Leibniz on God and Man in 1686 179363324X, 9781793633248

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
Acknowledgments
List of Abbreviations
Introduction
Same Goods
Light of Souls
Modern Love
Revelations & Miracles
Adam’s Lament
Salvation
Conclusion
Bibliography
Index
About the Author

Citation preview

Leibniz on God and Man in 1686

Leibniz on God and Man in 1686 Ryan Phillip Quandt

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www​.rowman​.com 86-90 Paul Street, London EC2A 4NE Material quoted from Leibniz, Discourse on Metaphysics and Other Essays trans. Garber and Ariew (Hackett 1991) ISBN: 978-0-87220-132-3 pp. 23–27, 35–46, 51, 55–64, 66–7, 282. Reprinted by permission of Hackett Publishing Company, Inc. All rights reserved. Material quoted from Strickland, L. (2022). Leibniz’s Examination of the Christian Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reprinted by permission of Lloyd Strickland. Copyright © 2023 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available Names: Quandt, Ryan Phillip, author.   Title: Leibniz on God and man in 1686 / Ryan Phillip Quandt.   Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, [2023] | Includes bibliographical references.  Identifiers: LCCN 2023015410 (print) | LCCN 2023015411 (ebook) | ISBN 9781793633248 (cloth) | ISBN 9781793633255 (ebook)  Subjects: LCSH: Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, Freiherr von, 1646-1716. | God. | Metaphysics. | Religion-Philosophy. | Philosophy, German. | Theology--History--17th century.  Classification: LCC B2599.G63 .Q83 2023  (print) | LCC B2599.G63  (ebook) | DDC 231--dc23/eng/20230421  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023015410 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023015411 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Contents

Acknowledgments vii List of Abbreviations

ix

Introduction: Why 1686?



Chapter 1: Same Goods

1



11

Chapter 2: Light of Souls



Chapter 3: Modern Love

33



71

Chapter 4: Revelations & Miracles Chapter 5: Adam’s Lament Chapter 6: Salvation Conclusion



89 105



129

157

Bibliography Index



161

169

About the Author



171

v

Acknowledgments

My thanks to Roger Ariew are immense: for his advice, encouragement, and interest. Other allies, friends, and family also made this book possible. Edward Martin, Douglas Jesseph, and Michael Morris supported me early on. Lloyd Strickland commented on an early draft and sent me his forthcoming translation of “Examen christianae religionis.” Jana Hodges-Kluck, at Lexington, has seen me through the publishing process. Friends kept me in touch when personal and professional stressors threatened to silo or upend me. A few stand out. Pat Crowe has been an excellent conversant. Chris Arledge befriended me during my undergraduate days. Taylor Terzek has been a brother to me. Garrett Potts, too, has encouraged me on this late journey across coasts. Then there is family. My in-laws have supported my wife and I through much wandering. My mom kept me on the straight and narrow. And Trev, my brother, has been a constant friend. I am grateful for my daughters, Aliza and Eloise. Aliza is the embodiment of joy, has left me many kind notes, and shared laughs with Ella‌‌‌‌‌. Their imaginations inspire. This book has modest aims. I almost blush at the years devoted to it. My wife, Devan, deserves more than this book can offer for the space and time she gave me to write it. I am grateful daily for her companionship and love.

vii

List of Abbreviations

A AG Ar AT G LA

LGR T

Akademie-Ausgabe der Leibniz-Edition. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz: Samtliche Schriften und Briefe. Darmstadt, Leipzig, and Berlin. Akadamie Verlag, 1923-. Leibniz, G. W. G. W. Leibniz: Philosophical Essays. Trans. & Ed. Roger Ariew and Daniel Garber. Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 1989. Descartes, René. Philosophical Essays and Correspondence. Ed. Roger Ariew. Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 2000. Adams, Charles and Paul Tannery (eds.). Oeuvres de Descartes, 2nd Ed. Paris: Vrin, 1964-1974. Gerhardt, C. I. Die Philosophischen Schriften von Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. Berlin: Georg Olms Hildesheim, 1961. Voss, Stephen (ed. & trans.). The Leibniz-Arnauld Correspondence: With selections from the Correspondence with Ernst, Landgrave of Hessen-Rheinfels. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2016. Lloyd Strickland (ed. & trans.). Leibniz on God and Religion: A Reader. London: Bloomsbury, 2016. Malebranche, Traité de la nature et de la grâce, in Œuvres Complètes, V. Ginette Dreyfus (ed.). Paris: Libraire philosophique J. Vrin, 1958.

ix

Introduction Why 1686?

Figure 1. Raymond Lull’s Ars Magna, which Leibniz called a “shadow only of the true Combination” (A II 205b, 707). Source: Akademie-Ausgabe Ausgabe der Leibniz-Edition. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz: Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, VI, 4. Darmstadt, Leipzig, and Berlin. Akadamie Verlag, 1923-., 1027.

1

2

Introduction

On August 10, 1685, a resolution passed whereby Duke Ernst August commissioned Leibniz to compose the history of the House of Hanover. After this success, Leibniz sent the Duke a proposal: Once the history is complete, and pending approval, he would take up an ambitious project that begins with the “Art of Invention generally” (or a method of discovering truth) and aims “to reduce all human reasoning to a type of counting” (A II 2, 254a, 875).1 This calculus would be performed with a “universal writing” that can be easily learned and communicated to anyone. It spells out right reasoning. Errors cannot hide in such a language. “Men,” like the Duke, “would find by this a judge of controversies, truly infallible” (ibid., 877). Despite his employer’s silence, Leibniz did not tether his ambitions and drafted a “recommendation to establish a General Science” (A VI 4, 161). This piece is one of a handful written till the end of the decade that call for learned persons to join him in his “new plan” to reform and advance the sciences for the sake of the common good (A VI 4, 202–205).2 There is moral and religious urgency behind these appeals. People cannot be occupied with their future or the afterlife without contentment, which results from “true piety and good morality” as well as health (A VI 4, 203, 947). Leibniz opines that the General Science would also unify the Church, Germany, other Christian commonwealths, and humankind. Unless society is rightly ordered and basic needs met, the sciences will remain in disarray, haphazard, and striven. The program for a general science crests in the 1680’s, then nearly disappears—the term, if not the idea and aim, is uniquely stressed in this period. As Pelletier notes, Leibniz has at least three meanings for ‘General Science’: (i) the art of discovering and judging, (ii) the science of what is thinkable, and (iii) metaphysics itself (“Scientia,” 165).3 And to commentators’ chagrin, Leibniz never articulates how the sciences coalesce or how his various projects relate (Schepers, “Einleitung,” LIV). For this reason and others, Pelletier warns against attempts to stretch this program across Leibniz’s life and thought as if a fixed motive or vision (“Scientia,” 166). Still, he offers a suggestive proposal for its structure in the 1680’s: it relies on a plurality of elements, not an encompassing organon, that “does not presuppose a priori first principles but, on the contrary, intends to discover progressively the first principles that would ‘open the way to the ultimate causes of things’ and . . . to wisdom” (ibid., 171).4 The General Science is a hub in which principles from one science are extended to another experimentally for the sake of increasing knowledge. As expansion occurs, “new openings” (as Leibniz calls them) surface and generative principles guide philosophers to first principles (ibid., 170). Pelletier’s proposal illumes our key writings. In February 1/11, 1686,5 Leibniz wrote to Count Landgraf Ernst of Hessen-Rheinfels, “Lately (being in a place where I had nothing to do for a few days) I have written a little discourse on Metaphysics . . . ” (A II 2, 1,

Introduction

3

3; LA 3).6 In this short tract, Leibniz collects and organizes a wide breadth of views that, up to 1686, was unseen. For this reason, and despite the hasty composition,7 many scholars take the manuscript as a mark of maturity (Adams, Determinist, 5; Brown, Leibniz, 95). Leibniz intended an outline of these views for the French theologian and logician, Antoine Arnaud, and glosses its content: “questions on grace, God’s concourse with creatures, the nature of miracles, the cause of sin and the origin of evil, the immortality of the soul, ideas, etc.” (A II 2, 1, 3–4; LA 3). After reading “Discours,”8 the list seems misleading. Unsaid are philosophical or scientific themes, such as nature’s regularity and order, substance and body, action, individuals, types of knowledge, freedom, and the mind. Although these topics have been at the fore in the text’s reception, Leibniz puts them within a theological and moral frame. Maybe this is unsurprising: Leibniz wanted the Count to pass the outline on to a theologian and to peak Arnaud’s interest. In other words, Leibniz’s main concern was philosophy and science, yet caters his gloss to the addressee. A strong reason to oppose a reading that sidelines theology is a lengthier writing begun the same year, “Examen christianae religionis” (“Examination of the Christian Religion”).9 Yet “Examen” is an elusive text. When first published posthumously in the nineteenthth century, its audience was surprised by the famous Protestant’s Catholic tone and bias.10 Charles William Russell, the editor and translator of the first English edition,11 observed, Scarcely, therefore, was the work announced for publication when a host of champions of every shade of religious belief—Lutherans, Calvinists, and even Rationalists—arose in one united effort to wrest from the hands of a common enemy [i.e., the Catholics] a weapon which might be wielded with so much effect against them all, especially in Germany. (Leibniz, System, xi)

Leibniz’s motives for composing the work are unclear and likely lost with him. Still, its length suggests earnestness and the peppering of views also found in ‘Discours’ evince that at least parts of the theological system are his own.12 Disagreement over the text persists. Sleigh remarked that ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ “constituted Leibniz’s ‘one-two punch’ with respect to [church] reunion” (Leibniz, 23). Shortly after, Adams countered that Leibniz could not have expected his stances in ‘Examen’ to reconcile the church (“Leibniz’s Examination”). Aware of the then-current platform for church reunion being discussed by the Catholic emissary, Cristobal de Rojas y Spinola, and the Lutheran theologian, Gerhard Walter Molanus, Leibniz knew he was not contributing a viable option with ‘Examen.’13 Perhaps, instead, Leibniz experimented with fitting his own philosophy into a Catholic guise that neither Catholic, nor Protestant would accept.14

4

Introduction

Antognazza holds that ‘Examen’ was Leibniz’s lengthiest attempt at his early proposal, “Demonstrationes catholicae” (“Catholic Demonstrations”).15 In 1679, six years before writing ‘Examen,’ Leibniz wrote to his then-employer Duke Johann Friedrich reviving his plan for Catholic demonstrations (A II 2, 213, 751–2). The work was to be divided into three parts: demonstration of the existence of God and immortality of the soul and all other issues of natural theology; the second part demonstrates the Christian mysteries (Trinity, Incarnation, Eucharist, Resurrection); the third part concerns the Church, its hierarchy, divine right, and ecclesiastic power. While ‘Examen’ takes up some of these issues, it does not fit easily into these three parts. The beginning, which proposes views granted from the “natural light of reason,” does not argue for the existence of God or the immortality of the soul, but the divine nature, love of God, and sin. Leibniz then crafts views on the Christian mysteries—less defending their possibility than charting a course through Church debate. And he devotes most of his writing on the Church to the use of images in worship before cutting off midline. Suffice to say, ‘Examen’ is not the direct execution of his projected “Demonstrationes catholicae.” More illuminating is Adams’ proposal that Leibniz based his theological commitments on practical reason (“Examination,” 536–541). He writes that Leibniz “recognized beliefs that consist in commitment to act on an assumption of truth, based on a judgment that the assumed proposition is prudent or safe to act on” (“Justice,” 214). Put again, Leibniz adopts theological stances based on action, not a proof of their certainty, nor an argument for their probability.16 He defends their mere possibility.17 These stances hold up in a moral calculus. But if “Examen” is a ‘safe’ theology—that is, one that lessens the risks for being wrong—Adams also remarks (as mentioned a moment ago) that Catholics and Lutherans would have rejected it. So Leibniz’s ‘safety’ is found in his moral arguments and actions rather than a suitable compromise between Christian sects. Even if right, it remains debatable how Leibniz’s theology of 1686 fits into the ambitious plan for a scientia generalis. There are at least two views among scholars, which may diverge or converge. Pelletier argues that the General Science loses its theological dimension, as ontology no longer entwines with theology, though principles in theology hold a privileged place (“Scientia,” 174). Put again, ontology no longer invokes theological commitments, but theological principles can be productively and analogically applied in ontology. A second view, endorsed by Garber and Rateau, holds that revealed theology enters prominently in the late 70’s into the 80’s as Leibniz responds to failings of Descartes’ physics and fears Spinozism (Garber, Body, Ch. 8; Rateau, Leibniz, Ch. 3). Though Garber and Rateau do not cite scientia generalis, Schepers claims that its method unites metaphysics with praxis (A VI 4, “Einleitung,” LXXXIV). Given the closeness between theology and morality

Introduction

5

for Leibniz, scientia generalis can be taken as the common ground between metaphysics and theology. Then we may ask whether their relation amounts to transferring principles or if it is more substantive. Though Leibniz does not settle matters for us, these two views get at basic issues when comparing ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ Why not appeal to the more polished, later writings to clarify ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’? After all, similar themes, claims, and arguments appear in New Essays on Human Understanding, Theodicy, and Monadology, among other later writings. They simplify what I take to be complex and incomplete, and replace hesitations, suggestions, and tenuous links with hard claims. Why not expand the circle of relevant evidence as wide as possible? Because doing so obscures how Leibniz worked and thought. No doubt, a broader story couches manuscripts and letters so that each can be interpreted, compared, and weighed. What Leibniz wrote does not always tell what he believed. Some texts evince positions briefly held, some longer commitments, others toy with an argument, still others experiment with rejected views. Leibniz also returned to earlier drafts to edit or append them. For this reason, Garber observes that piecing Leibniz’s writings together is “more an art than a science” (Body, xviii). Garber’s book displays the fertile Middle Years of Leibniz’s scientific career and, in the course of its argument, he suggests that ‘Discours’ sketches a metaphysics that Leibniz largely abandons (ibid., 199). His suggestion is my point of departure. By comparing ‘Discours’ with ‘Examen,’ I aim to display how Leibniz’s motive to reform the sciences, religion, and institutions came together during one climactic year. I will argue that ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ cross in love of God. They begin from, secure, and engender a moral ideal, though in distinct ways. But love of God does not cleanly relate these texts, nor does Leibniz detail how. His writings during these years are marked by provisional beginnings, restarts, selfcritique, and hypotheticals. As Garber describes, Leibniz is a “deep, subtle, and wide-ranging intellect, constantly thinking and rethinking his position, constantly engaged, who develops and grows, even if, in the end, he never arrives at a position with which he is fully satisfied” (Body, xvi). In the two writings of our focus, Leibniz often defends himself with moral appeals, that a given view preserves, enhances, or detracts from the glory of God or divine perfection. The main tie between these texts is God’s moral quality, that is, his commune between God and man. My aim in this book is to work out how Leibniz conceives this relation in 1686 to capture its vibrancy. But this book is a lengthy essay in the older sense of the word: an experiment or test. There are strong reasons to keep ‘Examen’ and ‘Discours’ at a distance. One is in Latin, the other French. Their styles diverge. Scholars lack evidence for why Leibniz wrote ‘Examen’ and are left to speculate

6

Introduction

(Strickland, “Nineteenth Century Reception”). Although Leibniz sent the outline of ‘Discours’ to the Catholic theologian, Arnaud, seeking validation, Robert Adams has shown that ‘Examen’ would not have been acceptable to mainstream Catholics (Adams, “Leibniz’s Examination”). Nor would it have fit in the current platforms for church reunion. While there are Leibnizian views in ‘Examen,’ there are also theological positions he rejects elsewhere. Perhaps he is only dressing his metaphysics up in Catholic garb. But why go to the trouble if his theology parts ways? Protestants would not have accepted the system either due to the Catholic stances. My argument throughout this book assumes that the positions in ‘Examen’ were at least momentarily held by Leibniz and that they form a theological complement to the metaphysics in ‘Discours.’18 They converge in the moral quality of God and man that Leibniz took as the cornerstone of his system in 1686. My assumptions stand or fall on how persuasive a reading it enables of writings in this period or until a once lost manuscript is found that clarifies ‘Examen.’ I aim to show that much is gained from reading ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ together, while granting that these texts were not meant to be coupled too closely. Here is the plan. In chapter 1, I argue that Leibniz adopts two strategies in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ that respond to the question, ‘How can we be sure that God’s good is the same as ours?’ Both texts turn the answer—namely, that God’s perfection requires it—into a virtue: The wise and virtuous person identifies their good with the divine. In ‘Discours,’ Leibniz appeals to the affects of learning. The more one knows, the more disposed they are to find creation satisfying. In ‘Examen,’ Leibniz details the affects of the ideal lover. Both texts respond to the objection with a moral argument. To make my case, I first show how Leibniz’s system requires the sameness of divine and natural good, yet he does not infer their sameness from the deity in isolation. He has recourse, instead, to God’s moral quality, or his communion with rational beings. I next spend time articulating Leibniz’s account of love, describe what it means to identify another’s good with our own, and end with the moral reasons prompting the revival of substantial forms. This chapter and the next lay out the claims and problems at the heart of Leibniz’s system in 1686. Leibniz vacillates on how to mesh knowledge with affection. Perceiving perfection ought to link them, yet this attachment is not clean or simple. The problem is to account for how the learned lack piety and how the pious lack learning. If knowledge innately disposes one properly toward God and, as a perfection, virtue disposes one to learning and increases sensitivity to perfection, Leibniz must explain how they (often) part ways. This is the subject of chapter 2. I argue that Leibniz wrestles with this problem in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ without resolving matters. Our innate idea of God enables us to distinguish infinite from finite perfection and makes the unbeliever culpable, yet does not entail distinct awareness of God. For that, a concept or notion

Introduction

7

is required. Descartes mistakenly thought he could meditate to perceive our innate idea of God as a point of certainty, but, to Leibniz, this stemmed from pride. At the same time, Leibniz agrees that the believer’s innate awareness of the deity forms a presumption for God’s existence. This is complicated, though, when we turn to his account of the veneration of images in ‘Examen.’ Errors and superstitions with respect to God do not result in idolatry, but, despite beliefs and acts, are safeguarded from damnation. It is as if one’s true innate idea of God secures one from one’s own mistaken concept of the divine. Among those who held Modern ideas, Leibniz observes a growing apathy toward God and truth that threatens the aim of science, human flourishing and happiness. He voices his worry clearly in a group of dialogues between 1678 and 1681, airs his concerns in a longer tract on Cartesian philosophy, and, again, in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ In chapter 3, I look at his criticisms of the Modern trend, which his key writings in 1686 mean to correct. While the metaphysics of Descartes and Malebranche seem sound, their moral affects reveal a lack. Descartes leaves goodness and beauty arbitrary, and so cannot hold that humans perceive God’s moral quality in nature. Nor can Malebranche, who holds that God could have created a better world. Humans lose their reason to love and praise God if his love and praise do not depend on the perfection of this world. Only Leibniz’s mark of perfection—that which is capable of a highest degree—founds love of God. Like all of creation, the divine lover contributes to the perfection of all things. It is from this claim that we should approach Leibniz’s reconciliation of miracles and natural laws in 1686. In chapter 4, I argue that regular and irregular phenomena uniquely contribute to the universe’s perfection. The discovery and formulation of natural laws, or perceived regularity and consistency, express the universe’s harmony. Such scientific activity perfects us. Revelations express God’s plan for our lives. When concerned with us specifically (or a group of people), they are accompanied by a miracle, or suspension of natural laws. This desire of God to commune with persons is the “stronger reason” that at once coheres with universal harmony and suspends natural laws. In this way, Leibniz believes natural and revealed phenomena are mutually complementary, consistent, and rational. Miracles and revelation bridge the moral and natural order, and so draw the sciences together under a moral and theological purpose. At least, so Leibniz attempts. Morality and theology overlap in evil, the topic of chapter 5. If loving God is our highest good such that one would always be happy, Leibniz needs to explain why it is hard to love God or sustain love. More, sin threatens to block the commune between God and man. Supposing the deity has a moral quality, that is, humans must be able to align their wills with him (i.e., love God), otherwise they are not free to do good or evil. On one hand, original

8

Introduction

sin denotes a neutral limit to human perfection. From ignorance, humans sin. On the other hand, humans have distorted desires more often acting from the senses than reason, and so sin is more robust. The first sense can clearly be handled with knowledge. He does not think the sciences or revelations will remove the obstacles sin presents; these obstacles do not upend trust in God. In fact, the mystery of original sin can orient one to the infinite depths of divine wisdom. The book ends where ‘Discours’ ends: the City of God. In the final chapter, I look at Leibniz’s claim that the requirement for salvation is loving God continuously, yet humans neither begin to do so, nor persist, without grace. There are two senses of grace: sufficient and efficacious grace. One is natural, the other is divine and salvific. How these are dispensed remains a mystery, and so how God saves the elect left more or less alone. Leibniz sweeps aside coarse views of justification (i.e., John Calvin’s) that disregard morality. He also advances a novel view of faith akin to practical knowledge in the sense that knowledge couples with the will. Since faith folds into love, the concept describes how humans ought to be oriented toward the ultimate mystery of God’s choice to create of which they are ignorant. Love of God puts someone within the blessed City with Christ as its head. This final vision is the culmination of Leibniz’s moral argument motivating his views and unifies them. NOTES 1. ‘A’ refers to Akademie-Ausgabe der Leibniz-Edition. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz: Samtliche Schriften und Briefe. Darmstadt, Leipzig, and Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1923-. Citations will be formatted: (A ‘Series’ ‘Volume,’ ‘Manuscript Number,’ ‘Page’). For example, A VI 4, 1, 1, is the series of philosophical writings (VI), the fourth volume on Leibniz’s writings from 1677 to 1690, the first manuscript entitled, ‘La vraie methode,’ and its first page. 2. For a general summary of the plan, see (Antognazza, Intellectual, 205). Where possible, I will cite titles of books and articles with a distinguishing word other than the first if they begin with ‘Leibniz.’ 3. Schepers, likewise, notes three tasks associated with the general science: (i) reflecting on the logico-ontological grounding, (ii) problems in classical methodology (analysis, synthesis, judgment, discovery), and (iii) a philosophical language, including the calculus built from such a language (A VI 4, “Einleitung,” LVIII). 4. For developments of this idea, see (Pelletier, “Logica”) and (Pelletier, “Les catégories”). 5. The difference in date is due to a ten-day discrepancy between the Julian calendar, which Germany followed until March, 1700, and the Gregorian calendar.

Introduction

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6. ‘LA’ stands for Voss, Stephen (Ed. & Trans.). The Leibniz-Arnaud Correspondence: With selections from the Correspondence with Ernst, Landgrave of Hessen-Rheinfels. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2016. 7. Though ‘Discours’ was written in haste, Martin and Brown remark that it results from much prior thought (Discourse, 1). 8. Titles of Leibniz’s writings will remain in their original language, though often shortened (‘Discours de métaphysique,’ for example, as ‘Discours’). Only published writings will be italicized. Pieces that Leibniz gave a title will be in double quotes, while titles given by later editors will be in single quotes. 9. English translations of ‘Examen’ come from Lloyd Strickland’s forthcoming edition of the manuscript with Oxford University Press (Examination of the Christian Religion). Since his translation at this point lacks page numbers, I will not cite the manuscript; however, unless otherwise noted, the translation is his. I am grateful for his willingness to share his translation with me. 10. For an analysis of ‘Examen”s reception, see (Strickland, “The Nineteenth Century Reception of Leibniz’s Examination of the Christian Religion”). 11. An early French translation was published in 1845 (Leibniz, Système théologique) and a later, German translation appeared in 1860 (Leibniz, Theologisches System). Note that earlier editors entitled the manuscript, ‘A System of Theology,’ underscoring its breadth. Lessing puts the question I am also asking well: “I do not speak of that theology, which makes a part of his philosophy, but of that other one of celestial origin, with one word, the Christian one. In what way can it exist in the head of our philosopher, how is it consonant with the principles of pure reason, what influences did it have on his life as well as on his reflections, and on the strategy of suggestion. That is what I call his theology, about which I say that it is most unknown, but most worthy of attention” (Leibniz, 11:50; quoted in, and translated by, Goldenbaum, “Leibniz as a Lutheran,” 170). 12. Though I will be defending the claim that ‘Examen’ is Leibniz’s own attempt at devising a theology throughout the book. One objection to my reading is that Leibniz dresses his philosophy in Catholic style and doctrine, which he himself does not hold. I will answer this objection in the latter half of this book. 13. I will return to the tenability of these stances to Catholics and Protestants throughout. 14. Although Adams convincingly shows this, it is worth noting that the manuscript eventually received papal approval in the 19th century, or at least a nihil obstat: nothing in the work was contrary to the faith, though some opinions are viewed as confused. Among erroneous positions, a Catholic translator, Broglie, identified his position on original sin and the emanation of the soul from God (Strickland, “The Nineteenth Century Reception,” forthcoming). 15. See A VI 1, 14 for Leibniz’s outline. Antognazza defends her view here: (Trinity, Ch. 5). 16. Lodge also defends this approach (“Eternal”). 17. For his strategy of defense, see (Dascal, “Reason”).

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Introduction

18. And so I will also assume that Leibniz did not hold to a religion of reason akin to atheism. See the following for a defense of such a view: Ross, “Leibniz and the origin of things”; S. Brown, “The regularization of providence in post-Cartesian philosophy.”

Chapter 1

Same Goods

If God created the universe, he must have chosen this universe among others and, if so, this one is best.1 These conditionals form the backbone of the deity’s moral quality:2 namely, his commune with rational beings.3 When Leibniz writes of divine wisdom in 1686 and thereabouts, he often refers to the reason for God’s choice to create this universe or to the details of the divine plan. Leibniz does not defend the deity’s decision as he will in later years.4 His system unfolds, rather, around the infinite perfection of God. The core of his strategy, I think, is to furnish and elicit the right moral disposition.5 This is how he sidesteps objections to the divine nature and the unparalleled perfection of the world in ‘Discours' and ‘Examen.’6 But, first, it helps to see some of his prior worries. In a fragment, uncertainly dated 1684, Leibniz writes of “this Great being” who thinks perfectly, finds his thoughts good, and creates what he finds good (A VI 4, 302, 1514). Wholeness is the pith. This being thinks and creates everything from one complete thought.7 But then Leibniz objects on behalf of “them,” whoever he thinks would contest this image of God (likely Descartes; see ch. 3). They object that God “could have done what he finds good for himself, but not for us” (ibid.). Put again, the wholeness of the divine thought and action do not block the possibility that God created a world that harms us. The Creator’s good may not be the same as creation’s good. Likely predating the first lines of ‘Discours,’ note their kinship: the issue is not divine perfection but its consequences.8 The objectors deny an entailment of one complete, or most perfect, thought, which infers from the deity to creation.9 Let’s call this objection the Sameness of Goods problem (SoG). It will act as a foil to help us see a pivot in Leibniz’s 1686 writings. The problem is establishing that the Creator’s good is our own, or that natural goods are also divine goods.10 This is not a new worry, nor unique to the fragment.11 If it were, the SoG would be an unreliable foil. Leibniz often experiments with ideas in the large library of his manuscripts (Garber, Leibniz, xvii-xviii). If these assays were taken as fixed positions, he would 11

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flip flop between contradictory views often. In my foil, Leibniz declares a well-worn view. But he drops a direct answer in ‘Discours’ for reasons I soon explore. On the related issue whether the divine good differs in kind or degree from natural goods, Leibniz holds firm that they differ by degrees.12 Even for constant beliefs, though, Leibniz advances various arguments from shifting angles considering other positions or arguments. This dynamism is the thinker’s lure, which I am after. So the foil may illumine why Leibniz held familiar views at a given time. As stated in the Introduction, this approach motivates comparing ‘Discours’ with ‘Examen.’ Back to the 1684 fragment. What reason do we have for believing that the Creator’s good is the same as their own? Leibniz answers, . . . he would not be perfect or competent if he did not make everything good for his works also. And I believe that without this, they would not have been good for him or sufficiently good, which is the same, because what would also be good for them would be best, speaking absolutely. (A VI 4, 302, 1514)13

Divine perfection lessens if creation is not good in itself, or good for its creatures. Keep in mind that, for Leibniz, humans must will what appears good, so if appearances lack reality, or are not truly good, then God designed humans to will their own harm (A VI 4, 419, 2355). I return to this claim in later chapters. It is one reason the objection is worrying. Leibniz appeals to the notion of the deity and an element of perfection. Comparing worlds, one that is good for creatures and God is better than one that is only good for God. Dense as this fragment is, and no doubt cursory, Leibniz claims that the divine wholeness must permeate the details. A most perfect creation is also most perfect for its creatures. To see how this objection threatens the cohesion of Leibniz’s scientific project, let’s turn to the start of 1686. A few days before penning ‘Discours,’ or at the same time, Leibniz wrote a fragment pairing a theological harl with a philosophical one, entitled, “Vindicatio Justitiae Divinae et Libertatis humanae, sumta ex consideratione Ideae integrae quam Deus de re creabili habet,” or “Vindication of Divine Justice and Human Freedom undertaken from the consideration of the entire ideas that God has of created things” (A VI 4, 305, 1528). Again short and dense, Leibniz compares freedom with the continuum according to God’s complete thought. His appeal to the divine choice as a basis for reasoning despite ignorance or outstanding problems shifts to the center, while the earlier objection hangs in the air. Theologians ignore how creation depends on their Creator, he observes, just as geometers and physicists ignore that lines are composed of points.14 They reason despite the vexing question of human freedom, in one case, or of the continuum, in the other case. All of them suppose an unresolved problem resolves. Theologians

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assume that created things assume their “entire notions of possible things, that is, ideas, which it cannot be denied are in the Divine Mind before every free decree and existing thing,” yet put aside how their coming into existence depends on the Creator, which requires a complete analysis of the “entire notion” of things (A VI 4, 305, 1528). They cannot know why God created one thing or person rather than another—the mystery of the divine choice to create this world. Likewise, mathematicians and physicists demonstrate properties of lines, shapes, or bodies by supposing indivisible points. The issue now is how the sciences can proceed despite unavoidable ignorance.15 In both texts, Leibniz appeals to the completeness of the divine thought. Natural goodness is at stake in the first; knowledge in the latter. They converge in God’s choice to create this world, which must be perfect and so a basis of reasoning despite ignorance. This parallel forms the locus of the unfinished system of 1686, as I will argue at length. Their thorny intersection comes out in the notion of affection that Leibniz wrestles with in the late 70’s, then seems to assume in his account of love. During this time, he wrote a series of notes as he read Descartes’ De passionibus animae, catalogued by the Akademie editors into a series of manuscripts under the heading, “De affectibus / Ubi de Potentia, Actione, Determinatione.”16 Toward the end of these fragments, as Leibniz parts ways with Descartes’ moral philosophy, he begins with, or arrives at, a common definition of affection (with slight variations): “the determination of the soul to a certain series of thoughts,” especially of the good and bad.17 Human affects, in other words, dispose one to certain trains of thought rather than others. They lead one to think more or less perfect series of thoughts, which means think on more or less of reality. And since Leibniz defines perception as an “affection of the mind,” he means that humans are also disposed to perceive accordingly. So natural goodness is bound up in knowledge since both are matters of perception, and so also of affection. And both relate a rational being to the divine. Whereas Leibniz states an objection and responds in the first fragment, he supposes the character of the divine choice in the second as an excuse for ignorance. His response to the objection is to pronounce a required supposition for the sciences and morality, just as the divine choice allows humans to reason on the basis of supposition generally. In this chapter, I aim to establish the wide reach of SoG. Metaphysics, morality, and theology (and, as a result, physics) come under attack from the misalignment of divine and natural goods. Leibniz cannot resolve the problem outright because it centers on the nature of God’s choice to create this world. Instead, he relies on a moral requirement to assure us that the deity has chosen the best. An ideal love expresses the perfection of the divine choice. From this moral requirement, Leibniz uses the notion of God in his system to canvas the presumed nature

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of the whole universe, which is the subject of the next chapter. After that, I turn to his objectors. MORALLY DISPOSED Although love of God is the highest perfection of rational beings, it is easily passed over in ¶ 4 of ‘Discours.’ It is hard to see how SoG cuts off the chief cardinal virtue, and how so much is enlaced. “For the one who loves,” Leibniz expones, “seeks his satisfaction in the happiness or perfection of the loved object and of its actions” (A VI 4, 306, 1535; AG 37).18 Lovers will the same. It is a certain “disposition” toward the world, others, and God (ibid.), and so depends on how everything relates. And that is where SoG clutters the room, as it were. If God’s goodness is not ours, loving God (or willing the same as him) harms rather than betters us. Even Leibniz’s well-willing contemporary, Malebranche, handles perfection so as to dampen love of God and divine glory.19 And if love is lost or distorted, the unity of the sciences is also given up. The right metaphysics bolsters love, but its rightness is also seen as a result—this study’s refrain. In 1686, love equally justifies metaphysics so that SoG dissolves from the ideal lover. Later in ‘Discours’ (¶ 32), after listing benefits of his views, Leibniz adds that his principles enflame “a divine love” that draws the lover near the source of truth, knowledge, and goodness (A VI 4, 306, 1580–1; AG 63–4). But this aside seems like a convenient benefit rather than a cornerstone. Why think that love of God is more than a conducive byproduct? More, Leibniz does not respond to SoG with his definition of love. The objection holds throughout 1686. As we will see, Leibniz thinks that the lover of God sees that this is the best world, is content, has hope in the future, and so believes that God acts for their good. Rather than deducing God’s moral quality from an abstract notion of the deity, Leibniz exemplifies the moral disposition of the person who loves God as evincing the deity’s moral quality. At best, this strategy forms a moral argument. The onus is on me to show why Leibniz took this route in 1686. Let’s start with some definitions. Love, Friendship, Hope In the years leading up to 1686, Leibniz toys with a definition of affection as a disposition that fixes lines of thought. And, in those notes, he defines love as the “belief,” or “expectation of the good” (A VI 4, 269, 1426). What we now call propositional attitudes are, Leibniz adds, substantive. Then, in ‘Discours,’ love concerns how a person relates to another. If love wills the same as the loved, then the lover thinks in tandem with the loved. And

