries. But likeness is the cause of hatred, for it is said in Proverbs that ‘among the proud there are 2. See Anthony Hooper, “The Greatest Hope of All: Aristophanes on Human Nature in Plato’s Symposium,” Classical Quarterly 63, no. 2 (2013): 567–79. K. J. Dover, “Aristophanes’ Speech in Plato’s Symposium,” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 86 (1966): 41–50. “Once upon a time, all human beings were double creatures, each with two heads, two bodies and eight limbs. Then, by the command of Zeus, each double creature was cut in half, and so humans as we know them came into being. Every one of us ‘seeks his other half,’ and this search is Eros. If we are pious, we may hope to be rewarded by success in the search; if we are impious, Zeus may cut us in two again, and each of us will be like a flat-fish or a figure in relief ” (41).

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always quarrels.’ And the philosopher says in Book VIII of the Ethics that potters dispute among themselves. Therefore, likeness is not a cause of love.”3 Again, consider two concert pianists who share much in common yet who are bitter rivals. The famous rivalry between Mozart and Salieri, even if exaggerated in a film adaptation, at least captures the idea of two people with much in common who are nevertheless at odds with each other. And yet that commonality led to rivalry and discontent rather than deep friendship. One might also think of political rivals who are of the same party and yet attack one another. Something similar might happen in sports. Here, again, it is not immediately obvious that likeness is a cause of love. It may even produce hatred. Likeness, it seems, is less obviously and intuitively a cause of love than either goodness or knowledge. Likeness, Actual and Potential, as the Basis for Communion So why does St. Thomas argue that likeness is a cause of love? As he notes, “Likeness, properly speaking, is a cause of love.”4 It may have to do with something about friendship. Thomas, as we noted in an earlier chapter, shows that friendship is something akin to mutual benevolence. Each person wills the good of the other as other. This is not exactly the definition of love in general, but it does get close to the nature of friendship. The mutuality of friendship requires some sort of communicatio, a sort of communication, and one might even say “communion.” This manifests itself in an obvious way when we see that friends have common interests and loves. Perhaps they are both concertgoers, rock climbers, hikers, runners, or whatever it might be that draws them together. Without some kind of communion, based in a common love or activity, there can be 3. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3, arg. 1: “Videtur quod similitudo non sit causa amoris. Idem enim non est causa contrariorum. Sed similitudo est causa odii, dicitur enim Prov. XIII, quod inter superbos semper sunt iurgia; et philosophus dicit, in VIII Ethic., quod figuli corrixantur ad invicem. Ergo similitudo non est causa amoris.” 4. See ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3.



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no friendship. Two people who have absolutely nothing in common cannot be friends. The good news is that any two people always have something in common on the basis of their common human nature and their common origin and end in God. Everyone desires happiness. That quest for the authentic human good is enough to draw two people together. But it might take some work to discover what particular common interests two people might share. This is the work of getting to know others not like ourselves. In short, friendship requires communion, and communion supposes some commonality or likeness. In teasing out how exactly likeness is a cause of love, St. Thomas introduces a distinction between what one actually possesses and what one has the ability to possess but does not yet possess. This is the division between act and potency.5 The distinction between act and potency will become important in the explanation because the likeness between two things will be an actual likeness or a merely potential likeness. This twofold distinction of likenesses gives rise to two kinds of love, which we considered earlier: the love of friendship and the love of concupiscence.6 St. Thomas observes, Likeness properly speaking is a cause of love. But it must be observed that likeness among things can come about in two ways. In one way, from this: that each has the same thing in act, just as two white things are called similar. In another way, from this: that one has in potency and in inclination what another has in act, just as if we say that a heavy body existing outside its place has a likeness with a heavy body existing in its place. Or even insofar as potency has a likeness to act itself, for in potency itself there is act in some way.7 5. On the Aristotelian background of act and potency, see Stephen Makin, “Energeia and Dunamis,” in The Oxford Handbook of Aristotle, ed. Christopher Shields (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 400–414. 6. ST I–II, q. 26, a. 4. 7. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3: “Respondeo dicendum quod similitudo, proprie loquendo, est causa amoris. Sed considerandum est quod similitudo inter aliqua potest attendi dupliciter. Uno modo, ex hoc quod utrumque habet idem in actu, sicut duo habentes albedinem, dicuntur similes. Alio modo, ex hoc quod unum habet in potentia et in quadam inclinatione, illud quod aliud habet in actu, sicut si dicamus quod corpus grave existens extra suum locum, habet similitudinem cum corpore gravi in suo loco existenti.

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This all might seem rather arcane at first, but the whole of it is quite simple. One can reduce it to three ideas. First, things can either be in act or in potency. Second, two things that are both in act are like each other insofar as they are in act. Third, a thing that is in potency is like something that is in act insofar as it has an inclination toward that act or insofar as the potency itself is somehow in actuality. Consider a few examples. St. Thomas himself gives the example of two white things. Imagine two white stones of the same shade. We naturally tend to say that these stones both have a similar (similis) color. There is a likeness obtaining between them. Each stone is actually white. The second example he gives involves a stone resting in its place versus one that is not in its place. According to a certain ancient and medieval understanding of the natural world, different elements have natural places.8 Fire rises, since its natural place is above us. Stones fall, since their natural place is in the middle of the earth, which was itself considered the middle of the universe. And so St. Thomas asks us to think about a stone that is in its natural place and one that is not. Perhaps one might think of one stone that is lying on the ground and another stone that has been thrown into the air. The stone on the ground is actually in its natural place (or at least closer to it than the stone thrown in the air). The stone in the air is potentially in its natural place—that is, potentially on the ground— but not actually on the ground. It is actually in the air. St. Thomas says that these two stones, despite their dissimilar locations, nevertheless have a certain kind of similarity. The stone that is actually in the air but potentially on the ground has a certain likeness to the stone that is actually on the ground, insofar as the stone in the air has Vel etiam secundum quod potentia habet similitudinem ad actum ipsum, nam in ipsa potentia quodammodo est actus.” 8. On the topic of natural place, see the following (admittedly dated) exchange. James Weisheipl, “Space and Gravitation,” The New Scholasticism 29, no. 2 (1955): 175–223. Robert Barr, “Aristotle on Natural Place: Some Questions,” The New Scholasticism 30, no. 2 (1956): 206–10. James Weisheipl, “Aristotle on Natural Place: A Rejoinder,” The New Scholasticism 30, no. 2 (1956): 211–15.



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an inclination to rest on the ground, alongside the stone that is already there. If one sets aside medieval natural science, we might also be able to explain this tendency in terms of gravity. All of this might seem rather obvious. And it is. But the distinction is an important one, because everything is not potentially everything else, at least not without many intermediate steps. Think of the difference between a newborn baby and a squirrel. At first, neither of them is actually able to speak. But there is an important difference. The infant is capable of learning how to speak. That is to say, the infant has the ability or power or potency to speak, even if that ability is not yet actualized, not yet in act. The squirrel does not and never will be able to speak, nor does it have a potency to learn to speak. No matter how many grammar classes the squirrel sits through, it will not learn to speak. That much is all obvious. But what does this have to do with likeness? Well, in terms of the ability to speak, the infant is more like an adult human than a squirrel. The infant has something potentially in common with an adult human, really existing in it, that the squirrel does not have. All of this is to say that potentiality is not nothing. It names something really existing, which can be a cause of likeness, even if the potentiality is not yet presently actualized. Two Modes of Likeness, Two Modes of Love Working from this distinction, St. Thomas moves on to consider how act and potency can help us understand likeness as being a cause of either the love of friendship or the love of concupiscence. Two people who are actually alike will enjoy a love of friendship. Two people who are potentially alike will experience a love of concupiscence. St. Thomas thus writes, The first mode of likeness, therefore, causes the love of friendship or benevolence. For from this, that some two things are similar, as if having one form, they are somehow one in that form, just as two men are one in the

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species of humanity, and two white things are one in the species of whiteness. And therefore the affection of one tends into another, just as into one for himself; and he wills good to him just as to himself.9

This is a rather difficult passage to interpret at first. St. Thomas seems to be confining himself to human loves. Two white stones, of course, do not love each other with the love of friendship. Likeness is a cause of love, sensitive or rational, among knowing creatures. Similarly, knowledge is not a cause of love between two stones: they neither know nor love each other with a sensible or rational love. Rather, two things capable of love will tend to love each other if they are actually alike. It might sound odd to say that two persons will have a certain affection for one another merely in virtue of being human. But there seems to be at least some minimal truth to this. We generally feel more affection for a human being than a stone, plant, or animal. Someone who has been hiking on a trail for months at a time—say, the Appalachian Trail or the Pacific Crest Trail—is oftentimes happy to share the journey with others or to swap stories when crossing paths with other through-hikers. The more two people have in common, the more their affection for each other can increase. That is one reason why homecomings and reunions are often so emotional. Anyone who has been in another country for months or even years, while separated from their friends and family, knows the profound joy that comes from simply being home with family. Soldiers coming home from serving in the military, reunited again with spouse and children, are so joyful in part because these people share so much in common with one another. There is another kind of love that arises when one person has potentially what another person has actually. Recall how St. Thomas 9. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3: “Primus ergo similitudinis modus causat amorem amicitiae, seu benevolentiae. Ex hoc enim quod aliqui duo sunt similes, quasi habentes unam formam, sunt quodammodo unum in forma illa, sicut duo homines sunt unum in specie humanitatis, et duo albi in albedine. Et ideo affectus unius tendit in alterum, sicut in unum sibi; et vult ei bonum sicut et sibi.”



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gives the example of the stones that are resting in their natural place versus those that are not. Or recall how a human adult and an infant are still part of a linguistic community in virtue of the adult’s actually being able to speak and the baby’s potentially being able to speak. A grain of sand, an oak tree, and a squirrel are not a part of this linguistic community even in potentiality, since they have no ability whatever to learn a language, whereas the baby does have it. St. Thomas writes apropos of this second kind of likeness: The second mode of likeness causes love of concupiscence or a friendship of utility or delight. For in each thing existing in potency, inasmuch as it is in potency, there is an inclination [appetitus] toward its act, and in the pursuit of that act it is desired, if it is sentient and knowing. And it was said above that in the love of concupiscence the lover properly loves himself, when he wills that good which he desires.10

So whereas the first kind of likeness brings about a love of friendship, this second kind of likeness brings about the love of concupiscence or a friendship of utility or pleasure. This recalls the three kinds of friendship: a friendship of pleasure, a friendship of utility, or a true or perfect friendship.11 In true friendship, the friend is loved as other for his own sake. Each friend loves the other as another self and wills good to the other as if willing it for himself. The friend in this case does not love his counterpart merely in order to benefit from the other. In contrast, in a friendship of utility or a friendship of pleasure, the friends will for one another a merely useful or pleasant good. If the friendship is purely one of pleasure or use, then the friendship will cease when it is no longer useful or delightful. While these friendships are not intrinsically bad—one can rightly enjoy be10. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3: “Sed secundus modus similitudinis causat amorem concupiscentiae, vel amicitiam utilis seu delectabilis. Quia unicuique existenti in potentia, inquantum huiusmodi, inest appetitus sui actus, et in eius consecutione delectatur, si sit sentiens et cognoscens. Dictum est autem supra quod in amore concupiscentiae amans proprie amat seipsum, cum vult illud bonum quod concupiscit.” 11. ST II–II, q. 23, a. 5: “Diversae autem amicitiarum species accipiuntur quidem uno modo secundum diversitatem finis, et secundum hoc dicuntur tres species amicitiae, scilicet amicitia utilis, delectabilis et honesti.”

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ing in a stadium with fans who love the same sports team—they are incomplete.12 The implication here seems to be that likeness is a cause of love insofar as one person loves another so as to benefit from the beloved. The one who is loved is in actuality whereas the one who loves is in potency with respect to some form. In a nonromantic sense, this “love” might be present in a coaching or teaching relationship. The student in some sense “loves” the teacher for what the teacher can teach. In this case, the student might love the knowledge that he receives for himself more than he loves the teacher. The same might be said of a coach: the athlete “loves” the coach inasmuch as the coach can make him or her a better athlete. Or, in a friendship of pleasure, the sports fan might in some sense “love” his fellow fans but mostly for the joy the fans offer one another in watching their favorite team together. In both cases, the lover loves himself more than he loves his friends, who are merely useful or pleasant. So, a true friendship is one in which the friend is loved for his own sake and not for the benefit of oneself. This follows from some actual likeness between the two friends. They are both actually sports fans, opera goers, mathematicians, scientists, artists, and so on. On a deeper level, they both might actually be people of good character seeking authentic happiness. That is also a kind of actuality. In each instance, there is some kind of communion that forms the basis of the friendship.13 When actual likeness is not present, a different kind of love ensues—namely, a love of concupiscence or a friendship of utility or pleasure. The one-who-has-not (the one in potency) loves the one-who-has (the one in act) in order to become actualized himself. So, for instance, the violinist loves the teacher not for her own sake but in order that she, the violinist, may become an even better performer.14 The division between act and potency thus 12. See the discussion on friendship, and the accompanying notes, in chapter 4. 13. See ST II–II, q. 23, a. 1: “Sed nec benevolentia sufficit ad rationem amicitiae, sed requiritur quaedam mutua amatio, quia amicus est amico amicus. Talis autem mutua benevolentia fundatur super aliqua communicatione.” 14. Of course, the student can also love the teacher with a love of charity or



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helps to describe different relationships of likeness and the kinds of love that follow from these. Likeness and the Obstacles to Love What, then, are we to say when likeness seems to cause hatred rather than love, as in the case of the rival musicians, athletes, or scholars? St. Thomas helps to solve this conundrum: Each one loves himself more than another, since he is one in substance with himself, but one with another in the likeness of some form. And therefore, if one is impeded in the pursuit of some good, which one loves, because of another similar to him in the sharing of some form, that person is made hateful to him, not inasmuch as he is alike, but inasmuch as he is an impediment to his own good. And on account of this, potters dispute amongst themselves since they get in the way of each other in the pursuit of their own wealth; and among the proud there are disputes since they get in the way of each other in their own excellence, which they love.15

The cause of dispute is therefore not likeness but a superseding love. The good that each person loves for himself—wealth in the case of the potters and excellence in the case of the proud—leads to a rivalry among themselves since each one gets in the way of the other. Therefore, the likeness is not properly the cause of hatred so much as it is the fact that others become an impediment on the way to acquiring some good. In other words, one potter does not hate another insofar as they are both potters, but insofar as the other potter is stealing his market share. In the case of the rival composers, at least according to the popular view, Salieri did not hate Mozart friendship. The basic idea here is that the student, as student, loves the teacher because the teacher is able to perfect the student herself. 15. ST I–II, q. 27, a. 3: “Magis autem unusquisque seipsum amat quam alium, quia sibi unus est in substantia, alteri vero in similitudine alicuius formae. Et ideo si ex eo quod est sibi similis in participatione formae, impediatur ipsemet a consecutione boni quod amat; efficitur ei odiosus, non inquantum est similis, sed inquantum est proprii boni impeditivus. Et propter hoc figuli corrixantur ad invicem, quia se invicem impediunt in proprio lucro, et inter superbos sunt iurgia, quia se invicem impediunt in propria excellentia, quam concupiscunt.”

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precisely insofar as he was a great composer and pianist, but insofar as his being a great composer and pianist meant that Salieri did not receive the honors and positions he desired. Likeness is thus only an accidental or coincidental cause of dislike or hatred: the rival is hated not on account of his excellence but only insofar as that excellence overshadows one’s own. Likeness is thus the third cause of love, after goodness and knowledge. Other Passions as a Cause of Love St. Thomas asks in the following article, as a kind of addendum, whether any other passion can be a cause of love (ST I–II, q. 27, a. 4). We will not attend to this question at length here, but for the sake of completeness we should say a few words. The short answer is that no passion can be a cause of love in a proper sense. Recall that St. Thomas categorizes the passions or emotions according to their object, as good or evil.16 As regards the good, love gives rise to desire, which rests in joy.17 Desire is a movement toward the good desired but not yet had. For example, the smell of mulled cider draws me into the kitchen. Joy is rest in the good desired as present. I taste the cider and enjoy the drink. Desire and joy thus spring from love, not the other way around. I would not start to make some mulled cider unless I first judged it as being pleasant to me—for example, on a winter night. Love is thus the principle of joy and desire in us. As regards an evil object, hatred gives rise to aversion, which 16. See ST I–II, q. 23, a. 1; see also ST I, q. 77, a. 3. On the passions in general, Robert C. Miner, Thomas Aquinas on the Passions: A Study of Summa Theologiae: 1a2ae 22–48 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Peter King, “Aquinas on the Passions,” in Aquinas’s Moral Theory: Essays in Honor of Norman Kretzmann, ed. Scott MacDonald and Eleonore Stump (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2018), 101–32. Eleonore Stump, “The Non-Aristotelian Character of Aquinas’ Ethics: Aquinas on the Passions,” Tópicos 42, no. 1 (2013): 27–50. Servais Pinckaers, “Reappropriating Aquinas’s Account of the Passions (1990),” in The Pinckaers Reader: Renewing Thomistic Moral Theology, ed. John Berkman and Craig Steven Titus (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 273–87. 17. See ST I–II, qq. 26–28 (on love [amor]); q. 30 (on desire [concupiscentia]); qq. 31–34 (on delight [delectatio]).