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Leibniz is keen to stress that love expresses itself in action, which implies that the lover acts toward the same end as the loved.20 More nuance comes from ‘Examen,’ where Leibniz distinguishes charity, friendship, and hope. Once these concepts are defined, we can piece them together with the definition from ‘Discours’ to see the ideal disposition. Love of God is more than a pious motif. “That charity [caritas], or love [dilectio], which is a divine virtue, consists in our love of God above all things and seeking our supreme good in him,” Leibniz writes in ‘Examen’ (A VI 4, 420, 2375). We find in this definition the key move: Those who love identify their good with the good of the loved. The good of another becomes my own, their happiness and perfection mine. In an earlier draft, Leibniz appends, “ . . . and placing our supreme good in him because his perfection and goodness is supreme” (ibid., 2375). The deity’s lofty nature justifies placing our ultimate good in him. The idea sticks in this passage since he goes on to explain why God alone is the proper object of charity. From the abundance of divine perfection, humans ought to find their greatest perfection in communion with him. God is our “ultimate end” as goodness in himself. Leibniz then compares charity with friendship. They differ by the loved object’s degrees of perfection, not by kind. Elsewhere in ‘Examen’ Leibniz writes that the one who loves God, such as the saints and the blessed, is God’s friend (ibid., 2436).21 Among people, there is nothing better than a friend (ibid., 2436), though a true friendship is rare. The analogy is imperfect, though. Someone may know their friend’s good and will it. Less so with the divine good that surpasses finite minds. And saints, as friends of God who have died, will the same as him from their better vantage, which is why the living appeal for their help (A IV 4, 420, 2404). Earthbound friends, on the other hand, still “run the race,” to quote St. Paul (1st Cor. 9.24–27). The divine will must be presumed such that whatever happens is for the best. But the main difference between love of God and loving others is in the loved object’s perfection. Leibniz will not assume God’s good is ours here; the identification becomes the act of loving God. Only so much happiness or perfection can be put in others, so persons cannot identify their happiness with others to the same extent. In Leibniz’s words, For, in general, the nature of that true love which is called ‘a love of friendship’ involves us placing our happiness and perfection in the perfection or happiness of the thing loved, and doing so partially if the thing is of finite perfection (such as when we love children or friends) and entirely if it is of supreme excellence and goodness. (A VI 4, 420, 2375)

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He lists the elements of charity: the lover (1) wills the same as the loved, (2) their object is the loved’s perfection and happiness, and (iii) the other’s perfection and happiness are taken as their own. When the object is absolutely perfect, as with God, the lover can put their entire good in the loved. Human bliss comes about through pursuing the deity’s good as one’s own. Such is charity. Later in ‘Examen,’ Leibniz notes how good works “burst forth into action” from the divine lover, including “charity toward our brother” (A VI 4, 420, 2378–9). Someone cannot love God if they do not love their brother, just as love of God is seen in good works. But Leibniz caveats fraternal (or sororal) love with the claim that, within general benevolence, those who most glorify God and benefit the common good should be preferred. In the proportion above we find a reason for this caveat. Insofar as someone is perfect, their good can be identified with one’s own. Exceeding these bounds suggests that their lack is taken as one’s good, which in turn harms. And since perfection is on a continuum—finite perfections culminating in their infinite form—someone who identifies their good with the deity’s good thereby identify with the hylasmus of absolute perfection. And taking lesser perfections as their good, someone indirectly loves God,22 which brings us to hope. “Hope,” Leibniz contrasts, “is . . . an affection towards God which arises from the consideration not of God’s excellence and perfection,” which is charity, “but of his beneficence towards us as well as from the great goods— especially, eternal life—he promises his friends” (A VI 4, 420, 2375). In other words, when the reason for a person’s affection shifts from the divine nature to the goods God offers, so from the source of goodness to its effects, this person hopes. Hope is a type of love whose object remains God, but the motive changes. The affection arises from an expectation or enjoyment of lesser goods. Christ’s sacrifice grounds the hope of eternal life for believers, though hope is not salvific love for God.23 God’s benefits are the goods he gives—anything that contributes to our perfection and is perceived as such. Someone hopes, then, if they perceive lesser perfections as coming from God, which excites affection toward God. Note that the deity’s beneficence is assumed. Much earlier in ‘Examen,’ Leibniz describes the one who loves God as “persuaded of the very beneficence . . . of the most lovable Lord” and “trust[s] in his benevolence” (A VI 4, 420, 2358). Convinced and trusting, the lover’s love increases or, in Leibniz words, they “are inflamed by the love of God above all things” (ibid., 2357). Taking God’s good as one’s own is described as a rational act (“persuaded”), which I return to shortly, and an act of trust or faith, the subject of the last chapter. What is at issue is not whether God is benevolent, but if someone believes he is. Assuming God wills the best, including rational being’s happiness, couldn’t every event elicit hope as promoting our happiness? Without

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charity, though, it is hard to see why seemingly tragic events can do so. Leibniz grants misery as an imperfection God allows,24 so perhaps not every event in itself can elicit hope. This may be why he ties hope to our future. If someone does not believe that God wills benevolently, there seems to be no basis for hope. For charity and hope, then, other beliefs about God are assumed. These commitments surface in ‘Discours.’ Hope crucially links our enjoyment of lesser perfections with God. Seen in this way, the concept forms a potential bridge between morality and theology, on one side, with the sciences, on the other. Since Leibniz does not develop their connections in these texts, my comments now are conjecture. But one reason to speculate are the robust intersections that Leibniz thinks web together the sciences, humanity, and the universe. He did not isolate disciplines too cleanly and in one argument or commitment many other arguments and commitments are assumed, which we cannot always trace with textual support. Still, especially with Leibniz’s writings, conjecture can run wild, so I will be brief with mine. Leibniz alludes to a moral disposition in ¶ 1 of ‘Discours.’ The more humans know of the universe, he writes, the more goodness is perceived (A VI 4, 306, 1531; AG 35). This explicit link between knowledge and goodness evokes the right disposition toward God, spanning state of mind, perception, and expectations. This is not conjecture. The sciences reveal natural perfection of the universe’s parts and its whole, which dispose humans in a certain way toward God. Knowledge entails an increased sensitivity to natural goods, or God’s benefits, so that (here is the conjecture) the more people know, the more inclined they are to hope. Grounds for hope increase because more perfection is seen, such that the universe is “in complete conformity with what we may have desired” (ibid.). Tentative, then, is the thread from knowledge to hope to charity. I will make a case for why this thread couples ‘Discours’ with ‘Examen’ throughout this study. Leibniz clearly asserts that hope can morph into charity. Returning to his description of hope in ‘Examen,’ he tags on, “ . . . although it can happen that the consideration of God’s benefits also discloses his goodness and perfection to us, and when this happens hope grows into charity” (A VI 4, 420, 2375). Which good excites affection toward God separates hope from charity. If the good is our own, that is, the motive is our own good, then one hopes. That person loves God due to how God benefits them in the present or future. (If the future, one may love God from fear of hell or desire of heaven.) But hope slips into charity when the divine nature is expressed through the benefits one enjoys. The source of our affection, not its object which remains the same, shifts from the object’s effects to the object itself. An example: One loves the artist because of the artist’s skill instead of from enjoying the art, which results from the artist’s skill. The quality of the art may move one to enjoy

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the artist’s skill since the mark of the latter is in the former.25 Similarly, hope leads to charity. My example is imperfect, though, since one may enjoy an artwork without elicited affection toward the artist, whereas hope has God as its object from the enjoyment of his benefits. This is how the perfecting of knowledge differs from hope. Again, hope and charity have the same object, but what prompts their affection differs. When natural goods and benefits express the divine nature, by which Leibniz seems to mean that one’s disposition toward God comes about from God himself instead of the ways he benefits us, hope becomes charity. Put again, lesser goods prompt affection insofar as they express who God is, not from how they perfect us. There is a shift in perception and the cause of our happiness and pleasure. The shift is key to explaining how someone wills the same as God despite misery, tragedy, or martyrdom. For my purposes, it is also basic to understanding why Leibniz relies on the divine mystery as the core of his system in 1686.26 Let’s circle back to SoG to weigh what Leibniz has claimed in these paragraphs of ‘Examen.’ Why think the Creator wills the same good as creatures? Not from properties of the divine nature. Better to ask why creatures identify their good with God’s when they love him. It is up to rational beings to will the same as God and their virtue to do so. As we will see in chapter 6, salvation depends on it. The lover does not perceive natural goods, then infer God’s will behind them. With love and hope, perfection is perceived such that affection toward God grows. Leibniz assumes that nature expresses divine beneficence. The wrinkle is that only the lover seems aware of the fullness of God’s perfection. While in 1684 he appeals to the requirements of a most perfect being,27 now he appeals to virtue. His “theology of love” assumes that God’s goodness is the same as ours.28 By sifting how to take God’s perfection as our own, we may get a sense of why Leibniz makes this assumption. Willing the Other’s Good SoG cuts to the heart of ‘Discours’ by putting in question God’s moral quality, or commune with rational beings. But there is another problem Leibniz faced earlier that threatened to rend his psychology and morality. Between the first months of 1677 and those of 1678, Leibniz wrote “Elementa Verae Pietatis, sive de Amore Dei super omnia,” that is, “Elements of True Piety, or Love of God above all else.” Akin to 1686, he defines, “To love is to delight in the happiness of another, or to take pleasure in the happiness of another” (A VI 4, 256, 1357). Here as elsewhere, love is a disposition or tendency toward perfection, happiness, or pleasure.29 But he also puts forward and responds to what Gregory Brown (“Disinterested Love”) calls the conflict of motives problem.30 It surfaces from three commitments: (i) humans only act on the

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basis of their own good because (ii) what is good contributes to one’s own pleasure or happiness; (iii) love is the desire for someone else’s good for its own sake. The conflict is between the first two claims and the last: If love is the desire for a good other than our own but we only act for our own good, which pleases or perfects us, we cannot love. Humans may desire another’s good, but only act for their own.31 In “Elementa,” Leibniz distinguishes what is good propter aliud (for the sake of something else) and what is good per se (in itself), which solves the conflict. Some goods contribute to our pleasure or happiness by mediation, or propter aliud, others through themselves, per se. Brown observes that, for Leibniz, humans do not want pleasure or happiness in itself, but as an effect of an object (Brown, “Disinterested,” 278).32 No one acts merely to derive pleasure, but for objects or ends that please. More, acting for another’s good need not exclude acting for my own good. And so someone else’s good can become my own when perceiving their good is good per se. Perceiving does not mediate this good (otherwise every good would be mediated). The origin of pleasure is a good and it pleases either due to another good or from its own goodness. But a last caveat is that the other’s good must align with one’s own. Prudence calls us to tailor actions for another with thoughts of oneself, which coheres with Leibniz’s claim in ‘Examen’ that one identifies their happiness or perfection with a finite being according to their perfection. The virtuous perceive divine perfections in their neighbor (Brown, “Leibniz,” 279). Charity and hope take the step of motivating love for another from love of God. That is, loving another become an affect of divine love. Charity is loving God born from his own goodness, or per se, whereas hope loves God from fear of punishment, desire for eternal life, or from other benefits—in short, propter aliud. Passages quoted above show that someone cannot love God in isolation from others, yet it is not obvious how charity affects neighborly love, nor how love for one’s neighbor stems from charity. These claims somehow coalesce in action (or so I argue). One major clue is the proportion between putting my happiness in an infinite being as opposed to putting it in a finite one. Identifying my good with God’s will never leave me wanting. Unsaid so far is how one prompts the other. The conflict of motives problem has two sides, both of which resolve with the same distinction. But this distinction cannot mean the same thing when applied to finite beings and an infinite one. A lot depends on perception. On one side, someone wills another finite being’s good as their own. They perceive another rational being’s increase in perfection, which perfects the perceiver. On the other side, an infinite being is the object of affection. The same should be said about the deity, yet God’s perfection is absolute. It holds constant (Hostler, Moral, 92). So the distinction between good per se and propter aliud seems, at best, an analogy for how God is the object of

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our affection. Infinitely perfect, God is set apart. His good is willed de facto, it seems, since everything results from his choice of this world. Nor is his perfection perceived as other beings. What does it mean, then, to put our happiness or perfection in him? Love of God, or charity, arises from contemplating divine perfection (A VI 4, 420, 2386). Leibniz describes what he means by this claim four times in ‘Examen.’ Two of these passages are portraits of what it looks like to put happiness in God. The first comes after Leibniz stresses that God is not sheer force, but a legislator, and so has a moral quality. As law-giver, God “demands nothing from his subjects than that their souls be sincerely moved, endowed with right intention, and persuaded of the very beneficence, the perfect justice, and the beauty and goodness of the most lovable Lord of all” (A VI 4, 420, 2357). Much later, when turning to the “fruits of regeneration,” Leibniz repeats the lover’s persuasion that God is good, loves good persons, and arranges all for their benefit (A VI 4, 420, 2378–9). Unlike love of neighbor, then, someone who loves God must believe and trust in God’s moral quality and, especially, that the divine plan results in the good for those who love. Contemplation is perceiving a certain concept of God from firm persuasion. Leibniz goes on to describe firm persuasion as a certain disposition. Note in the passage below that the mental couples with action and the lover has a stance toward the past and future: Indeed, those who believe these things, fix them deep inside their mind and express them in their life, never grumble about the divine will, knowing that all things must turn to the good for those who love God, and just as they are content with the past, so they endeavor, with regard to the future, to do whatever they judge to be consistent with the presumed will of God. (A VI 4, 420, 2358)

The phrase, “fix deep inside their minds” or penitus animo infigunt, refers to a resolution or, as in Psalm 68.3 of the Latin Vulgate, to stand fast or firmly. The soul remains constant, even with struggles and tragedies (see A VI 4, 420, 2378–9), and this disposition is seen in how the lover acts. Whatever happens is seen as divinely willed so that grumbling about the past implies a lack of love for God. Similarly, how to act presumes the divine will. Influencing both is the belief that everything turns for the good. If humans were firmly persuaded in this way, Leibniz remarks, “they would unquestionably live happily” (A VI 4, 420, 2358). So contemplating God results in a conviction that affects human happiness and guides action. Again, SoG serves as a nice foil for setting the stakes. If the divine good is not the same as ours, the one who loves God would be in error about the universe and potentially harming themselves. They would err in believing that the universe is arranged for the good of those who love. This belief is

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not confined to the divine plan for creation because it implicates the nature of perfection, which Leibniz uses as synonymous with reality.33 A notion of perfection that lacks a moral quality impoverishes metaphysics and distorts the sciences, as we will see in chapter 3. More locally, Leibniz parallels the disposition of rational beings, and their sequences of thoughts, with the natural order. From the passages above, he asserts the maximum alignment of thought and nature in love of God. The lover wills the same as the loved, after all, every event that occurs expresses the divine will, and nature expresses God’s choice of this world rather than another. Thus, the lover wills existence. The conflict of motives problem has an analogue when God is the loved object. Leibniz’s main concern in 1686 and thereabouts is distinguishing the Creator from creation as the loved object. This worry is distinct from his later writings in which establishing divine goodness is at center stage. Or, said again, Leibniz affirms divine goodness for the sake of distinguishing the sum total of natural perfection from absolute perfection. The latter sets God apart as God. SoG is an objection to the personal communion between God and creation.34 Only from their clear separation can someone contemplate God qua God and be disposed toward creation and act in a certain way; otherwise, one merely abstracts toward the the heights and depths of nature. The danger is that divine love becomes acquiescence to whatever happens instead of affirming them as appointed for our good. The former fails to set God apart as supreme legislator. I will return to this point from various angles repeatedly since Leibniz does. LOVER & GOD PART Leading up to 1686, Leibniz vacillates on where to begin with God. During his stay in Paris (1672–4), he experimented with Spinoza’s tact of unveiling a metaphysics by demonstrating from the divine nature.35 And he did not wholly abandon this approach after moving to Hanover. By 1686, he changed footing. God is a “posit,” as one manuscript puts it,36 a widely accepted position by the holy fathers and philosophers. His definition of God, in other words, is not self-evident. There are better and worse notions, which can be seen by their consequences. Leibniz likely became jarringly aware of these differences when reading Descartes and Spinoza closely. And, in his scrawl from about 1684, he states a consequence from the nature of God that he wants to ensure: namely, that God’s good is the same as ours. I argued above that the divine lover infers that consequence. To gain a better sense of how Leibniz argues with love, I will make two points: First, Leibniz defines perfection so as to support his claims about the divine lover. All of nature points one to God’s goodness and care, assuming a certain definition of perfection.

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Second, one reason Leibniz revives substantial forms in "Discours" is to distinguish God from nature while preserving their relation. Stances are taken to give room for an ideal lover. Leibniz means to resolve SoG, that is, from a moral argument based on an ideal. The mystery of God’s choice to create, which the divine lover submits to, forms the heart of his sketched system. In response to his unnamed objectors, Leibniz appeals to the attractive results of a moral ideal, including how well these views mesh with orthodoxy and received opinions, resolve dispute, impassion, and engender love for God. His argument is circular and non-reductive insofar as it posits what it intends to conclude: namely, certain views of God, reality, knowledge, and humanity. It is the consequences and affects of his posits that support them and, since he has moved away from deducing from primitive terms (at least in these writings), there are no self-evident truths from which to begin. Perfect God, Perfect World “God is an absolutely perfect being,” “the most perfect substance,” one, eternal, present everywhere, and omniscient (A VI 4, 306, 1531; AG 35; A VI 4, 420, 2357). These definitions from ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ are as close as Leibniz comes to defining perfection in these manuscripts. Perfection is predicated of God. Before and after, Leibniz explicitly defines perfection, and his handling of the concept in 1686 meshes with these definitions. But there are reasons he left out a definition. Negatively put, he was not carrying out a demonstration, an argument from simple terms to complex terms that ends with certainty, or an analysis, which enumerates simple terms from complex ones. Instead, he strings together hypotheses from an ideal notion of God, according to which perfection is understood. The success of these links hinges on how they preserve and engender love by maximizing God’s glory.37 It helps to see how Leibniz defined perfection when specifying its undefined role. He gives a succinct definition in the fragment, “Notationes generalis,” written between 1683 and 1685: “Perfection . . . is pure reality, that is, what is positive and absolute in essences,” and imperfection, he adds, “consists of limitation” (A VI 4, 131, 556). Again, in “Rationale fidei catholicae,”38 roughly dated 1685, he defines perfection as “pure positivity” (A VI 4, 409, 2307). If goodness is a perfection, and so part of reality, someone may ask whether creation’s goodness is the same as the deity’s. Orthodoxy may suggest no. It seems shocking to say that God and creation share the same reality, which follows from equating their good (at least in kind, if not amount). So those who stress God’s transcendence may be the voice behind SoG. With this worry in our back pocket, let’s turn to the opening of ‘Discours.’ In place of a definition, Leibniz proposes a criterion, or test, for discerning

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perfections among the many predicates on display. Perfections have a highest degree, while non-real predicates do not. Nature has several limited perfections; God has them all, unified and to the highest degree. ‘Discours’ opens, The most widely accepted and meaningful notion we have of God is expressed well enough in these words, that God is an absolutely perfect being; yet the consequences of these words are not sufficiently considered. And, to penetrate more deeply into this matter, it is appropriate to remark that there are several entirely different perfections in nature, that God possesses all of them together, and that each of them belongs to him in the highest degree. (A VI 4, 1531; AG 35)

Leibniz begins with an apt definition of God that many accept. His comment about the “consequences of these words” likely anticipates his criticisms of “some Moderns” to come or the inexhaustibility of absolute reality. I doubt he is censuring past thinkers. These consequences may frame the entire treatise, prompting its first editor to call it the “Discourse on Divine Perfection.”39 What he goes on to develop—the rule of perfection, its principles, and the metaphysical, epistemic, and physical stances—may result from his definition of God as couched in the criterion of perfection, which form a moral disposition. His criterion aligns with love of God in embryo. God is posited as an absolutely perfect being, yet Leibniz does not name his attributes from that definition. He defines a mark of perfection that picks out natural perfections, which then carry over into the godhead. As I argue in the third chapter, he corrects notions of the deity and perfection that leave out a moral quality. A line separates perfections from other natural properties, yet some Moderns draw the line in the wrong place. “A fairly sure test for being a perfection,” Leibniz continues, “is that forms or natures that are not capable of a highest degree are not perfections,” so number and figure are not (A VI 4, 306, 1531; AG 35). Knowledge, power, and goodness can have a highest degree and, within the deity, lack limits. Since reality is perfection, every real natural attribute has a divine counterpart. If goodness meets the criterion, then, SoG resolves. Perfection’s criterion acts as a benchmark for the unfolding system. This can be seen throughout ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen,’ and many other writings, when Leibniz appeals to positions that strengthen divine glory or his praiseworthiness. I will point out these moments as we come to them. There are requirements based on God’s worthiness. In ‘Il n’y a qu’un seul Dieu,’ a fragment jotted down shortly before 1686, Leibniz observes that the Trinity and Incarnation—the fundamental Christian mysteries—must be explained “in such a way that it does not class with the divine perfections or the honor due to the supreme being” (A VI 4, 396, 2211; LGR 62). Although the Christian mysteries defy human comprehension (they cannot be clearly and distinctly

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perceived), the criterion of perfection weeds out better and worse doctrine.40 Such explanations must prompt and justify worship. Not only metaphysics and theology, but every science must ensure that the deity is the proper object of our love. When humans realize their perfection, they become more attuned to the universal harmony of the “most lovable lord.” Earlier, I noted how Leibniz portrays the ideal lover of God. This is hypothesized as the basis of his theology in ‘Examen.’ It does not resolve SoG. In ¶ 1 of ‘Discours,’ Leibniz uses a similar strategy. After stating the criterion of perfection, he writes, “ . . . the more we are enlightened and informed of God’s works, the more we will be disposed to find them excellent and entirely satisfying to anything we could have desired” (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 35).41 Unlike the passages in ‘Examen,’ where he supposes knowledge rather than ignorance, there is a positive proportion between knowledge and the disposition toward creation and God. Leibniz grants ignorance of the whole, but suggests degrees toward that ideal, which result in affection toward God. The more someone knows, the more they perceive perfection, which means they are disposed to affirm God’s absolute perfection as seen in his choice to create this world. Hope fits nicely here. Knowledge may slide into hope as the Creator becomes our object of affection, though Leibniz does not say as much. What he does say: the more someone knows more about creation, their affection toward God grows. Knowledge primes one to affirm the deity’s excellence. Affects from knowing clue Leibniz in to the truth. Something is lacking in scientific programs that result in indifference. This awareness comes out clearly in the dialogues Leibniz wrote over six years ago where his characterized Moderns lack passion for life and verve.42 Their definition of perfection is one culprit. Leibniz offers an alternative whereby knowing disposes the knower toward God in a certain way. The mark of the creative act lodges in humans so that knowledge of the world has moral bearing: to know the world is to realize perfection.43 This positive proportion differs from the moral ideal in “Examen.” While knowledge is less an issue in his theological draft, these strategies converge in perceiving perfection, which is how another’s good (including God’s) becomes my own. To stress, identifying another’s good with my own is to perceive their perfection in a way that simultaneously perfects myself. If the lover knew the divine plan, she would know it aligned with wisdom and desire. Still, the lover perceives the world as if this were known, and so perceives perfection in everything that happens in a way that perfects herself. Knowledge is analogous. Someone perceives how God intended creation to be by learning more of it. A cost for the moral exigency behind a scientific program is the potential collapse of God’s transcendence. Perceiving perfection is at once perceiving natural and divine perfections since they are the same ‘stuff.’ Likewise,

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our own perfection and tendency toward perfection is divine. There are two dangers here. First, the distinction between Creator and creation amounts to the relation of a sum and its parts. Humans are pieces of the deity or the Creator is the first cause whose reality disseminates in its effects. (The worry: Spinozism.) If this is so, God has no moral quality, which is the second danger. God’s immanence threatens his relation to creation as its legislator. If I am always already perceiving perfection, that is, God, and by perceiving share in that perfection, then my perceiving in itself is divine and excellent. There is nothing for me to do and little cause for God to bait me with rewards or punishments. But morality requires a threshold at which I am properly disposed to God or not. Otherwise, there is not a meaningful relation between us and the Creator. For this purpose, Leibniz revives substantial forms. Revival of Substantial Forms In ¶ 8 of ‘Discours,’ Leibniz distinguishes God from creatures according to individual substance. This leads to his commending substantial forms in ¶ 10 since, “without it, one cannot properly know the first principles or elevate our minds sufficiently well to the knowledge of incorporeal natures and the wonders of God” (A VI 4, 306, 1543; AG 42–43). Garber argues that Leibniz’s adoption of substantial forms in ‘Discours’ is less a revival than an extension of a theological conviction to natural philosophy (Body, 225). This is one instance of a larger adjustment in how Leibniz reconciled the sciences with faith. Another is the grounding of physical concepts, such as the equality principle, on the divine choice (Garber, Body, 244–5). Pivotal for Leibniz in the latter half of the 70’s is a dawning awareness that Hobbesian physics and Spinozism undermine piety, and his adoption of substantial forms in ‘Discours’ exemplifies his corrective. Garber is less concerned with Leibniz’s moral and theological stances on their own, which is what I now take up, yet his insights guide my reading. Much earlier, Leibniz tried out various definitions of substances to explain the Eucharist, the major Christian practice of taking a bite of bread and a sip of wine as the body and blood of Jesus that was sacrificed on the cross to remove sin.44 In ‘Examen,’ as he did at times before, he adopts substantial forms for this purpose. There he defines substantial form as the “primary power of acting,” whereas matter is “the primary power of being acted on or resisting” (A VI 4, 420, 2423). Garber and others have dealt at length with his notion of body during these years, but I want to briefly observe Leibniz’s explanation of external symbols, which seems to conflict with his claim that the bread and wine have their substantial forms replaced by the body and blood of Christ while their accidents remain the same. That is, substantial form allows for a

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duality that Leibniz wrestles with in various ways in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ and that is at the heart of taking another’s good as one’s own. If the bread and wine are the body and blood of Jesus, it seems to follow that the Eucharist requires both. But Leibniz finds the Church prudent to require only the bread and to replace “crumbly bread” with “another kind” that holds together better (A VI 4, 420, 2427). Wine, as a liquid, can easily be divided and spilled, so is prudently left out. Their reason was to avoid offense, which depends on the congregation. Leibniz adds, “It is at least certain that no indignity can befall Christ and his most sacred body, and that whatever indignity does occur does so only to the visible symbols” (ibid.). By adopting substantial forms, rather than extension, as the nature of body (inclusive of bread and wine), Leibniz separates the reality of the ritualized bread and wine from what is perceived or sensed about these bodies. He goes on to say that Christians in his day identify the bread and wine more closely with Christ in the honor (more generally, affection) they show toward these bodies than the ancients did. Their changed perceptions thereby change how prudence dictates the ritual be done. Substantial forms permeate all creation, however, and so we may wonder how distinct the bread and wine are from other bodies. Leibniz separated them by claiming that their substantial form can be replaced by God with Jesus’ body and blood. Yet his caveat that these rituals depend on the congregation leads to a dicier account. Early Christians had simpler forms of worship since their adoration came easily. Some among them had walked with Jesus or seen him after his death. Since then, zeal has cooled and external signs were needed to elicit adoration. Leibniz explains, For although he is equally present at all times and in all places, in substance as well as in assistance, nevertheless, because it is impossible for us to direct our mind expressly to him at all times and in all places, and to give him perpetual signs of honor, it is for prudence to designate certain times, places, causes, and occasions in the ordination of divine worship. (A VI 4, 420, 2429)

God is immanent as the Creator of all things. His very reality is present as is his active assistance through the Holy Spirit.45 But we cannot perceive or contemplative him at all times. Rituals form as a result. The purpose of the Eucharist, instituted by Jesus, is to “inflame divine love and to demonstrate and nourish charity” (ibid.), which also welcomes the sincere participant into the Christian mysteries. The difference between the bread and wine from other bodies depends on the perceiver taking part in the sacrament rather than merely an unseen miracle. And since the early Christians did not need this ritual, the disposition engendered by the Eucharist (love of God) can occur

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in other ways. It is as if, due to the nature of substantial form, any body can elicit the perception of divine perfection. The brief foray into Leibniz’s account of the Eucharist reveals a dual role for substantial forms: to distinguish God from creation and relate them. How rational beings perceive divine perfection is not straightforward, partly because it relies on affection, partly from a reliance on how much (and how well) rational beings know. These dependencies converge in perception, but not in a polished way. Before these claims occupy us, let’s see Leibniz’s reasons for affirming substantial forms in ‘Discours.’ After explaining miracles and God’s will for goods in themselves and apparent evils for the sake of a resulting good, the subjects of ¶ 7, Leibniz needs to distinguish the actions of God from creatures. He declared God’s exhaustive providence, so how do humans act as more than instruments of God? His first step distinguishes created substances by claiming that actions and passions are proper to a substance, subjects contain all their predicates, and a subject is a substance when it exclusively contains all its predicates (A VI 4, 306, 1539–41; AG 40–1). For now, the metaphysics is less important than the motive: a subject contains all its predicates, and so a substance contains all its relations, so that, by definition, a created substance cannot be God since their predicates are not identical. Set apart, Leibniz now relates them in ¶ 11. From his containment theory of substance, he infers that a substance must contain a relation to all the events of the universe, past, present, and future. The oft-quoted passage: “Every substance is like a complete world and like a mirror of God or of the whole universe, which each one expresses in its own way” (A VI 4, 306, 1542; AG 42). Leibniz then remarks that divine glory is consequently multiplied by however many substances there are. Here is our first example of an appeal to praiseworthiness that comes from his criterion of perfection. A basic motive for this view is that God’s glory increases, just as absolute perfection requires. But note the crucial link that I dealt with above: Leibniz pairs the perception or knowledge of creatures to the “infinite perception or knowledge” of God. Rational creatures mirror God’s activity by perceiving or knowing the universe. This commitment enables humans to relate with God morally, as we will see. In the second fragment with which I began this chapter, Leibniz noted that some sciences can proceed on the assumption that underlying problems resolve. Theologians can assume that human’s free will coheres with divine providence just as geometer assumes the problem of the continuum resolves. Leibniz writes almost identically in ¶ 10 of ‘Discours’ that substantial form is one of these concepts tainted with mystery and problems. He writes the line quoted earlier that substantial forms are necessary to have knowledge of first principles and to elevate our minds, then goes on,

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Just as a geometer does not need to burden his mind with the famous labyrinth of the composition of the continuum, there is no need for any moral philosopher and even less need for a jurist or statesman to trouble himself with the great difficulties involves in reconciling free will and God’s providence. (A VI 4, 306, 1543; AG 43)

It is fitting that he refers to the reconciliation of human free will with providence. Substantial form concerns the activity of substances. Note, too, that Leibniz presumes that his earlier claims do not resolve the problems involved, nor avoid “paradox.” Requirements of first philosophy and the elevation of our mind prompt him to retain substantial forms. He seems to imply that the basic metaphysical concept harbors mystery, or that its perfection is too lofty to contain in a primitive term. Like his definition of God, it is provisional and supported by its affects. Using SoG as a foil, I have argued that Leibniz adopts two distinct strategies in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ that share a basis in love. The former appeals to how knowledge elicits an affection toward God; the latter details the affects of an ideal lover. Rational beings, at base, should be disposed toward God and nature in a way that exceeds the limits of their comprehension. In both texts, Leibniz assumes that divine perfection as well as the perfection of the whole universe cannot be grasped by finite minds. He seems to resign the resolution of SoG to a moral argument insofar as humans cannot comprehend the sameness of God’s good with our own. But his strategies converge in a view of perception that I have as of yet anticipated. His moral argument hinges on the identification of God’s good with my own, which assumes and cultivates a perception of perfection. And so knowledge seems assumed, affective, and a result of such a disposition. It is to these claims that I now turn. NOTES 1. What separates mere possibility from actuality is what contributes to the best (for a summary of Leibniz’s metaphysics during these years, see Schepers’ Introduction; A VI 4, “Einleitung,” LXIV). 2. Hostler (Leibniz’s Moral Philosophy) confesses that “moral quality” is “one of the more obscure parts in Leibniz’s ethical system” (pg. 66). He goes on to name right and obligation the two major qualities. While this may be so, he does not explain why Leibniz frequently ascribes “moral quality” to God throughout ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ 3. While so, Rateau notes four possible interpretations of Leibniz’s claim that this world is best. The first three are from Murray and Greenberg (“Leibniz on the Problem of Evil”): (1) maximizing the happiness of creatures, (2) achieves the most reality, (3) combines the simplest laws with the richest phenomena, and, Rateau

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(“Perfection, harmonie et choix divin chez Leibniz”) adds, (4) the most intelligible order in which everything contributes to universal harmony. These differences are less distinct in 1686, as can be seen in the writings cited below. 4. That is, he supposes the infinite perfection of the divine choice and argues from the supposition rather than defending it directly. His strategy in ‘Discours’ will be dealt with throughout this book. One implication, if I am right, is that he uses the concept of divine choice in his system differently than he will in later years, though I set this question aside. My argument does not depend on this claim, except insofar as later writings are used to read into ‘Discours’ or ‘Examen.’ My interpretation restricts itself largely to the writings before or contemporaneous with those of 1686. 5. I agree with Hostler (Moral) that Leibniz’s “system of metaphysics in particular can be seen, in many respects, as providing a conceptual framework for the system of morals” (pg. 10). Leibniz’s metaphysical tenets in 1686 are also motivated by their “utility” for morality and theology. He finds they follow from a moral ideal, or so I will argue. Perhaps Hostler is getting at this when he writes, “Leibniz’s metaphysical system, at even its most fundamental level, thus has a definite ethical purpose” (pg. 16). 6. Schepers suggests a reading along these lines when he observes how, in “Elementae verae pietatis” (A VI 4, 256), Leibniz’s treatment of the claim that God created the best of all possible worlds brings us to central concepts of his metaphysics, such as possibility and existence (A VI 4, “Einleitung,” LXV-LXVI). This is affirmed in other writings around this time as well, many of which will be cited throughout this study. 7. In a note on metaphysics (date unknown, but the Akademie editors put it in his middle years), Leibniz similarly states that God first thinks what is good, then acts from that thought (A VI 4, 248, 1349). He describes creation along these lines to Arnauld as well, though qualifying what he means. 8. Schepers encourages students of Leibniz to read these shorter writings surrounding "Discours" as revealing an underlying, coherent intention (A VI 4, “Einleitung,” LXIV). 9. In an earlier writing from 1670–71, “Von der Allmacht und Allwissenheit Gottes und der Freiheit des Menschen,” Leibniz seems to grant an unjust distribution of earthly goods, which is leveled out in the rewards and punishments of the afterlife (A VI 1, N. 20, pg. 537). The concession is made again in Confessio philosophi (A VI 3, 7, 117). Leibniz repeats this levelling in “Positiones” (A VI 4, 418, 2351). Problems such as this depend on the sameness of earthly goods with those of the afterlife. They must be weighed on the same scale. In the last two chapters, I look at how these commitments inform Leibniz’s treatment of original sin and salvation. 10. For comparable passages on divine goodness in his Theodicy, see (G VI 116–117). 11. A VI 3, 80, 574–579. On the “univocity thesis,” or that God’s perfections are the same as creation’s, see Adams, Leibniz, Ch. 4. See also his “Priority of the Perfect.” 12. See endnote 10. 13. Compare with Theophilus’ remark in the third of Leibniz’s dialogues, written around 1679 (A VI 4, 399, 2232).

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14. Leibniz makes a similar point in ¶ 10 of ‘Discours’ (A VI 4, 306, 1543; AG 43). I return to this point in the second section of this chapter. 15. Görland argues that the concept, God, is a basic, informing truth of Leibniz’s system (Görland, Der Gottesbegriff bei Leibniz). 16. Schepers claims in his introduction that we find in these notes a key piece of the monadology: namely, that one perceives the maximum perfection (A VI 4, “Einleitung,” LXVI). 17. See (A VI 4, 269, pgs. 1427-28, 1430, 1433-34, 1436). 18. Leibniz carries this claim into “The Principles of Nature and of Grace,” in 1714 (PNG 16) and his Theodicy (G VI 27). See (Adams, “Justice,” pgs. 203–207). 19. To be addressed in Ch. 3. 20. Assuming the lover perceives the perfection of the loved, which the loved also perceives. If the object of love mistakes their imperfection for perfection, then the lover may will differently. 21. See, also, A VI 4, 420, 2410–2 & 2432. 22. Indirectly loving God, however, is not charity since someone must identify their good with God’s. Yet Leibniz also holds that pagans may have charity when they recognize God as an absolutely perfect being and identify their perfection in him (A VI 4, 398, 2220–1; A I 4, pgs. 78–9; A I 6, pgs. 107–8). Adams notes that this may butt Leibniz up against orthodoxy (“Justice, Happiness, and Perfection in Leibniz’s City of God,” 205–206). Leibniz takes this up in Theodicy as well (G VI 95–8). 23. See A VI 4, 420, 2371, 2374, 2432. 24. More on this in Ch. 4. 25. Leibniz declares that the mark of the craftsman is in his work in ¶ 2 of ‘Discours’ (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36). 26. More on the role of mystery in the latter half of this book. 27. A move he makes again in ‘Discours,’ as we will see shortly. 28. He motivates this assumption by adopting a traditional and orthodox notion of God (see A VI 4, 420, 2357). 29. Leibniz often defines pleasure as a feeling for perfection or an increase in perfection (see A VI 4, 492, 2760 and A VI 4, 399, 2234; Brown, “Disinterested,” 293; Grua, Justice and the Charity of the Wise, 48). 30. This problem was posed in an earlier text on jurisprudence (see A VI 1, 12, 459–65). It was also mentioned by Broad (Leibniz). 31. Hostler (Moral) writes that the conflict “forms the crux of [Leibniz’s] whole ethical system” (pg. 47). 32. Hostler (Moral) observes this point as well (pg. 49). 33. See Adams, Leibniz, Ch. 6, for a discussion of perfection. 34. Rateau (Leibniz on the Problem of Evil) notes that Leibniz begins moving toward a more personal conception of God after 1673 and Garber (Body, 2009) likewise sees an adjusted notion of the deity after Leibniz’s close engagement with Spinoza in the later half of the 1670’s. 35. See (Garber, Body, Ch. 8; Kulstad, “Exploring Middle Ground”). 36. See A VI 4, 418; LGR 236–9.

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37. It is worth noting that divine justice is not as prominent in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ as it will become in later writings. This is not to deny that divine justice has a role in these writings, but that Leibniz does not infer from God’s perfection to the excellence of the “City of God” as he will later on (see Adams, “Justice,” 201). 38. This is the second draft’s shortened title. It originally was “Rationale Fidei Catholicae, in quo brevi specimine ostenditur, dogmata catholica magis rationi consentire, quam sectarum quarumcunque.” 39. See (Strickland, “Discourse on Metaphysics”) 40. This adds to Antognazza’s discussion of the Christian mysteries as meaningful and lacking contradiction (“Est-il possible”). They must also cohere with divine perfection. An observation of hers that I will return to is that there are degrees of knowledge and of ignorance, and so ignorance has a positive role. 41. A nearly identical proportion is stated in a shorter manuscript on God’s freedom: the more rational beings penetrate matters, the more they are satisfied that God created the most perfect universe (A VI 4, 273, 1453). 42. See the opening of Leibniz’s early dialogue and the Marquis’ skepticism throughout (A VI 4, 400). 43. See (Brown, “Disinterested Love,” 293). 44. Many commentators have written on Leibniz’s handling of the Eucharist, so my remarks are brief. See, especially, (Antognazza, Leibniz on the Trinity and the Incarnation; Backus, “Leibniz’s Concept of Substance and his Reception of John Calvin’s Doctrine of the Eucharist”; Fouke, “Metaphysics and the Eucharist in the Early Leibniz”; Laurynas, “Leibniz’s Physical Explanation of Real Presence”). For a Leibnizian reflection on the Eucharist, see (Grumett, “Blondel, Modern Catholic Theology, and the Leibnizian Eucharistic Bond”). 45. See chapter 6.

Chapter 2

Light of Souls

Writing to Princess Elizabeth in 1678, Leibniz affirms that metaphysics is the same as logic “because, in effect, Metaphysics is natural theology, and the same God who is the source of all goods is also the principle of all knowledges [connoissances]” (A II 1, 187b, 662).1 Metaphysics and natural theology equate from God’s creation: the origin of goods is the principle of knowledge. The lover sees that our good is the same as God’s, but this seems to dispose them to perceiving nature better, and so knowing more.2 Rational activity expresses God so that perceiving more clearly and distinctly perfects the person,3 elicits affection toward the Creator, and increases awareness of divine perfection.4 On the other hand, a certain concept of God is required to love him. A concept of divine perfection emerges from knowledge, yet is also assumed. How must the lover know God, how is he known, and where does this fit in Leibniz’s system? I argue that Leibniz groups his answers around a theory of perception.5 A foray into Leibniz’s scientific program prefaces my argument since it displays the religious and moral threads of knowledge. Around 1685, though the date is unknown, Leibniz drafted, “Rationale fidei Catholicae contra omnis generis sectas.”6 The editors of the Akademie edition tell us that this short piece joins a series of writings that defend the Catholic church, which culminate in ‘Examen’ (A VI 4, 408, 2302). A weighty motif here and elsewhere is that the sciences ought to advance Christianity. Leibniz observes that humans see divine governance in history7 and true philosophy makes the strongest case for the “truth of our religion.” His reason: philosophy “leads us to the thought [cognitionem] of the most perfect substance” (ibid.). Arguably, his criterion of perfection is meant to do as much.8 But the sciences are not promoting piety as he expects. “I see many for whom the more learning they have, so much less piety they have, the more knowledge [scientia] they clarify, so much less faith they grant” (ibid.). Something is off. A main motive in Leibniz’s system of 1686 is to correct a lack in prevailing notions of God and nature,9 and he does so by centering his system on love of God.10 33

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Confusion in the sciences results from this lack in notions of God and nature, too. Leibniz opposes sects “of all kinds,” even those outside Christianity proper, and the sciences are marred by selfish ambition and disorder. Between April and October of 1686, Leibniz wrote two pieces canvasing a project on a General Science, part of a program for unifying and coordinating every scientific discipline (understood to include all endeavors for knowledge) for the sake of the common good.11 One piece he titled, “Nouvelles Ouvertures,” the other the editors named, ‘Recommandation pour instituer la science générale.’12 He begins the first by listing the advantages in recent discoveries and inventions for “those who love the common good” (A VI 4, 160, 686), and, elsewhere, he adds that these evince God’s favor for their age (A VI 4, 204, 952). He goes further in ‘Recommandation’ by declaring that all “visible things” should contribute to mankind’s happiness (A VI 4, 161, 692). Again, in another draft, he writes that the end of every science is “serving our happiness.” But, he observes, they hardly do so. He compares their progress to a group of troops tripping over one another at night (ibid., 694). Scientific advances cannot endure without the right method. Bereft, curiosity falls into “indifference and, finally, into ignorance” (A VI 4, 160, 686). In their present state, one may despair that no good will come from knowledge gained (A VI 4, 204, 957).13 The main goal of his General Science is organizing the pursuit and application of knowledge, which sustains and nourishes the sciences by cultivating and channeling affects (such as love). Affection has a role in his program. In the lengthier, more polished draft of ‘Recommandation,’ Leibniz describes the kind of person needed for his project. Think back on the portraits of the divine lover in ‘Examen,’ which I dealt with last chapter, to get a sense of the underlying disposition. Those involved must be “skillful” and “industrious,” “well-intentioned” and “reasonable” (also, supported by a learned prince) (A VI 4, 160–161, 691 & 693). Study is not done to doubt, but to teach and confirm the studier in good thoughts. Scientists should seek proofs for what they hold and not fear common opinions. Nor should they be hung up with novelties since “I found after long research that usually the most ancient and recorded views are best.” And reasons should be sought for everything (A VI 4, 161, 702–3). Leibniz rejects Descartes’ excessive doubt,14 which has led to abuses and unwarranted skepticism, and proposes instead a geometric model. We can “reason Geometrically outside geometry” (A VI 4, 161, 705). Many learned men claim to do this, yet Leibniz thinks they often come up short. In one place, he ascribes a moral lack as the reason (A VI 4, 161, 699). Without the right disposition and intent among the members, the General Science cannot be realized. This program, after all, strengthens the “Christian republic.” In itself, right method cannot coerce practitioners to collaborate.15 Authority compensates for less than ideal dispositions. Academic and ecclesiastic

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disputes require a sovereign to arbitrate and coerce. And so Leibniz defends the pope’s authority and appeals to a sovereign prince to manage (and fund) the General Science. This caveat is significant for understanding the role of love. On one hand, Leibniz’s scientific program assumes persons of certain intent and disposition. He describes their search for truth, their esteem for tradition, and their requirement for proof. They must be “agreeable” yet “serious,” and imitate geometers in method and their manner of raising “divine truth” as their “common master” (A VI 4, 161, 699 & 695). If everyone was so disposed, a higher authority would not be needed. But Leibniz realizes such constancy is unrealistic. “This is why, all considered,” he goes on, “I believe nothing is more advantageous to man than to submit to princes who are equally great and enlightened” (ibid., 693). In chapters 4 and 6 we will see that if people loved God above all else continuously, human authority and external forms (i.e., rituals, method) would be superfluous. Shortly after Leibniz arrived in Hanover in 1677, he penned that science is required for true happiness because happiness requires contentment, which depends on an assurance of the future (A VI 4, 1, 1).16 He has the sciences of God and the soul in mind, though he canvases a “true method” applicable to all knowledge. Leibniz has a similar motive behind his later appeals for a General Science. Not only does scientific progress assume the most perfect disposition and affects, the sciences engender them. In “Nouvelles,” he observes that this proposal turns human advantages to benefit and contributes to human happiness (A VI 4, 160, 690). Again, in ‘Recommandation,’ he states that “man is what can contribute most to the happiness of man,” save God or other “invisible things” (A VI 4, 161, 692). He clarifies in the next draft that this occurs through the sciences, which are “the chief ornament of peace, the greatest instrument of war, and the best treasure of human kind” (ibid., 702). With less flourish, he writes that the “chief goal of all our studies” is to “preserve our health and increase our perfection” (ibid., 697). Leibniz’s system of 1686 coalesces under these aims. I risk belaboring this point to draw out a basic tension, one seeded in Leibniz’s account of perception. In ‘Examen,’ Leibniz compares the blessed who die and, as a result, perceive more of the universal harmony with the enhanced perception afforded by technology (A VI 4, 420, 2402). This comparison epitomizes the tension. On one hand, Leibniz holds (at least in 1677) that science is “necessary” for true happiness. While he does not speak as strongly in 1686, he strongly endorses the sciences as a way of promoting human flourishing, that is, their perfection. And, as we saw in ¶ 1 of ‘Discours,’ he links gains in knowledge to an affection toward God. On another hand, Leibniz claims that everyone perceives God confusedly, yet with enough clarity to be damned for rejecting him (A VI 4, 420, 2402 & 2360). Largely ignorant saints still perceive God in a way that perfects them

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and brings about their highest good. But then are the sciences required? And, if not, what is their benefit? More is at stake than the incentives for a scientific program. Leibniz’s epistemology is in doubt. Affects seem required to perceive God through clear and distinct concepts, yet the right affects may suffice. In fact, affects may suffice despite wrong or distorted concepts. Is knowledge required or a dispensable aid? Leibniz seems torn, and he does not smooth out his account in 1686. In the writings I will look at below, he errs on the side of affection over knowledge. One perceives rightly (and so flourishes) even crippled by ignorance, if one loves God. This may be because the right disposition prompts us to reason in the face of ignorance and limits. It also gives space for divine revelation and the Christian mysteries. Maybe Leibniz stresses affection to humble his overly confident contemporaries. My concern in this chapter, then, is the status of knowing God and how rational beings know via perception. This subject exposes links between the General Science and religion. What it means to know God tightens the complex knot between ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ Leibniz holds the strong claim that humans immediately perceive God, which is where I begin, but he rejects Descartes’ appeal to this perception as an external point of certainty. A demonstration of God’s existence is needed to show that such a being exists outside us. Yet this criticism entails an ambiguity in Leibniz’s stance on the veneration of images. He appeals to the transcendence of divine perfections, which puts God’s immanence in question, then seconds the lover’s nearness to God apart from images. This is the path I will follow. COGNITIO, CONNOISSANCE, & KNOWLEDGE Without criteria for narrowing our judgments, humans are liable to illusion, prejudice, and dogmatism. Leibniz often names criticisms of this kind when speaking of Cartesianism, one of which we have already seen: Descartes speaks like an oracle, testifying of his clear and distinct ideas. His testimony does not benefit the reasoning of others, and so reduces to an unprofitable dogmatism. Leibniz proposes his own criteria for true ideas in the opening sentences of Meditions on Knowledge, Truth, and Ideas. His motive aligns with “On Cartesian Philosophy,” though more general: Since controversies rage today among distinguished persons over true and false ideas and since this is an issue of great importance for recognizing truth, an issue on which Descartes himself is not altogether satisfactory, I would like to explain briefly what I think can be established about the distinctions and criteria that relate to ideas and knowledge [cognitio]. (A VI 4, 585; AG 23)

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He also advances criteria for true ideas in ¶ 24 of ‘Discourse’ after criticizing Descartes’ renewal of the ontological argument. His criteria weighs on the idea of God for at least two reasons. Marks for separating true and false ideas help rational beings discern the true idea of God, which was assumed by the mark given for true perfections in the first paragraph of ‘Discourse.’ Risking a vicious circle, however, his criterion also assumes the right idea of God held in the right way. And the circle prompts the question: Why is God’s good the same as ours? So I need to tease out the status of Leibniz’s criteria, then relate them to the idea of God. Comparing Meditations with ‘Discourse’ illumes what Leibniz is after in the latter. It is not obvious that the neat categorization of the former squares with ¶ 24, written almost two years later. Here is the list of demarcations in the earlier tract: Thus, cognitio is either obscure or clear, and again, clear cognitio is either confused or distinct, and distinct cognitio either inadequate or adequate, and adequate cognitio either symbolic or intuitive: and, indeed, if cognitio was at the same time both adequate and intuitive, it would be absolutely perfect. (A VI 4, 485–486; AG 23)

Leibniz adds a category in ‘Discourse’ (suppositive cognitio), but that is not the only change. Their presentation is noticeably different. Organization and style cue us into the status of the criteria for each text. Maybe the most obvious change is the order in which the categories are listed. For contrast, here is the paragraph heading in ‘Discourse’: “What is clear or obscure, distinct or confused, adequate and intuitive or suppositive knowledge [connoissance] . . . ” (A VI 4, 1567; AG 56). The list begins the same, though their order is reversed. In Meditations, “clear” is placed last because the next two are subsets of clarity. The heading in ‘Discourse’ does not show a hierarchy, but pairs of opposites. More dramatic changes appear in the second half of the lists. In ‘Discourse,’ the heading does not end with opposites, and symbolic and perfect knowledge drop out. Whereas the categories in Meditations lead to the highest form of knowledge, ‘Discourse’ seems less ambitious. Intuitive or suppositive knowledge either replaces perfect knowing or, framed conditionally, they are synonymous. But to see whether these categories are substantial, I must turn to how Leibniz handles them. Cognitio has often been translated “knowledge” and with reason. Leibniz means something stronger than awareness, thought, or cognition. Still, it is odd to talk of knowledge as obscure or confused, or of the mind knowing everything though unaware of all it knows. By cognitio, Leibniz means the way in which minds have an idea. This, too, requires explanation since an idea is not a mental representation, as it now sounds, but an aspect of thinking

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itself. Around 1677, in a short fragment entitled, “What is an Idea?” Leibniz explains, “An idea consists, not in some act, but in the faculty of thinking” (A VI 4, 259, 1370; Leibniz, Philosophical, 207). He goes on to qualify an idea as a “near-faculty” because we can receive ideas from outside us, which his first definition does not appreciate, and then he rejects that qualification. What he comes to is revealing: That the ideas of things are in us means therefore nothing but that God . . . has impressed a power of thinking upon the mind so that it can by its own operations derive what corresponds perfectly to the nature of things. Although, therefore, the idea of the circle is not similar to the circle, truths can be derived from it which would be confirmed beyond doubt by investigating a real circle. (A VI 4, 1371; Leibniz, Philosophical, 208)

An idea denotes an innate capacity, yet Leibniz seems keen on ideas coming from outside the mind. Truths found from an idea of a circle also result from looking at a real circle. Leibniz struggles to define a true idea in this fragment. Instead of tracing this struggle here, my point is that none of these definitions concern ideas as mental objects, but rather a mental prowess to think of things in a certain way. Derivations from the idea of a circle result in cognitionibus of a circle. Ideas must express their objects for there to be the mental prowess Leibniz describes. ‘Expression’ is a notoriously sticky word. Again in “What is an idea?,” Leibniz writes, “That is said to express a thing in which there are relations [habitudines] which correspond to the relations of the thing expressed” (A VI 4, 1370; Leibniz, Philosophical, 207). ‘Relations’ for habitudines suits a later, much cited definition Leibniz offers Arnauld in 1687: “One thing expresses another when there is a constant and ordered relation between what can be said of one and of the other” (A II 2, 56, 231; LA, 227). A model expresses the building, speech expresses thoughts, characters numbers, as long as certain relations hold between them. Yet how strong are these relations? And what are they? Habitudines may mean “condition,” “form,” “state of being,” or “appearance.” Due to the variety of expressions, too, which Leibniz goes on to note, “relations” is likely the best choice. While maps, models, and characters represent, an effect also expresses a cause. But an effect does not represent a cause in the way a map presents terrain. Ideas are relevant to my purposes here not only because we have an idea of God, but also because they imply a relation with God. Said differently, the nature of ideas concerns the communion between God and man. In the last paragraph of Meditations, Leibniz divorces our finite ideas from divine ideas, weighing in on Malebranche’s controversial placing of our ideas within the godhead. A similar claim is made in ¶ 29 of ‘Discourse’ (A VI 4, 306, 1574;

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AG 60). He does not reject that we perceive everything within God “if it is understood properly.” And so, if we were to see everything in God, it would nevertheless be necessary that we also have our own ideas, that is, affections or modifications of our mind corresponding to that very thing we perceived in God. For certainly there must be some change in our mind when we have some thoughts and then others, and, in fact, the ideas of things that we are not actually thinking about are in our mind as the shape of Hercules is in rough marble. (A VI 4, pg. 591; AG 27)

With respect to God, in other words, our ideas are affects or modifications. I will return to this description of our ideas in the chapter on love of God. Leibniz states in ¶ 28 of ‘Discourse,’ before rejecting Malebranche’s strong view, that God alone is the immediate object of our perception, God is the only cause acting on us, and that our ideas hold from God’s sustaining force (A VI 4, 1573; AG 27). In the quote above, Leibniz speaks of our ideas as affects or modifications caused by God. Later, in ‘Discourse,’ he describes our ideas as mental potential and activity that results in affects or modifications (A VI 4, 306, 1574; AG 60). Both texts place the nature of ideas at the center of God’s relation to rational beings, and both explain ideas from the contrast of potential and activity. Ideas are constants insofar as the mind has a fixed shape of potential thoughts, yet ideas come to our attention as affects they elicit. Within minds is the mark for future affects as well as a disposition for them. That, Leibniz writes, is their activity (ibid.). Attending to ideas does not mean they surface clearly. We must test them by their marks to avoid misjudging or misrepresenting them. And, as Leibniz writes to begin ¶ 24, “In order to understand better the nature of ideas, we must to some extent touch on the varieties of knowledge” (A VI 4, 306, 1567; AG 56). This variety cues us in to what ideas are. More, Leibniz takes his classification as a criterion for truth and falsity, and truth or falsity is of degrees (except for logical impossibilities, which are absolutely false). Some ideas are more or less true, depending on how someone conceives them. Affects not only result from the idea held, and so evince its type, but also clarify or obscure. Leibniz calls his reader to love God because it maximizes clarity about everything else, though some ignorance remains (we are finite after all). I will call this the Maximal Love Thesis, or MLT. The marks for the kinds of knowledge differ in strength and I will examine each in turn. This brings us toward the broader import of love of God. Treating “the variety of connoissance” in ‘Discourse,’ Leibniz does not follow the order in his heading, which is closer to the order in Meditations, but instead begins with confused knowledge. “When I can recognize a thing from among others without being able to say what its differences or properties

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consist in,” he writes, “the knowledge is confused” (A VI 4, 306, 1567; AG 56). A similar definition is given in Meditations: knowledge is “confused when I cannot enumerate one by one the marks sufficiently for differentiating a thing from others, even though the thing does indeed have such marks and requisites into which its notion can be resolved” (A VI 4, 141, 586; AG 24). Color, for example, is known confusedly because we rely on the “simple testimony of the senses” without the capacity to separate the particulars from others. There are not constituent marks because mere sense distinguishes them. Constituent marks enable us to resolve them into their notion. Leibniz first wrote “confused” in his header of ‘Discourse’ before settling on “obscure,” yet never uses the word in the paragraph. This is either a slip or a self-evident category. Leibniz defines obscure in Meditations as “a notion which is not sufficient for recognizing the thing represented” (A VI 4, 141, 586; AG 23). So when the memory of a flower cannot set it apart from others, its idea is obscure. Based on this text, humans know something confusedly when they recognize something without picking out why it is recognized. Obscure knowledge cannot recognize the particular. A term without a settled definition is obscure because it lacks distinct marks into which it can be resolved. So Leibniz seems to have a place for obscurity in the earlier text. Less so in ‘Discourse.’ A few paragraphs after his criteria, Leibniz drops obscurity, claiming that the mind “already thinks confusedly about everything it will ever think about distinctly” (A VI 4, 1571; AG 58). Obscurity may be a sub-category of confusion—cases where the marks for distinguishing an object are vague—or it is knowledge that will never be known distinctly. Either way, obscurity blocks Leibniz’s goal to define marks for judging truth and, thereby, present the nature of ideas. Reflecting on an obscure idea does not lead to clarity and distinctness, but must be amended by other means (id est, settling on a definition), and so an obscure idea is not one. It is false. Clarity comes after confusion and obscurity. Though the order is the same between texts, the definitions slightly differ. “Therefore,” Leibniz writes in Meditations, “knowledge is clear when I have the means for recognizing the thing represented,” which he contrasts with obscurity (A VI 4, 141, 586; AG 24). In ‘Discourse,’ on the other hand, he sets clarity within confused knowledge, and so lowers the threshold for clear knowledge: “It is in this way [namely, from confused knowledge] that we sometimes know something clearly, without being in doubt about whether a poem or a picture is done well or badly, simply because it has a certain something, I know not what, that satisfies or offends us” (A VI 4, 306, 1567; AG 56). Leibniz makes a similar remark when explaining confusion in Meditations. Painters and artists recognize good art, though they often cannot tell why (A VI 4, 141, 586; AG 24). The object is seen as such and judged properly, but the basis of the

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judgment is confused. Constituent marks in perception from which judgment arises are not specified one by one. The effects of the idea are known—artists are satisfied or not—but the marks bringing about those effects are confused. Between 1684 and 1686, the status of ignorance changes. When someone is clear, they recognize the idea’s object. Clear perception can be confused or distinct. That holds., but the earlier writing has a role for obscurity: namely, perceiving ideas that cannot be recognized within limits of understanding or intelligibility. Obscurity, unlike confusion, excludes the effects of those ideas from intelligibility, too. Maybe this gives room for divine ideas that transcend human minds. Leibniz ejects that option from his working criteria of ideas in ‘Discourse.’ The header keeps insuperable ignorance. His treatment suggests, at a minimum, that we can make confident judgments from ideas by attentiveness, even if the idea remains confused. Either there is no insuperable ignorance, it cannot be spoken of, or it is not worth speaking about. And this bears on the function of an idea of God, a transcendent being. How can humans perceive an idea that is by definition outside our epistemic reach? Leibniz defines and explains distinctness in almost the same way in Meditations and ‘Discourse.’ Writing in his earlier text, “A distinct notion is like the notion an assayer has of gold, that is, a notion connected with marks and tests sufficient to distinguish a thing from all other similar bodies” (A VI 4, 141, 586; AG 24). The marks of a distinct notion suffice for recognizing an object, setting it apart, and enumerating its differences. And these marks need not be immediately perceived. They can be present in such a way that admits of testing. Here is the opening for analysis, or the resolution of terms into their marks. Similarly, in ‘Discourse,’ Leibniz notes, “But when I can explain the marks which I have, the knowledge is distinct. And such is the knowledge of an assayer, who discerns the true from the false by means of certain tests or marks which make up the definition of gold” (A VI 4, 306, 1568; AG 56). The example of the assayer is well-chosen: perceiving the rock, however attentively, does not suffice for confirming gold. Assayers know the tests that pick out the distinct marks of gold based on the metal’s definition. The manuscripts I am examining clearly overlap in major ways. Still, two slight tweaks in presentation show Leibniz’s concern to end dispute with criteria. First, in ‘Discourse,’ Leibniz states that distinct knowledge includes the capacity to explain the marks that effect the mind in a certain way. Since Leibniz uses an identical contrast in both texts (a painter’s evaluation and an assayer’s), the capacity to explain is likely implied in Meditations. But in his earlier definition, he highlights the link between a notion and its marks, or tests. Clear, not distinct, knowledge lacks this link. Turning back to ‘Discourse,’ Leibniz frames his example by stressing the capacity to explain those marks, leaving unsaid their link to a notion. No doubt, the link is implied, especially given the types of definitions he will soon outline. Note

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the stress, though. For clear knowledge to become distinct in 1686, the marks by which an idea is judged must be explainable to another. There is a second change in presentation. The marks that separate an object in Meditations discern true ideas from false ones in ‘Discourse.’ Leibniz writes in the earlier text of individualizing an object and later about judging ideas. To separate an object from others on the basis of its marks is to judge its idea true, so these are similar tasks. And Leibniz took up the requirements for an individual substance in ¶ 9 and ¶ 13 of ‘Discourse.’ Still, unlike Meditations, Leibniz claims that marks of a perceived object tell whether or not an idea is true. The slight tweak in emphasis comes out in Leibniz’s example. An assayer discerns whether the rock that seems like gold is gold. The assayer of Meditations has a specific notion of gold that contains certain marks and tests, and he applies that notion to the object. The point, in short, is that the assayer’s notion comes with criteria for separating gold from worthless rocks. In ‘Discourse,’ the example has a slightly amended purpose to better address the problem with which Meditations begins—namely, ending dispute over true and false ideas. The persisting problem is that two people, a certified assayer and an amateur, may disagree about a rock and both claim their notion is right. Leibniz settles this in 1686 by overtly distinguishing the expert from the amateur. The assayer has tests for deciding which idea amounts to gold because it can be shown to make up the definition of gold and, thereby, exclude other notions. The link between a notion and its marks segues into types of definitions. Definitions vary in strength depending on how they relate a notion to its marks. In his outline of them, Leibniz inserts his concept of perfection so that the concept has a dual role. On one hand, Leibniz’s test for what is or is not a perfection sets the backdrop for his criteria of ideas. Requirements for perfection dispose humans toward the divine. On the other hand, our perception of ideas, including the idea of God, is more or less perfect. Let me add that these types of definitions are more or less perfect, too, and humans are more perfect when their definitions are. Explaining these claims help me specify the role of God in ‘Discourse’ and ‘Examen.’ Definitions, More or Less When an object may or may not be possible, its definition is nominal (A VI 4, 141, 587 & 306, 1568; AG 24 & 56–57). There is no outright contradiction between the subject and predicate terms, but an analysis has not been conducted to demonstrate coherence. So we may doubt the possibility of its object. The notion may contain a hidden contradiction or contradict other, realized concepts, and so is impossible by implication. We lack an experience or proof that confirms or negates its possibility. Where a nominal definition

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of a notion explains some occurrence, another explanation could be given that contradicts it. Both fit our experience so that “we cannot be confident of the consequences drawn from it” (A VI 4, 306, 1568; AG 57). Examples differ for nominal definitions. In Meditations, “notions common to several senses” pertain to nominal definitions, like hope and fear and, I would add, love (A VI 4, 306, 1568; AG 57). He also mentions primitive notions that are known through themselves or constitute their own mark. In ‘Discourse,’ Leibniz mentions an endless helix. Someone ignorant of a helix’s properties will not know whether it goes on indefinitely. Yet a reciprocal property, or a property containing inverses that equal one when multiplied, forms a nominal definition. Both examples are important for Leibniz’s definition of God, which is an object of affection and exceeds our comprehension. Nominal definitions are divided further in Meditations into adequate and inadequate. Leibniz notes some definitions lack a complete enumeration of their marks. So the assayer decides if a rock is gold according to heaviness, color, and solubility, but those notions cannot be enumerated or analyzed. While the marks of true gold are perceived, and so the notion of gold is distinct, there are no definitions for those marks. If an analysis could be given for them, and then for their marks and so on until we hit primitive notions, cognitio is adequate. But, Leibniz comments as an aside, “I don’t know whether humans can provide a perfect example of this, although the knowledge of numbers certainly approaches it” (A VI 4, 141, 587; AG 24). He remains uncertain about a complete analysis in 1686. A real definition, by contrast, is possible. If experience shows its possibility, it is merely real (A VI 4, 306, 1569; AG 57). If an a priori demonstration (from causes to effects) confirms its possibility, it is a real and causal definition. Adams, Garber, and no doubt others note that “a priori” was undergoing a shift in meaning at this time (Adams, Determinist, 109–110; Garber, Body, 104 ft.). Its older sense is as a proof from causes to effects, as can be seen in Arnauld and Nicole’s Port-Royal Logic. Such a proof gives reasons for a fact. The second, emerging sense is as a non-experiential proof. Since Leibniz notes that a causal definition “contains the possible generation of a thing,” he likely means more of the first sense. A causal definition, that is, contains the requirements for a thing to exist. But requirements for a thing to exist are not the same as necessary and sufficient conditions, which deserves comment. Adams observes that requirements fuse “causal and conceptual dependence in Leibniz’s thought,” such that there are no causal requirements, on one side, and conceptual ones, on the other. Leibniz’s “calling something a ‘requirement’ must normally be assumed to have implications about both causal and conceptual relations” (Adams, Determinist, 118). A definition is an enumeration of something’s requirements. So the marks that humans clearly and distinctly perceive, and which enable us to individualize an

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object, are its requirements for existing. Leibniz writes in Meditations, “One has distinct knowledge of an indefinable notion, since it is primitive, or its own marks, that is, since it is irresolvable and is understood only through itself and therefore lacks requisites” (A VI 4, 141, 586; AG 24). A primitive notion, then, must exist insofar as it is possible. This is a privilege of God alone. Requirements also include the object’s perfections. Contemporary discussions of necessary and sufficient conditions are at best analogous to Leibniz’s “requirements.” For him, requirements are the reasons something exists, which is the reason God created it, which in turn are the perfections an object contributes to the divine plan and best of worlds. Reasons of this sort are not often appealed to today. The last kind of definition fuses cause and concept. Along with an a priori proof for its possibility, an essential or perfect definition analyzes an object’s primitive notions. Nothing is assumed by the proof: the subject term is defined from the basic principles or elements that form the whole. It is a complete definition since it contains the reasons for the particular’s existence as well as the reason for the creation of this universe. Leibniz writes to Arnauld that when God chose to create the first man, he chose to create this universe (A II 2, 4, 16–18; LA, 20–23). The decision to create an individual decides the world. Words, numbers, and symbols can be used in place of ideas, which allows us to reason about confused notions. Most of human cognitio is blind or symbolic, Leibniz admits in Meditations, since we don’t usually grasp the entire nature of a thing all at once, especially in a lengthier analysis, but in place of the things themselves we make use of signs, whose explicit explanation we usually omit for the sake of brevity, knowing or believing that we have them in our power. (A VI 4, 141, 587; AG 25)

Symbolic knowledge is replaced by suppositive knowledge in ‘Discourse.’ The latter category broadens the former. Whereas symbolic knowledge assumes we have the details in our power, like shorthand for a proof, suppositive knowledge may lack proof. These are notions we suppose, though they are not fully conceived or demonstrated. Leibniz wrote in the margin of ‘Discourse’ that a suppositive notion comes between clarity and an intuition because there is less clarity about surrounding notions (A VI 4, 306, 1568; AG 56). In both texts, Leibniz states our capacity for intuitive knowledge with the caveat that “this is extremely rare since the greater part of human knowledge is only confused or suppositive” or symbolic (A VI 4, 306, 1568; AG 56). But the status of intuition weakens after two years. In Meditations, Leibniz declares that “there is no knowledge of a distinct primitive notion except