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becomes sorrow in the face of present evil.18 Hatred is a dislike for or dissonance with the unwanted object.19 Aversion is a movement away from it, as when we move our nose away from an unsavory smell. Sorrow is our response to a perceived evil now present to us.20 Interestingly, love is also the cause of these emotions since St. Thomas thinks that we only hate what is first opposed to our love. The evil involves some kind of privation of the good that we love. Just as being is prior to nonbeing, love is prior to hate.21 Somewhat surprisingly, then, St. Thomas traces hatred, aversion, and sorrow back to love. Interestingly, if we do not love anything, we will not hate anything either. And a stronger love for something will correlate necessarily to a stronger hatred for what can destroy what we love.22 Hatred is thus not necessarily evil, but a passion that, when well ordered, can move us to protect what we love and cherish, turning evil away from the good. St. Thomas then makes a further division as regarding the good that is difficult to attain or the evil that is difficult to avoid. On the one hand, despair and hope regard a future good that is difficult to attain.23 We despair of the difficult good that we judge to be beyond our reach. Consider the mountain climber who turns back from the summit in the face of a coming blizzard. We hope for the good that, though difficult, we believe we can attain in the future. Think of the 18. See ST I–II, qq. 29 (on hatred); 35–39 (on sorrow). On the division of the passions into the concupiscible (love/hatred, desire/flight, delight/sadness) and the irascible, see ST I–II, q. 26, proem. 19. ST I–II, q. 29, a. 1: “Odium vero est dissonantia quaedam appetitus ad id quod apprehenditur ut repugnans et nocivum.” 20. ST I–II, q. 35, a. 1: “Ad dolorem duo requiruntur, scilicet coniunctio alicuius mali, quod ea ratione est malum, quia privat aliquod bonum; et perceptio huiusmodi coniunctionis.” 21. ST I–II, q. 29, a. 2: “Unde necesse est quod amor sit prior odio; et quod nihil odio habeatur, nisi per hoc quod contrariatur convenienti quod amatur. Et secundum hoc, omne odium ex amore causatur.” 22. ST I–II, q. 29, a. 2: “Secundum enim diversitatem bonorum, est diversitas amorum in magnitudine et parvitate, quibus proportionantur opposita odia. Unde odium quod correspondet maiori amori, magis movet quam minor amor.” 23. See ST I–II, q. 40 (on hope [spes] and despair [desperatio]).

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virtuoso violinist who perseveres in the face of long hours of practice. Love, again, is the principle of these passions, since nothing would be hoped or despaired of unless first loved. On the other hand, fear and daring, moving us either to take flight or to fight, regard an evil difficult to avoid.24 Fear considers the difficult, future evil and shrinks from it. Fear then motivates an attempt to flee the evil. An aggressive dog might motivate the postman to retreat into his truck. Daring regards the difficult, future evil as possible to overcome. A soldier might face a field of machine-gun fire and yet dares to charge into the field so as to save a wounded companion. These passions, too, are ultimately derived from love. The evil that one overcomes or avoids is only avoided or overcome so as to protect some love, such as bodily safety or the well-being of another. Since love is the principle of hatred, however paradoxical that may seem, and hatred is the principle of aversion—which gives rise to daring in the face of a difficult, future good that is deemed possible to attain—love is also the principle of daring. Finally, anger arises not from some aversion, which regards an approaching evil, but from some present evil and injustice done to us by another.25 Anger motivates us to overcome the present evil, as when in righteous indignation we might protest an unjust law. The reasonable anger among those in the civil-rights movement was a good case of how sorrow can give rise to a righteous, reasonable, and effective anger. An ordered and healthy anger seeks to remove the cause of sadness in a reasonable and morally legitimate way. And insofar as anger arises from sadness, which stems from hatred, which is derivable from love, anger also flows from love.

24. See ST I–II, q. 41–44 (on fear [timor]); q. 45 (on daring [audacia]). 25. ST I–II, q. 47, a. 2: “Respondeo dicendum quod omnes causae irae reducuntur ad parvipensionem [thinking little of another]. Sunt enim tres species parvipensionis, ut dicitur in II Rhetoric., scilicet despectus [contempt], epereasmus, idest impedimentum voluntatis implendae, et contumeliatio [insolence], et ad haec tria omnia motiva irae reducuntur.”



The Third Cause of Love: Likeness 139 Love: The Principle of the Emotional Life

Love is thus the principle of the entire emotional life. We desire, hope, despair, rejoice, hate, sorrow, fear, and dare only because we first love. If our loves are ordered well—such that we find the true good as consonant with ourselves and true evil as dissonant—then our other emotions will be better regulated as well. If our loves are in order, our lives will be in order. The causes of love help us to understand where these loves come from: goodness, knowledge, and likeness. If some of our loves have led us down errant paths, we can examine our motivations. Is the object of our love really a true good for us? Do we contemplate the goodness of goals that we know are good but that seem difficult to attain? Do we attempt to conform ourselves to the good so that we become more like to it? If we come to know the good in a deeper way, and become more like it, then we will find ourselves in a virtuous circle. The more we love the good, the more we will become like it. The more we become like it, the more we will love it. After all, we naturally come to take pleasure in those activities in which we excel. The avid runner or cyclist enjoys his weekend routine more than the overweight beginner who is just starting out. Again, the same goes for knowledge. The more we know of the good, the more we will love it. As we come to know the benefits of exercise, for example, on an intellectual and experiential level, the easier it will be to maintain that routine. The reverse is also true: the more we love it, the better we will know it. The love of other people, especially, draws us into them more deeply, showing us with the eyes of love the true face of the beloved. This is true for our friends and family, but it is also true of our love for God: heart speaks to heart. In the next chapter, we will explore the effects of love. Where does love lead us? This section will be helpful to see how our loves form our character and our actions. Our loves make us what we are. Seeing the specific effects of love on our lives can thus motivate us to put our loves in order, not in some frenzied search for perfection, but so as to step closer to happiness.

Part 3 The Effects of Love Union • Mutual Indwelling • Ecstasy Zeal • Perfection • Action Unio • Mutua Inhaesio • Extasis Zelus • Perfectio • Actio

Chapter 8 The First Effect of Love: Union

8

The First Effect of Love: Union Unio [ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1]

After examining the nature of love in part 1 and the causes of love in part 2, we turn now in the third and final part of this book to the effects of love.1 Why would one want to study the effects of love? From a practical perspective, it has the payoff of helping us to see the significance of our loves. Our loves form us into people of virtue or people of vice. A person who loves to volunteer at soup kitchens will become a charitable person. A physicist enchanted with the questions of his field will become a good physicist. A pianist who earnestly practices will become a great pianist. An engineering student who skips class in order to lounge with his friends will become a bad engineer. A person who never gives a dime to someone in need will become stingy. The general principle at play in these examples is that if I love what is good, I will become good. If I love what is evil, I will become evil. That is the long and short of it. Studying the effects of love can help us to see just how important our loves are in forming the kinds of people we become. One effect 1. The subject of this chapter is ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1. For parallel discussions, see ST I, q. 20, a. 1, ad 3; ST I–II, q. 25, a. 2, ad 2; III Sent. d. 27, q. 1, a. 1; In De Div. Nom. c. 4, lect. 12.

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of love, and the topic of this chapter, is union. If I love what is good, that love will effect a union with the good thing. So the lover of Baroque music—of Bach, Corelli, and Vivaldi—will in a way become united to that music. The music will be united to him in his imagination and memory. The gourmand and lover of fine foods will eat his food, uniting himself to it in a particularly obvious way. If this love is kept reasonable, he will enjoy a succulent meal, and this will contribute in a way to his particular happiness. If he loves fatty and dense food in a disordered way, however, his union with it may lead to serious health problems. The same might go for a sommelier. His love for wine unites him to that wine, not only by drinking it, but by thinking about it in all of its many aspects: the characteristics of the grape varietal, such as pinot grigio or chardonnay; the terroir of the grapes, including such factors as the soil’s location, mineral content, and sunlight exposure; the history of the vineyard; and the quality of the particular vintage he is enjoying. The sommelier thus unites himself to wine in his imagination, in his understanding, and, of course, with his taste buds. For such a love of wine not to go wrong, it must be pursued according to the due order of reason. While some of these loves might seem trivial, others are not. The decision to unite oneself for life to a particular spouse will have obvious consequences that extend to the couple who is marrying, their children, their extended family, their friends, and their colleagues. A healthy and happy marriage contributes to the well-being of all involved; an unhappy marriage can lead to unpleasant and even destructive situations. Of course, this is not to say that a happy marriage is one without challenges and difficulties. It is to say, though, that a spouse of good character will make a marriage better. And the choice of our spouse will depend on our loves. Another nontrivial decision might be the choice of a career. Some of us will spend as much as one-third of our life, or some ninety thousand hours at work.2 Depending on the vocation, that work 2. Assuming a forty-hour workweek, with five weeks of annual vacation, over fifty years.



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can shape us into excellent human beings, mediocre ones, or downright vicious ones. To take an extreme example, the mafia don in the city, who makes his living through murder and extortion, will come out of his “work” with a blackened character, though he might be the most “successful” mafia don the city has ever known. On the other extreme, a surgeon who freely and willingly dedicates himself or herself as a medical missionary to serve the less fortunate in devastated countries will probably develop a deeper generosity and patience. In the middle course of things, our work might not in itself make us particularly virtuous or vicious. Working as a bank teller, grocer, financier, or dog walker could go either way. Certainly each of these jobs presents opportunities to grow in virtue. The decision to take these opportunities is up to us. The attitude we take, which will ultimately depend on our love for the good, will determine whether or not we unite ourselves to the more difficult path in these more mundane situations. A love of honesty will prompt us to tell the truth when we have made a mistake. A love of friendship will help us to see that our family and friends are ultimately more important than our advancement at work. A love of cheerfulness will help us to smile when we would rather let loose in the face of some constant irritation. The point is that our love will guide us to doing a certain kind of work and doing it well or badly. That love will shape our character for good or for ill. It will be better, of course, to choose the better loves and higher goods.3

3. On the theology of work and the scant attention often paid to it in theological circles, see José Ilanes, The Sanctification of Work, trans. Michael Adams (New York: Scepter, 2003). In a more popular key, David Brooks has written extensively on work as one of four key commitments one makes in life (to a vocation, to marriage, to a philosophy or faith, and to a community). On these four commitments, see David Brooks, The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life (New York: Random House, 2019). See also David Brooks, The Road to Character (New York: Random House, 2015).

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Chapter 8 An Objection: Love without Union

So much, then, for the practical significance of studying union as an effect of love. How do the writings of St. Thomas illuminate the meaning of union as the first effect of love? In the first place, it is perhaps not obvious that union is an effect of love. In one sense, it seems patently obvious that union is not an effect of love. I can love something without being united to it. I can love money and still be a pauper. I can love good food and still go hungry. I can love a person and still not be present with them in person. Love, it seems, does not always effect union. So, it might not be obvious that union is an effect of love, at least not necessarily. In the first objection, St. Thomas raises just this point: “It seems that union [unio] is not an effect of love.” The reason for this position is that love seems to be possible even when the object of love is absent. For example, two friends who are separated by many miles can still love one another even if they are not physically together. Someone might also still love a certain kind of music even when not listening to it—that is, presently “united” to it. A sommelier can still love wine even when there is not a bottle to be found. The difficulty here is that if love does not require union, then it would not seem to be an effect of love, at least not a necessary effect. As St. Thomas puts it, “Absence is repugnant to union.” It seems, therefore, that you can have love without union. St. Thomas concludes his objection: “Therefore, union is not an effect of love.” Love as Unitive: Union Secundum Rem and Secundum Affectum Opposing this position, St. Thomas cites the authority of Dionysius the Areopagite. This figure was probably a monk living in the sixth century in Syria.4 St. Thomas will cite Dionysius often in the ques4. On the relationship between the identity of Dionysius and his theological method, see Charles Stang, Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite: “No



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tion on the effects of love, so we might say a few words about him up front. These cryptic writings suggest that the author was Dionysius, who became the disciple of Paul in Athens when the apostle was preaching on the Areopagus, close to the center of the city (see Acts 17). St. Thomas probably thought that these writings did indeed come from the disciple Dionysius, and therefore had a kind of subapostolic authority. However, it is widely accepted today that the writings derive from a later period—hence, he is often referred to as Pseudo-Dionysius. In any case, these writings were a major influence on St. Thomas and his teacher, Albert the Great, who produced several commentaries on the mysterious Dionysius.5 St. Thomas quotes Dionysius in the sed contra of the article to the effect that “every love is a unitive power [virtus unitiva]” (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1). Every love unites us to something else—namely, to the beloved. How does one square this position with the above claim that love does not seem to be unitive but is compatible with absence? St. Thomas goes on to explain in the body of the article just exactly how love is unitive. First, he distinguishes between two kinds of union. “The union of the lover toward the beloved [amantis ad amatum] is twofold.”6 He then goes on to explain these two kinds of union. “One kind of union is according to the thing [secundum rem] Longer I,” Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford: University Press, 2012). “The first important valence of the pseudonym has to do with the fact that the figure of Dionysius the Areopagite was a convert, poised between the pagan wisdom of Athens and the revelation of God in Christ, as delivered to him by Paul” (197). “I submit that for Dionysius the very practice of writing under a pseudonym is no mere ploy for sub-apostolic authority and thereby a wider readership, but is in fact itself an ecstatic devotional practice in the service of the apophasis of the self, and thereby of soliciting deifying union with the unknown God” (204). 5. See Fran O’Rourke, Pseudo-Dionysius and the Metaphysics of Aquinas (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005). See also Bernhard Blankenhorn, The Mystery of Union with God: Dionysian Mysticism in Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2015). For a case study of the Dionysian influence on Aquinas, see Andrew Hofer, “Dionysian Elements in Thomas Aquinas’s Christology: A Case of the Authority and Ambiguity of Pseudo-Dionysius,” The Thomist 72, no. 3 (2008): 409–42. 6. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1: “Duplex est unio amantis ad amatum.”

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as when the beloved is currently present to the lover.”7 This is what we generally mean by union. So, for example, if two lovers are separated by a distance, they would be united to one another secundum rem when they are actually present to each other in person. There is also a second kind of union. “But there is another kind of union according to affect [secundum affectum]. This union must be considered from a preceding apprehension, for the appetitive motion follows apprehension.”8 Union according to affect (secundum affectum), as opposed to real union (secundum rem), indicates a weaker kind of union. The lover is united to the object of love insofar as the object is known and, therefore, possessed by the lover in some way. This notion of union follows on an Aristotelian epistemology in which the thing known, either by the senses or the understanding, is in the knower insofar as the knower has the form of the thing known.9 So, when we look at a sunset, the sunset is somehow in us, as we see the light of the sun refracted through the atmosphere. We see the sunset itself through a likeness of it in our eyes. In a more mundane sense, when I see an almond croissant on the table, I am also united to it even if I am not eating it. The pastry is already in my senses, united to me. Kinds of Affective Union: From Love of Concupiscence and Love of Friendship After delineating these two kinds of union, St. Thomas recalls the two kinds of love, the love of friendship and the love of concupis7. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1: “Una quidem secundum rem, puta cum amatum praesentialiter adest amanti.” 8. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1: “Alia vero secundum affectum. Quae quidem unio consideranda est ex apprehensione praecedente, nam motus appetitivus sequitur apprehensionem.” 9. Regarding Aristotle on sensation, see Stephen Everson, Aristotle on Perception (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). See also ST I, q. 12, a. 2: “Ad visionem, tam sensibilem quam intellectualem, duo requiruntur, scilicet virtus visiva, et unio rei visae cum visu; non enim fit visio in actu, nisi per hoc quod res visa quodammodo est in vidente. Et in rebus quidem corporalibus, apparet quod res visa non potest esse in vidente per suam essentiam, sed solum per suam similitudinem, sicut similitudo lapidis est in oculo, per quam fit visio in actu, non autem ipsa substantia lapidis.”



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cence, insofar as they relate to affective union. To put it another way, since affective union is the bond between lover and beloved in virtue of the love itself, it comes in two varieties, since love itself is of two kinds—namely, love of concupiscence and love of friendship. Thomas lays out these distinctions below: And because there is a twofold love—namely, the love of concupiscence and the love of friendship—each proceeds from a certain apprehension of the unity of the thing loved with the lover. For when someone loves something as desiring it, he apprehends that thing as belonging to his well-being. Similarly when someone loves something with the love of friendship, he wills good to it as he wills good to himself, namely, inasmuch as he wills good to it as to himself. And thence it is that a friend is said to be another self [alter ipse], and Augustine says, in Book IV of the Confessions, ‘he indeed spoke well about his friend: the half of his soul [dimidium animae suae].’10

The union following from the two kinds of loves is therefore different. In the love of friendship, the lover wills good to the beloved as if the beloved is another self (alter ipse). So, one friend wishes for another what he would wish for himself. Indeed, he wishes that good for another as if it were his own. Thus, one friend who desires to be virtuous would also desire that his friend be virtuous, as if that friend were himself. This kind of true friendship wills the good of the other as other. In the love of friendship, the beloved is considered as another self. In the love of concupiscence, on the other hand, the thing loved is considered as “belonging to his well-being” (ad suum bene esse). In the case of affective union according to the love of concupiscence, the thing loved is seen as belonging to the well-being of the lover (ad suum bene esse). For instance, I can thus be united to a croissant in 10. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1: “Cum autem sit duplex amor, scilicet concupiscentiae et amicitiae, uterque procedit ex quadam apprehensione unitatis amati ad amantem. Cum enim aliquis amat aliquid quasi concupiscens illud, apprehendit illud quasi pertinens ad suum bene esse. Similiter cum aliquis amat aliquem amore amicitiae, vult ei bonum sicut et sibi vult bonum, unde apprehendit eum ut alterum se, inquantum scilicet vult ei bonum sicut et sibi ipsi. Et inde est quod amicus dicitur esse alter ipse, et Augustinus dicit, in IV Confess., bene quidam dixit de amico suo, dimidium animae suae.”

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my affections, as silly as that may sound, since the croissant is pleasant to me. I do not will good for the croissant, but I will my own good in eating it, so it is loved with a love of concupiscence. And, further, I am not actually united with the croissant in a real way, by eating it, but am rather united only in my affection or sensation of it. In the case of affective union according to the love of friendship, the beloved is seen as another self (alter ipse). For example, I can be affectively united to my family, though they are now absent. I will the good for them for their own sake, yet as if it were my own, even when we are apart. In each case, in my “love” for the croissant and my love for my absent family, the union is affective and not real, yet the union brought about in each case is distinct, since the croissant is loved with a love of concupiscence and the family members are loved with a love of friendship. The point of all this is simply to show that affective union can come about in different ways depending on the kind of love with which we love the beloved. Union, to put it simply, is said in many ways. Real Union and Effective Causality, Affective Union and Formal Causality St. Thomas also explains how these two kinds of union, secundum rem and secundum affectum, are brought about in distinct ways. “Therefore, love brings about the first union [secundum rem] effectively, for it moves toward desiring and seeking the presence of the thing loved, as fitting to itself and belonging to itself. But love brings about the second union [secundum affectivum] formally, for the love itself is a certain union or bond.”11 On the one hand, my love for books, for example, might lead me to drive to the bookstore and purchase a book so that I now have it in my possession. This would be an example of love bringing about a real union effectively (effective). The same might 11. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1: “Primam ergo unionem amor facit effective, quia movet ad desiderandum et quaerendum praesentiam amati, quasi sibi convenientis et ad se pertinentis. Secundam autem unionem facit formaliter, quia ipse amor est talis unio vel nexus.”



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be said for the love that might motivate two lovers to travel a great distance to be physically present to each other. On the other hand, I might love books and yet not be able to visit the bookstore. Perhaps it is closed for the day. In that case, I am united to the books only in my affection. This would be a formal union brought about by the bond of love itself, at least according to a love of concupiscence. Again, I might love a distant friend and yet not be able to visit him or her in person. There would still, in this case, be an affective union, brought about formally (formaliter), between the lover and the distant beloved. To sum up: real union (secundum rem) comes about effectively (effective); affective union (secundum affectum) comes about formally (formaliter), according to an apprehension that follows on the love of friendship or the love of concupiscence. Affective union, which is brought about in virtue of the love itself and not due to a realized physical union or presence, can arise from either a love of concupiscence or a love of friendship. The reply to the second objection helps to further clarify, and even expand on, the kinds of union we have discussed in this chapter.12 St. Thomas here observes that union is related to love in three ways: (1) a union that causes love, which brings about either (1a) a substantial union (unio substantialis), as loving oneself, or (1b) a union of likeness (unio similitudinis), as loving others; (2) a union that is essentially love itself (essentialiter ipse amor), which brings about a union of affection (unio secundum coaptationem affectus), which can be either (2a) a union of affection according to a love of concupiscence or (2b) a union of affection according to a 12. See ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1, ad 3: “Unio tripliciter se habet ad amorem. Quaedam enim unio est causa amoris. Et haec quidem est unio substantialis, quantum ad amorem quo quis amat seipsum, quantum vero ad amorem quo quis amat alia, est unio similitudinis, ut dictum est. Quaedam vero unio est essentialiter ipse amor. Et haec est unio secundum coaptationem affectus. Quae quidem assimilatur unioni substantiali, inquantum amans se habet ad amatum, in amore quidem amicitiae, ut ad seipsum; in amore autem concupiscentiae, ut ad aliquid sui. Quaedam vero unio est effectus amoris. Et haec est unio realis, quam amans quaerit de re amata. Et haec quidem unio est secundum convenientiam amoris, ut enim philosophus refert, II Politic., Aristophanes dixit quod amantes desiderarent ex ambobus fieri unum, sed quia ex hoc accideret aut ambos aut alterum corrumpi, quaerunt unionem quae convenit et decet; ut scilicet simul conversentur, et simul colloquantur, et in aliis huiusmodi coniungantur.”

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love of friendship; and (3) a union that is the effect of love (effectus amoris), and St. Thomas calls this real union (unio realis).13 This article especially considers the union that simply is the love itself, which Thomas calls a union of affection, and then the proper effect of love, which is real union. Love Is More Unitive Than Knowledge St. Thomas concludes this article by comparing love and knowledge. He observes that “love is more unitive than knowledge” (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1, ad 3). In the case of knowing, the thing known is in the knower according to a likeness of it. The thing known is thus made like the knower. When I perceive a sunset, the sunset in my perception is more immaterial than the actual sunset on the horizon. For Aquinas, perception involves a spiritual change (immutatio spiritualis).14 But in the case of love, the knower is made like the thing loved. “The thing itself [as opposed to its likeness] which is loved is united to the knower in some way.” Love thus draws us out of ourselves and in some way makes us like what we love, even more than knowledge. When we love what is below us, in a disordered way, we become less than we are. When we love what is above us, we become, in a way, more than we are, as in the case of the love for God. The more perfect the object, the more perfect our love of it will perfect us. 13. One might schematize these kinds of union, in the following way: (1) Union which is a cause of love: the precondition for love (1a) Substantial union (the basis of love for oneself) (1b) Union of likeness (the basis of love for others) (2) U  nion secundum affectum, love itself: brought about formally (formaliter) (2a) Affective union according to love of concupiscence (2b) Affective union according to love of friendship (3) Union secundum rem, the effect of love: brought about effectively (effective) This last kind of union, real union, would also seem to admit of the distinction between love of friendship and love of concupiscence. I can be really united to something for my own sake (as when I take and eat a pastry) or for the sake of another (think, perhaps, of a selfless embrace for a disconsolate friend). 14. On this point, see, for example, ST I, q. 78, a. 3: “Ad operationem autem sensus requiritur immutatio spiritualis, per quam intentio formae sensibilis fiat in organo sensus.”



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This principle, of course, applies especially to relationships, human and divine. To fully know someone, we must not only know about them or “study” them but also love them. The saint is not like an academic who knows much about God, but one who loves God and is thus united to him. The same is true of two spouses. They are united in relationship with each other not primarily because of their knowledge of each other, important as that may be, but through their love for each other, in the sacrifices they have made and offered. In the next chapter, we will explore another effect of love: mutual indwelling. This indwelling can come about in different ways, depending on the union of lover and beloved.

Chapter 9 The Second Effect of Love: Mutual Indwelling

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The Second Effect of Love: Mutual Indwelling Mutua Inhaesio [ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2]

Lovers who are apart from each other often think of each other. The beloved is, as it were, present to the lover in his thoughts and affections. Thomas calls this second effect of love mutual indwelling (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2).1 What is the nature of this indwelling? To state the obvious, this kind of indwelling is not in the first place a merely physical one. As one objection puts it, the container and the contained cannot be the same thing (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2, arg. 1). Instead, the lovers dwell in each other’s heart and mind. On the one hand, “the beloved is contained in the lover inasmuch as the beloved is impressed in his affection” (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2, ad 1). The lover has his feelings and affections trained on his beloved. The image of the sighing lover captures this effect of love. On the other hand, “the lover is contained in the beloved inasmuch as the lover in some way seeks that which is intimate to the beloved.” The lover seeks to be within the beloved. Of course, one might understand the interi1. See also III Sent. d. 27, q. 1, a. 1, ad 4.

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ority of the lover and the beloved in terms of physical intimacy. But it also extends to the attempts of the lover to know the thoughts and feelings of the beloved. The lover seeks that which is most intimate to the beloved—for example, the deepest thoughts, feelings, and aspirations of the beloved. The lover seeks a complete intimacy with the beloved and, inversely, the beloved with the lover. Perhaps in order to balance the physical overtones that such language might suggest, St. Thomas gives this article a theological valence by citing Scripture in the sed contra. He quotes St. John to the effect that “he who abides in charity abides in God and God in him” (1 Jn 4:16). The person who loves is in God, and God is in that person. The lover is in the beloved and the beloved is in the lover. Or, to put it in more neutral terms, the two lovers are both in each other. St. Thomas thus transposes the language of physical union, mutual indwelling, onto a spiritual plane. This is not so much to devalue the goodness of physical union as much as it is to suggest its limits and to point toward a higher kind of union. This is another instance in which Thomas offers a distinctly theological reading of love. It may also remind the earthbound lover that the spiritual life is itself a love affair of the highest kind. The language of union can motivate us to draw closer to God, the greatest lover one could ever hope for—the one who is most intimate to ourselves and who desires our good even more than we desire it for ourselves. The Indwelling of Lover and Beloved: By Knowledge In the body of the article, St. Thomas distinguishes between two ways that the lover and the beloved are in each other. They indwell each other through the powers of knowing and desiring.2 “The effect of mutual indwelling can be understood both with respect to 2. For background on this theme, see the important study from Michael S. Sherwin, By Knowledge and by Love: Charity and Knowledge in the Moral Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005).

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the apprehensive power and the knowing power.”3 In general, the powers of knowing include our sensation and our understanding. The powers of desiring include our sensate powers—such as love, desire, and joy—as well as the spiritual power of desiring the universal good, which is more often called the will. In what way does mutual indwelling occur with these powers? St. Thomas first addresses the apprehensive power. This does not refer to being “apprehensive” about something, as we might say in English, but is said with reference to our ability to know or apprehend something: to grasp it. For with regard to the apprehensive power, the beloved is said to be in the lover inasmuch as the beloved remains in the apprehension of the lover, as is said in Philippians: “because I have you in my heart” [1:7]. But the lover is said to be in the beloved according to apprehension inasmuch as the lover is not content with a superficial understanding of the beloved, but strives to investigate particular things which belong to the beloved within and thus enters into the inner things of the beloved. Just as it is said about the Holy Spirit, who is the love of God, in 1 Corinthians that “he searches also the depths of God” [2:10].4

Thus Thomas writes on how the lover indwells his beloved in knowledge. While all of this might sound a little abstruse, especially in translation, the Latin is rather moving, interspersed as it is with scriptural references. The central idea is that the lover seeks to know all that there is about his beloved. The lover is not content with a surface-level understanding (superficiali apprehensione) of his beloved. The language of superficiality literally means “on the face” 3. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Respondeo dicendum quod iste effectus mutuae inhaesionis potest intelligi et quantum ad vim apprehensivam, et quantum ad vim appetitivam.” 4. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Nam quantum ad vim apprehensivam amatum dicitur esse in amante, inquantum amatum immoratur in apprehensione amantis; secundum illud Philipp. I, eo quod habeam vos in corde. Amans vero dicitur esse in amato secundum apprehensionem inquantum amans non est contentus superficiali apprehensione amati, sed nititur singula quae ad amatum pertinent intrinsecus disquirere, et sic ad interiora eius ingreditur. Sicut de spiritu sancto, qui est amor Dei, dicitur, I ad Cor. II, quod scrutatur etiam profunda Dei.”



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(super facie).5 A superficial kind of knowledge does not go deeper than looks, as we might say. It considers the surface but does not go deeper. This is perhaps why love at first sight, while rather charming, is not identical to a deep and profound love. More generally, we desire to be loved not merely for what is on the surface and visible to the senses, but for what is most intimate to us (the interiora). Thus, St. Thomas writes that the true lover strives to plunge into the interiority of the beloved (intrinsecus disquirere), to seek out and ponder what is most intimate to the beloved. The lover strives to know all there is to know about his love. The Latin word disquirere can mean, rather dryly, “to investigate,” but it comes from the Latin verb quaero, which can mean “to question,” “to seek,” “to meditate on,” and so forth. The Latin quaestio (question), which is the basic unit of the Summa Theologiae, comes from this word. The lover, and theologian, questions his beloved. The idea of questioning might seem banal or even inquisitorial, but the idea of a question, in a more expansive and affirmative sense, involves a quest: an arduous journey to come to know what one does not yet know, which involves challenges and difficulties. The fruit of a quest, more often than not, is not simply the attainment of a goal but a deeper knowledge of self and others. To truly know his beloved, the lover must go on a quest, seeking to understand his beloved in all of her interior totality. Since friendship is mutual benevolence, the beloved-lover must also set out on the same journey. From different perspectives, after all, the beloved is the lover and the lover is the beloved. The lover meditates and reflects on his lover in his heart. The gendered language is perhaps a bit of a stumbling block here. Using the masculine pronoun (he) for the lover and the feminine pronoun (she) for the beloved risks obscuring the truth that both men and women seek to know the interiority of their beloved. Again, in a romantic relationship, each member is both lover and beloved. And so each is in the other by meditating on, reflecting on, and question5. Prima facie—at first glance or at first appearance—literally means “at first face”: on the face of it.

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ing—in search of the truth of the beloved. Thus, the beloved is in the lover insofar as the beloved is in the knowledge of the lover, as the thing known is in the knower. But the lover is in the beloved insofar as the lover seeks to know all that there is to know about his beloved. The lover is, as it were, within the beloved, searching out, questioning, and reflecting on her interiority. And this is true in both directions, in a head-spinning way, so that while the lover is in the beloved and the beloved is in the lover, the beloved is also the lover and the lover is also the beloved. To clarify, this ought not be a manipulative, domineering, or instrumental kind of searching. That stance of domination might be suggested by using the language of investigation. In our world, scientific and empirical investigation places the investigator in the position of power. The scientist experiments on and manipulates matter in order to know it. This is not really the medieval or Thomasian attitude toward knowledge. The medieval view of knowledge, at least as one finds it in Thomas Aquinas and some of his confreres, is more receptive and contemplative. The mysteries of nature, the mystery of another human person, is not something to dominate or to manipulate in the form of a carefully plotted search. The idea is to be open to receiving the truth of another insofar as the other reveals herself in a stance of trust. The relation of man before God in the theological task is similar: God is not put to the test; instead, God reveals himself to the loving heart who seeks to understand him. The Anselmian motto—fides quaerens intellectum, faith seeking understanding— captures this attitude: again, the notion of questioning and questing (quaerens) after God requires a stance of trusting receptivity.6

6. On this theological “motto” of Anselm, see Proslogion, proem. Marilyn McCord Adams, “Fides Quaerens Intellectum: St. Anselm’s Method in Philosophical Theology,” Faith and Philosophy 9, no. 4 (1992): 409–35. G. Stanley Kane, “Fides Quaerens Intellectum in Anselm’s Thought,” Scottish Journal of Theology 26, no. 1 (1973): 40–62. For the standard biography on Anselm, see R. W. Southern, Saint Anselm: A Portrait in a Landscape (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).



The Second Effect of Love: Mutual Indwelling 159 The Indwelling of Lover and Beloved: By Love

In the second part of the article, St. Thomas discusses how the lover and beloved dwell in one another according to the appetitive appetite—that is, the power of desiring. He looks first at how the beloved dwells in the lover and then at how the lover is in the beloved. “But with regard to the appetitive power, the beloved is said to be in the lover, just as through a certain agreeableness in his affection, so that either the lover is delighted in the beloved or in the good things that belong to him with respect to the present.”7 The key point here is that the beloved is in the lover insofar as the lover feels affection for the beloved. This sort of affection is a kind of indwelling insofar as the beloved is in some way “in” the will of the lover. Of course, this is not a physical kind of interiority. It is an affective interiority that is nevertheless real. The joy that the lover feels toward the beloved indicates a kind of inner presence of the beloved in the lover. The lover can experience this joy either on account of being in the presence of the beloved (in eo) or in experiencing the good things (in bonis eius) that belong to the beloved. One might think here of one spouse rejoicing in the accomplishments of the other, perhaps for a professional accomplishment or on behalf of some personal victory. But the spouses can also rejoice in each other solely in virtue of their being present to each other in a deep affection. This inner joy is a sign of the presence of the beloved in the affection of the lover.8 7. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Sed quantum ad vim appetitivam, amatum dicitur esse in amante, prout est per quandam complacentiam in eius affectu, ut vel delectetur in eo, aut in bonis eius, apud praesentiam.” 8. In his trinitarian theology, St. Thomas develops the idea of an “impression” (impressio) in the will. See ST I, q. 37, a. 1: “Sicut enim ex hoc quod aliquis rem aliquam intelligit, provenit quaedam intellectualis conceptio rei intellectae in intelligente, quae dicitur verbum; ita ex hoc quod aliquis rem aliquam amat, provenit quaedam impressio, ut ita loquar, rei amatae in affectu amantis, secundum quam amatum dicitur esse in amante, sicut et intellectum in intelligente.” See also ST I, q. 27, a. 4: “Processio autem quae attenditur secundum rationem voluntatis, non consideratur secundum rationem similitudinis,

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St. Thomas also suggests how the beloved can be present despite the physical absence of the beloved. In the absence of the beloved, the lover tends through desire into the beloved through the love of concupiscence; or into the good things which he wills for the beloved through love of friendship—not indeed through some extrinsic cause, just as when someone desires something on account of another or when someone wills the good of another on account of something else, but on account of the agreeableness of the beloved rooted within.9

The central point here is that the beloved can be in the lover even in the absence of the beloved. Though such physical separation can be challenging, the possibility of such presence is also a hopeful sign. Two people who love each other can still “dwell” in each other even when apart. The beloved is in the lover through the movement of his affection. The impulse or desire of the lover for the beloved indicates the presence of the beloved in his will. This presence is not a physical or real union, to advert to the discussion in the last chapter, but an affective union. Such an indwelling, when the lovers are absent, can happen in two ways. The lover can desire the beloved with a love of concupiscence. Such is the case, for example, when the lover yearns to be with his beloved for some benefit of his own. This need not be malicious, but might include the dispersion of loneliness that comes from a reunion, the mutual help that friends can offer to each other, or the simple delight that one takes in spending time with a cheerful friend.10 The lover can also desire the beloved with a love of friendsed magis secundum rationem impellentis et moventis in aliquid.” St. Thomas also uses the terms attractio (Comp. Theo. I, c. 46), affectio (ST I, q. 37, a. 1), and impulso (SCG, IV, c. 19). For a fuller discussion, see Gilles Emery, The Trinitarian Theology of Saint Thomas Aquinas, trans. Francesca Aran Murphy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 67. 9. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Vel in absentia, per desiderium tendat in ipsum amatum per amorem concupiscentiae; vel in bona quae vult amato, per amorem amicitiae; non quidem ex aliqua extrinseca causa, sicut cum aliquis desiderat aliquid propter alterum, vel cum aliquis vult bonum alteri propter aliquid aliud; sed propter complacentiam amati interius radicatam.” 10. On this last point, see ST I–II, q. 38, a. 3, regarding compassionate friends as a remedy for sorrow.