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intuitive” (A VI 4, 141, 588; AG 25). All reasoning intuits primitive notions since they are required. “From this [id est, that a distinct primitive notion is intuited], it already follows that we don’t perceive ideas of even those things we know distinctly, unless we make use of intuitive thinking” (ibid.). Again, all reasoning intuits. Compare those claims with ‘Discourse.’ “And when my mind understands all the primitive ingredients of a notion at once and distinctly,” he writes, “it has intuitive knowledge of it” (A VI 4, 306, 1568; AG 56). In other words, an intuition switches from primitive notions to the primitive ingredients of a notion. And Leibniz no longer declares that all reasoning involves intuition. Minds know everything confusedly, but that does not mean that rationality intuits the whole. A risk of error lingers in Leibniz’s criteria for true and false ideas. How do rational beings tell an intuition apart from a false idea? The need for the assayer to explain the distinct marks of gold helps answer this question. But what about more abstract ideas? Note the effect of the suant passage from Meditations. Leibniz is aware of the problem. And, indeed, it happens that we often mistakenly believe that we have ideas of things in mind when we mistakenly suppose that we have already explained some of the terms we use. Furthermore, what some maintain, that we cannot say anything about a thing and understand what we say unless we have an idea of it, is either false or at least ambiguous. (A VI 4, 141, 588; AG 25)

Leibniz moves away from the stance that humans intuit notions that we reason about. Instead, primitive notions, or ingredients, may only be supposed. Instead of securing all our reasoning, intuition becomes an ideal. Leibniz concedes a risk of error in ‘Discourse.’ Primitive notions, which amount to perfections and must be assumed, do not ensure true ideas. As before, the assumption of primitive notions within the idea of God does not prove the existence of such a being. If Leibniz was working with a real definition of God, one in which the possibility of God had been demonstrated and the notion enumerated, the ontological argument would succeed. But that argument as it stands comes up short, so he is not using such a definition. DIVINE INTUITION Leibniz addressed the claim that saints have a privileged epistemic status in the form of two letters, written around March of 1677. Steno, his addressee, wrote a book-length response to Spinoza’s posthumous Ethica and two of his claims are of interest.17 First, he declares that it is vain to want more knowledge of God, the soul, and the body than saints have. Those who are closest

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to God know more of him and his creation. Then he states that Catholicism is the “true philosophy” (A VI 4, 393, 2199). Leibniz cites these claims and replies. Saints do not know as much as can be known, he doubts, since a saint is someone who “love[s] God above all,” is ready to do anything for him, and has mastered their passions. He agrees that “to love God it is necessary to know him,” but this requirement defines a minimum. “It is necessary,” he goes on, “to have some notion of what we call God and this notion needs to be able to give love” (ibid., 2201). This minimum amounts to “mediocre knowledge,” though “real and solid,” yet makes for saintliness when joined to “great practice.” Discipline and acts make saints. But there is no reason someone who lacks such rigor can know more than saints. On the second claim, Leibniz seconds that “true religion is the best part of true philosophy” since it teaches us to love the most perfect being above all else and that eternal life consists in knowing the all-perfect (ibid.).18 Saints are a thorny case for Leibniz in 1686 since knowledge and affection are closely bound. The apex of knowledge is a vision of God,19 loving the deity disposes one to know more, and knowing elicits affection toward God. Plus, Leibniz claims that we have immediate perception of God all the time, which opens a channel by which saints know God apart from knowing much else. Besides their moral stuff, saints are also disposed to the mystery of God’s choice to create this world in the right way. Leibniz gives this mystery a fundamental role, as can be seen in his many appeals to divine wisdom and matchless glory.20 Knowing God—with the saints as an anomaly—brings us to the heart of how humanity relates to the divine, and so God’s moral quality. I turn to Leibniz’s account of immediate perception to the saints’ knowledge. Idea & Concept of God Substantial forms distance rational beings from God and relate them, for Leibniz.21 Ideas, similarly, locate intimacy and distinctness.22 We pick up in ¶ 26 of ‘Discours,’ where Leibniz explains the nature of ideas. Descartes shifted the paradigm on the concept, idea, shortly before, and Leibniz writes in his wake.23 An idea is not an object of thought, but a constant of the soul. Ideas surface in the soul’s ability to represent any “nature or form whatsoever, when the occasion to think of it presents itself” (A VI 4, 306, 1570; AG 58). But Leibniz calls it a “quality” rather than ability since it informs the soul’s substance.24 This is what he means when he writes, “For our soul expresses God, the universe, and all essences, as well as all existence” (ibid.). In other words, ideas are permanent fixtures of the soul insofar as the soul corresponds with reality.25 Since a rational being is aware, the soul always has an idea of everything, possible or real. Ideas are latent, or confusedly perceived, until surfacing as distinct objects, and the soul has an idea for each expression,

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which sets the soul apart as a unique substance. Expressions, as reality bearing relations, are closely knit to perceptions. In the next paragraph, ¶ 27, Leibniz distinguishes ideas from notions or concepts. Since our souls express God, we likewise perceive him at all times, but confusedly. We have an idea of the deity embedded within us, yet not always or ever a concept or notion. Leibniz explains, “Thus, the expressions in our soul, whether we conceive them or not, can be called ideas, but those we conceive or form can be called notions, concepts [conceptus]” (A VI 4, 306, 1572; AG 59). Rational beings conceive their expressions when they perceive them clearly and distinctly, that is, the expression is recognized as such and the marks for its uniqueness can be given.26 By attention, we come to know truth (ibid., 1571; AG 58). So there is a step from holding an idea of God and knowing him. And perceiving in a certain way takes the step. If perceiving clearly and distinctly is knowing, and learning about nature increases our knowledge of, and affection toward, God, then there must be a link between perceiving God and nature. With the veneration of images and other sensible forms of worship, external objects help us contemplate and adore the divine. Though Leibniz famously held that the world does not effect the soul, strictly speaking, he grants a sense in which this is so: “ . . . some external things contain or express more particularly the reasons that determine our soul to certain thoughts” (A VI 4, 306, 1573; AG 59). These objects do not act on the soul, but best explain why the soul attends to one thought rather than another. One reason for this will be their greater perfection. Since God is the most perfect being, Leibniz needs to explain how rational beings are not always fixated on the divine—let alone why humans often require aids to this end. This need becomes more pronounced as he claims that God alone acts on the soul and is always immediately perceived. God acts on us, Leibniz writes in ¶ 28, by preserving our existence and that of the world, and by aligning our disposition to the world. God also elicits perceptions in us as a result. Leibniz waxes, “God is the sun and light of souls, ‘the light that lights every man that comes into this world,’” a quote from John 1.9 of the Vulgate (A VI 4, 306, 1573; AG 60).27 An effect of God’s creative act, then, rational beings express the deity. Note, though, that God only expresses himself to us indirectly, via the fact of our existence and perceptions of other ideas. His immediacy does not entail easy access. The Creator really acts on souls with souls perceiving that action through its effects, not the cause itself. Nor does God intervene between our dispositions and the world, as Malebranche thinks,28 save through preordained laws. The deity is at once most intimate and distant. Leibniz’s avows the moral worth of this position, too: William of St. Amour and other mystic theologians “have taken [this stance] in a manner worthy of God,” the requirement of praiseworthiness, “and capable of elevating the soul to the knowledge of its good”

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(ibid., 1574; AG 60).29 The position commends itself from how it disposes souls to their good. Like his account of substantial forms, Leibniz carefully separates rational beings from their Creator, and so avoids the Averroists’ error.30 Humans think from their own ideas, not God’s, since these ideas are effects of God. Leibniz cites his account of substance and autonomy of the soul in ¶ 29 for support, then continues, The soul must actually be affected in a certain way when it thinks of something, and it must already have in itself not only the passive power of being able to be affected in this way (which is already wholly determined) but also an active power, a power by virtue of which there have always been in its nature marks of the future production of this thought and dispositions to produce it in its proper time.” (A VI 4, 306, 1574; AG 60)

Active and passive powers refer to the soul’s substantial form. So Leibniz argues that, since the soul is really affected and has a substantial form, our ideas must be unique to us. How are these reasons persuasive? Affects and dispositions link thoughts to the soul by determining us to think a given sequence of thoughts. These form the essential relation between the soul and perceptions. Recall that the soul expresses everything in its own way. Its expressions are ideas contained within it. These ideas become concepts or notions when perceived clearly and distinctly. The perceptions determined by affects and dispositions to perceive, Leibniz now adds, inflect the soul’s unique bearing. They give perceptions substantive weight. Ideas are solely a soul’s own because nothing else perceives the world in the same way (see ¶ 9 & ¶ 14). To be disposed toward God, then, or to will the same as him, concerns a soul’s substance. But God remains unlike other objects for one’s affection. He is not perceived like finite things, nor is he present in the same way. Nothing else causes our existence or the world’s, for one. Leibniz replied to Steno that, as a minimum, saints must have a concept of God able to give love. Ideas of God do not suffice, nor do concepts of him that lack a moral quality. Souls must perceive in a way that inclines them toward higher perfection—God being the highest. Leibniz defines God in a way that furnishes striving toward him, elicits the right disposition from perceiving natural perfections, and so attempts to put knowledge within that arch. Most Perfect Being For Leibniz, the notion of God spans the sciences, including mathematics, metaphysics, politics, morality, and theology. In his letter to Princess

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Elizabeth, he refers to God’s complete act to motivate the unity of the sciences. And we saw how he infers from the completeness of divine perfection to conclude that God’s good is the same as creature’s in 1684. Then he switches tact to suppose God’s absolute perfection with a criterion. His definitions in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’: “an absolutely perfect being,” “the most perfect substance,” one, eternal, present everywhere, and omniscient (A VI 4, 306, 1531; AG 35; A VI 4, 420, 2357). In ‘Discours,’ Leibniz argues that God has a moral quality insofar as he is the most perfect being because goodness has a highest degree. I passed over how he handles the definition of God in ‘Examen.’ After listing traditional perfections, cited a moment ago, he adds, “All other things are created by this substance in accordance with the most beautiful plan, and are conserved by a sort of continual production” (A VI 4, 420, 2357). Put again, perfections join in the divine, the deity caused creation in line “with the most beautiful plan,” and so informed by God’s moral quality, and now God preserves it. These are key pieces to Leibniz’s definition of the deity and align with his strategy in ‘Discours’ to presume a moral quality. Shortly before ‘Examen,’31 though, Leibniz wrote a series of theological manuscripts in which he varied on his use of God and perfection. These writings offer a glimpse of his broader concerns. Two drafts under the title, “Rationale Fidei Catholicae,” begin with God as the “most perfect substance (A VI 4, 409, 2306 & 2313; LGR 71).32 A few insights can be gained comparing these drafts in light of my discussion so far. In the first, Leibniz couches this definition under church teaching, then changes his support when revising. After stating the definition in a heading, he claims that humans assign every perfection to this “most perfect substance” while rejecting every imperfection of him. Content at first with church authority, and, he adds, ancient philosophers, Leibniz pivots to earthy ascriptions. These drafts echo in ‘Examen’ and ‘Discours,’ and his shift supports my reading of them. Within a writing on “Catholic faith,” this move from authority to predication warns against reading Leibniz’s stances in ‘Examen’ as rote proclamations of orthodoxy. His avowals of Catholic teaching come from other commitments, too, which is why he can insert his notion of perfection in place of authority. More, his supposition in ‘Discours’ was put in a Latin, religious text.33 The test of perfections is whether a trait has a highest degree. In these earlier manuscripts, Leibniz had likely not worked out his mark since, if he had, he would have used it (at least in the second draft). Instead, absolute perfection is limitless. Certain attributes can be predicated of God, he explains, because “their nature does not involve limit” (A VI 4, 409, 2307; LGR 71). Perfection is “pure positivity,” a common definition. But he drops this phrase from the second draft. Coupled with the observal that the second draft focuses on human predications of God, Leibniz seems keen to distance

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human perception from perfection proper, which exists solely in the divine. Only in the blessed vision of God do humans glimpse absolute, or infinite, perfection. This distance persists in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen,’ where God as the “most perfect substance” exceeds finite thought.34 And notice that numbers and quantities threaten his definition of absolute perfection as limitless without perfection’s mark. Across drafts, Leibniz cites the same verbs as examples of perfection: “being, acting, living, knowing, and being able” (A VI 4, 409, 2307 & 2313; LGR 71). Then a contrast is drawn: predicates of creatures, these attributes inherent a limit, becoming “being acted upon, dying, learning what is not known and being impeded” (ibid., 2313; LGR 71). In the first draft, this limit comes from creatures’ ability to be destroyed, acted on, and shaped, limits that held before the Fall (ibid., 2307).35 When the original list is predicated of God, they become divine perfections: eternality, omniscience, and omnipotence. Although Leibniz continues to hold that perfections are the same between God and creatures, differing only in degree, he will not appeal to bare perfections in the same way. He selects attributes (presumably the same) from their capacity to be raised to a highest degree. In this way, he elevates divine perfections by selecting from among natural properties and then pushing them outside whatever can be thought by finite beings for absolute perfection. He may resist “pure positivity” since it aids the illusion that absolute perfection can be thought. And, to anticipate a coming chapter, this illusion was Descartes’ Achilles heel. I suggest, then, that Leibniz wrestles with idealizing the concept of God to engender a disposition in the writings before ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ At stake is an upward motion from creation to Creator. Leibniz’s mark of perfection was one strategy to achieve this. Love of God, as an ideal disposition, was his strategy in ‘Examen.’ Similar descriptions of the divine appear in both drafts of “Rationale,” and we find in them this sweep up: Consequently, [natural perfections] cannot be said of God, but the former ones can [i.e., orthodox and infinite perfections], as long as they are understood in a way utterly without qualification, so that his essence is maximally full, and independent, his action so universal that all things depend upon him, his life extends to eternity, his knowledge to omniscience and his power to omnipotence. (A VI 4, 409, 2314; LGR 71)

Leibniz is not content with a list of perfection, but stresses the need to think them “without qualification,” and for natural perfection to be maximized. And so he brushes up against his mark of perfection. Lack of qualification, fullness, and singular independence converge in the highest degree. In fact,

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the second draft’s subtitle is “On One God,” suggesting that this blooming of perfections into deity describes his unique oneness. Then Leibniz alludes to the central problem of this chapter: knowing God, the most singular, infinite being. Continuing with “Rationale,” keep in mind how affects determine any sequence of thoughts: But it should be known that an absolute concept is always prior to and simpler than a limited one, from which it follows that the concept of God is evident to those who contemplate eternal truths with a mind diverted from the senses, even if this concept can no more be perceived by the imagination and the senses than can color be heard or a sound tasted. (A VI 4, 409, 2314; LGR 71–2)

God is immediately perceived as our cause; his concept now seems easiest to access. This sounds right given his belief that we tend to perceive higher perfections. And Leibniz seems to claim (like Descartes) that contemplating God apart from sensations is enough to perceive him. It is as if Leibniz pushes away polluting thoughts to the concept of the deity by concentrating on “eternal truths.” This is also the manuscript where he lists attributes shared by God and creatures, and handles their relation via concepts. The strategy meshes nicely with the Sameness of Goods problem, also penned around this time, but seems to leave the lover without advantage. How is the lover disposed to find creation excellent if anyone attending to eternal truths perceives God? Maybe the lover is less embroiled in the senses. And what about the lovability of this concept, God? Reflecting on eternal truths seems unlikely fodder for realizing God’s moral quality. Neither ‘Discours,’ nor ‘Examen’ expand on a list of perfections like ‘Rationale.’ Perfections are cited throughout, no doubt, but the emphasis shifts to humans predicating of God and the consequent affects. God is not at the center of Leibniz’s system apart from rational creatures, like Spinoza's isolated deity. Instead, Leibniz centers on the communion between God and man. This relation appears in other religious manuscripts of the time. Between 1685’s autumn and 1686’s spring, Leibniz wrote, ‘De Deo et Ecclesia’ and “Positiones,” two short texts likely drawn from in ‘Examen.’ If ‘Discours’ was a breakthrough, as Leibniz announced to Landgraf, his writings before were the ferment. Given the uncertain dating of the two, however, and the later start to ‘Examen,’ ‘De Deo’ and “Positiones” could have been written before, during, or after ‘Discours.’ Leibniz’s other religious writings evince his religious and theological concerns throughout, but dates are a live question. Teasing out the details within bounds, even if unresolvable and defeasible, exposes the inner vibrancy of Leibniz’s systematizing. In ‘On God and the Church’ and “Positiones,” Leibniz streamlines the move from divine nature to his moral quality, which leads to humanity’s

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response. And from these moves, he lays out a series of theological stances, as he will at greater length in ‘Examen.’ No longer does he enumerate the concept of God. “It is evident by the natural light of reason,” Leibniz begins, that there exists some most perfect substance, which we call God, and evident in the same way that he is unique, necessary, i.e., eternal, and the author and conserver of all the perfections in other things, whereas whatever imperfection exists anywhere originates from the particular limitation of creatures. It also follows that God is an omnipotent and omniscient mind, and that all things are arranged by him in the best way, such that it cannot be better. (A VI 4, 417, 2343; LGR, 232)

Leibniz declares the key piece found in ‘Examen’ and ‘Discours’ among other claims: God as perfect substance arranges all things in the best way. This follows from the fact that God is not sheer substance, but has a mind or intelligence. This moral quality is known from natural reason, not revelation. And, as before, he contrasts divine perfection with nature. Likewise, in “Positiones,” he defines the deity as “a substance which is infinite, eternal, omnipotent, omniscient, good in the utmost degree and unique,” then puts the origin of imperfection in creatures (A VI 4, 418, 2351; LGR 236). Small tweaks are made in the beginning of ‘Examen’ to bring out the predications attached to the name of God instead of inferring from a definition of God, akin to the mark of perfection in ‘Discours.’ Otherwise, these short manuscripts anticipate the later ones. They support my reading that Leibniz’s system coalesces on a moral disposition and is grounded on human perception, even when it takes an absolute, or divine, vantage. A third step in ‘On God and the Church’ and “Positiones” underscore the centrality. After defining the deity and perfections, Leibniz asserts the wise man’s view. If aware of the “secrets” of divine providence, the wise man wants for nothing and is content. Leibniz carries this view into ‘Examen’ and ‘Discours’ as basic hypotheticals from which his metaphysics and theology begin. In “Positiones,” his claim follows directly from divine perfection, like in ‘Discours’ (A VI 4, 418, 2351; LGR 236); the wise man’s contentment results from the just monarch in ‘On God and the Church’ and ‘Examen’ (A VI 4, 417, 2343; LGR 237). It is the supposition of the wise, given entry to God’s plan, that SoG resolves. Leibniz begins his system from this moral hypothesis. Nothing is said of the wise realizing the divine nature from eternal truths or from the concept of God. If the wise man would want for nothing, if he knew creature’s plan and design, God wills the best. And since God is the most just monarch, he requires one thing from his rational creatures: their “supreme love and worship,” “best will,” and “affection.”36 Two observals worth pausing over bring

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together Leibniz’s use of the concept of God. First, knowledge of God does not suffice, but must couple with wisdom. Leibniz supposes the knowledge of the wise man, but not in ‘Discours.’ There, knowledge of nature increases our contentment, and so, presumably, increases our wisdom. Knowing nature also enables us to perceive God’s moral quality. So there is an essential disposition. Pious definitions of God do little to engender love on their own. The concept pairs with a disposition to perceive and act in a certain way. Second, God’s obligations require humans to be disposed in a certain way despite their crippling ignorance of the divine plan, which is a mystery. Leibniz’s definition of God is not primitive because it is not self-evident. God transcends finite intellects, yet his obligations dispose humans properly. Humans ought to commune with God, not merely (passively) think of him. Both of these points come out in ¶ 23 of ‘Discours,’ where Leibniz criticizes Descartes’ argument for God’s existence. Certainty of God For Leibniz in 1686, the notion of God is a supposition that gains reality for the person rightly disposed, while also rightly disposing those who think on it. ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ crux on this notion of God, yet Leibniz dismisses arguments that take the notion of God as self-evident—specifically, how Descartes adopts Anselm’s proof for God’s existence. Much has been said about Leibniz’s criticism.37 Here I argue that Leibniz was motivated by a moral accusation: Descartes’ overconfidence in his own intellect led him to an excessive trust in intuition. Descartes wrongly thought that God’s existence could be proven by reflection on a notion alone, as if a superior mental power sees the truth of the notion immediately. This charge helpfully contrasts with Leibniz’s account of saints’ knowledge since he nears Descartes’ view when adding the moral quality of God and man. The divine lover seems to have better perception of God, even with a less than acute concept of the deity. I will contrast their positions after looking at them in turn. In ¶ 23 of ‘Discours,’ Leibniz moves from “bodies to immaterial natures, in particular to minds,” and explains “the means God uses to enlighten them and act on them” (A VI 4, 306, 1567; AG 55). After repeating that there are natural laws guiding the communion between God and humans, he pivots to “whether we always have the idea of that about which we think” (ibid.). Before defining marks of knowledge, Leibniz notes Descartes’ mistaken appeal to the idea of God. The assumptions in Descartes’ appeal suggest the role that Leibniz has in mind for his earlier notion of God as well as its limits. Although Leibniz observes the mistake in ancients and contemporaries alike, the argument he casts was popularly reintroduced by Descartes. A brief aside in the latter’s Principia philosophiae places Leibniz’s criticism on the

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inflated role of intuition. At stake is how rational beings access the divine. The mind “first finds in itself the ideas of many things,” Descartes observes, “and while it contemplates them as such, and neither affirms nor denies that there is anything outside itself similar to these ideas, it cannot err” (AT VIIIa, 9; Ar 234). A perceived thought cannot be right or wrong relative to itself. From these ideas, humans discover “common notions” that can be safely used in reasoning. Adding the three angles of a triangle, for example, equals the sum of two right angles. While attentive reflection helps a person derive and relate ideas with certainty, reasoning cannot overcome weaknesses. Someone can misremember a proof, or write or compute it wrongly so that the conclusions of a sure method are dubious. Among the common notions, humans also find an idea of God. This idea moves us away from the possibilities of error. Divine perfections surface from self reflection: The mind afterwards considers the various ideas it has and discovers there the idea of a being who is omniscient, omnipotent, and absolutely perfect—by far the most important idea; it recognizes in it not merely possible and contingent existence, as in all the other ideas it has of things it clearly perceives, but absolutely necessary and eternal existence. (A VIIIa, 10; Ar 234)

Leibniz repeats absolute perfection as his sole definition of God, then cites omniscience and omnipotence as key traits in ¶ 1 of ‘Discourse.’ For Descartes, thinking of the deity reveals necessary and eternal existence, and so breaks the thinker from mere possibilities and contingencies. This draws a real modal distinction outside thought.38 The divine idea differs in content and kind, yet emerges from careful introspection. From the idea’s content, humans infer that the idea of God refers to an existing being. This is the unique privilege of the idea of God, for Descartes. Other ideas must be reflected on apart from what they present to avoid error in inferring their existence. Not so with God, and so we have a proof of his existence. In Descartes’ words, “ . . . from the fact that [the mind] perceives that necessary and eternal existence is contained in the idea it has of an absolutely perfect being, it has clearly to conclude that this absolutely perfect being exists” (AT VIIIa, 10; Ar 234). Perceiving a being that must always exist entails that that being exists. Descartes qualifies this claim in reply to objections of his Meditations: “ . . . since it is not easy to arrive at such astuteness,” or the perception of necessary existence in the concept of God, “we will seek the same thing in another way,” or give another argument (AT VII, 167; Ar 165). Still, Descartes claims that thinking of God helps remove prejudice and is more clearly seen when a thinker lacks prejudice. There are beneficial affects, even persuasive force, from thinking about God.

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To Leibniz, famously, Descartes’ inference assumes that the idea of the most perfect being is possible. If an all-perfect being is possible, then it must exist. While this assumption is credible, it lacks the justification required by rigorous proof. Leibniz casts Descartes’ argument in ¶ 23 of ‘Discourse’: “For, they say, I must have an idea of God or of a perfect being since I think of him, and one cannot think without an idea. Now, the idea of this being contains all the perfections, and existence is a perfection, so consequently he exists” (A VI 4, 306, 1567; AG 56). Leibniz goes on to note the gap in the proof that I mentioned, but recall his comment before casting this argument. Thinkers cannot assume that their thoughts require an idea. Just because humans think about God does not mean they have an idea, which means their notion can be right or wrong. The notion and its content are not self-evident or immediate. Leibniz disagrees with Descartes’ self-assured perusal of ideas, recasts the argument, makes the assumptions explicit, then qualifies the consequences of a most perfect being. Descartes’ argument comes up short regardless of prejudice or blunt perception. A mark is required for separating true ideas from false ones, including real perfections from traits seeming so. Think again of Leibniz’s test for perfection from last chapter before reading Leibniz’s criticism: But since we often think of impossible chimeras—for example, the highest degree of speed, of the greatest number, of the intersection of the conchoid with its base or rule—this reason is insufficient. It is therefore in this sense that we say that there are true and false ideas, depending upon whether the thing in question is possible or not. And it is only when we are certain of its possibility that we can boast of having an idea of the thing. (A VI 4, 306, 1567; AG 56)

Humans may believe they found an idea of God within, yet their idea be false because it is impossible. Leibniz alludes back to the mark of perfection, the capacity for a highest degree. Proofs demonstrate an idea’s possibility, which assures us of the idea, and such is the aim of analysis.39 But Descartes cannot use a notion of God, undefended, to assert a real modal distinction because the latter is required to prove the former. Analysis identifies the required marks. A bare intuition of the deity does not ensure that he exists. Descartes still proves that “God exists necessarily if he is possible,” so an intuition of the deity has theoretical weight. More, Descartes couples his proof with a moral affect: the removal of prejudice. Leibniz expands these affects, as I argued last chapter and will argue again. While the intuition does not amount to a demonstration from a primitive term, it is worthwhile. Arguably, the whole ‘Discourse’ lays out the consequences of a certain notion of God. Descartes’ argument may offer an avenue through which the unlearned pious rightly believe in God’s existence. Their thoughts on God, that is, perception of

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him, offer a reason for believing in him. They perceive him clearly enough. Leibniz thinks that reflecting on the idea of an all-perfect being achieves a conditional proof. The pious may not articulate their perception of God along these lines, yet Leibniz makes their conviction rational and explicit. The proof will not persuade an atheist, but that is the job of the learned. Before looking at Leibniz’s moral criticism, let me support this idea that Descartes’ argument may work for the pious. In fact, as a conditional proof, Leibniz may be content with it since he offers no alternatives in 1686. If the notion of the deity is basic, his system hinges on a hypothetical, “If God exists . . . “ Perfection’s mark may allow as much. Someone’s concept of the deity depends on how well they perceive the infinite form of natural perfections—the extent they elevate their minds. This is kin to Descartes’ meditative exercise. Without giving up on a demonstrative proof, Leibniz intends to “join morality to metaphysics,” as he writes in ¶ 35 (A VI 4, 306, 1584; AG 66). To this end, he proposes the mark of perfection—a guide to discern God in nature. It is as if Leibniz’s entire system means to unveil an expansive intuition of the God, or the fullness of perfection. A related appeal to an innate idea of God occurs in ‘Examen.’ Leibniz asks whether those who are saved and regenerated after the Fall obey the divine law perfectly (a question I will return to). Drawing from church tradition, he separates venial sin from mortal sin. Only the latter results in damnation (A VI 4, 420, 2360). God is the wisest legislator, he explains, and a wise legislator does not decree impossible tasks. Also, the divine law only requires “a serious effort of a sincere will, or that we love God with all our might” (ibid., 2383). Though a light burden, it is light because the blessed receive divine grace. Divine law demands that humans remain in a state of perfect love (ibid., 2376). Then Leibniz appeals to the innate notion of God: And there does not appear to be anything that should render this love impossible for us since we have in us an innate idea of God, by which we recognize his supreme beauty, while attentive persons may easily observe the imperfection and baseness of all other things. (ibidem)

In reply to Steno, Leibniz noted that the pious must conceive a God to whom they could love. Now he claims that the love of God demanded by divine law (and constant obedience) is possible because we find an idea of God within us. His perfection is seen in contrast with the imperfections of all else. Like Descartes, Leibniz infers from an innate idea of God. Nothing is inferred about the idea’s object, however. The argument assumes access to an innate idea that attunes us to “supreme beauty.” By perceiving this beauty, humans are drawn to follow God’s will, and so can always act accordingly. And,

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unlike Descartes’ modal distinction, Leibniz infers a real distinction between the highest perfection and lesser perfections from the idea of God. Later chapters are devoted to elaborating on Leibniz’s moral and theological commitments alluded to above. A smaller step in that direction concerns Leibniz’s moral criticism of Descartes’ argument, which comes to a head next chapter. Some setting helps. Suffice to say, the intellectual and religious climate of the day was hostile. Leibniz describes religious factions as “gladiators” who seek to cleave their foe to win applause rather than win souls (A VI 4, 407, 2299–2300).40 A similar motif runs through the proposals for a General Science.41 The balm, he assures his reader, is criterion for distinguishing truth and falsity, and an indisputable method of arguing and discovery.42 Limits must be fixed and criteria given to address a moral problem, not only a theoretical one. “For, often,” Leibniz writes in Meditationes de cognitione, veritate, et ideis, “what is obscure and confused seems clear and distinct to people careless in judgment” (A VI 4, 141, 590; AG 26–7). Debate persists unendingly and harsh words lead to violence. Descartes and his followers act as a foil for Leibniz’s scientific program in the late 70’s to the mid 80’s. His essay, “De la philosophie cartesienne,” written between the summer of 1683 and the end of 1684, exemplifies his campaign. There, Leibniz seeks Jesuit support for his General Science. He lauds them for “believing that the surest path is not to stray without necessity or demonstration from received dogma, which often involve religion” (A VI 4, 289, 1484; Leibniz, Cartesian, 100). Descartes, on the other hand, wants to found a sect.43 This ambition waylays “one of the greatest minds.” Wide approval and praise has made Descartes too confident in his own natural light. Leibniz explains, The ambition to form a sect has sometimes brought good minds to advance shocking and dangerous novelties. By doing this, however, they enter into war with one another, and do harm to the good things they say, as also to the ancient truths whose foundations they shatter in the opinion of those men who take a liking to novelty. Having thus filled up their heads with hollow subtleties devoid of demonstration, fighting with each other with capriciousness and passion, people miserably lose precious time that they could have employed to advance solid knowledge. (A VI 4, 289, 1482; Leibniz, Cartesian, pg. 99)

Like gladiators of old, ambition pushes humans to pit themselves against one another. Even “good things” are “harmed” by ambition. The second half of the quote describes the harm. If “solid knowledge” is among the “good things” ambitious people claim, they misuse and distort it. Rather than use their knowledge to perfect others—the aim of the sciences—it becomes tainted with “hollow subtleties” and an impetus to fight.