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ship. In this case, the lover does not desire something for himself, but desires something good for his beloved. This desire impels him to be with his beloved, and this “impulse” indicates a kind of presence of the beloved in the lover. When a lover sends his beloved flowers or some other gift, for the sake of his beloved and not to receive anything in return, he loves with a love of friendship. In either case, through love of friendship or love of concupiscence, the beloved is present to the lover in affection. As St. Thomas concludes, “So also love is called profound [intimus]; and some speak of the viscera of charity.”11 Love is thus, literally, an intimate and visceral experience. The phrase viscera caritatis, the “innards” of charity, indicates also the unity of body and soul. Charity is not merely a detached and intellectual phenomenon. It reaches down into the depths of the person, into the very bowels of man, drawing out a deep and profound love that engages and calls upon the whole person. Both metaphors indicate the interiority of the beloved in the lover. This happens not only in a physical way, but also in an affective and volitional way. The beloved is in the affections and will of the lover when the lover wills the good of his beloved. Just as the beloved is in the lover, so also the lover is present to the beloved in different ways. St. Thomas notes, “Conversely, the lover is in the beloved in one way through the love of concupiscence and in another way through the love of friendship. For the love of concupiscence does not rest in any extrinsic or superficial attainment or enjoyment of the beloved, but seeks to possess the beloved perfectly, as if arriving at the interiority of the beloved.”12 Again, St. Thomas draws on two kinds of love—love of friendship and love of concupiscence—to distinguish the different ways in which the lover is in the beloved. The lover is in the beloved as seeking 11. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Unde et amor dicitur intimus; et dicuntur viscera caritatis.” 12. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “E converso autem amans est in amato aliter quidem per amorem concupiscentiae, aliter per amorem amicitiae. Amor namque concupiscentiae non requiescit in quacumque extrinseca aut superficiali adeptione vel fruitione amati, sed quaerit amatum perfecte habere, quasi ad intima illius perveniens.”

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out what is proper to the beloved. Just as the lover is in the beloved when searching to know the beloved by his intellectual powers, so also the lover is in the beloved as loving with his volitional powers. Through the love of concupiscence, the lover enjoys the presence of the beloved as a legitimate good for himself. But St. Thomas does not stop there, pointing also to the indwelling brought about through the love of friendship. “But in the love of friendship the lover is in the beloved inasmuch as he considers the good or evil things of his friend as his own, and the will of the friend as his own, so that, as it were, he himself seems to experience and be affected by those good or evil things.”13 The lover is thus in the beloved as considering what befalls the beloved as happening, in a way, to himself. St. Thomas then reflects that “on account of this it is proper to friends to wish the same thing and to sorrow and to rejoice in the same thing, as the philosopher says in Book IX of the Ethics and in Book II of the Rhetoric.”14 The references to Aristotle could distract from a profound point: a true friend is someone who rejoices in your joy and sorrows in your sadness. The reason for this is that a friend is another self, someone who considers your joy as his or her own. One thinks of St. Paul: “Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep” (Rom 12:15). Such is the universal scope of Christian charity: that it binds people into a communion of profound friendship. St. Thomas then sums up how the beloved is in the lover and the lover in the beloved: “The lover seems to be in the beloved, as if made the same as the beloved, inasmuch as he considers what belongs to his friend as his own. But, conversely, the beloved is in the lover inasmuch as he wills and acts on account of his friend as on account of himself, as if considering his friend the same as himself.”15 13. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “In amore vero amicitiae, amans est in amato, inquantum reputat bona vel mala amici sicut sua, et voluntatem amici sicut suam, ut quasi ipse in suo amico videatur bona vel mala pati, et affici.” 14. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Et propter hoc, proprium est amicorum eadem velle, et in eodem tristari et gaudere secundum philosophum, in IX Ethic. et in II Rhetoric.” 15. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Ut sic, inquantum quae sunt amici aestimat sua, amans



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So, from one perspective, the lover is in the beloved since the lover considers the joys and sorrows of the beloved as his own. This kind of affection suggests that the lover and beloved are almost or as it were (quasi) the same person. From another perspective, when the lover acts on account of the beloved, it seems that the beloved is the same as the lover. The idea here would seem to be that the lover and beloved are one. Depending on the perspective, one can see the lover in the beloved or the beloved in the lover. Each is in the other insofar as they are united in affection of will or understanding of the intellect. The dizzying quality of these relationships indicates perhaps the nexus of identities in the union of love. The practice of thinking through them gives the philosopher a taste of that indwelling, shuttling from lover to beloved and beloved to lover, in a union of profound knowledge and love. Redamatio: Mutual Indwelling as Mutual Love The article concludes on a moving note. “But there is also a third way in which mutual indwelling can be understood in the love of friendship, according to the way of mutual love [redamatio], inasmuch as the friends love one another mutually and will and do good things for one another.”16 St. Thomas has already explained how the love of friendship can explain mutual indwelling in terms of the understanding and the will or affection. This would seem to be the first two ways in which the lover and beloved are in each other. This third way would seem to focus less on the powers of knowing and willing and more on the mutual act of loving (redamatio). The union of mutual indwelling is thus a kind of reciprocal and mutual videatur esse in amato, quasi idem factus amato. Inquantum autem e converso vult et agit propter amicum sicut propter seipsum, quasi reputans amicum idem sibi, sic amatum est in amante.” 16. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 2: “Potest autem et tertio modo mutua inhaesio intelligi in amore amicitiae, secundum viam redamationis, inquantum mutuo se amant amici, et sibi invicem bona volunt et operantur.”

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love. The lover and beloved dwell in each other insofar as they act on each other’s behalf. Mutual indwelling, the second effect of love (q. 28, a. 2), would thus seem to follow from union, the first effect of love (q. 28, a. 1). The union that love brings about then entails a mutual indwelling in the understanding and affections, as well as in the actions themselves, of the lover and the beloved. Such union of love is thus also a communion of friendship in knowledge and affection. Mutual Indwelling: A Recapitulation This discussion of mutual indwelling might seem abstruse and even overly wrought. However, these nuances, dizzying as they may at first seem, reflect the complexity of the phenomenon of love itself. The account of indwelling depends on several distinctions. First, Thomas distinguishes between power and act. The lover is in the beloved and the beloved is in the lover according to the power of understanding (quantum ad vim apprehensivam) and the power of willing (quantum ad vim appetitivam). They are both also in each other, not only according to the power, but through actually loving each other (redamatio). Second, in terms of the powers, St. Thomas distinguishes how the lover and beloved are in each other according to either the love of concupiscence or the love of friendship. He also considers the presence or absence of the beloved in his consideration of the mutual indwelling that comes about through the appetitive power in accord with the love of friendship (as opposed to concupiscence). These distinctions, presented in such a concise form, could induce vertigo. They might also obscure the moving and profound truth contained beneath the distinctions. This is, most simply, that the lover and beloved are in each other not merely through a physical union (which St. Thomas does not even consider here, though it is perhaps the most obvious kind of indwelling) but through a union of understanding and affection. This sort of mutual indwelling is not merely human, but also covers the love that exists among all intelli-



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gent beings—including the love of humans for one another, the love of angels for one another, and the love of God for his creatures. This opens love to broader vistas. By placing the emphasis on the spiritual powers in this article, St. Thomas does not intend to diminish the corporeality and animality of human love. Recall how St. Thomas refers approvingly to the “bowels” [viscera] of charity. Indeed, he shows how even our bodily loves are ennobled and transfigured by our powers of knowing and willing, such that we approach, albeit in a limited way, the love that the angels and God have for one another and for us. This kind of spiritual indwelling suggests the depths and possibilities of human love, including romantic love, following from the spiritual union of lover and beloved.17 17. Below is an outline of the modes of mutual indwelling. I emphasize apprehension and appetition as being powers such that the third kind of indwelling (redamatio) emphasizes acts of love (sibi invicem bona volunt et operantur). Of course, Thomas does refer to acts in discussing the apprehensive and appetitive modes of ecstasy. (1) Indwelling through the knowing (cognitive) powers (1a) the beloved is in the lover as being in the knowledge of the lover (1b) the lover is in the beloved as “inquiring” of the beloved (2) Indwelling through the desiring (appetitive) powers (2a) the beloved is in the lover as being in the affection of the lover — As enjoying the beloved as present * With the love of concupiscence: as enjoying the beloved for oneself * With the love of friendship: as enjoying the beloved’s good, for the sake of beloved — As tending toward the beloved as absent * With the love of concupiscence: as seeking to enjoy the beloved * With the love of friendship: as seeking good for the beloved (2b) the lover is in the beloved through: — the love of concupiscence: as the lover perfectly possesses the beloved — the love of friendship: as the lover regards the beloved’s good/evil as his own (3) Indwelling through mutual acts of love (redamatio)

Chapter 10 The Third Effect of Love: Ecstasy

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The Third Effect of Love: Ecstasy Extasis [ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3]

The third effect of love is ecstasy.1 One might not expect to find a discussion of ecstatic love in the writings of the medieval scholastics. And yet the Angelic Doctor devotes an entire article to the topic. St. Thomas draws from a tradition that dates back at least to Pseudo-Dionysius.2 Recall that this figure was most likely a Syrian monk writing around the fifth or sixth century and who wrote un1. For parallels in Aquinas, see ST II–II, q. 175, a. 2 (on rapture) III Sent. d. 27, q. 1, a. 1, ad 4 (on modes of union); Super II Cor. c. 12, lect. 1 (on rapture); In De Div. Nom. c. 4, lect. 10 (on human and divine ecstasy). On this topic, see the studies by Peter Kwasniewski. Peter Kwasniewski, The Ecstasy of Love in the Thought of Thomas Aquinas (Steubenville, OH: Emmaus Academic, 2021); “Transcendence, Power, Virtue, Madness, Ecstasy—Modalities of Excess in Aquinas,” Mediaeval Studies 66 (2004): 129–81; “St. Thomas, Extasis, and Union with the Beloved,” The Thomist 61, no. 4 (1997): 587–603. 2. In De Div. Nom. c. 4, lect. 10: “Postquam Dionysius determinavit de amore, hic determinat de extasi quae est effectus amoris et circa hoc, tria facit: primo, proponit extasim esse amoris effectum; secundo, manifestat hoc in creaturis; ibi: et monstrant et cetera; tertio, manifestat hoc in Deo; ibi: audendum et cetera.” “Sic igitur talis amor extasim facit, quia ponit amantem extra seipsum. Sed hoc contingit tripliciter; potest enim illud substantiale bonum, in quod affectus fertur, tripliciter se habere: uno modo sic, quod illud bonum sit perfectius quam ipse amans et per hoc amans comparetur ad ipsum ut pars ad totum, quia quae totaliter sunt in perfectis partialiter sunt in imperfectis; unde secundum hoc, amans est aliquid amati. Alio modo sic,

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der the name Dionysius the Areopagite, a reference to the disciple that Paul made on the Areopagus in Athens (see Acts 17:34). Dionysius, the Syrian monk, makes the rather stunning claim that God experienced ecstasy through his love.3 We might even say that the Incarnation itself is a kind of ecstasy: God goes out of himself in love to become man. His love for the human race, his divine philanthropy, draws him down to earth so that he can assist his creatures. Thomas quotes Dionysius to the effect that “divine love causes ecstasy and that God himself suffered ecstasy on account of his love.”4 Again, the claim of ecstatic divine love might seem difficult to square with other positions of Aquinas, who affirms the immutability of God.5 Yet it reveals a deep truth, in somewhat poetic language, about the presence of God in creation and through the Incarnation of Christ, in God’s becoming man. All of this gives the discussion of ecstasy a profoundly spiritual tone.6 That may also seem surprising given that the discussion of quod bonum amatum sit eiusdem ordinis cum amante. Tertio modo, quod amans sit perfectius re amata et sic amor amantis fertur in amatum, sicut in aliquid suum.” 3. See Pseudo-Dionysius, On the Divine Names 4.13. See also the commentary by Aquinas on this point: In De Div. Nom. c. 4, lect. 10. This is one point of Dionysius that so impressed Hans Urs von Balthasar. See his discussion in The Glory of the Lord, 1:119–20. 4. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3, sed contra: “Sed contra est quod Dionysius dicit . . . divinus amor extasim facit, et quod ipse Deus propter amorem est extasim passus.” 5. Dionysius seems to see creation itself as a kind of ecstasy (On the Divine Names 4.13). One could argue, paradoxically, that God is able to experience the greatest ecstasy precisely because he is pure actuality and therefore immutable (see ST I, q. 9, a. 1). God is able to create out of nothing perhaps because he is pure actuality (see, for example, the beginning of ST I, q. 3, a. 1), which implies his power and omnipotence (ST I, q. 25) and immutability (ST I, q. 9). Of course, one would have to flesh out these arguments in far greater detail to make the case. 6. St. Thomas also compares ecstasy to spiritual rapture. See ST II–II, q. 175, a. 2 (on rapture): “Raptus addit aliquid supra extasim. Nam extasis importat simpliciter excessum a seipso, secundum quem scilicet aliquis extra suam ordinationem ponitur, sed raptus supra hoc addit violentiam quandam.” See also Super II Cor. c. 12, lect. 1: “Aliquando aliquis dicitur rapi a seipso, quando propter aliquid homo efficitur extra se ipsum, et hoc est idem quod extasis. Sed et extra se ipsum efficitur homo et per appetitivam virtutem et cognitivam. “Per appetitivam enim virtutem homo est solum in se ipso, quando curat quae sunt sua tantum. Efficitur vero extra se ipsum, quando non curat quae sua sunt, sed quae perveniunt ad bona aliorum, et hoc facit caritas. [1 Cor 13:4]: caritas non quaerit quae sua

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the passions in this part of the Summa is about the bodily and animal realities of love, desire, joy, hatred, sorrow, and the like. St. Thomas seems to be reminding his readers that the passions and emotions in man are not merely animalistic. While we do share these passions in common with some other animals, they take on a spiritual quality insofar as they participate in and obey the promptings of reason. We see, again, how Thomas offers a distinctly theological reading of the passions and not merely a philosophical or physiological one. In this article, Thomas will therefore discuss the third effect of love, ecstasy, in light of the knowing power and desiring power. This is the same strategy that he employs in his discussion of mutual indwelling, following from union. What is at stake in this article is the affirmation that love brings us out of ourselves. This would seem to follow from the discussion of mutual indwelling. To be in another (inhaesio) implies not only that we are united to another (unio) but that in some sense we are also “outside” of ourselves (extasis).7 Of course, the terminology of “insunt. Et de hac extasi dicit Dionysius, IV cap. de divinis nominibus: est autem extasim faciens divinus amor non sinens amatorem sui ipsius esse, sed amatorum, scilicet rerum amatarum. “Secundum cognitivam vero aliquis efficitur extra se, quando aliquis extra naturalem modum hominis elevatur ad aliquid videndum, et de isto raptu loquitur hic apostolus. Sed sciendum quod modus naturalis humanae cognitionis est, ut cognoscat simul per vim mentalem quae est intellectus, et corporalem quae est sensus. Et inde est quod homo non habet in cognoscendo liberum iudicium intellectus, nisi quando sensus fuerint in suo vigore bene dispositi, absque aliquo ligationis impedimento, alias, cum impediuntur, etiam iudicium intellectus impeditur, sicut in dormientibus patet. Tunc ergo homo efficitur extra se secundum cognitivam, quando removetur ab hac naturali dispositione cognitionis, quae est ut intellectus, ab usu sensuum et sensibilium rerum abstractus, ad aliqua videnda moveatur. Quod quidem contingit dupliciter, uno modo per defectum virtutis, undecumque talis defectus contingat, sicut accidit in phreneticis et aliis mente captis, et haec quidem abstractio a sensibus non est elevatio hominis, sed potius depressio, quia virtus eorum debilitatur. Alio vero modo per virtutem divinam, et tunc proprie dicitur elevatio, quia cum agens assimilet sibi patiens, abstractio quae fit virtute divina et est supra hominem, est aliquid altius, quam sit hominis natura.” 7. St. Thomas also discusses ecstasy and indwelling as a kind of union. This suggests that these are two modes of union. St. Thomas, in his discussion of the effects of love, would be moving from the generic to the specific. See III Sent. d. 27, q. 1, a. 1, ad 4 (on modes of union): “In amore est unio amantis ad amatum, sed est ibi triplex divisio. [1] Ex hoc enim quod amor transformat amantem in amatum, facit amantem intrare ad



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side” and “outside” is a spatial metaphor. Or, to put it more precisely, St. Thomas uses the words “inside” and “outside” with a broader semantic range than we are used to.8 There are many ways to be “in” a thing without being in it physically. To give just one example, if a person is said to be “in the power” of the sheriff, that does not mean that he is literally inside the sheriff, but under his control. If two lovinteriora amati, et e contra; ut nihil amati amanti remaneat non unitum; sicut forma pervenit ad intima formati, et e converso; et ideo amans quodammodo penetrat in amatum, et secundum hoc amor dicitur acutus: acuti enim est dividendo ad intima rei devenire; et similiter amatum penetrat amantem, ad interiora ejus perveniens; et propter hoc dicitur quod amor vulnerat, et quod transfigit jecur. [2] Sed quia nihil potest in alterum transformari nisi secundum quod a sua forma quodammodo recedit, quia unius una est forma, ideo hanc divisionem penetrationis praecedit alia divisio, qua amans a seipso separatur in amatum tendens; et secundum hoc dicitur amor extasim facere, et fervere, quia quod fervet extra se bullit, et exhalat. [3] Quia vero nihil a se recedit nisi soluto eo quod intra seipsum continebatur, sicut res naturalis non amittit formam nisi solutis dispositionibus quibus forma in materia retinebatur, ideo oportet quod ab amante terminatio illa, qua infra terminos suos tantum continebatur, amoveatur; et propter hoc amor dicitur liquefacere cor, quia liquidum suis terminis non continetur; et contraria dispositio dicitur cordis duritia.” 8. On the meanings of “in” that Aquinas discerns, following Aristotle, see In Physic. IV, lect. 4. Something can be in another (1) as a part is in a whole; (2) as the whole is in its parts; (3) as a species is in its genus; (4) as a genus is in its species; (5) as form is in the matter; (6) as one is in the power of another; (7) as the lover is in the beloved; and (8) as a thing is in a place. “Ponit ergo octo modos quibus aliquid in aliquo dicitur esse. [1] Quorum primus est, sicut digitus dicitur esse in manu, et universaliter quaecumque alia pars in suo toto. [2] Secundus modus est, prout totum dicitur esse in partibus. Et quia iste modus non est adeo consuetus sicut primus, ad eius manifestationem subiungit quod totum non est praeter partes, et sic oportet ut intelligatur esse in partibus. [3] Tertius modus est, sicut homo dicitur esse in animali, vel quaecumque alia species in suo genere. [4] Quartus modus est, sicut genus dicitur esse in speciebus. Et ne iste modus extraneus videatur, rationem innuit quare hoc dicit: nam genus est pars definitionis speciei, et etiam differentia; unde quodammodo et genus et differentia dicuntur esse in specie sicut partes in toto. [5] Quintus modus est, sicut sanitas dicitur esse in calidis et frigidis, quorum contemperantia constituit sanitatem; et universaliter quaecumque alia forma in materia vel subiecto, sive sit accidentalis sive substantialis. [6] Sextus modus, sicut res Graecorum dicuntur esse in rege Graeciae, et universaliter omne quod movetur est in primo motivo. Per hunc etiam modum dicere possum aliquid esse in me, quia est in potestate mea ut faciam illud. [7] Septimo modo dicitur aliquid esse in aliquo, sicut in quodam optimo diligibili et desiderabili, et universaliter sicut in fine. Et per hunc modum dicitur esse cor alicuius in aliqua re quam desiderat et amat. [8] Octavo modo dicitur esse aliquid in aliquo sicut in vase, et universaliter sicut locatum in loco. Videtur autem praetermittere modum quo aliquid est in aliquo sicut in tempore: sed hic reducitur ad hunc octavum modum; nam sicut locus est mensura mobilis, ita tempus est mensura motus.”