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Descartes’ ambition leads him to speak as an oracle. He testifies of an inner God like a mystic, and this is where he goes wrong in his argument for God’s existence. It is how Leibniz’s criticisms are moral, besides theoretical. No marks are given for distinct knowledge, and so his criteria of clearness and distinctness cannot help others separate truth and falsity, including better or worse notions of the deity. Instead, Descartes records an “interior testimony of his idea,” which is an allusion to his argument for God’s existence among other claims (A VI 4, 289, 1484–5; Leibniz, Cartesian, 101). This is not how to advance solid knowledge. Cartesians mimic and paraphrase their master as a result. Descartes is their authority so they no longer reason according to truth. His solid findings threaten to stagnate. Descartes has achieved a sect, many of whom are not learned, and, unsurprisingly, the Cartesian program “has vanished with Descartes” (A VI 4, 289, 1487; Leibniz, Cartesian, 102). Leibniz diagnoses, “In order to put an end to this disease,” that is, the ambition to form a sect, “it is time to establish both the ancient truths and the new discoveries by demonstrations that are so exact that they can no longer be shattered” (A VI 4, 289, 1483; Leibniz, Cartesian, 99). Series of demonstrations are required, a new system created, gained knowledge organized, and a method for discovering new truths devised. Ancient truths must join new ones. The General Science and an inventory for knowledge encompass these tasks, and Leibniz solicits the Jesuits for learned men who will work in harmony and submit to an authority for a “work of this force” (A VI 4, 289, 1488; Leibniz, Cartesian, 103). Awareness of an innate idea of God as an all-perfect being proves that such a being must exist if possible. It is unclear whether this proof occurs through an intuition or Leibniz assumes his mark of perfection or, somehow, both. Whereas Descartes leaves the idea of God self-evident and, presumably, intuitive, Leibniz articulates the form of the argument as well as the perception of God as an innate idea. Occurring in the section on true and false ideas, Leibniz seems to amend Descartes’ argument by inserting his tailored notion of God, yet seems to leave open the thrust of the argument for the “vulgar.” That is, everyone has a reason (though inconclusive) to believe in God once they recognize their innate idea of such a being. This amounts to an intuition, an “interior testimony,” that becomes a problem when stated as a premise in a proof. Someone with Descartes’ sway creates a sect and, worse, those swayed fall into superstition. Still, Leibniz recognizes persuasive force of reflecting on the divine idea. Where does this leave the ignorant saint? Ignorance, Knowledge, & Piety Whether saints know God apart from learning weakens the religious and moral motive for Leibniz’s scientific program. This is because learning elicits

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affection toward God, on one hand, and the right disposition disposes one to perfection, on the other. As Leibniz construes it, we expect the divine lover to be more sensitive to natural perfections, or reality, yet Leibniz denies that piety alone produces knowledge. In ‘Examen,’ Leibniz argues that saints who have died are aware of events on earth. This position is less important than the reasons for it. Leibniz writes, For knowledge of things brings about the highest pleasures of minds, and since the Saints more closely consider divine wisdom and perfection, it is plausible that they are now more intimately admitted to the secrets of Providence, which they admired from afar while in the flesh, and that God’s most just government is now known to them rather than believed in, as before; this, I think, would be unintelligible if they did not have an acquaintance with the particular events that happen among men. (A VI 4, 420, 2402)

Prayers to the saints are valid because their petitions to God are more efficacious. But our prayers assume that saints are aware of us. Although Leibniz writes of deceased saints, he appeals to knowledge as perfection and their proximity to God as reasons to believe they know more about the universe than they did on earth. Detached from the body, they have become more knowledgeable of the earthly. This claim cuts two ways. In his reply to Steno, Leibniz claimed that saints lack a privileged epistemic status. Their habits and acts set them apart. They only need to know enough of the deity to love him. Since Leibniz writes of deceased saints in ‘Examen,’ he remains consistent. Once saints die, then they gain better knowledge. But, his explanation also suggests that saints should know better on earth. In line with his motive for a General Science and the opening of ‘Discours,’ Leibniz states that knowledge brings the highest pleasure. Saints are closest to God insofar as they align their wills with him, but believe in his providence “from afar while in the flesh.” This barrier holds for all the living, saints or sinners, nor are saints unique in believing or trusting in divine justice rather than knowing it (all the saved do). Aligned wills, or love, would seem to dispose saints toward more knowledge since they would be disposed toward all perfections. And contemplation of God suffices for joy, or enduring happiness, which seems to span knowledge of nature. Once deceased, saints enter further into the divine economy from their proximity to God. Leibniz has reason to preserve the saints’ exemplar status if love of God is as central to his system as I think it is. Saints nearly embody the ideal. But Leibniz’s next move surprisingly fits his commitments in ‘Discours’ to support the claim that saints and angels know of human affairs—surprising, because Leibniz seems to lessen the uniqueness of saints’ and angels’ knowledge even in the afterlife. “Many are inclined to think that angels and Saints

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see all things in the mirror of the divine vision,” as if unique to them. Leibniz disagrees, “But if you consider the matter properly, God is even now the sole immediate object of the mind . . . and our ideas represent to us what happens in the world by means of God alone” (A VI 4, 420, 2402). This claim alludes to ¶ 28, with which we are familiar. Souls immediately depend on the deity as their sole external cause. In this way, they are “a certain expression, imitation, or image of the divine essence, thought, and will” (A VI 4, 306, 1573; AG 59). Leibniz cites his position to explain why it is possible for saints and angels to know more and better. No longer embodied, saints shed many confused perceptions. The cost of this explanation, however, is that saints have no better perception of God when embodied—that is, nothing about their superior moral status spills over into their epistemic status. And since Leibniz sees many whose learning weakens their piety, there seems to be no justification for joining knowledge and affection. The point is underscored in a crossed out paragraph, perhaps because he finds it repetitive. There are no views here that go much beyond claims made elsewhere. Leibniz references 1st Corinthians 13.12, declaring, “We shall see God face to face and this will be partly because of the very nature of the glorified mind, and partly because of a particular grace of God” (A VI 4, 420, 2403). After death, all the saved (maybe even the damned) will perceive more clearly and distinctly. Salvation, though, perfects us now through the Holy Spirit, that is, through divine graces.44 So the embodied mind may not be glorified, but the saved should be increasing their perfection with the help of grace. If so, saints obtain exceptional perfection here and now, assuming their holy status. Limiting this to charity likewise restrains the salvific effects of the Holy Spirit, as if regeneration does not touch the cognitive. Leibniz rejects such a cordoning off. More on this later. Again on the view that the saints who have died know about the world, some object that saints cannot perceive two places simultaneously, so they cannot know about everything at once. Who can say what they are perceiving at any given time and what are the odds it is us? The objection concerns knowledge strictly, yet it clues us in to how perception brings in the sciences. The veneration of images, to be addressed next, brings in affects. Leibniz replies to this objection with analogies. An angel or one of the blessed can, “embracing such a vast mass[,] nevertheless penetrate[-] into its smallest parts too” (A VI 4, 420, 2403). A commander of an army can sweep over his soldiers’ formation from a high point so that no individual movement is missed. Sizes, not only perceiving two places at once, concern him. Leibniz then asks, “If vision is extended more than a thousand-fold by telescopes and microscopes, shall we doubt that God grants to the blessed much more than Galileo or Drebel has to us?” (ibidem). His views here are familiar: a soul has every idea. Telescopes and microscopes remain limited, Leibniz grants, but

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only due to limited eyesight, “whereas God extends the power of the mind, which has no fixed and unalterable limits” (ibid.). Put again, increases in the power of our senses through technology evince unlimited mental powers. And these claims assume the view, stated earlier in ‘Examen’ and elsewhere, that the body limits the mind.45 Perception is the phantom link between knowledge and affection. That Leibniz wants there to be a link comes out in the refusal to cleave intellects and their moral quality. Though saints do not exhaust knowledge, what they do know is “real and solid.” Leibniz often supports his views by referring to “learned and pious” men and he thinks that learning sans piety dispose one to error, as the Moderns exemplify. To correct their error, Leibniz joins knowledge and affection in the beginning of ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ The more people know, the more disposed they are to love God. And those who love God and trust his benevolence know all will turn our for their good; “just as they are content with the past, so they endeavour, with regard to the future, to do whatever they judge to be consistent with the presumed will of God” (A VI 4, 420, 2358). He adds, “If all minds always thought and acted in accordance with this, they would unquestionably live happily” (ibid.). Since knowledge is a perfection and concerns distinct perception, we are left with two questions: Does love of God mean a greater perception of him (and, as a result, of nature)? How can the learned not love God? For the first question, I turn now to the veneration of images. The second must wait for Leibniz’s account of original sin, the topic of chapter 4. VENERATING IMAGES & RELICS A large portion of ‘Examen’ is devoted to the worship of images and relics. Bossuet notes in Exposition de la Doctrine de L’eglise catholique sur les matieres de Controverse, for which Leibniz wrote a brief preface around 1678–9 (A IV 3, 11), that Protestants (wrongly) accuse Catholics of reducing piety to worship of the saints (Exposition, 40–1). Yet Bossuet quickly passes over this controversy and spends most of his treatise on the Eucharist. Protestants, for him, simply misunderstand Catholic teaching; once clarified, doctrines agree (except on the Eucharist). Leibniz is less quick to dispense the matter. Whether Leibniz thinks the veneration of images is at the core of disputes between Catholics and Protestants, I doubt.46 But he may find the issue serious because of two threats it poises: first, undermining the relation between love of God as an internal disposition and external signs and acts, and, second, blurring the perception of an invisible God through a visible

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world. Nature prompts worship of God, after all, and knowledge elicits affection toward him. But the veneration of images and relics puts these claims in question. The diviner lover identifies God’s good with their own, they do not simply infer that goodness from a concept of God. Leibniz is well aware that this is a challenge. He writes that persons ought to strive “for the adoration of the invisible deity, which consists in spirit and in truth, and is the last and highest object of our worship,” yet they easily slide into worship of lesser, visible things (A VI 4, 420, 2386). When God revealed his law to Moses on Mount Sinae, the Israelites worshipped a golden calf, an object of their imagination. And throughout history, humans also tend to worship the sun, moon, and stars, or their leaders (ibid., 2391). So although Leibniz thinks humans tend toward higher perfection, there is a jump from the visible to the invisible. At the same time, Leibniz thinks humans have an innate idea of God that enables them to distinguish natural perfection from divine, which is clear enough to make them culpable for not believing in God. In 1686, at least, the immediate perception of God is ambiguous: On one hand, it is from the intuition of the invisible God that men are led to worship in spirit and truth, even if ignorant or in error. Christendom has purged paganism despite vestiges of superstition. On the other hand, believers must be rightly educated on the divine to avoid idolatry. Intuition does not suffice for proper worship, just as it does not suffice for salvation. Leibniz’s discussion of worship also brings out why loving God is an ideal, yet also why it is possible here and now—conflicting claims. The holy fathers commended and explained the veneration of images in Session XXV of the Council of Trent, held on December 3 and 4, 1563. Leibniz quotes two passages from this session’s canons and decrees that form touchstones for his account (A VI 4, 420, 2395).47 In the first, the writers note that holy images rightly receive worship and honor, but not from “any divinity or virtue” within them, nor can they be supplicated or trusted. Images are “prototypes” for our true objects of worship, Christ and the saints. The benefits of using images in this way recommend them: they instruct, confirm the faith, and draw people’s attention to holy things so they recall and reflect on their salvation, give thanks to God, and imitate the saints. These benefits were declared in the Council of Nicaea in 787, yet those at Trent added the removal of sensual appeal, false doctrine, and superstition—a caveat Leibniz cites.48 Though Leibniz checks abuses, it is unclear whether they amount to idolatry. No formal definition of idolatry is given, yet Leibniz suggests it is the ascription of divine perfections to natural, finite objects. I argued earlier that, in 1686, he shifts from analyzing the concept of God to the act of predication. Hence the test for perfection, which, in idolatry, seems to be put in nature rather than separating God from nature. Leibniz contrasts Christians with pagans,

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On the other hand, Christians, who worship with divine honors, or latria, that supreme, eternal, and infinitely perfect being, do not commit idolatry, no matter how much finite perfection they attribute (without violating God’s supreme honor) to other things, since they acknowledge that these very perfections graciously flow from the fountain of divine goodness (A VI 4, 420, 2411).

Idolatry, then, collapses infinite and finite perfections. People sin in this way when they ascribe divine honors to natural objects, that is, worship finite beings as supreme. Idolatry does not occur when finite objects are worshipped as finite. Leibniz writes that idolatry “directs divine honor elsewhere,” again, ascribing honor for God to something less than. (ibid., 2399) A major objection to the use of images cites the early church’s prohibition and God’s direct command to Moses and the Hebrews not to create a graven image. Leibniz replies by observing the reason for the ban: abuses threatening God’s people. Without a written law, he narrates, the worship of one invisible God passed through tradition. Men forgot this God and slid into worship of visible things (sun, moon, and stars). Tyrants exploited the slip to justify their own deification with statues and images erected for the purpose. These political leaders died, which prompted their worshippers to present the dead as living and preserve their “perverse” ways. Their statues and images took on the power of their once living original so that men believed the images themselves had efficacy. This is the pagan setting in which the early church and Moses banned images, according to Leibniz. Idolatry is the loss of an “infinite interval” between the visible image and its object, and damning abuses assume this loss (A VI 4, 420, 2391). The story Leibniz tells is instructive. An invisible God without visible (written) marks sets the stage for a fall. Nature no longer directs persons to their Creator as persons ascribe divine honor—that is, infinite perfection—to lofty natural objects. Due to this setting, Leibniz gives two reasons that God’s prohibition through Moses was not absolute: first, images were used in the Old Testament, so either the Israelites broke the law by God’s own decree or its meaning was provisional and specific;49 second, and hinging on the first, the law was ceremonial and for a time (ibid., 2390–3). The second applies to the early church insofar as God did not absolutely ban images before. Leibniz no doubt observes the abuse of images in some congregations, echoing Reformers and some Catholics who countered them.50 He strikes out a passage in which he notes excesses in the veneration of the Mother of God and other saints, maybe wanting to avoid direct censure (A VI 4, 420, 2405). Since he claims that even believers need the right notion of God to avoid danger (he seconds Trent’s emphasis on better education) and elsewhere writes about persisting superstitions,51 idolatry seems to threaten Christendom. Maybe, siding with Protestants, now is a good time to again ban images, but

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Leibniz sloughs off the threat as well as accusations. After all, Jesus promised his church would remain, which is often cited by Catholics of the time to defend church tradition. Nothing so damning as idolatry could persist in the church for so long or be affirmed by past council (ibid., 2399). As Leibniz repeatedly states, images are not harmful in themselves; they are neutral. And, nearly as an aside, Leibniz claims that Constantine overthrew idolatry by Christianizing Rome, as if idolatry were impossible afterwards (idid.). So Leibniz both sees an abuse that needs mending and lessens its damage. It is within this lengthy discussion of images that Leibniz brings up the deceased saints knowledge of the world. He draws from his theory of perception to explain how their knowledge is possible, and so why persons can petition them. Besides showing that Leibniz had his views on perception in mind, I return to that claim to define a limit with idolatry: namely, intuition of God is not enough to avoid idolatry. Pagans were idolatrous. Their idea of God, in fact, is what makes their error damnable. Couple this with the neutrality of images, though, and the cause of idolatry blurs. Wrong beliefs lead people to abuse images, yet these abuses are not idolatry proper in Christendom. The ascription of divine honor to finite objects does not suffice for mortal sin. Leibniz allows that the ignorant may believe the image is itself divine without threatening their salvation. No doubt, it leads to abuse, scandal, and superstition, yet nonetheless, in the Church today, all the honour of images is paid only to those originals through which we venerate that one and eternal divinity, to whom alone we have learned to pay divine honours, and whose benefits we see in others in order that we be all the more reminded to terminate our worship in him. (A VI 4, 420, 2399)

Belonging to the church (or religious state) saves one from idolatry by deflecting earth-bound predications to the one true God.52 It is impossible such a practice could spread in the true church if it led to damnation. On this debate, though, Leibniz is pulled by tensive commitments. Endorsing the Council of Trent, Leibniz distinguishes two honors given to images in their veneration. He construes these honors to align the visible and invisible, the earthly with the divine. First, there is an honor which belongs to the image and makes it sacred: its position and setting, its decorum, and ceremonial use. He assures, “This honor, I think, presents little difficulty and will easily be tolerated by those who do not think that images are to be rejected altogether” (A VI 4, 420, 2396). Maybe he is confident because this honor is not divine by definition: it belongs to a finite, corporeal body. Though more austere, Protestants would agree with this use of images.53 But the second honor concerns worship proper as its acts: “It occurs, for example, when men

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kiss an image, or uncover their head in its presence, bend the knee, prostrate, pour out prayers, utter vows, give praise, or offer thanks . . . ” Idolatry occurs when the images or relics are the ultimate objects of these acts. It may look as if this were so, but looks mislead. Leibniz continues, “ . . . in fact, what is honored is not the thing, which is inanimate and incapable of honor,” alluding to the first sense of divine honor, “but the original when in the presence of the image or through the image . . . ” (ibid.). The definition of the image as a corporeal body, it seems, negates the possibility of being the subject for infinite perfection. A stronger claim is then made. Citing the Scholastics, Leibniz goes on to explain that the true object of worship is made visible through these acts. Believers can better perceive the invisible God thereby, and so may contemplate him easier. In his words, “ . . . with the body turned towards it [the image] as if to Christ himself in order that his presence may be displayed more conspicuously and the soul may be better elevated to the contemplation of the Lord” (A VI 4, 420, 2396). Leibniz claims that tangible images enable the believer to dispose themselves as if to the invisible God through Jesus. They contemplate God better from this posture with the aid of the image. The deity is revealed through these acts in the sense that the worshipper can be properly disposed to concentrate on him. Always perceiving God confusedly, images clarify. But, still, we may wonder how images succeed even when the believer has a mistaken concept of God that surfaces when so disposed. Leibniz defines a true act of worship by its resolution or analysis: true worship resolves into the one true God (A VI 4, 420, 2266). In this, he follows Bossuet (Exposition, 36), but he gives the claim his own twist. The terms of the act—the ascriptions of divine honor—have their ultimate subject in the divine, even if they are at first ascribes to lesser objects. But, as Leibniz writes in ‘Discours,’ contingent acts have an infinite analysis that only God knows (see ¶ 13). So, unlike Bossuet, Leibniz leaves open the possibility that worshipping lesser things indirectly, or ultimately, worships the supreme being. On this, recall how hope elicits affection toward God from divine benefits, which may bloom into love when God becomes its object. Likewise, knowledge may lead one to hope and love. Natural perfections have their “fount” in the divine, after all (A VI 4, 420, 2411), and the innate idea of God enables attentive persons to separate divine perfections from natural ones. Human intuition seems to secure true acts of worship. Then again, pagan idols were idols because pagans “did not sufficiently recognize, either in their Jupiter or in any other of their gods, that infinite and supremely perfect being” (ibid., 2411). Put again, their intuition did not sufficiently emerge into the concept of an all-perfect being. Christendom meets that lower bound. In sum, Leibniz does not square his account of perception with competing theological and moral commitments. On one hand, he requires congregations

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to acknowledge the infinite distance between external signs and their original. A certain notion of God is required that tracks with our innate idea. Pagans never gain a concept of an infinitely perfect being. On the other hand, he relaxes this requirement such that (i) belonging to Christendom redirects faulty beliefs and (ii) true worship is defined as resolving into the true God as if all acts of praise end up praising God. For either the weaker or stronger claim, the intuition of God secures one’s acts and bypasses proper beliefs and actions. The veneration of images brings out the tenuous link between knowledge and affection. As belabored, Leibniz wants learning to dispose us toward God in the right way. Knowledge leads to love of him as love disposes us to learn. Such a link motives the project of the General Science: given the link, the sciences secure and increase love of God, thereby strengthening Christian nations. But Leibniz has not fit this commitment into his account of perception as he would like. Knowledge refines our innate idea of God into a more precise concept, which can be right or wrong, more or less. Yet Leibniz cannot set the bar too high without damning the pious who are ignorant, believe falsehoods, and hold to superstitions. Perceiving perfection is where these commitments should coalesce, but I do not think Leibniz smoothes out his broader system in 1686. Still, these claims form a creative nexus that I develop throughout the remaining chapters. Yet to be seen is how they inform Leibniz’s claim that the divine lover puts their happiness or perfection in the loved object. His contemporaries fail to appreciate the need for such adoptions in their own systems. They too cleanly separate knowledge from love. NOTES 1. On the unity of the sciences during Leibniz’s Middle Years, see Pelletier’s “Logica est Scientia generalis,” “The Scientia Generalis and the Encyclopedia,” & “Les catégories.” 2. Leibniz, no doubt, repeats these claims in later writings. 3. For scholarship on expression in Leibniz, see (Adams, Leibniz, 78–80; S. Brown, Leibniz, 167–168; Garber, Leibniz, 170; Grosholz, “Theomorphic Expression”; Kulstad, “Leibniz’s Conception of Expression”; Rutherford, Leibniz and the Rational Order of Nature, 38–39). 4. Adams glosses Leibniz’s account such that a vision of God amounts to the highest state of blessedness, too: “a person who has an unclouded knowledge of God’s perfections will find great pleasure in knowing them—indeed, greater pleasure in knowing them than in knowing anything else (“Justice,” 205). One question of this chapter is whether this blessed vision is apart from perceiving natural perfections. 5. As Grua writes, for Leibniz, “ . . . knowledge and love transport into us the perfection of the object” (Justice, 48).

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6. Or “Rationale of the Catholic faith against sects of all kinds.” 7. On the divine hand in history see also (A VI 4, 160, 687–8). 8. See last chapter. 9. The lack will be dealt with next chapter. 10. I am still making my case for the claim that love of God has a central role in Leibniz’s system of 1686, so I do not expect you to be convinced at this point. A first step last chapter was seeing how ¶ 1 of ‘Discours’ states a criterion that disposes the knower toward God. A larger step was arguing that the Sameness of Goods problem resolves in the definitive act of love: identifying God’s good with one’s own. Still, that a moral ideal forms the basis of his system needs more support in light of ‘Discours’ as a whole as well as his scientia generalis. Why think, for example, that Leibniz’s criticism of Descartes’ definition of body has a moral motive? 11. Pelletier is the authority on Leibniz’s scientia generalis. He finds three definitions of the term: (i) the art of inventing and judging in general, (ii) the science of what is thinkable, and (iii) metaphysics (“Scientia,” pg. 165). See other writings in the references. 12. Note that Leibniz drafted these two appeals after writing ‘Discours,’ as he corresponded with Arnauld, and about the same time as he began ‘Examen’ and “Generales Inquisitiones de Analysi Notionum et Veritatum.” These breakthroughs may have encouraged his ambitious program. 13. Compare this with the Modern attitude that Leibniz portrays in a group of dialogues written between 1678 and 1681 (A VI 4, N. 397–400). Avowed Moderns despair, which is a sign of their imperfect method and impoverished notions of God and nature. 14. On Leibniz’s rejection of Descartes’ excessive doubt, see (A VI 4, 286, 1473; 284; 286, 1473; 299, 1502). Yet he also seems to toy briefly with Descartes’ tact (A VI 4, 299). It may be worth noting that his critique is not directed at Descartes’ words, but at his thought and its consequences (A VI 4, 288, 1478). 15. In a dialogue, Leibniz has a character remark that one can abuse good principles (A VI 4, 400, 2258). That said, he goes on to remark that a good method can correct poor reasoning (ibid., 2263). 16. Similarly, in the second draft of “Rationale Fidei Catholica,” he notes that knowledge and divine providence remove uncertainty (A VI 4, 409, 2310). 17. On Steno’s response to Spinoza, see (Klever, “Steno’s Statements on Spinoza and Spinozism”). 18. Leibniz does not say Catholicism forms part of true philosophy. Still, he takes up an overtly pro-Catholic stance in the writings around 1685. 19. On the beatific vision as the culmination of knowledge, see (Brown, “Compossibility,” 182). 20. More on this later, though it should be kept in mind. 21. See chapter 1. 22. My discussion on the nature of ideas is condensed, given my focus on the relation between God and rational beings. For lengthier, more detailed commentary, see (Adams, Leibniz, 57ff, 177–80, 187–8; Duarte, “Ideas and Confusion in Leibniz”; Gaston, “Perception and Pluralism”; Imlay, “Leibniz on Concepts and Ideas”; Jolley,

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The Light of the Soul; Perkins, “Ideas and Self-Reflection in Leibniz”; Rutherford, Leibniz, 73–85). 23. On ‘idea’ before and in Descartes, see (Ariew, Descartes and the Last Scholastics, chapter 3). 24. The soul’s quality, as containing all ideas, may also inform Leibniz’s claim that God has a moral quality, or a communion with rational beings: God relates to rational beings, or forms an idea of them, that is moral. This moral relation includes rewards and punishments as consequences of actions, and a revelation of his will for their lives. I return to these claims in the last three chapters. 25. See Garber, Body, 166–172, for a discussion on expression and perception. 26. See ¶ 24 (A VI 4, 306, 1567–8; AG 56). 27. With minor changes (lumen illuminans instead of lux vera quae inluminat). 28. For Malebranche’s doctrine of Occasionalism and Leibniz’s response, see (Garber, Leibniz, 183ff; Greenberg, “Malebranche and Leibniz”; Jolley, “Leibniz and Occasionalism”; Rutherford, “Natures, Laws, and Miracles”; Wahl, “Occasionalism, Laws, and General Will”). 29. In a short sketch, tentatively written between 1680 and 1684, Leibniz treats God’s creation in the most perfect way as synonymous with his acting for his glory (A VI 4, 273, 1452). When I write of the requirement of praiseworthiness, it is likewise synonymous with acting in the most perfect way. 30. The Averroists held that every finite intellect was part of one infinite intellect (see Gutas, “Ibn Sina [Avicenna]”). 31. Uncertainly dated by Akademie editors as between 1685 and 1686. 32. The full title on the first draft: “Rationale Fidei Catholicae, in quo brevi specimine ostenditur, dogmata catholica magis rationi consentire, quam sectarum quarumcunque” (A VI 4, 409, 2306). 33. One of Adams’ reasons for separating ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ is that the first is in French, the latter in Latin. That his philosophical commitments show up in his Latin, religious writings, though, weakens the claim that their different language signal irreconciliable intents. 34. This is not to say that Leibniz believed humans could think the infinite before, but that his appreciation of this commitment changed. He gave a different role of God’s infinite perfection. 35. More on the Fall to come in chapter 4. 36. In the final chapter, I turn to how divine goodness and grace braces human weakness. 37. For a recent treatment that also summarizes scholarly trends among German-speaking scholars and English-speaking ones, see (Gutschmidt, “Das Ens”). 38. On Descartes’ view of the divine nature, see (Balder, “Descartes as Catholic Philosopher and Natural Philosopher”; Bennett, “Descartes’s Theory of Modality”; Hassing, “Descartes on God, Creation, and Conservation”; Kaufman, “Descartes’s Creation Doctrine and Modality”; van den Brink, “Descartes, Modalities, and God.”) 39. On Leibniz’s method of analysis, see (Adams, Leibniz, 25ff; Merlo, “Complexity, Existence, and Infinite Analysis”; Rutherford, “Leibniz’s ‘Analysis of Multitude and Phenomena into Unities and Reality’”; Rutherford, Leibniz, chapter 4).

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40. The atmosphere fills the earlier dialogues, too (see A VI 4, 2223, 2228–9, 2241–2, and 2249, especially). 41. See A VI 4, 692–3, 698, 947–8, and 953. 42. Though I mentioned in chapter 1 that the right method also requires persons of the right disposition. 43. Stuart Brown puts the criticism well, citing the same text: “Indeed [Leibniz] came to think of any philosophy which so based itself as essentially sectarian, as having an appeal only to like-minded people. Only a Cartesian would find clear and distinct what Descartes claimed to find clear and distinct” (Leibniz, 5). 44. I return to salvation at length in chapter 6. 45. See (A VI 4, 420, 2359, 2366, 2387, and, especially, 2403). 46. That said, he may give it prominence in church dispute because it concerns the relation between the inner and outer, which implicates a notion of faith. For my argument, all I need to show is that his account brings out tensions in his commitment to love of God and its role. 47. He quotes passages at length that Bossuet refers to (Exposition, 30–41), and so is not borrowing the quotes. 48. See O’Mally, Trent, 244 for comparison of Trent with Nicaea. 49. See, for example, God’s command to Moses to create a brass serpent for the Israelites to look at and be healed (Numbers 21.1–9). 50. On the Protestants’ view of images, see (Asselt, “The Prohibition of Images and Protestant Identity”; Scribner, “The Image and the Reformation”; Veit, “La dévotion domestique luthérienne: instructions, images et pratiques”). 51. On Leibniz’s rejection of superstition in ‘Examen,’ see (A VI 4, 420, 2361–3). 52. Another wrinkle: Leibniz seems inclined to say that even pagans who perhaps did the same (id est, Socrates) believed salvifically in the supreme God. 53. See footnote l.

Chapter 3

Modern Love

What does it mean for God to create perfectly? Leibniz rejects an answer that credits an indifferent will to the deity. God cannot be equally inclined toward two choices. In a short piece, uncertainly dated 1677, Leibniz claims such a “fiction” makes the divine act reasonless. In his words, “And such is the fiction of those who introduce an indifference of equilibrium in the volition, as if God could have willed two things at once, the volition perfectly indifferent toward both, and even also determining itself” (A VI 4, 254, 1355). As a result, rational beings cannot search for the cause of why something exists rather than not. Since the sciences look for causes or the natural laws guiding them, these disciplines assume that God created with reason, not indifferently.1 And since seeking God’s reasons communes with him, his moral quality is at stake. Spinoza clearly violates these commitments. More worrisome are Descartes and Malebranche, who avow orthodoxy yet are off when it comes to God’s perfect act. Certain views of theirs threaten the sciences and religion. A close look at Leibniz’s criticisms of Descartes and Malebranche supports my reading that love of God and God’s moral quality are basic to his system of 1686. Leibniz gauges his contemporaries’ positions by their affects. While this is clearest in his dialogues composed between 1678 and 1681, ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ are informed by the earlier diagnosis of Modern despair and apathy. They fail to connect knowledge with apathy, which would engender human flourishing. In the first two chapters, I examined this connection in Leibniz. The lover identifies their good with the deity’s, instead of simply deriving goodness from a concept, and knowledge aids their identification. Yet to be seen is how this act prompts more action. For the Moderns knowledge prompts resignation. My goal now is to voice Leibniz’s case against them. Descartes’ belief that things are good because God wills them is “most dangerous,” Leibniz warns as he composed his dialogues on Modern thought and love of God (that is, between 1678 and 1681). The danger concerns a moral 71

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disposition, a renewed Stoicism, not the identification of divine and natural good. Leibniz explains that Descartes’ view erases divine justice (A VI 4, 264, 1389). This is because God does not decide to create this world rather than another due to its greater perfection. The Creator’s will is hung, justice lost.2 One claim I defend below is that the loss of justice, or God’s moral quality, blocks his commune with rational beings. The threat switches from the deity lacking goodness to humans lacking an external, divine measure for their actions. That measure is the basis for humans to engage with God’s will. If so, a piece is in place to argue that Leibniz orients his stances in 1686 from an ideal commune of God and man. The main passages of this chapter are ¶ 2 and ¶ 3 of ‘Discours,’ where Leibniz takes up Descartes and Malebranche in turn. His criticisms here compact lengthier pleas against Modernity leading up to, and following, 1686. Some will be threaded through my analysis. For now, let me point out one consequence Leibniz notes in ‘De la philosophie cartesienne,’ a tract composed as early as the summer of 1683, as late as 1685’s winter. A few pages in, Leibniz notes Descartes’ definition of matter as extension. This results in a rejection of substantial forms, which “theologians wisely avoided” since it makes the bread and wine venerable objects (A VI 4, 289, 1482).3 Then Leibniz adds that Descartes makes the reconciliation of free will with God’s plan inexplicable. “This favors necessity,” and so renews Stoic “forced patience” (ibid.). Two observals are in order. Leibniz does not reject extension from physics, but from its failure to explain the Eucharist. He named similar scruples before.4 And, in ‘Discours,’ his adoption of substantial forms has theological and moral motives.5 Descartes’ physics is partial, extension cannot solely define physical bodies, and a mark of its lack comes from religion or morality. Metaphysics is needed, as Leibniz remarks in ¶ 18 (A VI 4, 306, 1558; AG 51). The broader point is that Christian sacraments can be used to test a science, like physics, as can a moral disposition. An analogous point is made when Leibniz rejects strict Calvinism because it violates moral commitments.6 Revelation, too, has a place in Leibniz’s scientific program. If so, ‘Examen’ weighs in on Leibniz’s broader claims. Divine matters should not be put off as inexplicable because this “favors” fatalism. Here is my next observal. If God’s ways are too foreign or transcendent, rational exploration is barred and humans must resign themselves to the unknowable. Leibniz rejects this, and so seconds religion’s bearing on the other sciences. The mystery of God’s choice to create this world has a positive role in his system. He refuses to put aside divine matters because doing so results in Stoicism, not from a strictly theological conviction. Fideists agreed with Descartes—after all, God’s ways are not our ways (Isa. 55.8–9).

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Leibniz advances another notion of faith that unifies knowledge for action.7 So, again, ‘Examen’ has a part to play in science. Here are the two Modern views that butt against divine perfection and lend to the Modern trend: goodness and beauty are arbitrary, and the actual world could be better. After listing God’s attributes in ‘Examen,’ Leibniz rejects the first position, too, and explains why it was best for God to create a world that could fall into sin. An infinite will, unregulated by reason, cannot found goodness and beauty. Leibniz rebuffs that God acts for a reason, which is their basis. If the universe could be better, it would be less than perfect. Narrower criteria fix perfection as what has a final, absolute degree. Number is not a perfection, for example, since it lacks completeness. Rational beings must have confidence that God has chosen the best for him to be good—the motive of divine love. RULES OF GOODNESS Arbitrariness, as a lack of reasons, threatens the commune between God and man. Descartes and Malebranche fail to remove this threat. This, in sum, compels Leibniz to offer an alternative system. On Descartes, first: If the Creator caused the universe and nothing more, there is no reason for creating except for the fact that God created it.8 So there is no reason for the details either, save God caused them. On this view, the universe expresses the divine will, power, and size, but not an intellect or mind. The central danger of Cartesianism, for Leibniz, is that the deity lacks a moral quality. To recall what is at stake, Leibniz writes in ‘Examen,’ God is not only the primary substance of all other things as their author and preserver, but also the most perfect mind, and on that account is imbued with a moral quality and enters a kind of society with other minds. (A VI 4, 420, 2361)

Leibniz’s mark of perfection pairs metaphysics and morality, substance and mind. This mark disposes rational beings toward truth, beauty, and goodness, and God communes with them accordingly. Descartes excludes goodness and beauty from the divine essence, arbitrariness enters creation, and, as a result, he undermines science as well as morality.9 Some facets of nature, that is, are not grounded in divine reason so that the sciences are haphazard and undirected.10 With this in mind, I turn to the second paragraph of ‘Discourse,’ headed, “Against those who maintain that there is no goodness in God’s works, or that the rules of goodness and beauty are arbitrary” (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36). These positions amount to the same: the commune between God and man is threatened.