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ers say to each other that they will be in each other’s hearts, the implication is not that they will be physically in each other’s hearts, but that each will be in the other’s affections, as moving toward each other. Similarly, ecstasy, a going outside of oneself, is not primarily a spatial reality. The motion is more spiritual than physical, involving the intellect and will more than the feet and the hands. Two Modes of Ecstasy: Cognitive and Appetitive What, then, is ecstasy? St. Thomas observes first of all that “someone is said to suffer ecstasy when he is placed outside of himself. This indeed occurs both to the knowing power and the desiring power.”9 The definition here is something of a play on words. To suffer ecstasy (extasis) is to be outside of oneself (extra se). But it is also faithful to the ancient Greek etymology of the word “ecstasy” (ἔκστασις), which literally means “to be standing outside” (as deriving from ἐξίστημι with the preposition ἐκ, “outside,” and the verb ἵστημι, “to stand”). To be in an ecstasy is literally, according to the etymology, “to stand outside of oneself.” This is an effect of love. The ecstatic lover is, as it were, leaping out of himself to be with his beloved. The antics of two lovers reuniting at the airport, perhaps running toward each other, captures something of this ecstasy, the being placed outside of oneself, that moves decisively toward the beloved. Thomas analyzes two kinds of ecstasy. The first of these relates to the desiring power: Something is said to be placed outside of itself with regard to the knowing power when it is placed outside of its proper knowledge or because it is sublimated to a higher thing, just as when a man, when he is lifted up to comprehend some things which are above sensation and reason, is said to suffer ecstasy, inasmuch as he is placed outside of the connatural knowl9. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3: “Respondeo dicendum quod extasim pati aliquis dicitur, cum extra se ponitur. Quod quidem contingit et secundum vim apprehensivam, et secundum vim appetitivam.”



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edge of reason and sensation—or because he is brought down: for example, someone is said to suffer ecstasy when he falls into fury or madness.10

These explanations are fairly straightforward. The knowledge that is proper, appropriate, and connatural to man is that which is in accord with his nature as a knowing being.11 Man comes to know through his senses, as when he observes the world around him, and through his reasoning powers, as when he learns a geometric proof or a philosophic argument.12 To suffer ecstasy is to be placed “outside” this ordinary and connatural knowledge. One can be placed above the knowledge that is proper to man or below it. To be placed above might occur through a special revelation of God. In this vein, St. Paul speaks about when he was “caught up” into the third heaven in such a way that he did not know if he was even in or out of his body (see 2 Cor 12:2).13 That would certainly seem to count as an ecstatic experience, one in which the apostle literally was taken out of himself and raised to a knowledge that was above him. Of course, the opposite movement can also take place. One can fall to experiencing the world in a way that is degrading. The examples that St. Thomas gives in this regard are fury (furia) and madness (amentia). Rage can overwhelm our capacity to reason and can drive us into a merely animalistic mode of being. The same is true of madness, as it deprives us of our reason. These are both a kind of ecstatic experience since they take us out of ourselves, our proper mode of being as sensing and reasoning creatures. Perhaps that is one reason 10. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3: “Secundum quidem vim apprehensivam aliquis dicitur extra se poni, quando ponitur extra cognitionem sibi propriam, vel quia ad superiorem sublimatur, sicut homo, dum elevatur ad comprehendenda aliqua quae sunt supra sensum et rationem, dicitur extasim pati, inquantum ponitur extra connaturalem apprehensionem rationis et sensus; vel quia ad inferiora deprimitur; puta, cum aliquis in furiam vel amentiam cadit, dicitur extasim passus.” 11. On judgment through connaturality and its ethical implications, see Taki Suto, “Virtue and Knowledge: Connatural Knowledge According to Thomas Aquinas,” The Review of Metaphysics 58, no. 1 (2004): 61–79. 12. See ST I, q. 1, a. 9: “Est autem naturale homini ut per sensibilia ad intelligibilia veniat, quia omnis nostra cognitio a sensu initium habet.” 13. On this passage, see Super II Cor. c. 12, lect. 1.

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why diseases such as dementia and Alzheimer’s are so devastating. While the dignity of being a human person remains, these diseases rob us of something very precious: our capacity to remember and reason. The person so suffering does not appear to be himself, as if he has been taken out of himself. St. Thomas also speaks of how one can suffer ecstasy in love according to the desiring powers (secundum appetitivam): “And someone is said to suffer ecstasy with regard to the desiring part when the appetite of someone is borne into another, going outside of himself in some way.”14 This is something that we have discussed already in the section on mutual indwelling. The desire or appetite within us for the beloved impels us toward that person or object. This can be seen as a kind of ecstasy insofar as the object of the desire is outside us. Ecstasy can thus move us “outside ourselves” in either a cognitive or volitional mode. How Love Causes Ecstasy: Dispositively and Directly St. Thomas then discusses how love causes these two kinds of ecstasy. “Love dispositively causes the first ecstasy, namely inasmuch as it makes one to meditate on the beloved, as was said, and an intense meditation on one thing draws one away from others.”15 The mediation (meditatio) distracts (abstrahit) or “draws away” the person from other occupations. For instance, the practice of contemplation—of creation, of some truth, of other people, and of God himself—can bring about ecstasy. The stereotype of the absentminded professor sums up this kind of ecstatic experience: the thinker seems to be elsewhere, outside of himself, and not attentive to his immediate surroundings, in a kind of intellectual ecstasy. 14. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3: “Secundum appetitivam vero partem dicitur aliquis extasim pati, quando appetitus alicuius in alterum fertur, exiens quodammodo extra seipsum.” 15. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3: “Primam quidem extasim facit amor dispositive, inquantum scilicet facit meditari de amato, ut dictum est, intensa autem meditatio unius abstrahit ab aliis.”



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Love does not directly bring about ecstasy—since love belongs to the appetite, as distinct from the knowing powers—but it does bring it about dispositively (dispositive). Love disposes us to forget ourselves in meditating and thinking about another person or subject. It is our love for knowledge, or our love for another person, that moves us to learn more about them. Love is thus a critical factor in the intellectual life, fueling our motivation to study one subject over another. The Direct Cause of Ecstasy: Love of Friendship and Love of Concupiscence St. Thomas then correlates the second kind of ecstasy, the one according to the desiring powers, with the love of friendship and the love of concupiscence. The correspondence with these two kinds of love makes good sense since love causes this second ecstasy directly: But love brings about the second ecstasy directly: the love of friendship simply and the love of concupiscence not simply but incidentally [secundum quid]. For in the love of concupiscence the lover is somehow borne outside of himself inasmuch as he seeks to enjoy something outside himself, not content to delight in the good which he has. But because he seeks to have that extrinsic good for himself, he does not go outside himself simply speaking but rather such an affection for the end is included within himself.16

Recall that Thomas is discussing here the ecstasy, the going out of oneself, that concerns the desiring or appetitive powers. It is therefore appropriate for him to say that love directly brings about or causes this kind of ecstasy. Since love is an act of the desiring pow16. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3: “Sed secundam extasim facit amor directe, simpliciter quidem amor amicitiae; amor autem concupiscentiae non simpliciter, sed secundum quid. Nam in amore concupiscentiae, quodammodo fertur amans extra seipsum, inquantum scilicet, non contentus gaudere de bono quod habet, quaerit frui aliquo extra se. Sed quia illud extrinsecum bonum quaerit sibi habere, non exit simpliciter extra se, sed talis affectio in fine infra ipsum concluditur.”

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ers, it directly brings about a change in the desiring powers such that the one desiring seems to “go out” of himself. Whereas knowledge makes the thing known like us, love makes us like the thing loved.17 This takes place insofar as the desire impels the lover outside himself toward the beloved. Thomas then specifies which kind of love causes this second kind of ecstasy. Love of friendship causes this ecstasy simply (simpliciter) or without qualification, whereas love of concupiscence causes it incidentally or in some relative way (secundum quid). In the love of concupiscence, the lover desires to have some good for himself that will somehow contribute to his own immediate well-being, as opposed to the good of another. This kind of love causes an ecstasy incidentally or relatively, since the end of the motion is in the lover himself. Remember the image of the desiring powers as being circular. I see the croissant on the counter. I go out of myself in some sense by desiring it and moving toward it. I then eat the croissant and enjoy it. The croissant moves me out of my complacency and into action. But the final movement of the whole action—getting up, walking over, and eating—ends in my possession and enjoyment of it. Thus there is only a qualified way in which the love of concupiscence causes ecstasy in us. The same qualification is not true with regard to love of friendship. St. Thomas affirms that the love of friendship causes ecstasy both directly (directe) and simply (simpliciter). As he writes, “In the love of friendship, the affection of someone goes outside itself simply, because he wills good to the friend and works on account of the friend himself, as if managing the care and providence of him on account of the friend himself.”18 The love of friendship brings us out17. In knowing an object, we assimilate it to a spiritual way of being. For instance, the tree known in the mind has a greater immateriality, as abstracted from matter, than the tree in the world. Conversely, love, in uniting us to what we love, makes us like the thing loved. An excessive love for alcohol makes us an alcoholic. An excessive love for God makes us a saint—that is to say, more like God. For an important study on deification and deiformity in Aquinas, see Daria Spezzano, The Glory of God’s Grace: Deification According to St. Thomas Aquinas (Naples, FL: Sapientia Press of Ave Maria University, 2015). 18. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3: “Sed in amore amicitiae, affectus alicuius simpliciter exit extra



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side of ourselves in a more definitive way, since the end is presumably, in this case, not for oneself as much as it is for another. One might think here of the love a mother has for her child. The totally defenseless child needs the care and support of the mother. In turn, the mother is brought out of herself, in a kind of loving ecstasy, to care for the child. The husband and wife who sacrifice for each other also “go out” of themselves to provide for their beloved. In the example above, the act of caring for the child is not primarily directed to the mother’s own well-being. The lover, in this case, has regard for the “care and providence” of the beloved, as if the beloved were herself. The lover foresees (pro-videre) the needs of the beloved and cares for them as if the beloved were another self. Ecstasy: A Spiritual Reading To conclude this discussion, we might return to our first impressions of ecstasy. We might first think of ecstasy as being a primarily emotional experience. The images of ecstatic lovers or an elated child on Christmas morning easily spring to mind. But St. Thomas claims that ecstasy is also a spiritual experience­­­­—a going out of the intellect and will toward the beloved. This action places us outside of ourselves and relates us to another. The second kind of ecstasy in particular, the ecstasy of the will in love of friendship, highlights the selflessness of ecstatic love. It is not an emotional experience that is primarily aimed at the fulfillment of oneself, in a sort of emotional high. The true ecstasy of the will is self-giving to the point of self-forgetfulness. The Incarnation of the Son of God, as a kind of ecstatic movement, would seem to sum up the deepest example of self-giving in the Christian faith.19 It is this kind of love, flowing from both the passe, quia vult amico bonum, et operatur, quasi gerens curam et providentiam ipsius, propter ipsum amicum.” 19. See ST III, q. 1, a. 1. St. Thomas does not speak of the Incarnation here as an ecstasy but he does speak of it as a communication of goodness, along Dionysian terms. “Pertinet autem ad rationem boni ut se aliis communicet, ut patet per Dionysium, IV cap. de Div. Nom. Unde ad rationem summi boni pertinet quod summo modo se creaturae

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sions and the will, that leads one to the depths of divinely inspired self-giving, which is in many ways the epitome of that love which St. Thomas and the Christian tradition call charity.20 communicet. Quod quidem maxime fit per hoc quod naturam creatam sic sibi coniungit ut una persona fiat ex tribus, verbo, anima et carne, sicut dicit Augustinus, XIII de Trin.” 20. On the division of ecstasy, a going out of oneself: (1) In virtue of the cognitive power (love dispositively causes ecstasy in this mode) (2) In virtue of the appetitive power (love directly causes ecstasy in this mode) (2a) By love of concupiscence (ecstasy secundum quid) (2b) By love of friendship (ecstasy simpliciter)

Chapter 11 The Fourth Effect of Love: Zeal

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The Fourth Effect of Love: Zeal Zelus [ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3]

In this chapter on the effects of love, we turn to the subject of zeal (zelus).1 The word itself is somewhat polarizing, conjuring up connotations that, in our day, tend to be more negative than positive. It brings to mind, of course, the figure of the zealot: the political or religious revolutionary who will stop at nothing to achieve his cause. Though the history is complex, a religious movement of zealots arose, for example, in first-century Palestine with the intent of wresting Israel from Roman control.2 Violence was an acceptable means to achieve the end, which was apparently political as well as religious. 1. See also Super Ioannem c. 2, lect. 2; Super I Cor. c. 14, lect. 1; Super II Cor. c. 11, lect. 3. In ST II–II, q. 36, a. 2, zeal, as a kind of sorrow over another’s good, is considered in a spiritual key and, perhaps surprisingly, can be considered praiseworthy: “Alio modo potest aliquis tristari de bono alterius, non ex eo quod ipse habet bonum, sed ex eo quod nobis deest bonum illud quod ipse habet. Et hoc proprie est zelus; ut Philosophus dicit, in II Rhet. Et si iste zelus sit circa bona honesta, laudabilis est, secundum illud I ad Cor. XIV, aemulamini spiritualia.” The sorrow does not arise from the other having the good in question, as in envy, but because one also desires to have the good. 2. See Irina Wandrey, “Zealots,” in Religion Past and Present (Leiden: Brill, 2011), online. “The designation ‘Zealots’ (ζηλωταί/zēlōtaí, from Gk ζηλόω/zēlóō, ‘to be zealous, to strive after’) for those Jews who rebelled against Roman rule in Palestine during the 1st century ce and especially during the First Jewish Revolt is encountered in the works of Flavius Josephus (Bellum Judaicum II 651; IV 160f.; VII 268–70), whose Bellum

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The connection between violence and zeal in our common understanding of the word “zeal” points to the power of love to move us toward extremes and, in perverse expressions, even to the use of unjustified violence. St. Thomas is aware of this connection and cites an instance in which St. Paul reproves those who are zealous (see 1 Cor 3:3 as cited in ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4, arg. 1). The argument in the objection is basically that zeal leads to contention, and contention is not a result of love. Thus, zeal is not an effect of love.3 Indeed, far from being an effect of love, zeal would seem to be the result of hatred. Again, Thomas cites Scripture to support this claim: “I have been zealous over the wicked” (Ps 72:3 [73:3] as cited in ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4, arg. 3). While one might quibble over the translation of the psalm, the basic idea seems sound: zeal arises from hatred.4 The association of zeal and hatred aligns with our intuitions about the meaning of the word “zeal,” as St. Thomas was well aware. So why does Thomas discuss zeal in connection with love? The Meaning of Zeal: The Intensity of Protective Love Thomas has something else in mind when he refers to zeal as an effect of love, the fourth effect of love which we now take up, folJudaicum (II–VII) and Antiquitates constitute the most important sources for the Zealot movement and its ideology.” On the origins of the movement: “Josephus describes four Jewish sects of religious-political orientation in the 1st century ce: the Sadducees, the Essenes, the Pharisees, and the Zealots (Bellum Judaicum II 8.1; Antiquitates XVIII 1.1, 6). He places the movement of Zealots led by Judah in close proximity to the Pharisees, and cites an otherwise unknown Pharisee named Zadok as founder of the fourth sect along with Judah (Ant. XVIII 1.1, §4). The rebellious Jewish parties of the Zealots and Sicarii, which cannot be clearly distinguished, accordingly combine priestly and social-revolutionary tendencies.” 3. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4, arg. 1: “Videtur quod zelus non sit effectus amoris. Zelus enim est contentionis principium, unde dicitur I ad Cor. III, cum sit inter vos zelus et contentio, et cetera. Sed contentio repugnat amori. Ergo zelus non est effectus amoris.” 4. The Vulgate (at 72:3) has “zelavi super iniquos.”



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lowing after union, mutual indwelling, and ecstasy. He again takes his cue from Pseudo-Dionysius, as he did when discussing ecstasy (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 1, sed contra) and union (ST I–II, q. 28, a. 3, sed contra). He quotes the Syrian monk to the effect that “God is called zealous on account of the great love which he has from existing things.”5 His reverence for the scriptural and philosophical tradition, as articulated by Dionysius, leads Thomas to approve of describing God as zealous. As the Common Doctor puts it: “Zeal, in whatever way it is taken, comes from intensity of love. For it is clear that as a virtue tends more intensely into another, so does it more strongly repel everything contrary or repugnant to it. Since, therefore, love is a certain motion into the beloved, as Augustine says in his Book of Eighty-Three Questions, an intense love seeks to exclude all that which is repugnant to it.”6 This is the heart of why zeal is an effect of love: the lover protects what he loves with fierceness. Consider, then, the love of a husband for his wife or the love of a mother for her children. The husband ought to be zealous to protect his wife from whatever might harm her. The mother also should be zealous to protect her children from wandering into the street, from drinking cleaning supplies, from touching a hot stove, and the like. These are done to protect children from what might harm them. The zeal that a mother shows in keeping her children close to her, perhaps while in a parking lot or while walking along a busy street, testifies to this effect of love. Even the revolutionary who acts to overthrow a government is presumably acting out of a kind of love for what he sees as having been destroyed or neglected by the regime currently in power. The 5. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4, sed contra: “Sed contra est quod Dionysius dicit, IV cap. de Div. Nom., quod Deus appellatur Zelotes propter multum amorem quem habet ad existentia.” Another translation of this word “zeal,” in the works of Dionysius, might be “jealousy.” 6. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4: “Respondeo dicendum quod zelus, quocumque modo sumatur, ex intensione amoris provenit. Manifestum est enim quod quanto aliqua virtus intensius tendit in aliquid, fortius etiam repellit omne contrarium vel repugnans. Cum igitur amor sit quidam motus in amatum, ut Augustinus dicit in libro octoginta trium quaest., intensus amor quaerit excludere omne quod sibi repugnat.”

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zealot seeks to protect what he loves. If the love is good, the zeal will be good. If the love is misguided, so, too, will be the zeal. Two Kinds of Zeal: From Love of Concupiscence and Love of Friendship Having established that zeal is an effect of love that moves the lover to repel what is noxious to the beloved, Thomas then makes a distinction between two kinds of zeal. He again appeals to the distinction between the love of friendship and the love of concupiscence to make this distinction, as he did when discussing the different kinds of union, mutual indwelling, and ecstasy. Thomas, as we have seen, frequently deploys this distinction of the two kinds of love. He first discusses the zeal that arises from the love of concupiscence. This [zeal] occurs in one way in the love of concupiscence and in another way in the love of friendship. For in the love of concupiscence, he who intensely desires something is moved against all that which is repugnant to the attainment of the quiet enjoyment of that which is loved. And in this way men are said to be jealous [dicuntur zelare] of their wives, lest the exclusivity they seek in marriage is impeded through fellowship [consortium] with others. Similarly, those who seek excellence are moved against those who seem to excel, as if blocking their excellence. And this is the zeal of envy [zelus invidiae], which is spoken about in Psalm 36 [37:1]: “Do not wish to be emulated among the evil-doers, nor shall you be jealous of [zelaveris] those who do evil.”7

The love of concupiscence, which desires some good for the well-being of oneself, leads to a zeal of jealousy. As the passage above 7. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4: “Aliter tamen hoc contingit in amore concupiscentiae, et aliter in amore amicitiae. Nam in amore concupiscentiae, qui intense aliquid concupiscit, movetur contra omne illud quod repugnat consecutioni vel fruitioni quietae eius quod amatur. Et hoc modo viri dicuntur zelare uxores, ne per consortium aliorum impediatur singularitas quam in uxore quaerunt. Similiter etiam qui quaerunt excellentiam, moventur contra eos qui excellere videntur, quasi impedientes excellentiam eorum. Et iste est zelus invidiae, de quo dicitur in Psalmo XXXVI, noli aemulari in malignantibus, neque zelaveris facientes iniquitatem.”



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shows, the border between zeal and jealousy is narrow. Indeed, the English word “jealousy” would seem to better translate the word “zeal” (zelus) in Latin. The cases that St. Thomas gives make this kind of zeal rather evident. The husband is zealous of his wife, as having zeal for his wife, in order to protect something that he holds dear to himself. One might find this example confusing, because St. Thomas is discussing the love of concupiscence here and not the love of friendship. The idea seems to be that the husband sees the wife as promoting his own well-being, a good that is desired for his own sake. The good here in question is the exclusivity (singularitas) of the relationship. This desire to enjoy in an exclusive way the goods that are exclusive to marriage is not in itself bad, although the proverbial jealousy of lovers can, of course, be destructive when taken to extremes.8 Of course, the husband could also be zealous for his wife with the love of friendship. In such a case, the husband would not be focused on the good of exclusivity for his own sake but on the good of his wife for her own sake. This kind of concern would certainly seem to be a more selfless and nobler kind of zeal. St. Thomas explains the zeal arising from the love of friendship in this way: “The love of friendship seeks the good for a friend, so when it is intense it makes a man to be moved against all that which is repugnant to the good of the friend. And according to this, someone is said to be jealous [dicitur zelare] for his friend, when, if any things are said or are done against the good of the friend, the man is diligent to repel them.”9 The way in which one might repulse this evil is manifold. In an extreme case, the lover would protect his beloved from any kind of 8. While modern readers might be justifiably uncomfortable with this example, the Latin term consortium, which the husband is eager to protect, might indicate the marital partnership itself, although the term can be as broad as signifying any kind of close partnership or society. The desire is therefore not to prevent the wife from having any association with others, but to protect the distinctively marital aspect of the relationship. 9. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4: “Amor autem amicitiae quaerit bonum amici, unde quando est intensus, facit hominem moveri contra omne illud quod repugnat bono amici. Et secundum hoc, aliquis dicitur zelare pro amico, quando, si qua dicuntur vel fiunt contra bonum amici, homo repellere studet.”

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physical harm. This might be motivated in part by a romantic love, but it could also be motivated by charity. The example of Maximilian Kolbe, for example, who took the spot of another man condemned to die at Auschwitz, is an example of charity on full display. The zealous love of the priest moved him to give his life so that another man, who had a family, could live for them, as best he was able. His love attempts to repel the impending evil by offering his own life. One might multiply other examples of selfless love that illustrate the protective effect of zeal. Zeal: A Spiritual Reading Thomas Aquinas, as he does with some of the other effects of love, transposes the discussion of zeal into a spiritual key. He notes, following from his discussion of zeal as love of friendship, that “in this way also, someone is said to be zealous for God, when he tries to repel, as he is able, those things which contravene the honor and the will of God.”10 St. Thomas then gives two instances from Scripture that elucidate this effect of love: “According to the passage in III Kings 19 [1 Kgs 19:14], ‘I am consumed with zeal for the Lord of hosts.’ And in John 2 [Jn 2:17], regarding the passage ‘zeal for your house consumes me,’ the Gloss says, ‘he is consumed by a good zeal, which seeks to correct any depravity which it has seen; if it is unable, it tolerates and mourns it.’ ”11 In the first example, Elijah is explaining his predica10. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4: “Et per hunc etiam modum aliquis dicitur zelare pro Deo, quando ea quae sunt contra honorem vel voluntatem Dei, repellere secundum posse conatur . . .” 11. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4: “Secundum illud III Reg. XIX [1 Kgs 19:14], zelo zelatus sum pro domino exercituum. Et Ioan. II, super illud, zelus domus tuae comedit me, dicit Glossa quod bono zelo comeditur, qui quaelibet prava quae viderit, corrigere satagit; si nequit, tolerat et gemit.” On the authorship, content, layout, production, ownership, and use of the Glossa Ordinaria (marginal and interlinear), see Lesley Smith, The Glossa Ordinaria: The Making of a Medieval Bible Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 2009). Regarding the Gloss itself: “The Gloss (Glossa, Glosa), or Ordinary Gloss (Glossa ordinaria) on the Bible is the ubiquitous text of the central Middle Ages. For more than a century, from about 1140, copies of the Gloss—books of the Bible containing the entire biblical text along with a set



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ment to the Lord on Mount Sinai. He has fled from Jezebel after facing and slaughtering her idolatrous priests. This instance from Scripture shows the violence of zeal, which goes so far as to kill in order to protect the “honor and will” of God. Similar episodes of religious zeal occur after the incident of the golden calf in Exodus (Ex 32:27– 28), in the example of Phinehas (Nm 25:1–9), and in the story of Mattathias at the beginning of the Maccabean revolt (1 Mc 2:27). In the case of Elijah, however, one might note that at no point does the Lord command Elijah to kill the idolatrous priests. The essence of the zealous behavior would seem to be the desire to right the wrongs done against the honor of the Lord. One could say the same thing of Phinof marginal and interlinear comments and explanations, drawn for the most part from patristic texts—were made and distributed in large numbers in much of Europe. Even when its heyday had passed—in the later thirteenth century, say—copies continued to be made: we have Gloss manuscripts from the fifteenth and even the sixteenth centuries, as well as printed editions. Every master and library of any pretension to learning had some volumes of the Gloss; in the twelfth century, numbers of manuscripts outpaced production of manuscripts of the plain Bible text. A full set of the Glossed Bible generally runs to around twenty-one volumes, vividly illustrating the medieval scholar’s conception of the Bible as a bibliotheca—a library—rather than a single book” (1). Regarding the authorship: “The origins of this work with such grand claims are modest. They lie in the classroom, and specifically in the school at Laon run by master Anselm and his brother, master Ralph. For use in his lectures on the Psalms and Pauline Epistles, we think that Anselm made the sort of glossed texts that would have been familiar to him from his time as a teacher of liberal arts. He was recognized as doing something new and (to almost everyone except Peter Abelard) exciting. Anselm and Ralph between them also seem to have covered the Gospels of Matthew, Luke and John. A number of their pupils or collaborators, in particular Gilbert of Auxerre, continued the work on other parts of the Bible, probably in other schools across northern France, although we do not know exactly where. The work remained little known, however, until, about twenty-five years after Anselm’s death in 1117, a confluence of circumstances gave it the impetus and publicity that turned a small-scale teacher’s aid into ‘the Gloss’. We do not fully understand how this evolution came about, but key elements included: the interest and intervention of masters Gilbert de la Porrée and Peter Lombard; the growing importance of the secular, commercial book trade; and the shift of scholarly activity from the scattered northern French schools to those accumulating in Paris. Not all the Bible was Glossed at this point (the mid-twelfth century), and that which was was still subject to revision. Indeed, although soon after 1200 the text is largely stable, we need to beware thinking of the Gloss as an immutable single entity at any point in its lifetime” (2). See also 18–38. Smith notes that Aquinas can be critical of the Gloss (224; see, for example, Super Ioannem 6:47). See also Christopher De Hamel, Glossed Books of the Bible and the Origins of the Paris Booktrade (Woodbridge: D. S. Brewer, 1984).

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eas and Mattathias, who both use violence in response to idolatry. Jesus Christ, in the Gospel of John, does not have recourse to deadly violence in the cleansing of the temple. His actions, however, do display his anger and wrath. “And making a whip of cords, he drove them all out of the temple” (see Jn 2:13–16). Without attempting to justify religious violence, or even to explicate these particular cases of Scripture, one might make a few observations here that might help to clarify the workings of zeal. The key principle is that one will hate what is opposed to what one loves. And the more one loves something, the more one will hate what is harmful to it. Hatred thus follows on love so that the more one loves, the more one will have a hatred for its opposite. Consider a few examples. If a man loves his wife and children, he will vehemently resist whomever or whatever might harm them. These might include physical danger, financial difficulties, the degradation of their moral or spiritual life, and so on. Such evils demand a strong response from the parents of the household. Although fear might be a motivating factor, love for the children is a profound emotion moving one to oppose these evils of domestic life. In our own day, some advocates of multiculturalism and tolerance sometimes seem to have a hatred of hatred. To be perfectly tolerant, though, seems to require an implicit intolerance of intolerance. The notion of tolerance itself has limits built into it if it is not to become contradictory. The love one has for an inclusive community leads one to oppose any attempts to undermine that unity. Again, the love one has for America might lead one to zealously fight for freedom against her adversaries, either for oneself or for another, in opposition to those who would diminish it. Such would seem to be the case in the Second World War, where a kind of patriotic zeal led many men and women to make great sacrifices against an enemy that threatened to overturn a liberal, democratic order. The strength of one’s zeal for a particular cause will thus be proportionate and directly related to the strength of one’s love. One might say that zeal turns lovers into fighters. Every true lover must



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be prepared to fight against what would harm his or her beloved. Sometimes this zeal can turn violent. Sometimes the use of force is warranted; at other times it is not warranted. The decision to defend one’s nation against an unjust aggressor, or, on a smaller scale, the defense a father might provide for his family against an armed robber in his house, would be legitimate uses of zealous force. To be sure, though, some actions of zealous violence are unwarranted and disproportionate. The zeal of religious terrorism that leads to the death of innocents is an example of the sort of disordered love that is unjustifiable, because the ends do not justify the illegitimate means of slaughtering innocent people. Zeal thus gives a power to the lover that can be used for good or for ill, just as love itself can have a good or evil object. But zeal can also lead the lover to resists in more creative and less violent ways. One might argue that zealous love is what prompts heroic actions. Mother Teresa, for instance, often asked for food for the homeless. She recalls one instance when a shopkeeper spit in her face. In response, she said something to the effect of, You have given something to me; now, how about something for this little one? Her zeal for the poor led her to defend them and champion their cause, giving her life away on behalf of those whom she loved with the love of God. Zeal is thus an effect of love. As St. Thomas sums it up, “That someone has hatred for those things which are repugnant to the beloved proceeds from love. So zeal is properly placed as an effect of love rather than of hatred.”12 Zeal arises on behalf of our love and the desire to protect the beloved. When our love is in order, a reasonable zeal for our beloved is also good. 12. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4, ad 3: “Ad tertium dicendum quod hoc ipsum quod aliquis odio habet ea quae repugnant amato, ex amore procedit. Unde zelus proprie ponitur effectus amoris magis quam odii.”

Conclusion Conclusion

Conclusion Perfectio • Actio [ST I–II, q. 28, aa. 5–6]

At the end of this journey through these three questions on love, we turn, by way of conclusion, to the final articles of the final question (ST I–II, q. 28, aa. 5–6). These closing articles bring into focus the significance of love and what is at stake in ordering our loves well. The penultimate article (a. 5) asks whether or not love is a passion that is wounding (laesiva). The final article (a. 6) asks whether or not love is the cause of all that the lover does. The short answer to the first question is no: love does not wound the lover, except in a metaphorical sense. Rather, a good love will perfect the lover.1 The short answer to the second question is yes: love is the cause of all that the lover does. The final articles therefore show love as a perfective force in the life of the lover and the very engine of human action. Love is at the heart of our lives. Our affective and spiritual loves propel us to act in ways that are either perfective or destructive of our own existence. The conclusion that emerges in these articles is this: we cannot choose to love or not to love. To love or not to love is not the question. Rather, we must choose what and how 1. To be accurate, Thomas does not describe love as a perfection in this article, but as a passion (passio) that is “preserving” (conservativa) and “perfective” (perfectiva) (see ST I–II, a. 5, s.c.). In the body of the same article, Thomas also states that a love (amor) of a fitting good is perfective (perfectivus) of the lover, but not as a perfection.

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Conclusion 187 we love. These loves will make our lives to have been either worthwhile and fulfilling or not. Perfection and the Wound of Love The question of whether or not love wounds the lover is not a simple one to answer. For one thing, the scriptural and mystical tradition often speak about the “wound” of love. One finds this description in the writings of St. Teresa of Avila, for example, and in the Song of Songs. The famous statue of Bernini at Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome, The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, shows an angel piercing the mystic with an arrow, an event recounted in her autobiography.2 St. Thomas is aware of this view of love. He cites in an objection the Song of Songs (2:5) to the effect that the beloved languishes with love (quia amore langueo).3 Thomas associates the reference to languor (“langueo”) with a kind of wounding (love as laesiva). Indeed, he cites the Song of Songs three times in the objections in support of the position that love is wounding (2:5, 5:6, 8:6). Thomas thus gives some credence to this position in his response to the objection, but in the body of the article he focuses more on the perfective and ameliorative power of love. After quoting Pseudo-Dionysius in the sed contra of the article, as he did in the previous two articles, St. Thomas concludes that “love of the fitting good is perfective and ameliorative of the lover, but love of the good which is not fitting to the lover is wounding and deteriorative of the lover.”4 This brief sentence captures in a nutshell ev2. See Teresa of Avila, Life, 29.13. As Teresa writes of this experience, “To me it was greater glory than all creation” (252). Teresa of Avila, The Collected Works of St. Teresa of Avila, trans. Kieran Kavanaugh and Otilio Rodriguez (Washington, DC: Institute of Carmelite Studies, 1976). 3. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4, arg. 1: “Videtur quod amor sit passio laesiva. Languor enim significat laesionem quandam languentis. Sed amor causat languorem, dicitur enim Cant. II, fulcite me floribus, stipate me malis, quia amore langueo. Ergo amor est passio laesiva.” 4. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4: “Amor ergo boni convenientis est perfectivus et meliorativus amantis, amor autem boni quod non est conveniens amanti, est laesivus et deteriorativus amantis.”

188 Conclusion erything that is at stake in love. A good love, for a good thing—one that is suitable and fitted (conveniens) to our nature—will perfect us. A bad love, for an evil thing, one that is not suited to our nature, will harm us. The heroin addict who “loves” his drug will seemingly stop at nothing for his next fix. Not only does the drug slowly destroy his mind and body, but it will also lead him to the abandonment of his responsibilities, violence toward others, and the dissolution of his own powers of reason and will. Something similar happens to the person addicted to alcohol. His life slowly falls apart as his relationships and work take second place to his drinks. Any kind of true addiction—to alcohol, drugs, sex, pornography, food, work, or whatever else—is at heart a disordered love for something that has the allure of good but has become evil in our use of it, promising to fill a void that cannot be filled. The more one dumps into the abyss, the more one is dissatisfied. And in a feverish attempt to fill the gap, one continues deeper into the addiction. Such is the logic of sin, be it great or small. Only the infinite can satisfy an infinite desire. Only God can fill the abyss. Although these examples are extreme, many of us will have little trouble thinking of our own disordered loves. Although we may not be heroin or crack addicts, perhaps there are other addictions or disordered loves that are wounding our minds, bodies, and relationships. In the Christian tradition, every sin is a kind of disordered love that we act upon. Our pride, envy, wrath, laziness, greed, gluttony, lust, and overall selfishness lead us to love that which is not really perfective of ourselves and others. These loves are not suitable or fitted to our nature as knowers of the truth and lovers of the good. They corrupt us to love what is evil and cloud our minds so that we no longer see the truth for what it is but prefer to take refuge in a lie.5 The lie that causes this destruction is, at root, about the origin and nature of happiness. We often assume that happiness is right around the corner. What will make us happy? Perhaps it will be in the next email or text message we receive, as we compulsively check our cell 5. On this theme, see the insightful work of Josef Pieper, Living the Truth: The Truth of All Things and Reality and the Good (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1989).