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Leibniz proposes his mark of perfection to counter Modern views. He begins ¶ 2, “Thus, I am far removed from the view of those who maintain that there are no rules of goodness and perfection in the nature of things or in the ideas that God has of them . . . ” (A VI 4, 306, 1531; AG 36). It is worth noting that Leibniz initially wrote ‘Discours’ as one continuous text (LH I 3 1, Bl.1–12), so his transition, “Ainsi,” or “Thus,” directly followed the main body of the first paragraph (Strickland, “Discourse”).11 His criticism results from the mark of perfection, which is an alternative to Modern views. Since Descartes does not vouch that beauty and goodness are arbitrary, Leibniz is careful with his criticism. Descartes declares (according to Leibniz) creation perfect and good “for the formal reason that God made them” (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36). Nothing internal to the universe prompted God to create this one rather than another; they are perfect and good from the fact the deity made them. Leibniz explains what he means by “formal reason” a few lines down: an “empty, external denomination that relates [natural objects] to their cause” (ibidem). Dénomination extérieure, a scholastic concept,12 describes an attribute predicated of a subject based on something outside the subject (Leibniz, Discourse, 147). Goodness and beauty are not predicated of natural things from their perceived good, but from considering their Creator. Compared with ‘Examen,’ this stance means there is less basis for hope as an affection toward God that arises from natural perfections (A VI 4, 420, 2375). Descartes cites Genesis in support of his view of natural goodness. After six days of creation, scripture reports, “God saw all that he had made and found it very good” (Gen. 1.31). And, for Descartes, creation is good because God “willed to make [it] so” (AT VII, 436; Ar 201). He describes the deity’s moral quality as indifference, to Leibniz.13 Descartes writes, . . . if some rational basis for what is good were to have existed prior to God’s preordaining of things, this would have determined him to what was best to do. On the contrary, however, because God has determined himself toward those things that ought now to be made, they are for that reason, as Genesis has it, “very good.” (AT VII, pgs. 435–436; Ar 201)

The divine will determined itself since it grounds the moral ‘ought’ within things as its own object. Put again, God’s act was the cause and reason for creation, which Leibniz glosses as a formal reason. Despite avowals, Descartes’ view does not mesh with scripture. Leibniz explains, “For if this were so,” that is, if Descartes is right, God, knowing that he is their author, would not have had to consider them after and find them good, as the Holy Scripture attests—this anthropormorphism seems to be used only to make it known to us that the excellence of God’s works

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is known by considering the works in themselves even when we do not reflect on this bare exterior denomination that relates them to their cause. (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36)

Natural objects must be good and beautiful since God reflected on his creation. If Descartes were right, God’s perfect self-reflection would suffice.14 An extrinsic denomination obscures the Creator’s mark.15 The universe must be good in itself, Leibniz goes on, “since we can discover the workman by considering his works, so the works must carry his character in themselves” (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36).16 The test of perfection singles out divine attributes, specifically, power and knowledge, and these attributes can be “discovered” in nature. A mere extrinsic denomination does not cross Creator and creation in this way, but keeps them apart. Leibniz’s criticism is two-fold. A moral quality does not result from the fact that the deity created the world (recall the Sameness of Goods problem). Creating without enacting a choice with a reason does not require a mind, nor will the product evince one. If there is a choice, there are rules of perfection. Creation does not express a creator, and so lacks a design for the sciences to track and aspire to, if God lacks a moral quality. Leibniz nearly quotes Descartes when he writes that we know God through nature (AT VII, 52; Ar 28–29). Both claim as much, yet Leibniz disagrees over the content, effects, and affects of the divine mark. Without naming Descartes, Leibniz rejects a similar position in ‘Examen.’ Again, the threat is an impoverished notion of the deity. Therefore, we must avoid those who conceive God as a sort of supreme power from which all other things do indeed emanate, but indiscriminately, by a kind of necessary existence, without any selection of the beautiful or the good, as if these notions were either arbitrary or existed only in the human imagination and not in nature. (A VI 4, 420, 2357)

Beauty and goodness are again singled out. Leibniz’s criticism also appears, except now the inference is streamlined: if the deity is sheer power and created by necessity, beauty and goodness are not chosen; thus, they are either arbitrary or fictive. Almost identical to ‘Discours,’ the best universe resulting from the most perfect God entails the rejection of God as sheer substance. Leibniz brings the reader to the rejection above by writing, . . . anyone who understands the whole plan of the divine economy will discover a model of the most perfect commonwealth, in which a wise man can want for nothing, or rather cannot have any wish unfulfilled. (A VI 4, 420, 2357)

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No mark of perfection appears to fill out God as substance. In ‘Discours,’ the deity as all-perfect entails the mark, which entails the more one knows, the more perfection seen. There is a pivot in his theological tract. Whereas ‘Discours’ concerns the lack in Modern metaphysics by pointing out effects, ‘Examen’ builds out the requisite morality, at times appealing to his earlier metaphysics. Although science and religion are closely knit, Leibniz rejects Descartes’ idea of God from an ideal, an ideal which slightly differs in our two main texts. In ‘Examen,’ he supposes an ideal understanding of the divine economy akin to the proportional knowledge in ‘Discours,’ but speaks of “a wise man” under a governor. Whereas ‘Discours’ joins metaphysics and morality, ‘Examen’ centers on a moral disposition around which a theology can be built. There is overlap since, as we will see, Leibniz takes his coupling of metaphysics and morality as an alternative to Descartes’ sects. Stances in both texts tend to resolve dispute. But a criterion of perfection is not the answer in religion; the right moral disposition is, which follows from the right criterion. This is a basic point of convergence.17 For Descartes, the craftsman’s mark stems from emanation: God’s force, power, and size. But the actual world was not chosen among others, so emanation acts as a blind and necessary cause. Leibniz agrees that everything emanates from the Creator, but objects to a brute force apart from a moral quality.18 In ‘Examen,’ he describes emanation as “indiscriminate” instead of using “formal reason” or “extrinsic denomination” as in ‘Discours.’ With the change in terms, his concern shifts from the status of beauty and goodness (how subjects are predicated as beautiful or good) to the nature of God’s act. Since a show of force does not require preference, a choice, or reasons, God causes everything indiscriminately. Creation is blind. Another change worth noting, one that affirms a shift in concern, is that Leibniz argued that the mark of perfection includes beauty and goodness in ‘Discours.’ Then, in ‘Examen,’ he writes that part of God’s act, which was guided by criteria of perfection, no doubt, was selecting the beautiful and good. Clearly in both, the deity chose to create this world in a way that rational beings can express through their reasoning. The debate recorded in Plato’s Euthyphro continues. Leibniz’s test of perfection is not an external criterion if that means wholly outside the divine nature since embodying that criteria affirms divinity. The test expresses the character of the deity such that God is set apart. But it is not a product of the bare divine will or choice.19 Otherwise, the criteria are arbitrary. Divinity results from any act. The mark of perfection cannot result from the creative act, but must guide it in a way that the product holds the creator’s mark. Recall our foil, the Sameness of Goods problem. The issues Leibniz handles result in, or elude, the problem. Descartes’ view faces it since there would

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be no persuasive reason God’s good is the same as ours if we assume his notion of God has a moral quality. Creation is good for the formal reason God made it. Benefits and harms level out in the godhead since their distinction dissolves into one ultimate cause. For Leibniz, this is empty or purely formal, and so a loss of God’s moral quality. ‘Discours,’ ¶ 1, is an alternative grounding. Still, Leibniz’s opposition rests on the threatening consequences of Cartesianism, which I now turn to. “I confess that the contrary view [id est, Descartes’] appears extremely dangerous to me,” Leibniz avows (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36). It is the tendencies of Cartesianism—the Modern disaffection—that worry him. Around six to eight years before, Leibniz explains, “I know that their phrases are very different than some of those I just presented,” speaking of the Cartesians, “but when you have penetrated the foundation of their thoughts you will remain in agreement with what I have said,” namely, that the Modern system threatens piety (A VI 4, 263, 1385; AG 282). Leibniz hones the criticism in ‘Discours’: Descartes’ view about goodness and beauty dissolve a moral quality, blocking God’s commune with rational beings. A formal reason or extrinsic denomination toute nue does not upend the Cartesian system. Leibniz’s response and warning do not prove the Modern claims false. This is not a flat refutation. As he writes in ‘Examen,’ these are reasons to “avoid” conceiving God in their way. Similarly, the status of predicating moral qualities to natural objects compels avoidance. ‘Examen’ begins with the cause of empty predicates: God did not choose what to create. Leibniz observes in both 1686 texts the affects of the Modern notion of God. Though he takes issue with Descartes’ physics, he first criticizes an inadequate unity of metaphysics and morality, which impairs the sciences. We hear this bleak and far-reaching sentiment in his earlier tract on Cartesian philosophy. Leibniz censures, “But we should not endure our Moderns—to embellish particular physics—destroying metaphysics and overturning morality and theology, to which some of their opinions may seem to lead us” (A VI 4, 289, 1481; Leibniz, “Cartesian,” 98). The affects of Cartesianism reveal its lack. Descartes’ position, Leibniz warns, tends to Spinozism—an accusation in its own right.20 Continuing with ‘Discours,’ ¶ 2, I confess that the contrary view appears extremely dangerous to me, and very close to the opinion of recent Innovators that the beauty of the universe and the goodness we attribute to the works of God are only chimeras of humans who conceive God after their own manner. (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36)

Spinoza is the recent innovator, who Leibniz criticizes in a theological manuscript preceding ‘Examen’ for inventing terms, using obscure language, and departing from customary usage (A VI 4, 415, 2345).21 But Spinoza looms

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behind ‘Discours’ without coming into focus. He embodies where the Modern trend leads, which Leibniz assumes damns the trend and many pious contemporaries would agree.22 He observes this tendency some years before. And since [Descartes’] philosophy misunderstood will do great harm to religion if it gets the upper hand because it seems to lead straight to the views of Spinoza, who dared to say what Descartes carefully avoided, we have grounds to oppose it. (A VI 4, 289, 1484; Leibniz, “Cartesian,” 100)

Descartes never claims that natural beauty and goodness are human chimeras, as Leibniz grants. In the earlier piece, Leibniz claims that reading Descartes in this way misunderstands him, but his criticism in ‘Discours’ seems less forgiving with no qualifier about misreading. Leibniz may have thought Descartes secretly agreed. Still, he does not say Cartesianism entails Spinozism either. One tends to the other. A formal reason for natural perfection tends to separate beauty and goodness from the divine. Such is the first consequence of Descartes’ view. The second consequence explains why Descartes veers so dangerously. Leibniz goes on, “Also, in saying that things are not good by any rule of goodness, but by God’s will alone, it seems to me that we unthinkingly destroy all love of God and all his glory” (A VI 4, 306, 1532; AG 36). If the universe loses natural beauty and goodness, divine love and glory drop out, too, and this reeks havoc on a General Science. This is because rational beings are no longer disposed toward absolute perfection and natural sciences do not express a divine mind. Within Cartesianism, humans should not expect a thorough study of every iota of nature to be fruitful since natural objects are not thoroughly imbued with perfection. But the mark of the craftsman is in his work. As Leibniz writes in a series of notes around 1685, “There would be no obligation to believe if God had not lavishly provided, by design, signifying marks in us from which God’s word is distinguished from the deceiver’s word” (A VI 4, 406, 2298).23 The Creator gave rational beings the capacity to discern truth from falsity, which is a mark of their perfection. Another requirement is unmet by Descartes’ account, the Requirement of Praiseworthiness. God’s act must merit praise from rational beings. Perceiving the universe should prompt praise, but denying that God chose the best prevents this prompting “for why praise him for what he has done if he would be equally praiseworthy in doing the opposite?” Leibniz asks (A VI 4, 306, 1532–33; AG 36). If God could have created any world, there is no motive to praise him. Any world will do because he made it. More rides on this requirement than worship or piety. Reasoners, especially those who love God, expect the best in their actions and pursuits and they should be justified in willing the same as their Creator. God’s good is their own. And if any

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world works, there is no expectation that actual objects and events contribute uniquely to the overall perfection. And when the details do not (rationally) compel praise of the maker, hope cannot become charity. Leibniz repugns that “the glory of God” increases with every natural substance, and so each object elicits praise (A VI 4, 306, 1542; AG 42). Beginning about seven years before, Leibniz closely read and annotated Descartes’ book on the passions. I dealt briefly with these notes in the first chapter to show the cognitive role of affects: they determine series of thoughts. While the first pages closely record Descartes’ definitions, his later pennings part ways. Affects are predicated of the soul (A VI 4, 269, 1418), Leibniz writes, such that the good and evil within things most strongly prompt the soul to think one thing rather than another (ibid., 1433–4). In this way, humans perceive toward higher perfection, from potential to actual, from ignorance to discovery. More, human good is contemplation, likely an allusion to the singular reflection on God, whereas hope and desire concern possibility (ibid., 1426). From this disposition, humans perceive the cause of objects or events. Although these notes experiment with various derivations from the definition of affection, his remarks show how Leibniz sought to combine affects with reason. The marks in things ought to lead one to higher perfections. But Descartes’ concept of perfection does not elicit praise. God’s love and glory vanish because, without a choice of the best, the deity seems imperfect or evil. “Where will his justice or wisdom reside,” Leibniz continues in ‘Discours,’ “if only certain despotic power remains, if will holds the place of reason, and if, according to the definition of tyrants, what pleases the most powerful is in itself just?” (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 36) Leibniz cues us in to the thrust of his question by the wording. Justice and wisdom cannot be predicated of the deity—they cannot “be” or “exist,” être—if all that “remains” (rester) is a will.24 The godhead requires more than one constant, self-determining will. This recalls the deity as sheer substance. Leibniz waxes on right submission to God in ‘Examen,’ Accordingly, such souls do not merely fear the power of the supreme and all-seeing monarch [as if he were a tyrant], but also trust in his benevolence, and ultimately (which covers all these things) are inflamed by the love of God above all things. (A VI 4, 420, 2357)

Leibniz diagnoses the Modern trend as deaf to love, that is, God’s love for humans and our love for the Creator. If moral qualities are arbitrary, they seem no more than chimeras and, as a result, humans will tend to condemn their source. Leibniz adopts a notion of the deity to at once preserve the divine mind and goodness.

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In a fragment, tentatively dated 1677, Leibniz observes that the Moderns only reach the threshold of “true philosophy” (A VI 4, 255, 1356). And, again stressing the incompleteness of the Moderns’ systems, Leibniz wrote in perhaps 1685 that the mechanists do not “take sufficiently into account that all of nature is a certain mechanism” (A VI 4, 408, 2303). This charge of incompleteness surfaces in "Discours." “Besides,” he writes, “it seems that every will assumes aliquam rationem volendi or that the reason is naturally prior to the will” (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 36). Leibniz casually invalidates Descartes’ notion of the divine will. An action without a reason is arbitrary, yet every will assumes a reason. Thus, an arbitrary will, or a purely self-determining one, cannot be. No doubt, Descartes holds that God has an intellect, or understanding, as well as a will,25 though he often underlines their sameness in God.26 But, as he says, Leibniz aims under the surface of Descartes’ words where he finds a basic notion lacking. In like tone, Leibniz ends the second paragraph by dismissing Cartesian expressions as “strange.” He cites his coeval’s stance that eternal truths of Metaphysics and Geometry, as well as rules of goodness, justice, and perfection, result from sheer divine will (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 36). Eternal truths and rules of perfection do not come from the will any more than essence or understanding. What is strange, given his earlier remark, is Descartes’ notion of the divine will snapped out of the divine nature. He conceives it unlike what is fittingly called a will. How does this amount to personhood? The error ripples. By rejecting criteria of perfection outside the divine choice, Descartes allows arbitrariness to unsettle the most concrete truths rational beings have, such as the principle of contradiction. Metaphysics, geometry, and the other sciences study an arbitrary divine event, nature. If humans get things right, their reasoning expresses God as a formal cause only. I want to pause a moment on Leibniz’s pairing of eternal truths with rules of perfection, including goodness and justice. He writes toward the end of ¶ 2 that what Descartes says of eternal truths apply to perfections par consequent. This merits pause because the consequence explains what prompts rational beings to identify their good, a finite perfection, with the Creator’s.27 It is the mark of perfection in things, no doubt. On one reading, par consequent names a transitive relation. The immediate source of eternal truths mediates rules of perfection. Put again, humans perceive the deity’s moral quality through their perception of eternal truths. Or, more strongly, the cause of one must thereby be the cause of the other. To perceive eternal truths means likewise perceiving goodness and justice. Rational attributes share affects. More weakly, par consequence refers to one cause or origin. Whatever causes one causes the other, though no other relation need hold. My claim that "Discours" couples metaphysics and morality suggests one of the stronger senses, but I will return to this next chapter.

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Earlier, I noted that Leibniz claims that divine perfections must be perceived within creation and judged as perfections from created things, otherwise perfection amounts to no more than a show of force. Let me add that, on Descartes’ view, our response to creation, and so our commune with God, is submission to its powerful and immense unfolding. Such submissiveness is Descartes’ Stoicism, Leibniz writes elsewhere,28 or force patience. For Descartes, perfection links an idea to its object or cause. His arguments for the existence of God center on an innate idea, then on requirements for my own existence. The perfection of an idea exists formally or eminently in its object—that is, either as I perceive it or in such a way that the perfection of the object could produce the effects of how I perceive it. Eminence means perfection is effective and expressed throughout creation without being in creation as such. And, ultimately, the need for perfection, or reality, to relate every idea and object shows how an absolutely perfect being is assumed in every step of reasoning. The problem, for Leibniz, is that perceiving perfection is not ruled or measured except as the strength of an impression. By setting a highest degree, then rules or measures, God’s moral quality ensures the divine intellect is comprehensible, even if never fully comprehended or intuited. And God’s act of creation remains susceptible to analysis and criteria. Perfection must enable humans to judge the presumed will of God with reason and security. Otherwise, commune with God is not active. If humans must resign themselves to God’s future will instead of anticipate it, they cannot participate in the divine plan. Acts are formally within the divine economy insofar as the agents exist, but acts and decisions cannot contribute to or take away from creation’s perfection. Put again, reasoning does not have a moral quality. There is no reason for actions to result in rewards or punishments. On one hand, then, humans should be able to derive goodness and beauty from our notion of things, which contain the marks of the Creator. On the other hand, they should be able to judge the value of creation apart from the Creator’s decision to create it. The basic moves of ¶ 2 can be summarized as follows: Leibniz supposes the Cartesian notion of the deity to name the status of goodness and beauty, details its effects, then drops it as incomplete. These moves make sense in light of a diagnosis of a Modern trend toward apathy and impiety from their notion of God, which leads to lacking perfection. Leibniz touts his mark of a highest degree as an alternative, but he does not prove Descartes wrong. No demonstration is given about the concept of God. Moral reasons underlie the two effects that Cartesianism amounts to Spinozism and that love of God and divine glory are destroyed: an inadequate notion of God and perfection has tendencies, a disposition, and expectations that are morally and religiously suspect.

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A BETTER WORLD Others hold that whichever world God chose to create, a better one could have been chosen. This is the next position Leibniz rejects, which was held by Malebranche. In an early draft, he cited the “scholastics” and called the Moderns “new scholastics” (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 36). Maybe at first he toyed with the idea of framing the text as a middle way between Modernity and the Schools, or sought to couch two prevailing Modern views in Scholasticism. Moderns were not novel, but ignorant of the past. Either way, he changed his mind, framing the text as an alternative to Descartes and Malebranche. His is a subtler response to a trend. As with ¶ 2, arbitrariness looms. If there is no prevailing reason for one world to be chosen over another, the divine will lacks a moral quality. God must have created this world because it is better than any other. Again, Leibniz faces the moral effects of the Modern notion of perfection head on. Perfections have a “last degree,” which is their mark. Malebranche believes that no single act (or finite set) can encompass divine perfection since God is infinitely perfect.29 A finite world cannot hold an infinite. To claim otherwise bounds God’s perfection and freedom, and so limits his glory. But Leibniz thinks the opposite. He begins ¶ 3, “Nor do I approve the opinion of some moderns who boldly maintain that what God has done is not of the highest perfection and that he could have acted much better” (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 36). If God did not create the best world, humans have less reason to praise him. At stake is the requirement of praiseworthiness and its appeal. Malebranche endorses his view from the moral disposition it elicits. God’s perfection exceeds the world’s, so he merits praise (T I.14). Leibniz agrees that there is a sense in which creation is perfect. For since the imperfections descend to infinity, in whichever way God could have made his work it would always be good in comparison with lesser perfection, if that was enough—but a thing is hardly praiseworthy if it can be praised only in this manner. (A VI 4, 306, 1534; AG 37)

God’s chosen world is better than others, but, again, “The consequences of this view are entirely contrary to the glory of God” (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 36–37). God is not praiseworthy if he could have done better. Perfection is relative if there is no last degree. The consequence: “Uti minus malum habet rationem boni, ita minus bonum habet rationem mali,” or, “As less evil has a degree of good, so less good has a degree of evil” (A VI 4, 306, 1533; AG 37). God’s choice will be better than some, worse than some, regardless of its quality. Perfection is like a series of numbers without end, leading forever

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up into infinity.30 Leibniz clearly positions his mark of perfection against such a view. Before, the mark of the craftsman is found in his work. Leibniz nuances the analogy to show that Malebranche’s view lessens the mark and subtracts from divine glory. “To point out that an architect could have done better is to find fault in his work” (A VI 4, 306, 1533–4; AG 37). He anticipates ¶ 5, where God is compared to a geometer, an architect, the head of house, a machinist, and a governor. Like a great architect, resources and setting are used in the most advantageous way, nothing shocks, and beauty is not lacking (A VI 4, 306, 1536; AG 38). Humans ought to expect the same from creation. A Modern may object that these analogies confine a will that created ex nihilo, but, for Leibniz, divine nature sets such restraints. A bare will expresses itself as an immense and indiscriminate power—a tyrannical one. Left out is a mind that humans can commune with. Since God acts according to his nature, creation expresses rational agency, which analogies approximate.31 His use of analogy also suggests a broader “vision of God” that perfection disposes us to.32 The moral quality in creation (or lack thereof) prompts praise or blame. The Creator’s mark is in his works and an object passes the test of perfection if it is praiseworthy, or realizes the highest degree of perfection. The crux of Leibniz’s criticism in ¶ 2 was interpreting Genesis’ creation account.33 Here, again, it is religion and theology that set matters aright. Malebranche’s stance “goes against the Holy Scriptures when it assures us of the goodness of God’s works,” an ironic accusation given how many verses the priest cites (A VI 4, 306, 1534; AG 37). The belief that God could have done better falls under the same criticism as Descartes’ view: If God chose to create this world, it must be praiseworthy in all respects. When this requirement is met, the right disposition is engendered and secured. Leibniz gives three reasons why God could not have created a better world and, as before, these are moral reasons. First, the Modern view breaks from scripture and tradition, sacred and profane. No demonstration is in the offing. On matters of first philosophy, like the nature of perfection, Leibniz appeals to revelation. His criticism of Malebranche shares a religious center. He calls on sacred and profane tradition in other writings on the nature of God, too, so his use of these avenues spans thoughts on the deity.34 Given that theology is bound up in morality, these reasons underline the moral impetus for his criticisms. Whether relative perfection succeeds depends on the praiseworthiness of God, consistency with scripture, and alliance with the philosophical and orthodox traditions. Leibniz puts his own notion of perfection in the wake of ancient philosophers and church fathers. He vies with Malebranche’s piety: “I also believe that an infinite number of passages will be found within the Divine scripture and Holy Fathers that favors my view, but hardly any will be found for the

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one of these moderns, which in my opinion is unknown to all antiquity . . .” (A VI 4, 306, 1534; AG 37). Due to novelty, Malebranche’s position cannot be traced back to scripture, the ancients, or the Church. Leibniz accuses Descartes of novelty as well, so the criticism reaches back to the prior paragraph.35 He praises the Jesuits for holding to “received dogmas which often pertain to religion” unless “necessity or demonstration” moves them otherwise (A VI 4, 289, 1482; Leibniz, “Cartesian,” 99). The history of antiquity and the church are vital for perceiving religious truth. In “Nouvelles ouvertures,” he writes as much: “The History of Antiquity is absolutely necessary for the proof of religion’s truth and, setting aside the excellence of doctrine, it is by a wholly divine origin that our religion distinguishes itself from every other” (A VI 4, 688). These avenues do not lessen knowledge gained through the other sciences. Since there are rules of perfection throughout creation, a better understanding of nature helps us perceive God’s mark, just as better knowledge of God highlights nature’s perfection. A brief look to ‘Examen’ supports the moral slant of Leibniz’s criticism. God not only reveals himself through a general will, but also, “as legislator, he declares his particular and public will regarding the actions of minds and the government of his city, and also sanctions with rewards and punishments, and to this end he established revelations” (A VI 4, 420, 2361).36 Action, both what to do and why, is the object of revelation. Scripture, prophecy, miracles, and tradition fall under revelation here. Novelty names a dangerous break from sources of authority for acting. Descartes’ and Malebranche’s metaphysics separate the mechanism of nature from the governance of God.37 This results from failing to meet the requirement of praiseworthiness, which is enforced through revelation. And since they neglect scripture and tradition, the Moderns establish their philosophy on ignorance and haste—the second and third reasons for rejecting their views. Picking up on Leibniz’s criticism in ‘Discours,’ “ . . . which in my opinion is unknown to all antiquity and is only based on our having too little knowledge of the general harmony of the universe and of the hidden reasons for God’s conduct” (A VI 4, 306, 1534; AG 37). The Moderns fail to give orthodoxy its due because their knowledge of nature is lacking. Their sciences are off-based. Leibniz does not accuse them of ignorance, which comes with finitude, but of failing to ground their philosophies on the transcendence of the universe’s harmony and perfection. Theology stays “queen of the sciences,” as Medieval thinkers held (Ozment, Age, 23). Humans will not know before death the reason God created this world rather than another and, despite scientific advances, humans remain largely ignorant of the total harmony of nature (see ¶ 6). Each created thing expresses this total harmony to some degree, though confusedly. Yet revelation and tradition dispose us toward a certain notion of God (and nature) that compensates for our

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ignorance, at least enough for confident action. Descartes and Malebranche are without these aids. A first philosophy based on ignorance of the universal harmony cannot have reasons for its definitions, axioms, and principles. Philosophy begins arbitrarily since it is not oriented by a unique (most perfect) order. This is not to say that Leibniz demonstrates his first terms in ‘Discours’ or ‘Examen.’ He grants universal harmony exceeds finite intellects while giving such harmony a positive role through the moral quality of God. Where Moderns begin is not simply provisional, like Leibniz’s beginnings, but amoral. They err by generalizing with an amoral disposition since their Nature leaves out God’s most perfect choice. There is no reason to expect reasoning to engender happiness and find truth. The lacking morality damns their systems since it reveals a less than praiseworthy deity. Creation does not elicit praise. How Leibniz corrects this tendency is the object of the remaining chapters, but his criticisms preview the change. It seems odd to blame someone for not orienting their thought from “hidden reasons.” Given earlier remarks, Leibniz suggests that tradition and revelation clarify where philosophy should begin. These sources prompt our thought and action toward a harmony only dimly expressed and little known. If this is right, reading Leibniz’s religious manuscripts helps make sense of why Leibniz expects ‘Discours’ to be persuasive: commitments, such as the requirement of praiseworthiness, prompts the stances of the short, yet comprehensive tract. ‘Examen’ is key since it is Leibniz’s most sustained treatment of religious issues and parallels the first paragraphs of ‘Discours.’ Central to his critique of the Moderns, then, is how they distance their systems from tradition and revelation and fail to incorporate the mysteries. Since they include revelations only to the extent they are intelligible, they leave out God’s “hidden reasons,” and so drop basic moral cues. Leibniz, by contrast, uses church doctrine to orient rational beings in the pursuit of knowledge and the good life. Theology houses the sciences. The third reason for rejecting the Modern offer is that ignorance leads to rash judgment. Holding that the world could be better assumes sufficient clear and distinct perceptions of actual and possible perfection to compare, but ideas of God as absolute perfection and nature as best are not clear and distinct.38 Leibniz tells us the wise man would perceive this if he had knowledge of the universal harmony. Wisdom coupled with knowledge. No demonstration of divine or natural perfection is in the wings. The Modern’s judgment is “rash,” “bold,” or “audacious” because it lacks a reason, save ignorance. Without a mark of perfection, scripture, and tradition, the Moderns lack guidance in the face of finitude, yet they evaluate the status of the unknown whole all the same.

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Believing goodness and beauty are arbitrary, or that God could have created a better world, results in an amoral or immoral disposition—Modern love. This disposition results from a lacking concept of perfection, one that fails to maximize divine glory and so elicit praise. The core of ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ corrects the Modern trend by robustly joining knowledge and affection. This is done, first, by centering the identification of God’s good with one’s own as an act of love whereby human and divine wills align. And, second, Leibniz conceives the lover’s disposition so that it tends toward, and is inflamed by, knowledge. Last chapter, I showed how Leibniz had yet to fully work out his intent. We saw here how Leibniz expects the divine lover to be actively disposed toward a universal harmony that they cannot comprehend because it exceeds the reach of finite intellects. Revelations orient the lover so that they can act and strive in confidence that all will be for the best. NOTES 1. Leibniz notes in ¶ 19 of ‘Discours’ that it is difficult to see marks of an intelligent creator with the Modern denial of final causes (A VI 4, 306, 1561; AG 53). 2. The same claim is made in “Rationale fidei catholicae” (A VI 4, 409, 2317). 3. The requirements and object of worship are themes I pick up in the next chapter. 4. On how theological commitments guide his physics, see (Garber, “Leibniz, Theology and the Mechanical Philosophy”). 5. See chapter 1. 6. Again, see chapter 1. 7. Leibniz also begins the second draft of “Elementa verae pietatis, sive de amore dei super omnia” by noting that an intelligence within nature excites love of God in rational beings (see A VI 4, 256, 1364). 8. Leibniz writes in 1677: “Si Deus aliquid vult sine ratione, sequitur eum agere et velle imperfecte quia omnis substantia intelligens in quantum non ex intellectu agit, imperfecte agit” (A VI 4, N. 262, “Converatio cum Domino Episcopo Stenonio de Libertate,” 1383). 9. For example, Leibniz argues that one of Descartes’ principles of optics can be arrived at through final causes. He then claims in the 1690’s that this proof is an example of the fact that nature can be entirely explained via final causes, writing, “The most beautiful thing about this view seems to me to be that the principle of perfection is not limited to the general but descends also to the particulars of things and of phenomena” (G VII 272–3; translated and cited by Garber, Body, 258). Without this descent, neither the whole nor the most minute part would be ruled through final causes, id est, through divine wisdom. 10. Leibniz uses “praiseworthy” in a precise and technical way. In a manuscript written between August 1688 and October 1690, he applauds Raymond Lull for precisely defining ‘goodness,’ ‘glory,’ and ‘wisdom’ (A VI 4, 205, 966). Throughout the

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writings of 1686, especially ‘Discourse’ and ‘Examen,’ Leibniz uses requirements of praiseworthiness to motivate certain positions and reject others, as I will soon show. 11. I will set aside the rules of perfection he endorses for now since they depend on love of God. Leibniz distances himself from the view that nothing inherent to things is good or perfect according to a rule or principle. Later, I examine how love of God follows from the mark of perfection. 12. On Leibniz’s response to the scholastic distinction between external and interior denomination, see (Mugnai, “Bemerkungen zu Leibniz’ Theorie der Relationen” Rutherford, Leibniz, 145ff.). 13. In a short appeal for Jesuit support, written between the summer of 1683 and the winter of 1685, Leibniz criticizes Descartes’ “Stoic morality . . . which makes a virtue out of necessity places all happiness in a certain forced patience.” Such a view “is not quite the same as Christian morality” and falls out of how God communes with rational beings (A VI 4, 289,1482; Leibniz, “Cartesian,” 99). Leibniz contrasts Descartes’ and Spinoza’s views of possibility with Christian teaching earlier (1677?) as well, though there his concern is matter (see A VI 4, 251, 1352). 14. Leibniz reads Genesis in this way as early as 1677, though the date is uncertain and Leibniz leaves it undeveloped (see A VI 4, 249, 1350). 15. For a study on extrinsic denominations in Leibniz’s thought, see (Plaisted, Leibniz on Purely Extrinsic Denominations). 16. For a later development of this idea, in a piece written in 1696, “Tentamen anagogicum,” see (G VII 272; L 478). 17. More on this next chapter. 18. See (A VI 4, 306, 1549, 1550–1, & 1581; AG 46, 47, 63; A VI 4, 421, 2365). For a study of Leibniz’s views on emanation, see (Fouke, “Emanation and the Perfections of Being”). 19. That said, Leibniz seems to take an eerily Cartesian position in a writing on divine freedom, written shortly before 1686 (though the Akademie editors are unsure). Leibniz claims that no one can render a reason for God’s choice of this universe because this choice stems from what God desires, not from things. The reason for a free choice, by definition, is in the will and nothing else (A VI 4, 273, 1453). But in ¶ 2, he clarifies that humans must see the mark of the creator in his works and he relocates the reason for God’s choice in his nature as opposed to the brute fact of the will. 20. On the interaction between Leibniz and Spinoza, see (Kulstad, “Newton, Spinoza, Stoics and Others: A Battle Line in Leibniz’s Wars of (Natural) Religion”; Look, “Perfection, Power, and the Passions in Spinoza and Leibniz”; Newlands, “The Harmony of Spinoza and Leibniz”; Rescher, “Leibniz as a Critic of Spinoza”; Stewart, The Courtier and the Heretic; Goldenbaum, “Spinoza’s Parrot, Socinian Syllogisms, and Leibniz’s Metaphysics”). These citations are by no means exhaustive. 21. See (Laerke, Leibniz lecteur de Spinoza, 625–632). 22. For Spinoza’s critical reception, see (Nadler, A Book Forged in Hell; Israel, Radical Enlightenment and “The Early Dutch and German Reaction to the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus”).

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23. The claim that God must have provided marks to distinguish his word from misleading ones is significant for Leibniz’s account of revelation, the subject of next chapter. 24. Again in “De la philosophie cartesienne,” Leibniz similar writes, “Because in maintaining that the eternal truths of Geometry and morality—and consequently also the rules of justice, goodness, and beauty—are the effect of a free or arbitrary choice of God’s will, it seems that we take from him his wisdom and his justice, or rather the understanding and will, only leaving a certain disproportionate power from which everything emanates that merits the name, ‘nature,’ more so than ‘God’” (A VI 4, 289, 1481; Leibniz, “Cartesian,” 98). 25. See, for example, his letter to Mersenne in 1630 (AT I, 149). 26. See AT VIII, 14. 27. And so identifies what humans perceive such that they identify their good with the divine. 28. See (A VI 4, 289, 1482; Leibniz, “Cartesian,” 99). 29. For a comparison between Leibniz and Malebranche on the claim that this is the best of all possible worlds, see (Schmaltz, “Malebranche and Leibniz on the Best of all Possible Worlds”). 30. As early as 1677, Leibniz argued that anything which can be assigned a number must be finite since there is always a larger number (A VI 4, 248, 1349). 31. Grosholz (“Theomorphic Expression”) makes a similar point by reading into this discussion a rational self-relation in the divine identity. 32. As Gregory Brown notes, primitive concepts are accessed via the “beatific vision” (Brown, “Compossibility, Harmony, and Perfection in Leibniz,” 182 ft.). 33. On the role of creation for Leibniz’s thought, see (Cook, “Leibniz on Creation”). 34. A VI 4, 420, 2306–7. 35. See (A VI 4, 289, 1482; Leibniz, “Cartesian,” 99). 36. The distinction between God’s general and particular will appears in ‘Discours,’ ¶ 7, in the context of miracles. I return to the role of revelation in chapter 5. 37. On a related note, Garber remarks that, in Principia (I.28), Descartes did not appeal to final causes because he believed we do not know God’s intentions (Body, 226–7). Spinoza goes further by rejecting that God has intentions (Garber, “Leibniz, Theology and the Mechanical Philosophy”). 38. Leibniz makes a similar point to Foucher when criticizing Descartes’ ontological argument (A II 2, 16, 92–3).