Conclusion 189 phones. Perhaps it will be in the next slice of chocolate cake or the next glass of wine. Perhaps it will be in our next promotion or the imminent year-end bonus. Perhaps happiness will come to us when we are a part of the prestigious and influential clique in the city. In a more extreme fashion, we might even think that happiness will come from the next hit of drugs, the next set of drinks, or the next degrading video online. The point here is not to condemn ourselves or others but to reflect on the loves in our life and how they can take away from our true happiness. What is that happiness? St. Thomas, along with the Christian tradition, argues that perfect happiness can only come from the perfect and infinite good—and this is God.6 A finite and created good cannot satisfy the infinite desires of our hearts. Any attempt to make a creature our final end in life, our total happiness—whether that be a spouse, one’s work, children, or other relationships—will be doomed to frustration. These are all goods, but they are not goodness itself. As St. Thomas writes in the same article, “Man is perfected and improved above all through the love of God but is wounded and diminished through the love of sin.”7 Sin is nothing less than an idolatrous turn toward creation, an attempt to find our happiness in something that will not satisfy. It is an attempt to worship the creature rather than the creator and to find ultimate fulfillment in this. The only good that will satisfy us is the infinite good of God. The Proximate Effects of Love In the response to the objections, St. Thomas speaks of the “proximate” effects of love. In this passage we find the Angelic Doctor at lyrical heights. He here recounts four proximate effects of love: melting (liquefactio: a disposition to enjoy the beloved), enjoyment (fru6. See ST I–II, q. 2, a. 8: “Ex quo patet quod nihil potest quietare voluntatem hominis, nisi bonum universale. Quod non invenitur in aliquo creato, sed solum in Deo, quia omnis creatura habet bonitatem participatam.” 7. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 4: “Unde maxime homo perficitur et melioratur per amorem Dei, laeditur autem et deterioratur per amorem peccati”

190 Conclusion itio: delight in the presence of the beloved), weariness (languor: sadness in the absence of the beloved), and fervor (fervor: a desire to possess the absent beloved).8 Each of these words is difficult to translate into English since they are all multivalent, lending themselves to a poetic understanding of love. Part of the upshot of this response is that Thomas does not, in fact, have a dusty and bloodless understanding of love. Even in the Summa Theologiae, a book of scholastic questions, he verges into the poetic realm in a breathtaking way. He describes melting (liquefactio) as a softening of the heart (mollificatio cordis) so that the beloved can enter into it.9 This melting is opposed to coldness and frigidity. It asks the lover to be open to the goodness in the world around him, not sealed off in a private and lonely world. When the beloved is present, the lover experiences delight or enjoyment (delectatio sive fruitio). Love is thus not a cold duty but brings delight to the lover.10 It is this delight and joy that one sees in the face of two lovers who are reunited, a mother who sees her newborn child smile for the first time, or a contemplative who tastes the presence of God. When the beloved is absent, one experiences faintness or sadness (languor) and an “intense desire” to pursue the beloved that one calls fervor (fervor).11 The language of “fervor” is the language of a burning and consuming fire. The absence of the 8. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 5, ad 1: “Ad ea vero quae in contrarium obiiciuntur, dicendum quod amori attribui possunt quatuor effectus proximi, scilicet liquefactio, fruitio, languor et fervor.” 9. See ST I–II, q. 28, a. 5, ad 1: “Inter quae primum est liquefactio, quae opponitur congelationi. Ea enim quae sunt congelata, in seipsis constricta sunt, ut non possint de facili subintrationem alterius pati. Ad amorem autem pertinet quod appetitus coaptetur ad quandam receptionem boni amati, prout amatum est in amante, sicut iam supra dictum est. Unde cordis congelatio vel duritia est dispositio repugnans amori. Sed liquefactio importat quandam mollificationem cordis, qua exhibet se cor habile ut amatum in ipsum subintret.” 10. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 5, ad 1: “Si ergo amatum fuerit praesens et habitum, causatur delectatio sive fruitio.” 11. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 5, ad 1: “Si autem fuerit absens, consequuntur duae passiones, scilicet tristitia de absentia, quae significatur per languorem (unde et Tullius, in III de Tusculanis quaest., maxime tristitiam aegritudinem nominat); et intensum desiderium de consecutione amati, quod significatur per fervorem.”

Conclusion 191 beloved leaves one faint and weary, yet burning with a desire to find the beloved, which results in the joy and delight of reunion. These passionate cycles of love—from weariness to fervor to delight—are the stuff of romance. And they are also present at many moments in our own lives, even if they do not always appear in so dramatic a way. Starting from Love: A Law of Action In the final article of the final question on the passion of love, St. Thomas turns to a consideration of action. Is love the cause of everything the lover does? He answers in the affirmative. After quoting Pseudo-Dionysius again in the sed contra (see also aa. 1, 3, 4, 5), St. Thomas presents his own argument: “Every agent acts on account of some end, as was said above. And the end for anything is the good desired and the thing loved. So, it is clear that every agent, whatever sort it is, does every action from some love.”12 In sum, whatever any agent does is done from love. To say that everything acts from love does not mean that everything has a rational soul. This love can be natural love, sensitive love, or rational love.13 (We explored this distinction in the first section of the book on the three kinds of love). One might object: Are not some actions done out of desire, hope, hatred, sadness, anger, and so on? Yes—and Thomas reaffirms here that the root of all these emotions, and the rest, is love.14 “So, every action which proceeds from any passion proceeds from love as from a first cause.”15 The other passions are not super12. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 6: “Respondeo dicendum quod omne agens agit propter finem aliquem, ut supra dictum est. Finis autem est bonum desideratum et amatum unicuique. Unde manifestum est quod omne agens, quodcumque sit, agit quamcumque actionem ex aliquo amore.” 13. See ST I–II, q. 28, a. 6, ad 1: “Nos autem loquimur nunc de amore communiter accepto, prout comprehendit sub se amorem intellectualem, rationalem, animalem, naturalem.” 14. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 6, ad 2: “Ad secundum dicendum quod ex amore, sicut iam dictum est, causantur et desiderium et tristitia et delectatio, et per consequens omnes aliae passiones.” 15. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 6, ad 2: “Unde omnis actio quae procedit ex quacumque passione, procedit etiam ex amore, sicut ex prima causa.”

192 Conclusion fluous but are proximate causes of the action, with the first cause being love.16 Love is thus that which moves every agent to action. Since the first cause of action is the end of the action, and the end of any action is something loved as good, love is the final cause of every action. To be clear, merely because something is taken as an end of action does not mean that it is good without qualification. As the examples above show, many loves can be destructive. But even these destructive loves arise from a love of some good, however disordered. For example, pleasure in itself is not evil. People desire to enjoy some things because they bring about some pleasurable effect. The user desires and wills the pleasure they bring, not the destruction that follows in its wake. The problem with most addictions is that a short-term pleasure leads to a long-term harm. The same can be said for many other disordered loves. So, the good desired can have many harmful consequences. But goodness is still what moves us. In regard to legitimate loves, one can easily see how the good is the cause of the action. The desire that a husband and wife have for children is perhaps one of the ends that moved them to marry each other in the first place, along with their desire for a lifelong friendship. The desire for God that moves someone to enter a contemplative religious order or an active order that serves the less fortunate is also a good that moves to action. The same law is also true for ordinary, daily desires. The love for food, especially when we are hungry, whets our appetite and prompts in us a desire to eat. The good—that is, the desired end—is what moves us to action, from the very least actions, such as brushing our teeth, to the most significant actions, such as deciding to marry and to raise children. Every action begins with some love of the good.

16. ST I–II, q. 28, a. 6, ad 2: “Unde non superfluunt aliae passiones, quae sunt causae proximae.”

Conclusion 193 Love as a Path toward Fulfillment Love is thus a great adventure. Our loves set us on a path that will determine the shape of our life and the quality of our happiness. To return to our initial remarks, not all loves are created equal. Not all lifestyles are worthy of imitation. Some loves and some life choices are better than others. The life of a vicious criminal and the life of a loving doctor are not equally praiseworthy at least from a moral perspective, even if each person, as an image of God, is worthy of dignity and respect. The life of Mother Teresa is in many ways worthy of imitation. The life of a brutal dictator is obviously not. Love is thus not self-justifying. We must ask ourselves: Is the good that I love actually worthy of my adoration? Am I loving that good in the right way, with due order? Or has my love for a legitimate good become distorted? These questions will shape our character and form our lives, leading us on a path that will reap fruit in happiness or unrest. The beginning of a good human life is thus to discover and fall in love with the true goods that contribute to human flourishing. Of course, many questions arise at this point. What are the goods and loves that correspond to what we are as human beings? What will finally bring us happiness? These questions are worthy of consideration, but we can hardly answer them in the space of this conclusion. What St. Thomas suggests is that good loves correspond to objects, which fulfill the uniquely human functions of knowing and loving. When we seek the truth and live in that truth, we step closer to happiness. When we seek the goods that correspond to our rational and animal natures, we step closer to happiness. On a simple level, this means that we will need to nourish ourselves and find adequate food and shelter. As social animals, we also need lasting friendships and relationships. But it also means that we will need to attend to our rational needs: the pursuit of truth and beauty on a spiritual plane. The final good and the final truth that the human heart seeks, according to the Christian tradition, is God alone. Nothing less than God can quiet the restless cravings and limitless desires of the human heart.

194 Conclusion “The End of All Our Exploring” The life of love is thus the life of a journey home. The analogy is not so much one of following a map, but one of finding a way without a map. The adventure of this life is closer to pathfinding and wayfaring than it is to following a satellite navigation system. There will be wrong turns and miscalculations. Some of these will make for long detours and interesting excursions that will make us into the people we will (or have) become. We may not have a precise map of life that answers which career to pursue, whom to marry, how to raise our children, or what to do in retirement. But we do have the compass of our worthy loves. If there is one thing that St. Thomas provides the reader in these questions on love, it is that while our loves and desires can run wild, leading to an idolatry of the finite, these loves are also the path to the infinite good and the fulfillment of all our longings. There is no other path but the path of love. The question, again, is not “To love or not to love?” It is whom and what and how to love well. In the wisdom of St. Thomas, the only good worthy of our final love is God. He who is the beginning of our existence will also be the end of our adventures. In the words of T. S. Eliot, “We shall not cease from exploration / And the end of all our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place for the first time” (Little Gidding, V).17 This pilgrimage of life, which moves from the Alpha to the Omega, begins and ends in love. Let us then make our own the familiar words of Augustine, “Amemus, curramus”—“Let us run, let us love.”18 17. T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971). See also A. Aresi, “Dante in T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets: Vision, Mysticism, and the Mind’s Journey to God,” Literature and Theology 30, no. 4 (December 2016): 398–409. Katrin Roder, “Reparative Reading, Post-Structuralist Hermeneutics and T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets,” Anglia (Tübingen) 132, no. 1 (2014): 58–77. 18. See the moving list of imperatives, a bold prayer to God, in Confessions 8.4: “Age, domine, fac, excita et revoca nos, accende et rape, flagra, dulcesce: amemus, curramus.”

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196 Bibliography ———. De Anima. Translated by Christopher Shields. Clarendon Aristotle Series. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. ———. Nicomachean Ethics: Books VIII and IX. Translated by Michael Pakaluk. Clarendon Aristotle Series. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Ashdowne, Richard, D. R. Howlett, and R. E. Latham, eds. Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources. Turnhout: Brepols, 2015. Austriaco, Nicanor, James Brent, Thomas Davenport, and John Baptist Ku. Thomistic Evolution: A Catholic Approach to Understanding Evolution in the Light of Faith. 2nd ed. Washington, DC: Cluny Media, 2019. Balthasar, Hans Urs von. Truth Is Symphonic: Aspects of Christian Pluralism. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1987. Barr, Robert. “Aristotle on Natural Place: Some Questions.” The New Scholasticism 30, no. 2 (1956): 206–10. Benedict XVI. Deus Caritas Est. Washington, DC: United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2006. Billuart, Charles René. Summa summae S. Thomae sive compendium theologiae. Vol. 2. Liège: Apud Everardum Kints, 1754. Blankenhorn, Bernhard. The Mystery of Union with God: Dionysian Mysticism in Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2015. Bobier, Christopher A. “Thomas Aquinas on the Basis of the Irascible-Concupiscible Division.” Res Philosophica 97 (2020): 31–52. Bobik, Joseph. Aquinas on Matter and Form and the Elements: A Translation and Interpretation of the De Principiis Naturae and the De Mixtione Elementorum of St. Thomas Aquinas. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1998. Bonino, Serge-Thomas, ed. Surnaturel: A Controversy at the Heart of Twentieth-Century Thomistic Thought. Ave Maria, FL: Sapientia Press, 2009. Brock, Stephen. “Natural Inclinations in the Promulgation of Natural Law.” In The Light That Binds: A Study in Thomas Aquinas’s Metaphysics of Natural Law, 96–123. Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2020. Brooks, David. The Road to Character. New York: Random House, 2015. ———. The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life. New York: Random House, 2019. Burrell, David. Analogy and Philosophical Language. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1973. Cates, Diana Fritz. Aquinas on the Emotions: A Religious-Ethical Inquiry. Moral Traditions Series. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2009. Chaberek, Michael. Aquinas and Evolution. Lexington, KY: Chartwell Press, 2017. Dauphinais, Michael, Barry David, and Matthew Levering, eds. Aquinas the Augustinian. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2007. Davies, Brian. Thomas Aquinas on God and Evil. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. De Hamel, Christopher. Glossed Books of the Bible and the Origins of the Paris Booktrade. Woodbridge: D. S. Brewer, 1984.

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198 Bibliography Gondreau, Paul. The Passions of Christ’s Soul in the Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas. Scranton, PA: University of Scranton Press, 2009. Grygiel, Wojciech P. “The Metaphysics of Chaos: A Thomistic View of Entropy and Evolution.” The Thomist 66, no. 2 (2002): 251–66. Hagman, Edward. “Dante’s Vision of God: The End of the Itinerarium Mentis.” Dante Studies, no. 106 (1988): 1–20. Healy, Nicholas. “Henri de Lubac on Nature and Grace: A Note on Some Recent Contributions to the Debate.” Communio 35 (2008): 535–64. Hochschild, Joshua P. The Semantics of Analogy: Rereading Cajetan’s De Nominum Analogia. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010. Hofer, Andrew. “Dionysian Elements in Thomas Aquinas’s Christology: A Case of the Authority and Ambiguity of Pseudo-Dionysius.” The Thomist 72, no. 3 (2008): 409–42. Hooper, Anthony. “The Greatest Hope of All: Aristophanes on Human Nature in Plato’s Symposium.” Classical Quarterly 63, no. 2 (2013): 567–79. Hütter, Reinhard. “Aquinas on the Natural Desire for the Vision of God: A Relecture of Summa Contra Gentiles III, c. 25 Après Henri De Lubac.” The Thomist 73, no. 4 (2009): 523–91. Ilanes, José. The Sanctification of Work. Translated by Michael Adams. New York: Scepter, 2003. Kahm, Nicholas. Aquinas on Emotion’s Participation in Reason. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2019. Kanary, Jonathan. “Transforming Friendship: Thomas Aquinas on Charity as Friendship with God.” The Irish Theological Quarterly 85, no. 4 (2020): 370–88. Kane, G. Stanley. “Fides Quaerens Intellectum in Anselm’s Thought.” Scottish Journal of Theology 26, no. 1 (1973): 40–62. Kärkkäinen, Pekka. “Internal Senses.” In Encyclopedia of Medieval Philosophy, edited by Henrik Lagerlund, 564–67. Dordrecht: Springer, 2011. Kerr, Gavin. Aquinas’s Way to God: The Proof in De Ente et Essentia. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. King, Peter. “Aquinas on the Passions.” In Aquinas’s Moral Theory: Essays in Honor of Norman Kretzmann, edited by Scott MacDonald and Eleonore Stump, 101–32. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2018. Konstan, David. The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006. Kwasniewski, Peter. “St. Thomas, Extasis, and Union with the Beloved.” The Thomist 61, no. 4 (1997): 587–603. ———. The Ecstasy of Love in the Thought of Thomas Aquinas. Steubenville, OH: Emmaus Academic, 2021. ———. “Transcendence, Power, Virtue, Madness, Ecstasy—Modalities of Excess in Aquinas.” Mediaeval Studies 66 (2004): 129–81. Larkin, V. R. “St Thomas Aquinas on the Movement of the Heart.” Journal of the History of Medicine 15, no. 1 (1960): 22–30.

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Index Index

Index

ability: as known through its object, 62; in relation to act, 60–61; in relation to its object, 109 accident: in an Aristotelian sense, 52n2, 79, 94 Ackrill, J.L.: on substance in Aristotle, 79n29 act: as distinct from passion and power, 60–61 action (actio): as an effect of love, 191–92 Adams, Marilyn McCord: on Anselm, 158n6 Aertsen, Jan: on beauty and the transcendentals, 92n9, 112n11, 114n14, 114n15, 123n13 agape, 72 agent: in an Aristotelian sense, 54. See also Action; Patient Ahern, John: on Dante, 1n2 amicitia. See Friendship amor amicitiae. See Love of friendship amor concupiscentiae. See Love of concupiscence amor intellectivus. See Rational love amor naturalis. See Natural love amor sensitives. See Sensate love amor. See Love analogy: of the names for love, 48n66, 86–87; between passions and the will, 67 anger: its nature and relationship to other passions, 45

Anselm of Canterbury, 158 appetible: definition of, 60 appetite: as corresponding to different kinds of love, 24; divided into the concupiscible and irascible appetites, 43; in general, 22–24, 60; signifies either a power/ability or desire, 25n17; “whetting” the appetite, 59n15. See also concupiscible appetite; irascible appetite; natural appetite; rational appetite; sensitive appetite apprehension, 25, 27, 32–33, 35, 42, 64, 100n21, 118, 120, 123, 148–49, 151, 156, 165 Aquinas, Thomas. See Thomas Aquinas Aristotle: Categories, 79–80; De Anima, 58n14; Ethics, 34n37, 36n41, 74, 76–78, 121, 162; Metaphysics, 21n5, 51n1, 124n15; Physics, 26n19, 169n8; Rhetoric, 162; as a source in the writings of Thomas Aquinas, 6; in Thomas Aquinas’s theology of charity, 81; Topics, 88–9 Augustine: Confessions, 7, 105, 114, 149, 194; Eighty-Three Different Questions, 179; “late have I loved you,” 114; “let us run, let us love,” 194; “love and do what you will,” 15; “my love is my weight,” 7, 105; On the Trinity, 118; as a source in the writings of Thomas Aquinas, 5 Austriaco, Nicanor: on evolution and theology, 28n25 Avila, Teresa of. See Teresa of Avila

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204 Index Balthasar, Hans Urs von, 72, 167n3; on the symphonic quality of Catholic truth, 11 Barr, Robert, 130n8 beauty: as a cause of love, 112–15, 120–23; as a transcendental, 112n11 being: simply speaking and absolutely speaking, 92–97 Benedict XVI: on love, erōs, and Pseudo-Dionysius, 70n2 Bernini, 187 Billuart, Charles René: on human action, 63–65 Blankenhorn, Bernhard, 147n5 Bobier, Christopher: on the distinction between the concupiscible and irascible appetites, 43n56 Bobik, Joseph, 29n26 Bonino, Serge-Thomas: on the twofold happiness of man, 20n4 Bonum. See Goodness Brock, Stephen: on natural inclinations, 39n51 Brooks, David, 145n4 Burrell, David: on analogy, 48n66 Caritas. See Charity Chabarek, Michael: on evolution and theology, 28n25 charity (caritas): definition of, 82; in general, as habit and act, 80–88; as informing the end of graced human actions, 82; order of, 83 Christ. See Jesus Christ Cicero: on the natural law in De officiis, 37n44; as a source in the writings of Thomas Aquinas, 6 coaptatio, 40 cognitio: See knowledge. commedia. See Divine Comedy. complacentia / complacentia boni, 41, 49, 56, 57, 59, 67, 73, 99, 109 concupiscible appetite: in general, 43, 46; the number and order of the concupiscible passions (love, desire, joy, hatred, aversion, sorrow), 44; the principal passion of which is love, 46–47; sin, in relation to, 43;

conformatio, 49, 56, 57 congruence / congruency: 20, 42, 98, 100, 105; between appetite and appetible, 63, 67, 69. See also coaptatio; complacentia; conformatio connaturality: as signifying a good “fit” between lover and beloved, 43; between the lover and the beloved, 41; in relation to natural inclination and desire, 39 consensus: as an act of the will, 65 consilium: as an act of the will, 65 contemplation: as the principle of spiritual love, 123. See also Wonder convertibility: of being and goodness, 94 creation: and evolution, 28n25. See also God; Nature; Happiness Damascene, John: on human action, 64n28; on passion as a movement of the sense appetite, 31; as a source in the writings of Thomas Aquinas, 6 Dante: concludes each canticle of the Divine Comedy with reference to the stars, 1; “love is the seed in you of every virtue and of every act which merits punishment,” epigraph, 6, 19–20. See also Divine Comedy Davies, Brian: on evil, 108n5 De Hamel, Christopher, 182n11 Decosimo, Joseph David: on charity, 3n6, 81n34 desire (desiderium): for happiness and human goods, 20–21; as not chosen, 27; as part of circular motion, 59 dilection (dilectio): as chosen love, 79 Dionysius. See Pseudo-Dionysius discipline, 116 Divine Comedy: in reference to the stars, wonder, and desire, 1–2. See also Dante Dobler, Emil: on the internal senses, 58n14 docility: in relation to love, 68 Dougherty, M.V., 108n5 ecstasy: as a spiritual phenomenon, 175– 76; as caused by love dispositively or

Index 205 directly, 172; through a cognitive or appetitive mode, 170–72; as an effect of love in general, 166–70; in relation to love of friendship and love of concupiscence, 173–75; in relation to the distinct meanings of, 168n7; in Pseudo Dionysius, 167. See also Love of concupiscence; Love of friendship electio: as an act of the will, 65 Eliot, T.S.: The Four Quartets, 194 Emery, Gilles: on “impressio” in trinitarian theology, 159n8; on the theological “syntheses” of Thomas Aquinas, 13n21 erōs, 70–71 evil: love for, 107–8 Falzone, Paulo: on Dante 1n2 fervor, 190 Feser, Edward: on the existence of God, 29n27 Flood, Anthony: on love in Thomas Aquinas, 3n5, 76n15 form: as imparted by agent, 56, 61 Freccero, John: on Dante, 1n2 freedom: of choice, 65; as conditional, 26 friendship (amicitia): definition of, 76; in general, 74–75; with God, 76; tripartite division into the useful, pleasurable, and complete, 77–78. See also Charity Frost, Gloria, 109n6 fruitio: as an act of the will, 65 Garrigou-Lagrange, Réginald, 124n15 Gessani, Alberto: on Dante, 1n2 Gilson, Etienne, 65n29, 112n11 God: as beautiful, 112n11, 114; and charity, 82, 86; contemplation of 172; creator of nature, 25, 27, 31; existence itself, 41n54; the existence of (the fifth way), 28–30; his creative love, 10; his ecstasy, 4; his eros, 71; his zeal, 179; infinite goodness of, 94n12, 95, 189; is love, 15n25; love that moves the sun and other stars, 1; as lover, 155; origin and end of reality, 5, 129; our dwelling in, 4, 155; our perfection, 153; our relationship with, 68, 81n34, 158; perfect

good and happiness, 27, 30, 37n44, 188; the subject matter of theology, 13n21; ultimate measure of our loves, 19; the vision of, 12. See also Charity; Happiness; Jesus Christ good, the (bonum): a cause of love, 105–7; as the proper object of love, 109–10; simply versus relatively speaking, 92–97 Gregory of Nazianzus: as confused with Nemesius of Emesa, 58n14 Grygiel, Wojciech: on evolution, 28n25 habit, 74–75, 77, 79–84, 86, 99, 107 Hagman, Edward: on Dante, 1n2 happiness: as final end and rest, 26–27; in relation to natural desire, 39–40 hatred: its nature and relation to love, 47 Healy, Nicholas: on Henri de Lubac, 20n4 Hochschild, Joshua: on analogy, 48n66 Hofer, Andrew: on Pseudo-Dionysius 147n5 Hooper, Anthony: on Aristophanes, 127n2 human action: “noetic” and “orectic” aspects of, 64n28; structure of 64–65 Hütter, Reinhard: on the twofold happiness of man, 20n4 Ilanes, Jose, 145n3 immutatio, 57, 61, 67 imperium: as an act of the will, 65 incarnation: as ecstasy of God, 167, 175 indwelling. See Mutual indwelling intellectual appetite. See Rational appetite intellectual love (amor intellectivus). See Rational love intentio: as an act of the will, 65 irascible appetite: derivative of the concupiscible passions, 47–48; division and order of the irascible passions (hope, despair, fear, daring, anger), 44–45; in general, 44, 46 iudicium (judgment): as an act of the will, 65

206 Index Jesus Christ, 5, 73, 167, 184 joy (gaudium): as part of circular motion, 59; relationship to the other passions, 44; as a “resting” emotion, 45 Kahm, Nicholas, 3n5, 106n1 Kanary, Jonathan, 3n6, 76n15 Kane, G. Stanley: on Anselm, 158n6 Kärkkäinen, Pekka: on the internal senses, 58n14 King, Peter, 3n5, 136n16 knowledge (cognitio): a cause of love, 116–17; love as a function of, 117–20 Konstan David: on passion in the Greek world, 53n4 Kwasniewski, Peter: on ecstasy, 166n1 languor, 190 Lewis, C.S.: The Four Loves (storgē, philia, erōs, agape), 9–10, 70–72 likeness (similitudo): actual and potential likeness, 128–31; cause of love, 126; cause of rivalry and an obstacle, 135–36; modalities of potency and actuality 131–34; objections to likeness as a cause of love, 127–28; in relation to friendship 134; the basis for communion, 128–31 liquefactio, 189 Lombardo, Nicholas: 3n5; on the participation of the emotions in reason, 34n37; on passion as a technical term, 31n32, 33n35 love (amor): “seed” (Dante) in us of virtue and vice, 6; ordering “weight” (Augustine) of our lives, 7; origin and end of our lives, 1; place in the journey of life, 50, 194; related key terms of the study, 2; not self-justifying, 7; scholarship on the question of love, 2–3. See also Love, causes of it; Love, effects of it; Love, nature of it love, causes of it (part two): 139; in general, 105–7. See also Goodness (bonum); Knowledge (cognitio); Likeness (similitudo) love, effects of it (part three): in general,

143–45; as more unitive than knowledge, 152–53. See also Action (actio); Ecstasy (extasis); Mutual indwelling (mutua inhaesio); Perfection (perfectio); Union (unio); Zeal (zelus) love, nature of it (part one): 99–102; arising from appetite, 24; not chosen, as elicited, 49; complacentia/conformatio boni (taking pleasure in the good) as common to each love, 49, 56; diverse meanings of, 48–50; division into natural, sensate, and rational love, 48–50; flowing from three “appetites” and three kinds of knowledge, 22–24, 48– 49; judged in its relationship to a good or evil end, 8; a principle of motion, 72–73; a principle of the emotional life, 139. See also: Appetite (appetitus); Charity (caritas); Dilection (dilectio); Friendship (amicitia); Love of concupiscence (amor concupiscentiae); Love of friendship (amor amicitiae); Names for love; Natural love (amor naturalis); Order of love; Passion; Rational love (amor rationalis); Sensate love (amor sensitivus) love of concupiscence (amor concupiscentiae): love relatively speaking, 91; ordered toward love of friendship, 91; toward the good one wishes for someone, 90–91 love of desire. See Love of concupiscence love of friendship (amor amicitiae): love simply speaking, 91; ordering the love of concupiscence, 91; toward the person for whom one wishes a good, 90–91 Lubac, Henri de: on the supernatural, 20n4 Ludwig, Paul: on civic friendship, 74n10 MacIntyre, Alisdair: on emotivism, 7n11 Makin, Stephen, 129n5 Malloy, Christopher: on charity, 81n34 Mansini, Guy: on charity and ecstasy, 81n34 Maritain, Jacques, 112n11

Index 207 McInerney, Ralph: on analogy, 48n66 metaphysics of love, 92–97 Miner, Robert: on appetitus, 22n6; scholarship on the passions, 3n5, 3n6, 81n34, 136n16 motion: arising from form imparted, 56, 61; as circular, 57–62 mutual indwelling: arising from mutual acts of love, 163–64; effect of love in general, 154–55, 164–65; modes of mutual indwelling through knowledge, 155–58; modes of mutual indwelling through love, 159–63. See also Love of concupiscence; Love of friendship names for love, 83–84; order of these names, 84–86. See also Charity; Dilection; Friendship; Love natural appetite: arising from the knowledge of God, 25; in general, 24–31 natural inclinations: their number and nature, 38–39 natural love (amor naturalis): in general, 36–40; in relation to natural appetite, 36–37; in relation to natural inclinations, 38. See also Happiness; Natural inclinations nature: in relation to natural appetite, 26, 29; in relation to right human action, 39–40 Nemesius of Emesa: on the internal senses, 58n14 Nieuwenhove, Rik van: on friendship, 76n15 Nygren, Anders: as criticized by C.S. Lewis, 70n1 O’Rourke, Fran, 147n5 object, 61–62 Ockham. See William of Ockham. Oliver, Simon: on Henri de Lubac, 20n4 order of love, 88–90; from things to persons, 97–98. See Love of concupiscence, Love of friendship Pakaluk, Michael: on friendship, 74n10, 121n5

Pangle, Lorraine Smith: on friendship, 77n19, 77n21, 78n22, 78n24 Parmenides: his view of being and non-being in relation to creation, 41n54 participation: of the emotions in reason, 34 passion (passio): a cause of love, 136–38; definition and general account of, 51– 53; division and order of, 43–45; four kinds of, 51n1. See also Agent; Anger; Desire; Joy; Love; Patient patient: in an Aristotelian sense, 54. See also Agent perfection (perfectio): as an effect of love, 187–89 Petrocchi, Giorgio: 1n1 philia (love of friendship), 70–71 Pieper, Josef: On Love, 10–11; on happiness, 30n30; on truth, 188n5 Pinckaers, Servais: on Cicero, 37n44; on happiness 30n30, 30n31; on happiness as the goal of moral action, 38n47; on human action, 64n27; on natural inclinations, 38, 40n52; on the passions, 3n5, 31n32, 136n16 power. See ability Prandi, Stefano: on Dante, 1 Pseudo-Dionysius: identity of, 146–47; on beauty as a cause of love, 112–15; On the Divine Names, 99, 166–67, 179; on the ecstasy of God, 167–68; on eros, 71; on love as perfective, 187; on love as the motive for action, 191; as a source in the writings of Thomas Aquinas, 4, 6 quies. See rest Ramos, Alice: on beauty, 114n15 rational appetite: arising from rational knowledge, 33–34; distinct from the sense appetite, 35; in general, 31–36 rational love (amor rationalis): analogy between intellectual and sensate love, 62–63; in general, 42–43; a name for the will, 42; structure of its activities, 62–66

208 Index receptivity, 67, 158 redamatio, 163–64 Regan, Richard, 108n5 rest (quies), 24n13, 26n19, 31, 45, 57, 59, 60, 63, 67, 113, 136, 193 Rist, John: as critical of Anders Nygren, 71n3 Rocca, Gregory: on analogy, 48n66 Roder, Katrin: on T.S. Eliot, 194 Romanticism: in contrast to a pre-modern view of love, 7 Rubin, Michael: on beauty, 112n11 Sartre, Jean-Paul: on happiness, 30n31 scripture: as a theological source, 5 sensate love (amor sensitivus): in general, 40–41 sensitive appetite: in general, 31–36; starting from sense knowledge, 33–34 sensitive love. See sensate love Shakespeare: on motion, 60n20 Sherwin, Michael: on charity, 81n34, 155n2 Shields, Christopher: on circular motion in Aristotle, 58n14 Silva, Ignacio: on Thomas Aquinas and quantum physics, 39n50 similitudo. See likeness sin, 43, 188–89 Smith, Lesley: on the Glossa Ordinaria, 182n11 Southern, R.W.: on Anselm, 158n6 Spencer, Mark: on beauty, 114n15 Spezzano, Daria, 174n17 Stang, Charles: on the identity of Pseudo-Dionysius, 146n4 stars: as the final word of Dante’s Divine Comedy, 1. See also Dante storgē (love of affection), 70–71 Stump, Eleanor: meanings of appetite, 22n6; on the “non-Aristotelian character” of the ethics of Thomas Aquinas, 31n32, 136n16 substance: in an Aristotelian sense, 52n2, 79, 93 Suto, Taki, 171n11 syllogism, demonstrative, 110n9

Tabaczek, Mariusz: on evolution and theology, 28n25 Teresa of Avila: ecstatic experience, 187 Thomas Aquinas: his theology not a “system,” 13n21; hymns for Corpus Christi, 2; on nature, 23n8; overview of his discussion of love in the Summa Theologiae, 4–5; a “passionate” ethics, 31n32; poetic and lyrical theologian, 2; on the relationship of philosophy and theology, 14; scholarship on love, charity, and the passions in Aquinas, 2–3; a “theological reading” of love, 4; theological sources for his discussion of love, 5; on Thomistic vs. Thomasian, 14n22 Torchia, Joseph, 7n11 Torrell, Jean-Pierre: on the authenticity of the Corpus Christi hymns, 2n3; on charity, 81n34; on the life of Thomas Aquinas, 3 Tück, Jan-Heiner: on the authenticity of the Corpus Christi hymns, 2n3 Uffenheimer-Lippens, Elisabeth: on the participation of passion in reason, 35n39 union (unio): as an effect of love in general, 146–47; love of friendship and love of concupiscence in relation to, 148–50; modes of causality (effective and formal) effecting union, 150–52; objection to union as an effect of love, 146; union secundum affectum, 148; union secundum rem, 147. See also love of concupiscence; love of friendship usus: as an act of the will, 65 Veni, Sancte Spiritus, 68–69 vice, 8, 14, 108, 143 volitio: as an act of the will, 65 Wandrey, Irina, 177n1 Weisheipl, James, 130n8 Westberg, Daniel: on human action, 64n28, 65n29 White, Thomas Joseph: on beauty as a transcendental, 112n11, 114n14; on

Index 209 Chenu and Garrigou-Lagrange, 13n20; on Henri de Lubac, 20n4 will. See rational love William of Ockham: on happiness and freedom 30n31 wisdom: 194, 15, 31n32, 112n11; as a gift of the Holy Spirit, 83 wonder: as leading to contemplation, 124–25. See also contemplation wound of love, 186–87

zeal (zelus): as an effect of love in general, 77–78; love of concupiscence and love of friendship in relation to, 180–82; from a protective instinct, 178– 80; spiritual phenomenon of, 182–85. See also Love of concupiscence; Love of friendship zelus. See zeal