Chapter 4

Revelations & Miracles

For Leibniz, miracles have a specific role as expressions of the divine will.1 They are a basis for Christianity.2 Like natural phenomena and events, they are grounded in divine love and should be reasoned over. But there is a tension in Leibniz’s reconciliation of miracles with natural laws. On one hand, he sets the order captured by scientific laws apart from the universe’s harmony. Miracles suspend natural laws, yet accord with the divine plan.3 On the other hand, he holds that the character of nature can be ascribed to the deity, including the order “established among creatures” (A VI 4, 306, 1537 & 1586–7; AG 40 & 60).4 Natural laws express God, and do so consistently. Miracles express God from their irregularity. Somehow, regular and miraculous events complement one another in their expression of the Creator. This tension, I argue, follows from the onus on love of God in Leibniz’s system. It is easy to overlook the significance of what Leibniz later calls “miracles of the second rank,” such as changing water into wine.5 Scholars focus on reconciling miracles and natural laws with respect to substance (a concern Leibniz shared). Arnaud pushes him in this direction, too (A II 2, 8, 31–38; 11, 47; 14, 68–74;). The tact for building a persuasive picture of Leibniz’s view has been (i) reducing second rank miracles to first rank ones,6 (ii) modifying what Leibniz writes,7 or (iii) eliminating miracles entirely.8 These approaches overlook the revelatory within natural phenomena as well as the moral purpose of miracles—the motives for Leibniz’s commitment to miracles in 1686. What he comes to call second rank miracles express the divine will for how humans should act. Leibniz is less concerned with the details or consequences of physical substance9 than the “new openings” his positions afford:10 namely, the communion of God and man. Miracles are a result of God’s moral quality as unique ways the deity communes with us. Leibniz remarks in “Positiones” that, without religious revelations, deism and atheism result, but, as you can guess, more than religion is at stake (A VI 4, 418, 2352; LGR 236–37). Belief in miracles is less satisfying to philosophers and scientists who see them as a threat to reason. A miraculous 89

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exemption stains an exceptionless order from which reasons can be given. Arbitrariness enters. But it is from his concept of reason that Leibniz defends miracles. As opposed to Descartes and Spinoza, Leibniz thinks that reason has qualities like beauty and goodness, which the deity shares.11 Miracles are unique expressions of God because they relate the divine will to specific persons. God, the good legislator, makes his will known so that people are culpable for resisting him. And it is from revelations that humans act on the presumption of God’s will for the future. In this way, the divine lover is emboldened to act. Miracles accompany revelations, and so have a specific role. Like all phenomena, they prompt a disposition in those that perceive them and are received as such according to someone’s disposition. Knowledge and affection are loosely tied, and this slack gives room for the acceptance of phenomena that exceed comprehension. A person’s disposition toward God makes enables them to trust him despite. We can act in the face of ignorance and powerlessness. Revelations further our understanding of the Creator’s plan for our lives and the manner he wills us to act, and are confirmed by miracles. This is how miracles reinforce and complement natural laws while exempt from such laws. Leibniz seeks to reconcile them in the mysterious choice to create this world rather than another, which evokes divine wisdom, and our disposition toward this choice. Miracles and natural laws cross in love of God. Similar to what I argued in the first chapter, Leibniz seeks to predicate miracles and revelations to God consistent with his glory and to maximize human perfection. Nature in its fullest ought to engender and support love of God. The miraculous, it would seem, parts knowledge and affection since miracles cannot be explained by natural laws. Better knowledge seems to diminish the miraculous, if anything. The ignorant are quick to pronounce a miracle. But this is not what Leibniz holds. By miracles and revelation, humans glimpse a divine plan that exceeds comprehension. Better knowledge disposes the knower to receive miracles and revelations, while rejecting illusion and superstition.12 They align their will to the divine, and so accept God’s infinite wisdom. That higher wisdom pierces creation when suspending natural laws, and so welcome humans as agents in the divine plan. Miracles and revelations support my reading of the basis for Leibniz’s scientific program. NATURAL HARMONY Humans reason about God from the natural light of reason and revelations.13 The notion of God in the sciences, though, conforms with the Christian God, even if an all-perfect being does not contain thereby the Trinity or

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Incarnation. Similarly, humans continue to reason over revelations so that natural and moral laws cohere with them. The law of non-contradiction, Leibniz stresses, bounds the Christian mysteries, revelations, and miracles. These items of revelation are rational while exceeding comprehension, and so cohere with natural reasoning (A VI 4, 418; LGR 236–9). The pious may believe in God and live well by accepting revelations with little reasoning about him. The learned may reason well, yet reject these revelations. It is tempting to go a step more and say that only the pious know God, especially since Leibniz thinks the philosopher’s God and the Christian God are one and the same. But the pious may be mistaken with their concept, and so lack knowledge. On the other hand, the learned may demonstrate the existence of an all-perfect being without fully knowing what such a being includes. The ignorant pious exemplify the right disposition toward the mystery of mysteries: namely, God’s choice to create this world. Still, Leibniz thinks that knowledge ought to dispose the learned likewise, as we have seen. He defines a threshold that humans cannot reason beyond. Revelations reveal that which cannot be known clearly and distinctly, or for which a reason can be given. In ¶ 5 of ‘Discours,’ he writes, But to know in detail the reasons that could have moved [God] to choose this order of the universe—to allow sin, to dispense his saving grace in a certain way—surpasses the power of a finite mind, especially when it has not yet attained the enjoyment of the vision of God. (A VI 4, 306, 1536; AG 38)

The general reason God chose to create this world is given by his absolute perfection: the deity chose the best. Humans cannot know specifics, such as the reason for sin or why salvation occurs as it does. After death, maybe, these reasons will be known through a vision of God. Again, the significance of a future perception of the deity crops up. The saints who die gain more perfection, knowledge is perfection, and so beholding the divine contains knowledge of earthly affairs. The divine plan forms the “order of the universe,” too, so natural laws are not separate from revelation. Leibniz marks the threshold between natural religion and Christianity in ‘Examen.’ The bulk of the text consists of Leibniz reasoning over revelations. For example, he rejects positions on justification that separate moral agency from salvation. Revelations cohere with moral and natural laws without the latter supplying reasons for the former. After writing on the nature of God, love for him, and sin, Leibniz comments, Now the conclusions we have reached thus far are almost all evident from the light of reason itself, but the secret economy of the divine plan regarding the

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restitution of men could have been learned only from God’s revelation. (A VI 4, 420, 2361)

Natural religion begins with a notion of God and how creatures relate to him, like a science, yet after delineating revelation, Leibniz returns to the deity as if starting over with the revealed God. Perhaps he wants to link the moral quality contained in the notion of deity to revelations. Although the divine plan for salvation would be unknown if not for revelations, that there is a plan for redeeming fallen man results from God’s commune with rational beings. That is my conjecture since Leibniz does not explain why he returns to the concept of God. But we will see below that he connects revelations to God’s moral quality. The best legislators must make his will known to subjects. Though similar, the above passages do not quite align. Claims about the divine nature and love fall within natural reason in both, while the details of the divine plan for salvation cannot be known from reason alone. But the emphasis in ‘Discours’ is on the general and detailed reasons for God’s choice to create this world. An analysis of a contingent object, action, or event cannot be completed since it requires deducing back to the reason for that object, actor, or event existing, which culminates in the reason God chose to create that thing and this world rather than another. This defies finite minds. Yet the Creator reveals some details, such as the plan for salvation. Even so, revelations do not express their own reason or a reason for the divine plan revealed through them. In ‘Examen,’ Leibniz stresses that humans “learn” the divine plan from revelations. Note that these differences put contingent events and revelations on the same spectrum since both bottom out in the mystery of God’s choice. And their content expresses the same universal harmony. Revelations supplement knowledge gained by natural reason since they expand our perception of God and nature. Where Leibniz puts revelations in his system is uneasy, though. Both someone who reflects on the natural harmony and the person who accepts revelation may come to love the true God. But is their disposition the same? Both perceive perfection, yet the person who loves God through natural religion has no knowledge of the divine plan for their salvation. And love is willing the same as the deity; nature expresses the moral law. If revelations are put in place to reveal God’s will for people’s lives, though, and these revelations are unique to Christianity, only the saved would live well and love God. More, if the regeneration of the Holy Spirit were required to live according to God’s revealed will, those who are ignorant or resistant to Christianity cannot love God. But, in my last chapter, Leibniz resists such an exclusive picture of salvation. The unresolved dilemma here is how revelations have a unique role in Leibniz’s account. To flesh out the issue, let me set it back against the prior chapters.

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Love of God secures our belief and trust in the Creator; it also grounds our explanations of nature as disposing us to its perfect order. Love is a disposition toward, an expectation of, and will for the good of someone else. Loving God prompts us to expect the most perfect harmony in nature and reason of nature to increase its perfection (and ours) by expressing its harmony. Creation expresses God’s choice, after all. Since the discovery of the universe’s order glorifies the Creator, the expectation of order as well as looking for and expressing the reasons for its details are elements of love of God. Revelations form pieces of this harmony, and so the theologian and scientist have similar tasks with different objects. Since everything that happens results from God’s will, and since God wills what is best and most perfect, everything that happens brings happiness and perfection to the one who loves God. The divine lover wills creation as a perfect act of the loved object, the Creator. Sameness of will is prompted by direct or indirect affection, charity or hope. I dealt with these terms in the first chapter, but they are worth recalling here. Someone is charitable when they seek their greatest good in God (A VI 4, 420, 2375). Less so when they put their good in other finite beings since lesser beings cannot contribute as much to one’s own perfection. Charity occurs through contemplating the invisible God. Hope is elicited from the benefits God gives rather than his nature, such as eternal bliss (ibid.). And hope can become charity when “the consideration of God’s benefits also discloses his goodness and perfection to us” (ibid.). In either case, one is disposed to will the same as God. Earlier, I compared Leibniz’s comments on charity and hope with the affection he believes knowledge elicits. While charity thinks solely on God and hope on divine goods, knowledge concerns natural perfection. In each case, affection toward the deity grows. The moral quality of God is central to Leibniz’s system insofar as everything contributes to love of God, strengthens our commune with him, which Leibniz claims recommends his positions (‘Discours,’ ¶ 32). Revelations and miracles are somewhere on this continuum. I propose that, as Leibniz worked out his views in 1686, they reveal a breach between human comprehension and the universal harmony meant to elicit love for God in what we know and remain ignorant of. Natural perfections that humans understand do not span the universal order revealed by revelations, yet the natural order contributes to this higher order. And revelations help humans act in light of this higher order that is, at base, mysterious. But knowledge elicits the same disposition. So, as I suggested above, Leibniz wrestles with the unique role of revelation. The Sameness of Goods problem (also from Chapter 1) concerns the identification of human goods with the divine good. I argued that, in 1686, Leibniz claims that the divine lover makes this identification. If I am right that revelations raise the universal harmony beyond comprehension, yet

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dispose humans toward this mystery, the SoG does not resolve from knowledge, though knowing more prompts us to identify God’s good with our own. Leibniz narrates an account of salvation in which this knowledge couples with a realization of sin to prompt the sinner toward the revelations of the divine plan, wherein the sinner gains confidence that God wills their own good.14 In other words, revelations overcome the resistance to identifying our good with God’s that comes from sin, misery, and imperfection. Knowledge seems limited in this respect. At the same time, revelations seem to lead the scientist to boldly face their ignorance in pursuit of greater knowledge. This may be one reason Leibniz stresses love as an active disposition in ¶ 4 of ‘Discours.’ They can be confident no discovery will lessen God’s glory. Knowledge cannot suffice on its own, morally or religiously, though, if revelations have a unique role. In contrast, knowledge must have weighty moral and religious bearing since Leibniz motivates his scientific program by its moral and religious benefits. His account is tensive from these commitments. We have already seen what ties knowledge and affection—perceiving perfection—is undeveloped. Leibniz wants the ignorant to be able to know God enough for their salvation, yet also wants knowledge gained by science to yield salvation. Anyone can come to the true God through nature’s perfection, yet revelations uniquely express the divine plan. God is universally accessible, yet not. Defining & Discerning Revelations In “La vraie méthode,” Leibniz declares that science is necessary for true happiness because happiness requires contentment, which then depends on an assurance of the future (A VI 4, 1, 3). Almost ten years later, in ‘Discours,’ Leibniz posits thorough regularity: “As for the universal order, everything must conform to it,” such that God cannot feign irregularity (A VI 4, 306, 1537; AG 39). Science is necessary for our happiness, then, since it reveals creation’s regularity, ensuring the future, and also because observing, reflecting on, and inferring from the wider harmony bring about happiness. With such a pivotal role, science is threatened by miracles unless they conform to the general harmony, and so assure us of the future. But miracles are irregular. Besides their consistency with natural laws, Leibniz also wants to secure our reasoning so that the divine lover can act with confidence. To do so, he must explain how the breach between miracles and natural laws contribute to the world’s perfection. Miracles perfect the world (if they do) by confirming revelations. Once revelations are set with nature, miracles can be. Leibniz tells us the reason for revelations in ‘Examen: they express how God wants specific persons to act. If the universe’s harmony is perfect, we may wonder why revelations are needed. Whether they violate, suspend, or

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conform to natural laws, revelations detract from the natural order by requiring us to attend to specific phenomena that lack a reason from the usual order of things. To fit into Leibniz’s world, they must contribute to the overall perfection, which brings me back to the central claim: the conformity of nature, revelations, and miracles reduces to the mystery God chose this world rather than another. It must express the highest perfection. Seemingly irregular phenomena, like regular ones, uniquely add to an abundance of perfection. As a result, God’s choice is thoroughly rational and can be reasoned over. When it comes to miracles and revelations in 1686, Leibniz’s chief worry is securing the deity’s moral quality. Just as he sets up his discussion of natural laws with a definition of God in ‘Discours,’ Leibniz returns to the divine nature before speaking of revelations. He writes, “We must consider, then, that God is not only the primary substance, the author and preserver of all other things,” which is his metaphysical nature, “but also the most perfect Mind, which is why he is imbued a moral quality and enters into a kind of society with other minds” (A VI 4, 420, 2361). Due to the same organization underlying natural laws and revelations—namely, universal harmony—it is fitting to begin with a definition of God for characterizing the regularity and constancy of our experience and the specific phenomena God sets apart to commune with rational beings. They are mutual effects of the most perfect divine economy. But to enter “a kind of society with other minds,” there must be a contrast between natural laws and revelations. Establishing this contrast as originating from God is the role of miracles. More on this shortly. Revelations are absent from Leibniz’s discussion of miracles in ‘Discours.’ His focus there is the integrity of the sciences, which revelations do not threaten (but miracles seems to) because they concern our commune with God through rational, everyday acts and decisions.15 In ‘Examen,’ Leibniz introduces them as follows: Accordingly, God not only acts by that general and hidden will by which he governs (with fixed rules) the entire machine of the universe and concurs with all the actions of minds, but also, as legislator, he declares his particular and public will regarding the actions of minds and the government of his city, and also sanctions with rewards and punishments, and to this end he established revelations. (A VI 4, 420, 2361)

God’s “general and hidden will” fixes rules that compose the universe’s harmony, which natural laws approximate. Revelations, by contrast, express how the Creator wants rational beings to act, collectively and individually.16 They guide us in living the good life. Scripture is such a revelation, as is prophecy and church tradition. So natural phenomena and revelations differ in how

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they are accessed: our intellects outline nature, such as generalizing from a set of occurrences;17 a revelation need not be regular or frequent, though it is susceptible to evaluation.18 In this way, revelations bring us into commune with the divine. Leibniz describes revelations according to how the deity relates to rational beings and within human society. Their social role distinguishes them from superstition. Leibniz explains that revelations are not superstitious because “it is appropriate that divine wisdom makes its will sufficiently known, something no prudent legislator neglects” (A VI 4, 420, 2362). Unlike superstition, revelations guide our actions in a rational way as conforms to the divine character. Since they are rational, they can be explained to another rational person. This is why Leibniz seeks to show that mysteries do not result in contradiction, though unable to demonstrate their truth.19 “Right reason,” Leibniz goes on, is “the natural interpreter of God” (ibid., 2362). Revelations are regular and ordered with respect to universal harmony, though at times contrasted with natural laws. Since they express divine perfection, they can be handled rationally. Circle back to the tenuous link between knowledge and affection. Leibniz endorses revelations as the conduit between God and select persons; through revelations, the deity becomes personal. Since neither knowledge, nor reason, take a back seat, it is not a soul-forming disposition alone that recognizes true revelations from superstition. Our notion of God and expectation of consistency inform the reception of revelations. The complexity persists in how humans relate to God. Still, it is important that Leibniz holds on to revelations given his criticisms of Modern love. Unlike Descartes and Spinoza, God is not a sheer cause or general will, which sets him apart as impersonal and indifferent. As a moral being, the Creator enters into the lives of his creation through revelations—the ultimate revelation, of course, being Jesus Christ. Revelations are occasional and singular, which is why there is the risk of superstition. Leibniz cautions, “Moreover, a revelation must be distinguished by certain marks (commonly called motives of belief) through which it is apparent that what is contained within and shown to us is God’s will, not the illusion of an evil genii or a wrong interpretation of ours” (A VI 4, 420, 2361). Something appearing with, or as part of, a revelation lends it credence. Some years before, Leibniz tells us that the historical and philological study of scripture is one motive of belief,20 but, in ‘Examen,’ he does not go on to develop an account of motives. He turns to a more difficult case. Sometimes revelations lack the marks needed to confidently trust that they express the divine will. Three criteria are given for accepting a revelation: But if any revelation is without such characteristics we cannot submit to it with impunity, although sometimes, in a matter of doubt, when the mandate itself

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conflicts neither with reason nor another revelation, and is supported by probable reasons, it is better to submit to it than to expose ourselves to the danger of sin. (A VI 4, 420, 2361–2362)

A revelation must be consistent internally, consistent with other, past revelations, and obeyed when the probability of its truth outweighs the risk of sinning. What the revelation is, whether a prophet, a divine sign, and so on, is less concerning to Leibniz than how we act in light of it. And since revelations concern how we ought to act, a revelation’s consistency internally and otherwise depends on the actions it compels and how someone conceives the moral quality of God. The command aligns with reason when it aligns with the presumed will of God (ibid., 2358). Past revelations, such as scripture and church tradition, express what the divine will has been, which we can assume is consistent with his future will. And, as a minimum, if the command is harmless, it is better to obey than risk sinning. I have repeated the claim up till now that the divine lover wills the same as God without much ado. In the first chapter, I mentioned that loving God differs from loving one’s neighbor, though the first entails the second. But whether divine love works in Leibniz’s system depends on whether it is active, a quality Leibniz stresses in ¶ 4 of ‘Discours,’ and its activity assumes the lover presumes the divine will with ease and confidence. God’s will is expressed in the course of nature and his more specific obligations come from revelation. Some general remarks are made in ‘Discours’ about why we can be confident that no harm will come to those who love God. Leibniz makes similar claims in ‘Examen.’ The object of these remarks, though, concerns the security of the disposition rather than guiding how one ought to act as a result. In the quote above, Leibniz offers more guidance on how to presume God’s will when faced with uncertain revelations. Reason, which includes a notion of God and morality, and other revelations, such as scripture or church tradition, enable us to evaluate and act on uncertain revelations. These sources are used to weigh the risk of sinning for not doing so. This presumed divine will comes to the forefront of this study in the last two chapters. Reasoning over revelations accords with our nature and doing so perfects us. At base, we are disposed toward the perfection within phenomena because the deity has so inclined us. So, in ¶ 30 of ‘Discourse,’ Leibniz remarks that God “determines our will to choose what seems better without, however, necessitating it” (A VI 4, 306, 1575; AG 61). Revelations enhance this natural tendency. We are inclined toward what seems best, though we know the best in specific circumstances confusedly.21 Revelations direct our action as a result of God’s moral quality by revealing the more perfect act in given circumstances, which a more perfect disposition receives, tends toward, and acts on. This is not superstitious trust. Revelations are examined rationally,

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thereby enhancing our reasoning. Someone who accepts true revelations perceives a broader harmony. Their love for God increases as they realize their own good and happiness. Such is the role Leibniz has for revelations. Miracles The mark of a revelation “may be confirmed by a miracle or circumstance, an event or an astonishing or unrepeatable coincidence, which cannot be ascribed to chance” (A VI 4, 420, 2362–2363). A miracle is an irregular phenomenon that has an unknown cause, but cannot be explained away as fortuitous. The event must be seen as an act of God, and so the revelation must also have come from him. There was a “stronger reason” for God to suspend nature’s usual course. This stronger reason is God’s desire to commune with rational beings. And so miracles result from his moral quality. Miracles stand out from regular phenomena to affirm a divine source. In 1686, the role of miracles is achieved in a harmony of God and man: the deity’s particular will, as opposed to his general one, is received as such by those of a certain disposition. Leibniz deals with both the divine will and our perception of it in ¶ 7 of ‘Discourse.’ One difficulty, much commented on, that Leibniz has with accepting miracles is his strong commitment to natural order. Rational acts cannot but be regular. Setting up his discussion of miracles, Leibniz writes, God’s Volitions and Actions are commonly divided into ordinary and extraordinary. But it is good to consider that God does nothing outside order. So what passes as extraordinary is only so with respect to some particular order established among creatures because, for the universal order, everything conforms to it. This is so true that nothing happens in the world that is absolutely irregular and, further, we cannot even pretend as much. (A VI 4, 306, 1537; AG 39)

Leibniz affirms divine regularity and orderliness from our perceptions and acts. Said otherwise, even the most random act of ours—scattering points on a page—can be placed under a principle or function. No doubt, there are coincidences and the like which seem random and haphazard. But just as our actions can be explained through a principle, we should assume and expect natural events and phenomena to be similarly organized. More, we must assume and expect as much, given our nature. And it is good to think the same of God. Leibniz goes on, “Miracles are also within [the general] order as much as natural operations—operations which are so called because they conform to certain subaltern maxims that we call the nature of things” (A VI 4, 306, 1538; AG 40). He does not tell us the role of miracles, as he does in ‘Examen.’ His concern is affirming the more expansive universal order that

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is not violated by miracles and that also encompasses natural laws. Miracles must fit in the divine economy, but he needs to explain how they can conform to God’s design. The rigor of the universal harmony follows from divine perfection. One disposed rightly to God will be oriented toward this infinite harmony. “It is good to consider that God does nothing outside of order,” Leibniz commends, still anticipating miracles (A VI 4, 306, 1537; AG 39). When we expect phenomena to be regular and ordered, science is secure, and so is our happiness. Leibniz justifies this expectation by identifying the principle of science with divine perfection: “the simplicity of the means is balanced with the richness of the effects,” which expresses the deity because “reason requires us to avoid multiplying hypotheses or principles,” and God acts reasonably (A VI 4, 306, 1537; AG 39). The principle of more with less is not a method for analyzing phenomena, but disposes us to expect and seek perfection within phenomena. In each body, for example, there is an infinite complex of other bodies, so we should expect an investigation of even the smallest, most mundane body to express infinite richness.22 The sciences assume and look for a most rigorous and perfect order and, thereby, formalize how God acts. But God’s act exceeds the reach of finite minds. Leibniz underlines its fundamentally mysterious nature, though we know it is simplest in hypotheses, richest in phenomena. Like the geometer’s line, little is needed to construct it, yet it leads to many properties, theorems, and demonstrations. Leibniz explains the use of his examples, I make use of these comparisons to sketch some imperfect resemblance of divine wisdom and to say what can at least elevate our minds to conceive in some way what we cannot sufficiently express. But I do not presume to explain in this way the great mystery on which the whole universe depends. (A VI 4, 306, 1538; AG 39)

The singularity of God’s active will, or his choice to create this world, cannot be explained or perceived. And yet our minds can be elevated to its conception. The reason for creation is expressed in the perfection in all things, though confusedly. So the “stronger reason” that suspends natural laws results from his choice of this world, or his unified will, and the conformity of natural laws with miracles occurs likewise. Natural laws express God’s general will, his “custom,” while miracles express his particular will. Though Leibniz appeals to this distinction in ‘Examen,’23 a longer discussion appears in ‘Discourse.’ He explains, As for general or particular volitions, depending on how we take the matter, we can say that God does everything according to his most general will, which

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conforms to the most perfect order that he has chosen; but we can also say that he has a particular will, which are exceptions of these aforementioned subaltern maxims, because the most general of God’s laws that regulates the whole course of the universe is without exception. (A VI 4, 306, 1539; AG 40)

Leibniz upholds the regularity of universal harmony, then, by separating the course of things we grow accustomed to from the expression of a particular will. His concern is how we ascribe events to the divine will, maintaining its order and regularity despite occasional appearances to the contrary. Since God’s will is unified and singular in itself, humans separate God’s general and particular will by how they perceive God. We speak of one or the other, just as we separate God’s ordinary and extraordinary acts. In both, humans predicate events to the divine will. My argument began with the observal that Leibniz put the predication of God as central to his system in 1686. No longer does he attempt a bold inference or demonstration from the concept of the deity. It is not a primitive term in this way. The one who loves God identifies their good with his; they put their happiness in the divine. After Leibniz argues that nature is exhaustively ordered and regular—recall the security that science brings of the future—he distinguishes God’s will to preserve that order and allow for a more personal commune between God and man. Upholding the divine lover, then, is key and this motive goes hand in hand with preserving the expectation of harmony. “We can also say,” Leibniz goes on, “that God desires everything that is an object of his particular volition,” and so we can see the divine choice to create in the details (A VI 4, 306, 1539; AG 40). In the next chapter, we will see how Leibniz qualifies this claim since the deity does not will evils. Natural disasters and the like may lead us to doubt whether God’s good is the same as ours. But, here, Leibniz refers to the suspension of natural laws. In other words, when the natural concourse is suspended, an extraordinary act occurs, this event can be directly predicated to God. It is a clear expression of his will. Revelations may not suspend subaltern maxims, and so miracles set them apart in this way. The divine will’s distinctness and intimacy further the aims of the lover of God, who wills the same. Leibniz accounts for how nature expresses the divine will without collapsing the difference between the divine and natural. While everything is willed in the sense that it contributes to the divine plan, humans do not perceive the reasons why every event does so. Humans are distanced from this basic mystery, which is more or less revealed. There are criteria for evaluating revelations; similarly, there are criteria for deciding how phenomena should be ascribed to the divine will. When an action is good in itself, God wills it and, sometimes, commands it. His commands can be general, and so expressed by the natural moral law, such

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as ‘Love your neighbor.’ A revelation can also express a specific command, and so reveal God’s particular will. When this occurs, a miracle is needed. Commune, or moral quality, is the “stronger reason” that God suspends natural law. The moral order impedes the natural, or at least how humans conceive nature. Despite a true miracle, someone may reject the command. Within a broader perfection, their resistance means they fail to perceive the perfection of the miraculous. They fail to perceive the divine will that moves in for communion with them. There are penalties for disobedience, too, that correct the imperfect action resistance to God amounts to. This is part of the larger universal order, which spans natural laws, that returns a greater perfection for defects. More, God allows sin, evil, or imperfection from his creation of the present order. Miracles set apart revelations of God’s particular will, which rational beings either accept or refuse to obey. They are outlying phenomena that support moral obligations from the Creator. Though suspending subaltern maxims, they conform to the higher order. Thus, there are natural, simultaneously moral and divine. From details, they elevate our mind to the mystery of God’s choice to create this world. But the laws God established make irregularities questionable. Likewise, seeming miracles may appear as such from our ignorance rather than revelations of the divine hand. For this reason, uncertainties must be assessed rationally. This is possible because universal harmony governs them as well as positing natural laws. While miracles and natural laws are at odds, they coalesce in the disposition to love God, or to see the perfection in all things as tokens of the divine will. It is the good act, obedience to a revelation confirmed by a miracle, that justifies the miracle. And it is God’s desire to commune personally with rational beings that motivates his use of the miraculous. Love of God closes the gap between regular and irregular phenomena since it is a disposition and tendency toward perfection. For the divine lover, apparent irregularity prompts her to search for a higher reason and to praise God. Rebels, too, must contribute to the universe’s perfection despite their rejection of the miraculous or revelatory. Conflicting responses are possible because a miracle expresses God’s particular will in apparent violation of the natural order. That is, the lover perceives the irregularity as a suspension confirming a revelation; the rebel perceives it as a violation to be disavowed as mere seeming. Where order and regularity are perceived, the lover praises God’s design and, when natural laws are suspended, she praises the unreachable heights of divine wisdom. A miracle does not violate the universal order, though, so the reasons prompting praise do not contradict. There is a stronger reason to break the perceived order that resonates with the universal harmony, and this reason finds a place in the rigorous and coherent rationality enacted in God’s choice to create the world.

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One last point before facing the sin, misery, and evil that threaten the possibility of loving God. I noted in past chapters that knowledge disposes one toward God from natural perfection, hope elicits affection from God’s benefits, and charity loves God from the contemplation of him. Humanity’s moral quality are on rungs of higher perfection. Since Leibniz argues for God’s moral quality in terms of how we know God and nature, or are disposed to perfection, miracles and revelations are not placed between the first and the second rung. It is not as if one gains knowledge, then make a leap of faith. How persons conceive God affects their reception of miracles. And so the problems of meshing knowledge and affection persist. Regularity and irregularity ought to prompt humans to perceive more perfection, to increase in love of God, and to praise him. But this chapter has added to the earlier discussion. Leibniz has distinguished within the divine will and how humans predicate of him. How satisfying this is comes out in his treatment of evil and misery. NOTES 1. A comparable passage on miracles can be found in Theodicy (G VI 248–249). 2. In “Specimen Demonstrationum Catholicarum, seu Apologia fidei ex ratione,” Leibniz writes, “The Christian faith does not rest upon ordinary reasoning, but upon the testimony of the Catholic Church received from miracles and martyrs . . . ” (A VI 4, 410, 2323; LGR 104). 3. On the suspension of natural laws, see (A VI 4, 306, 1538–9; AG 40). 4. We should also presume that there is no exception to nature’s order—an assumption that follows from the perfection of the Creator (A VI 4, 306, 1537–8; AG 40). 5. No doubt, Leibniz’s distinction between first and second rank miracles helped him respond to certain objections. My concerns, however, are historical: what were Leibniz’s motives in 1686 for dealing with miracles as he did. So I set the distinction aside. 6. See (Adams, Leibniz, 93ff; Cox, “Divine Causation”). 7. See (Stevenson, “Miracles”). 8. Those who see Leibniz as a Deist or non-believer must eliminate miracles from his account. See (Brown, “The Regularization of Providence in Post-Cartesian Philosophy,” 3; Ross, “Origin of Things,” 252). 9. Garber writes, “ . . . in the late 1670s and early 1680s, Leibniz’s attention was on what he thought of as the novel elements of his position, the revival of substantial form, and he seems to have taken the notion of matter for granted as being relatively uncontroversial and unproblematic” (Body, 144). 10. See his letter to Count Ernest Landgrave of Hesse-Rheinfels (A II 2, 1, 3–5; LA 2–3) as well as his short tract, “Nouvelle ouvertures” (A VI 4, 160, 686–691). 11. See (A VI 4, 306, 1532–4 & 1586–7; AG 36–7 & 67–8).

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12. Leibniz wants knowledge to dispose the knower properly to the unknown and miraculous, but the tensions from Chapter 2 persist. My argument here is not meant to suggest that Leibniz had a wholly worked out account. 13. Marion observes the emergence of a parallel between the philosopher’s and theologian’s God in the early 17th century (“The Idea of God”). 14. See Chapter 6. 15. They may not threaten science, but they do threaten the universe’s perfection for the reason mentioned a moment ago: namely, they seem to detract from the sufficiency of the general order. 16. I return to God’s general and particular will in the next section. 17. On the problem of induction in Leibniz, see (Adams, Leibniz, 200ff; Pelletier, “Leibniz’s Inductive Challenge”; Rescher, On Leibniz & Leibniz’s Metaphysics of Nature, II; Westphal, “Leibniz and the Problem of Induction”). 18. See (Antognazza, “Comments,” 68–9) 19. On the mysteries, see (Antognazza, “The Defense of the Mysteries of the Trinity and the Incarnation,” and her “Natural and Supernatural Mysteries: Leibniz’s Annotatiunculae subitaneae on Toland’s Christianity not Mysterious”; Bardon, “Leibniz on the Epistemic Status of the Mysteries”; Cave, “A Leibnizian Account of Why Belief in the Christian Mysteries is Justified”). 20. See his letter to Pierre Daniel Huet of 18/28 Oct. 1678 (A II 1, 185a, 641) and a dialogue from about the same time (A VI 4, 397, 2214; LGR 98). 21. Leibniz writes in ¶ 33, for example, that the perceptions of our senses always contain some confusion (A VI 4, 306, 1582–1583; AG 65). 22. See (Garber, Body, 82–3). 23. See earlier quote (A VI 4, 420, 2361).

Chapter 5

Adam’s Lament

A handful of short manuscripts on freedom and necessity were written between 1680 and 1684. In them, Leibniz puts claims on the mind and action alongside questions of evil and grace. The Akademie editors place this series of manuscripts before 1685 because they adopt a scholastic backdrop without explaining contingency as propositions that require an infinite analysis. Instead, contingency results from God’s desire for the most perfect. These texts are no earlier, however, because Leibniz argues for freedom from necessity, which does not appear in writings from the late 70’s (A VI 4, 271, 1444). As the editors’ grant, their placement is uncertain, especially since problems of evil and grace surface in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ in like ways.1 Some odd claims appear. “Since, therefore, God is free by necessity in choosing [to create] a good man,” Leibniz declares, “humans also will be free by necessity in choosing the apparent good” (A VI 4, 273, 1452). Clear is that issues of sin and grace chart an uneasy parallel between divine and human action, and how these actions concur or diverge. Leibniz goes on to write three claims that stake problems of sin: (i) “Everything is possible to God, except that which includes imperfection,” (ii) “imperfection includes sin,” and (iii) “less perfection does not imply imperfection in God” (ibid., 1453). Yet God created Adam who he knew would sin when tempted. If every predicate is contained in the subject, God created a subject that contains sin. But, Leibniz counters, that temptation was “obliquely,” or indirectly, contained in Adam (ibid., 1451). This threat of sin has been widely dealt with in the literature.2 In this chapter, I would like to focus on his follow-up claim: God did not hinder sin from his knowledge of the harmony of things, “which exceeds the comprehending [captum] of human minds even if our minds know it to be” (ibid.). My thesis: Leibniz holds two positions that ground the possibility of the Christian mysteries, and so themselves cannot be reconciled, except through practical reason: (i) God chose to create the most perfect world and (ii) mankind freely sinned. In the same manuscript cited above, Leibniz anticipates 105

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the basic claim of ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ that the more one penetrates the “depths of things,” the more pleased they will be (ibid., 1453). Perceiving this ‘depth’ is the mind knowing what it cannot comprehend. In the two texts of our concern here, we can track how Leibniz holds these two positions together with respect to original sin in order to preserve the Christian mysteries. He must show these positions are intelligible, do not result in contradiction, yet cannot be demonstrated as consistent. Original sin and its effects cannot be explained away. The plan for supporting my thesis is the following: I begin with ‘Examen’ and how Leibniz handles original sin from the “natural light of reason,”3 then compare this treatment with how sin is dealt with in ‘Discours.’ I end with a return to ‘Examen’ and where sin turns up in revelation. Throughout, allusions will be made to the problem of freedom, though I leave that discussion to endnotes and others’ studies. My focus is how original sin acts as a buffer to a complete rational system that empties the Christian mysteries of mystery, and so comprehends the relation of God and man.4 FALL FROM PERFECTION A few pages in to ‘Examen,’ Leibniz signals, “ . . . the conclusions we have reached so far are almost all evident from the light of reason” (A VI 4, 420, 2361). He does not say which, though most of the prior writing is on sin: its possibility, nature, and remedy. The passages I will be handling in this section end with Leibniz’s signal, which transitions to revealed doctrines. The window opens early on. Leibniz takes up sin after noting that humans would always be happy, or beatae, if they acted on a sincere belief that the Creator is “the most lovable Lord of all” (A VI 4, 420, 2357). Sin enters to undercut sustained love for God. Leibniz often claims that rewards or punishments are required for human morality.5 In ‘Examen,’ this requirement comes after his description of love of God to introduce obligations. Those who believe God is the most lovable lord do not grumble since they believe all is for the best. And they act according to the presumed will of God. Rewards and punishments do not oblige one to love God, as we may expect and as Leibniz later seems to suggest when writing on justification.6 Instead, he declares, And in proposing rewards and punishments, he asks that each person adorn his own Sparta, that is, like the first man, that each person cultivate the garden in which he is placed, and that in imitation of the divine goodness he disseminate his own beneficence to nearby things, but especially (while still observing a proper measure of justice) to every man he meets, as his neighbor, because

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among the creatures with which we interact none is more excellent than man, and it is more pleasing to God that he be perfected. (A VI 4, 420, 2358)

Rewards and punishments prompt how humans live in the world toward one another, not with respect to God. Since loving God is the highest perfection of humans, it may be redundant to oblige humans to do that which perfects them. On the other hand, humans might fail to love God due to their finitude or corrupted nature, and so require rewards and punishments to spur them to act according to the divine will. These obligations correct for a lacking disposition. If someone loves God, on this reading, they do not require rewards and punishments to adorn their own Sparta. The allusion to the Garden of Eden puts rewards and punishments in a pre-Fallen state: before Eve took the apple, they faced a moral choice. The condition for morality held. The obligations put on mankind now are the same as then: to cultivate the earth and act on one’s neighbor’s behalf to the extent they are due. In this way, Leibniz’s moral views do not split into pre-Fall and post-Fall theories.7 Sin’s entrance does not alter the stakes. Note, too, that justice is the guiding principle for how much goodness or goodwill someone shows toward their neighbor. There is a rational, moral constraint. Despite the consistency across the Fall, rewards and punishments have added roles afterwards, such as requiring the Incarnation, Jesus’ death and resurrection. So far, it is clear these moral requirements held before the Fall, and so establish Adam and Eve as moral beings who communed with God. Obligations put on humanity correspond to the divine will: perfecting oneself, the world, and others. Leibniz will ask himself in other texts whether creatures introduce more perfection into the world or the sum of perfection is conserved.8 Here, he simply claims that humans should act for the perfection of other humans because humanity’s perfection is “more pleasing to God.” The divine will sets humanity apart. In ‘Discours,’ Leibniz supports human uniqueness from their mind and moral quality (¶ 35). These also are reasons God desires to perfect mankind most. Despite the Fall, God’s will for creation is the same, and so his obligations on humanity do not change. They stem from our nature. Likely, these commitments fall under natural theology and universal morality. They are revealed by the natural light of reason. If morality holds across the Fall from human nature, this claim implies that our nature does not fundamentally alter either. Leibniz suggests as much: “Therefore, if all minds always thought and acted in accordance with this, they would unquestionably live happily [beatae]” (A VI 4, 420, 2358). To obey God’s decrees affects happiness, given such obedience couples word and deed,9 and given all minds do likewise. Humanity post-Fall has not lost the possibility of joy known in the Garden. That joy is contingent on human disposition and action—love of God. But note, too, that blessedness depends

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on other minds. Love of God does not secure present joy if others do not share such love. Despite living well, someone may suffer from the Fall through the hatred or avarice of others, say, and this gives meaning to the general effects of Adam’s sin without yet putting those effects within oneself. How Leibniz set up his moral views, original sin cannot bar humanity from acting morally in principle, and so being blessed, without making it impossible to live morally on one’s own. But if one cannot be moral without divine help, it seems one cannot be moral at all. This issue recurs throughout Leibniz’s handling of sin and grace. The reality of sin does not come from the scriptures at first, but from the observation that minds do not persist in happiness. Since happiness is available in principle yet not regularly (if ever) enjoyed, something must explain why: “But since it is evident that this neither always is nor has been the case, the question is how has sin, and through sin, misery, entered the world, since God, the author of all good, cannot be in any way the cause of sin” (A VI 4, 420, 2358). This is the problem Leibniz takes up in the passages argued from natural reason. Locating the origin of sin is basic to his moral theory since, if God wills the same good as man, it is unclear why God allowed sin, as the author of all good, and why humans sin if they always seek their own good. Divine perfection is wrapped up in natural perfection insofar as the maker’s mark is in his work.10 Keep in mind, too, that these paragraphs accounting for sin lead into revealed doctrines; structurally, Leibniz uses the reality of evil to introduce Christian teaching. Evil prefaces the mysteries. Sin threatens a theology of love in a few ways. Leibniz sets a high bar, one shared by St. Paul: “all things must turn to the good for those who love God” (A VI 4, 420, 2358).11 When lovers presume the divine will for their lives, they presume God wills their good. And when events harm them, they trust these harms culminate in their good. Sin threatens their trust in a benevolent, all-powerful God. But there is more. The central issue for Leibniz here is the consequence of sin for creation’s perfection as evincing the divine nature. In other words, his worries center on God’s moral quality. The Modern cosmologies of Descartes and Malebranche draw us to the material god of Spinoza or Hobbes.12 Two claims must be upheld: (i) sin cannot lessen the divine nature, yet (ii) sin must be willed by God (in some sense) because God wills the best. This points to the fundamental mystery for revelations. First, Leibniz explains how humans can sin at all. Although morality held before the Fall, God created the first couple perfect since he is culpable otherwise. From a commitment to divine perfection, Leibniz explains, “We must therefore consider that in all creatures, however noble, there is, in advance of every sin, some kind of innate and original limitation or imperfection, which makes them liable to fall” (A VI 4, 420, 2358). This limit deserves pause. Leibniz specifies elsewhere (around this time and after) that humans sin from

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inattention or ignorance.13 This reason is not given in ‘Examen.’ Angels, too, have the defect, as he goes on to note. God created humanity and angels with a liability to fall—Leibniz seeks the cause of sin inhering to perfect beings before sin. This limitation meshes with “original justice,” that is, the harmony of God and man in the Garden, and the fact that God made man in his image. Leibniz reasons, For a rational creature, insofar as it is endowed with perfection, derives this perfection from the divine image, but insofar as it is limited and lacking certain perfections, to that extent partakes of privation or nothingness. And this is the import of St. Augustine’s view that the cause of evil is not from God but from nothingness, in other words, not from the positive but from the privative, that is, from the very limitation of creatures that we have discussed. (A VI 4, 420, 2358)

Augustine refers to creation ex nihilo in The City of God against the Pagans to explain how nature lacks, though perfect.14 Leibniz affirms the same. Perfection comes from the divine image and imperfection from nothingness. Humanity may commune with God despite this lack, which is not blameworthy, and they may love God and neighbor in constant happiness. Leibniz commits to the innocence of this natural limitation: sin is at once possible for humans without infecting them from the beginning. And so, sin entered the world from nothingness. Little so far seems mysterious until God’s choice to create this world comes in, as it does in next sentence. If the world had to fall out like it did or whether it did so was uncertain, then the Creator merely set the stage and is not culpable. Leibniz rejects both options and stresses that a world, otherwise like ours but without sin, is possible. God chose our world for a reason. He writes, “And although it was possible for God to create only minds that would not fall even though they could do so, nevertheless it pleased his inscrutable wisdom to create this order of things of our experience . . . ” (A VI 4, 420, 2359). More than create ex nihilo, God intended a world in which humans would sin. After clearing the way for a blameless deity, Leibniz cycles back to God as the cause of a sinful world by adding that divine wisdom prompted as much.15 Divine goodness is threatened again. Now, however, this points to the infinite depths of God’s wisdom. By not ensuring that God’s good is the same as ours, Leibniz allows for rational mystery: a choice made for a reason we cannot comprehend. This is the point around which his discussion of sin revolves. Like Malebranche, Leibniz holds to the greater perfection of the created series that God chose,16 but the metaphysics underlying the commitment varies.17 Leibniz draws from, and expands on, his Complete Concept theory in ‘Discours.’18 Continuing from the quote above, Leibniz describes the created order of things:

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. . . wherein some possible minds (which include in their own possible concept, that is, in the idea of them that exists in God, a certain series of free actions and divine aids, and also faith, and charity, and of eternal blessedness, or the contrary of these) were selected from innumerable others that were equally possible, and admitted to existence, i.e., created.” (A VI 4, 420, 2359)

In other words, God selected among possible individuals on which persons to create. Every predicate is contained in, and contributes to, the concept of an individual. Beside free acts, divine aid or grace is included. So, too, are spiritual or moral conditions, faith, charity, and eternal blessedness.19 Note that freedom is tucked in, then the dispositions for which humans receive rewards or punishments. Since God selects from knowledge, it seems his choice clouds out human merit.20 After all, he created “Adam, who was to be an exile, Peter, the prince of the apostles, who was to be a denier, confessor, and martyr, Judas, who was to be a traitor, etc.” (A VI 4, 420, 2359). God created a world with individuals liable to fall, and in which they would fall, some receive grace and others not.21 With Leibniz’s Complete Concept theory, God’s choice to create this world pairs with a choice to create each part of the whole, bringing with it views on original sin and the dispensation of grace. Leibniz appeals to the perfection of the whole as the basis for God’s choice of this world.22 The evil of a part washes out in the whole. That is, no part can detract from the total perfection, but must add to it—this is the general belief one can (or should) hold about God’s choice. In Leibniz’s words, And doubtless this was done because God knew how to convert the evil which occurs in some people—and which he foresaw and permitted—into a much greater good than would have existed without this evil, so that ultimately this series would be, as a whole, more perfect than all the others. (A VI 4, 420, 2359)

Key, here, is that God bends the consequences of evil to the good—to the greatest good, in fact.23 If so, one may wonder how the condition for morality is met, that is, why actions merit rewards or punishments, if God turns every act into more good than bad. If my reading is right and Leibniz sees the reason for God’s choice to create as the condition for the Christian mysteries, then it makes sense why he refuses to resolve the dilemma. The mechanisms through which God brings about his plan cannot be comprehended. This incomprehensibility applies to individuals. And so good and evil men (and women) cannot bring about God’s plan on their own as if they knew it. At best, they presume the divine will. At worst, they act against that presumed will. Part of human freedom is ignorance that requires presumption, and so the requirement for morality is minimally met. As we will see again in ‘Discours,’ Leibniz is fine leaving this mysterious.

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Redeemed humanity is the great perfection that requires sin. Citing the Incarnation, the penultimate Christian mystery, Leibniz veers away from natural reason. “Almost all” of the conclusions reached in these passages are “evident from the light of reason itself, but,” he goes on, “the secret economy of the divine plan regarding the restitution of men could have been learned only from God’s revelation” (A VI 4, 420, 2361). God’s choice to create this world, the Fall, its results, and the anticipated redemption are established from reason. An all-perfect deity must create the best. If so, and mankind falls, God orchestrates a better result than had Eve rebuffed the serpent. Leibniz alludes to the Incarnation as a revelation that answers a grounded anticipation. Hence the lover of God rationally expects any evil or suffering to turn to their good, even if they remain ignorant how. Although redemption through Jesus cannot be inferred from the premises (that God is all-perfect and that mankind fell), the belief that some redemption was in store can be. In ‘Discours’ (A VI 4, 306, 1538) and again to Arnaud (A II 2, 24, 113), Leibniz refers to God’s reason for creating this world as the great mystery on which everything depends. As I am arguing, original sin makes this choice mysterious since it puts divine perfection in question. Somehow the Creator must turn evil to good, create more perfection from less. In the passage just quoted from ‘Examen,’ Leibniz alludes to the penultimate Christian mystery, the Incarnation, as answering this expectation of God’s choice to create this world. And so we find two roles of mystery in Leibniz’s system at it stood in 1686: a mystery evoked from natural reason and one expressed through Christian revelation. While the latter cannot be inferred from the former, they do cohere. In this chapter, I aim to draw out these two roles and how original sin evokes the mystery of God’s choice. Their coherence through action is next chapter’s subject. There are three take-aways from the above reading, which I now compare to Leibniz’s handling of sin in ‘Discours.’ First, the conditions for morality hold before and after the Fall. This commitment is important for how salvation plays into good and bad acts, and how rewards and punishments apply. Second, Leibniz’s Complete Concept view links the choice of the whole universe to individuals. Included in a person’s concept are the graces they receive. Last, the Incarnation is the Christian mystery that answers to the mystery of creation, God’s choice to create this world. The urgency behind a response to creation’s mystery is the tension between the moral quality of God and fallen man. Why would the Creator create a being to commune with, then sever the tie if he desires communion?

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INDIFFERENT SOULS In a manuscript the Akademie editors entitled, ‘De Libertate a Necessitate in Eligendo’ (‘On Liberty from Necessity in Being Chosen’), dated uncertainly before ‘Discours’ (1680 to 1684), Leibniz reflects on God’s choice to create the most perfect world. Early on, he explains how minds are indifferent with respect to reason. Someone cannot “perfectly bear in mind [meminit] a demonstration” (A VI 4, 273, 1454). This limit explains why “in this life” the mind does not penetrate the validity so satisfactory that it cannot turn away or doubt. Though unsaid, Descartes may be in mind. Enough other writings from this period critique the Modern’s criterion of truth as clear and distinct perception.24 Here, Leibniz adds that one cannot pull away from or doubt the beatific vision. His point is that the mind cannot grasp absolute certainty. If it could perceive reasons sufficiently, the mind would not be swayed. Similarly, the mind could not turn away from the beatific vision.25 I cite this text as a precursor to Leibniz’s account of original sin in ‘Discours.’ There are two central issues: first, the simultaneously indifferent and inclined soul; second, how ignorance informs action. Leibniz has tensive commitments. Absolutely speaking, the soul is indifferent among options. Yet as an existing being, that is, a result of God’s free decrees, souls incline toward the best. These actions are contained in the complete concept of an individual as part of God’s choice to create—a view he imports into ‘Examen.’ Yet our ignorance of these certain future actions as well as their rewards and punishments should lead us to act as if they were uncertain and wholly depend on us. And this ignorance points us to the basic mystery of God’s choice. And so, in ‘Discours,’ we find Leibniz handling original sin from a philosophical slant yet arriving at the basic mystery. By the end, the mystery of God’s choice is answered by the Christian mysteries. My larger thesis about love of God in the scientia generalis bears mention. As Leibniz stressed in ¶ 4 of ‘Discours,’ love is active, not passive. And in ‘Examen,’ Leibniz portrays the divine lover as seeking to perfect himself, others, and the world in imitation of the divine will. What I aim to show below is that, for Leibniz, the basic mystery of creation ought to compel endeavors of virtue. Original sin should not give reason for passivity because it points to the founding mystery. Our ignorance, however, does not block us from pursuing the beatific vision and comprehension of the divine plan. Rather, the mystery elicits greater perfection, which includes the development and unification of the sciences. If I am right on this reading, the mystery does not simply cover up gaps in Leibniz’s partial system. It has a moral role, and so presents the moral and theological motive behind ‘Discours.’

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Before turning to this section’s main passage, let me canvas a few relevant stances from earlier. These views will help us make sense of Leibniz’s statement in ‘Examen’ that a good action is free, whereas a bad one is contingent (A VI 4, 420, 2369). Like original sin itself, this claim resolves into the mystery of the divine choice. In ¶ 7 of ‘Discours,’ Leibniz writes that “God wishes to concur” with rational acts among creatures (A VI 4, 306, 1538; AG 40). Miracles suspend natural laws for the sake of a “stronger reason,” that is, so that God can personally commune with humanity. To hold this view, Leibniz separates God’s general will. From this separation, God communes with humanity apart from his particular will. Leibniz tries to clarify, . . . but as for objects of his general volition, such as the actions of other creatures—particularly of those that are reasonable with which God wants to concur—we must distinguish: if the action is good in itself we can say that God desires it and sometimes commands it, even when it does not occur; but if it is bad in itself and only becomes good by accident, by the course of things— particularly, the punishment and satisfaction correcting its malignity, and in recompensing the bad with the kind of usury that in the end brings about more perfection in the whole course than if all this evil had not occurred—we must say that God permitted it and not that he desired it, although he concurs with it because of the laws of nature that he established and because he can draw a more greater good from it. (A VI 4, 306, 1539; AG 40)

Here we see the significance of God’s moral quality—how metaphysics coalesces with morality. If good, a rational creature acts according to God’s will or command. Not only does God create and sustain with a general will through natural laws; his general will has a moral quality. God concurs with good acts, permits bad ones. If bad, the act is good “by accident” or from nature’s course. Punishments return good for evil “with interest” so that this world has more perfection than otherwise. Leibniz confines God’s particular will to extraordinary occurrences, that is, miracles, which justify revelations, but the deity’s commune with humanity amounts to his concurrence with (or allowance of) their acts over and above specific directives. Last chapter I argued Leibniz’s worry over miracles was less due to their coherence with substance than their moral role. That they cohere with substance, I now add, matters from moral beliefs, too,26 and these commitments frame the mystery of God’s choice to create this world. Leibniz deals with the nature of substance in ¶ 8, after addressing miracles, and again in ¶ 30 on sin. Both begin with a remark on the difficulty of relating divine and human wills—a relation that is mysterious since it evokes God’s choice to create and conserve individuals. The first remark concerns distinguishing human and divine action; the latter how God acts on humans. One objection to my

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reading is that I overextend the role of mystery to issues that Leibniz does not take up or resolve. I put mystery, that is, where Leibniz sees problems. An argument can be made that his system is incomplete, as it is in 1686, so that he has yet to see a way forward on the relation of God and man. The objection seems right on two counts (though cohering with the metaphysical and moral role of mysteries). First, Leibniz may be unsure about the role of mystery and hesitate to make much of it. There is, after all, the Christian mysteries and the basic choice of existence—separate senses of the notion. Also, Leibniz resists using mystery as an excuse to cease thinking about an issue. In one fragment, for example, he criticizes Descartes as exhibiting a false prudence when setting aside the reconciliation of human freedom with God’s foreordained plan.27 Claiming ignorance does not suffice. And second, the objection forces us to separate Leibniz’s struggle to unify metaphysics and morality from the mystery of God’s choice to create the world. The former involves the latter. An exhaustive demonstration of contingent truths cannot be given due to the infinite on which they depend, which stems from God’s choice. This claim is one way the basic mystery has a role. In a moment we will see its moral counterpart. Recall the Containment theory as the last piece of the backdrop. A subject contains all its predicates so that an omniscient glimpse into someone’s nature has enough insight to deduce everything that person will do and experience. In ¶ 8, Leibniz introduces this theory to distinguish God’s actions from humanity by paving a road between the view that God does everything and the view that he merely conserves the force of things. The former view denies the responsibility of rational beings; the latter view lessens the scope of the divine plan. Leibniz cites a result that resurfaces when he turns to original sin. From the divine vantage, a substance contains everything related to it and God alone recognizes these all-pervasive threads. There are two commitments worth mentioning. First, God’s choice of the whole is a choice of its parts. So in ‘Examen’ God chose a world in which sin would occur, not one in which it could have but didn’t, and so he chose this pair of Adam and Eve rather than another. The containment view merges God’s choice of this world and this being. Second, humanity is free or spontaneous in the sense that every act has a reason that can only be deduced from an infinite demonstration. While deducible in principle, substances act as more than passive bearers of another’s force.28 Both of these commitments inform indifferent, yet inclined, rational souls and their sin.29 Leibniz handles sin in ¶ 30 as a point of dispute for how God acts on humanity. Below, I show how he neutralizes this threat to the deity’s moral quality. Sin’s presence is no reason for rational persons to doubt the Creator’s goodness (and so the divine lover remains rational). One upshot is that sin must continue to challenge God’s goodness save for one’s belief that God is

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good, one’s faith in him, and love for him. Otherwise, the commitment that God can turn an evil to a greater good becomes mute. Leibniz appeals to his metaphysics as preserving the mystery of existence, which allows him to appeal to this mystery to sustain his moral views. Since a substance encloses all that happens to it, a soul thinks from its own ideas not divine ones. This is the subject of ¶ 29, a return to the issue of distinguishing creation from its Creator but now in terms of rational beings.30 A soul is passive and active in a thought, Leibniz claims, because the soul is affected when thinking, which is an already determined passive capacity, yet there is also activity as there are marks of the future in the present and a disposition to produce these affects (A VI 4, 306, 1574; AG 60). Spontaneity comes in these affects’ emergence. While God chose each soul, and so chose souls that would be affected in a certain way, the ideas through which souls think are their own. Substantial form (this unity of activity and passivity in souls), however, does not resolve problems with how God acts on humans. Without addressing them, Leibniz draws together three topics in ¶ 30: (a) how God inclines the soul; (b) the proper approach to the thorny case of Judas; (c) original imperfection before sin and grace. He seeks to preserve the moral quality of God, which justifies the divine lover’s expectation of the best. God concurs with agents in two ways from his general will, either willing a good act or allowing a bad one for the sake of a greater good. Thus, his moral quality is preserved. Leibniz picks up in ¶ 30 from God’s general will. He draws his earlier claim together with the one before on the emergence of thought: to gloss, God follows the laws he established to conserve and produce beings so that their notion contains all their thoughts. These thoughts are foreseen since the first act of creation. First he speaks “roughly” (“en gros”) according to the architecture he proposed earlier, but beings are not merely chosen in this exhaustive sense. The deity is more invasive, yet in a way meant to strengthen his moral quality. Leibniz writes, Moreover, in virtue of his decree that the will always tend toward the apparent good, expressing or imitating God’s will in particular respects (so that this apparent good always has some truth in it), God determines our will to choose what seems better, without, however, necessitating it. (A VI 4, 306, 1575; AG 61)

Recalling the Sameness of Goods problem, here Leibniz stipulates that God inclines creatures to will what seems best. This is a divine decree which parallels, if not follows from, God’s choice of the best in ¶ 13. Rational beings have an in-built convergence to the divine will, though ignorance or sin may block it. And they are not purely indifferent across options. This inclination enables our actions to be foreseen and certain without prior external determination. Leibniz does not put his point this way here, but it seems fair to

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suggest that pure indifference results in random choices, or arbitrariness. There is no reason to prefer one choice to another. Part of our rationality and freedom is to enact the best. But Leibniz goes on to state the opposite of what I suggested on his claim that the deity inclines without necessitating. “For, absolutely speaking, the will is in a state of indifference, as opposed to one of necessity,” and can do otherwise or suspend acting (A VI 4, 306, 1575; AG 61).31 If humans perceived the best without doubt, they would choose it. No one can resist the beatific vision. A degree of ignorance, it turns out, preserves the condition for morality if not freedom. This claim holds for Adam and Eve before the Fall, otherwise Eve would not have picked the apple. The will is indifferent in the sense that other choices remain possible. Though certain that Julius or Judas will choose what seems best, they could have chosen differently just as God could have created another world. Rational agents have enough power and uncertainty to act or suspend acting, which is how Leibniz’s explanation coheres with my suggestion above. Rational agents act from an inclination toward the best, not an external determination, because this inclination allows for resistance. Nothing seems so good that agents must act. It is their moral nature that prompts them to the good, a moral nature imputed by the Creator. Even sin results from this moral quality, and so is punishable. Note the resulting disanalogy between God and man: since God perceives the truly best, God acts for the best and could not (morally speaking) do otherwise. God’s freedom is sustained with an abstract counterfactual. “Absolutely speaking” means something else in that case. For rational beings, ignorance of the true good and uncertainty allow for a more concrete set of possibilities. Leibniz says as much: “Therefore the soul must guard itself against deceptive apperances [les surprise des apparences] through a firm will to reflect and neither to act nor to judge in certain circumstances except after having deliberated fully” (A VI 4, 306, 1575; AG 61). Indifference means that humans can act for superficial goods that entail their harm. Distancing oneself from appearances through reflection safeguards us. Leibniz moves on to talk of sin and its possibility, but before following suit we can ask, Why does complete deliberation secure us from sin? Though undefined, deliberation likely means weighing among options to give a reason for preferring one to the others. Other manuscripts suggest as much.32 One deliberates over the good among choices and Leibniz affirms a firm will as opposed to a fluctuating mind (A VI 4, 269, 1421–2). Fluctuation leads to error but the good presents itself to an attentive thinker. Indifference, absolutely speaking, means the mind can deliberate and suspend action. Leibniz will not link deliberation to affects, except to say that Judas’ choice to sin results from who Judas is. If he did not sin, he would not be. Still, to think something is to be affected in a certain way and how we are affected in

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the past and present contains the marks of the future. Deliberation mulls over options, and so seems distinctly affected in how it considers. Panning back, reasoning is affective for Leibniz and deliberating over options (exercising one’s reason) secures one from sin. This observal still does not tell us how. To suggest an answer, let me draw in the claim in ‘Examen’ that no harm comes to those who love God. The divine lover is content with the past and presumes the divine will in acting. The lover deliberates, then, on which option is desired by God for them. Their reasoning is affected toward God and, since God wills his creatures’ good, no harm will come (baring a fallen world). Still, even the ideal, wise lover cannot be sure of the divine will, nor be spared every harm inflicted by others. Here is where grace enters, and so anticipates next chapter. Leibniz writes as if deliberation makes sinlessness possible, however, so that all stand guilty for sin. The condition for morality holds before and after the Fall, and the Fall did not distort our deliberative powers. Reasoning still draws us to the good. But as Leibniz writes on the unity of body and soul, reason’s purity clouds. It is less clear that deliberation ensures the good. Leibniz continues as if deliberation, or at least suspended action, preserves one from sin. Instead of asking why a soul’s sin is assured from all eternity, he wonders why a soul does not deliberate (and sins). If deliberation is a manner of being affected, one that weighs among options, Leibniz need not condemn reaction simpliciter. Rather, one may sin when lacking an affection toward God that brings an awareness of a higher, hidden good; that is, the divine will for one’s life is not presumed. His point in ¶ 30 of ‘Discours’ is not about the nature of sin, but how one is culpable. So far, he has claimed that one remains culpable because no good is so alluring that someone cannot refuse it in principle. The divine lover weighs the risk of sinning. He objects to his own view, “But who is to blame? Can the soul complain about anything other than itself?” (A VI 4, 306, 1576; AG 61). Since the soul will sin, an act predicated of its complete concept, someone may blame God for determining her to sin before or after the fact. Leibniz’s response expands the positive role of ignorance. First, ignorance amounts to a distance from the true good. Now it includes the future. Though the marks of our future selves are in us, we cannot perceive them. It seems unsatisfying to say that the soul remains culpable because it cannot perceive its prior determination to sin, but this is what Leibniz claims. “Since God’s determinations in these matters cannot be foreseen, how does the soul know that it is determined to sin, unless it is actually already sinning?” (A VI 4, 306, 1576; AG 61). That Leibniz switches in this passage to a series of rhetorical questions may have meant to put aside a resolution; this reading is strengthened by where these questions lead: namely, to the mystery of God’s choice to create this world. But Leibniz’s response also means to preserve the

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moral condition for acting, so we need to see how he brings us to the basic mystery. The objection may have two senses: (i) God’s choice of our notion foreordains the acts done; (ii) God conserves and produces our substance, and so is the true cause of our acts. Ignorance of prior determination does not entail there is none. Leibniz would be contradicting himself if he said as much since our future actions are certain, not necessary. ‘Determination’ is too strong in its metaphysical sense, which cannot be excluded by its invisibility and already was sidelined. Thus, the first sense is unlikely. Leibniz seems to reuse the word here as a force on one’s action, and so demarcates the deity’s conservation and production. Our existence expresses this divine power without excusing whatever we do. There are marks of future action in the present, these are unperceived, and, as a result, cannot excuse one from acting because they do not force the soul to act. Everything it does proceeds from itself. The power to suspend action evinces the lack of determination and meets the condition for morality. “It is only a matter of not willing,” Leibniz comments, “and God could not put forth an easier and more just condition . . . ” (A VI 4, 306, 1576; AG 61). Again, no power thwarts the human capacity to suspend action, and so the soul remains culpable for acting. Leibniz reasons, “ . . . thus, judges do not seek the reasons which have disposed a man to have a bad will, but only stop to consider the extent to which this particular will is bad” (ibid.). Blame depends on a particular will, not the reasons for the disposition, and so divine power stays blameless. This response grants that the reasons for someone’s disposition may be out of their control. Even so, a person poorly disposed can restrain themselves from acting, and so are rightfully blamed when acting poorly. Recall the threat of original sin to morality: Adam’s sin infects his children, and so he (or Eve, the Serpent, or God) may be the scapegoat. A sinful nature does not lessen blame on oneself due to the capacity to suspend action. A judge looks for reasons someone acted in each case. Leibniz ends his response to this first objection by returning to God’s choice from all eternity. It is strange for him to entertain this reply for the reason mentioned above: certainty does not shift the cause of action outside the rational agent; everything arises spontaneously from the soul. In answer, Leibniz seems to take back his original view. But perhaps it is certain from all eternity that I shall sin? Answer this question for yourself: perhaps not; and without considering what you cannot know and what can give you no light, act according to your duty, which you do know. (A VI 4, 306, 1576; AG 61)

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Actions are certain, not necessary, or maybe neither. It is too quick to split his metaphysical and moral commitments. Some qualifications help us interpret this passage. First, the objection occurs from a first-person, self-aware stance, not the divine vantage from which Leibniz lays out his metaphysics. Certainty of contingent acts only appears to God, who can carry out an infinite demonstration. No person can track the certainty of their own action. Second, the objector wants to ascribe a reason for their action external to themselves. This tact defies the capacity to suspend action, which makes one without excuse. Similarly, an excuse distracts from deliberation, the third qualifier. Leibniz calls the person to deliberate over how they should act when acting is in question. From these reasons, “perhaps not” means that sin is not given once and for all from our current state. After we act, it is certain, but future action is not passively accepted. My claim is that two beliefs—God created the best world and man freely sinned—are reconciled in practice based on the mysterious reason God created this world. The righteous man loves God and wants for nothing, even if he lacks bread, and presumes the divine will with the promise that no harm will come. Part of the thesis will be supported in the next chapter on grace and faith. Our worry now is sin’s tensive roles: sin threatens creation’s perfection yet uniquely contributes to its perfection (indirectly). Here’s the big picture: Leibniz takes the capacity to suspend action as the condition for blameworthiness, and so action results in rewards or punishments, that punishments return more perfection for evil, and God has arranged all for the most perfection. But within this harmony someone may object that they are a mere pawn and cannot be blamed. With God’s choice to create them, the pieces have been set to move as he wills. Leibniz replies that the overall harmony does not frustrate deliberation. Still, someone may be skeptical. An onus of ‘Discours’ is that the metaphysics enflames piety and strengthens religion (see ¶ 32). But Leibniz wants to hold that our capacity to suspend action makes us free to do otherwise in principle and within our substantial form, yet not one or the other strictly. The former entails the certainty of our acts from our substance. The latter entails an epistemic certainty of the deity. Leibniz wants a middle way. A will inclined but not necessitated still sits uneasily between these views. The case of Judas was vexing. Did Christ need to be betrayed to save the sins of the world? And did Judas have a choice? After arguing we lack excuse, Leibniz weighs in: But someone else will say, why is it that this man will assuredly commit this sin? The reply is easy: otherwise it would not be this man. For God sees from all time that there will be a certain Judas whose notion or idea (which God has) contains this free and future action. (A VI 4, 306, 1576; AG 61)

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This objection turns to the third person and asks why Judas betrayed Jesus certainly. It seems more organized to deal with this objection before the one about personal responsibility since he claims that “it is assured from all eternity” that someone will or will not deliberate and avoid sin. Though the first drafts were written in haste, Leibniz had time to rewrite and revise (after all, he only sent the paragraph headings to Arnaud) and so he likely intended to put this objection second.33 The objection seems repetitive if about certainty and freedom generally. But Leibniz is not raising this worry again. He distinguished the natural inclination to the best and indifference to preserve the certain course of events and human freedom. Instead, the objector aims at predicating ‘this’ sin to ‘this’ man. If Jesus will save the world through his sacrifice, the objection concerns the reason Judas will betray him rather than someone else. Peter, James, and John are viable options. The first objection threatens freedom as a condition for morality. If there is an external cause for my action, I cannot be justly blamed. Although the reply to the second objection is “easy,” it has weight and brings us to creation’s mystery. If sinful acts are certain from all eternity, yet this certainty does not amount to an external force causing us to deliberate or not, there seems nothing that justifies the certainty of someone committing specific acts. Without a substantive relation between a person and their action, they cannot be held responsible. Notice what Leibniz has taken off the table in answer to the last objection. Freedom is not due to which action is chosen, but in the capacity to deliberate and suspend action. While there is a free (moral) relation from the choice to act or not act, ‘this’ action rather than ‘that’ action seems to lack bearing. Nothing external distinguishes which is done. The second objection presses for the tie between a person and select acts. The answer is “easy” within Leibniz’s metaphysics: predicates contained within a subject arise spontaneously from its notion. Actions, likewise, emerge. Wills are inclined in the sense that the apparent good is always acted on if the person does not suspend action. Although freedom comes from the capacity to suspend action, not the action chosen, both acting and the specific action emerge from one’s notion. As a result, whether a person acts and how are predicates that individuate them. Judas betrays Jesus because he is Judas, not Peter or the others. Readers of ‘Discours’ may worry about the condition for morality when reduced to the individual notion. With respect to predication, the capacity to suspend action is no longer a choice in a more robust sense than which action is done. The capacity of suspension parallels absolute indifference—a theoretical requirement for morality. But, for Leibniz, the Complete Concept Theory supports a tenable moral view. One reason to agree with him is if the objections land without the Complete Concept Theory.34 Leibniz maintains freedom and certainty. Take away the

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theory and we are left with one or the other. Sin requires both, first, to ensure culpability and, second, so that sin indirectly brings about a greater perfection than otherwise. Judas must be responsible for a betrayal which God intends for his divine purposes. Given Leibniz’s handling of God’s action on human will so far, he seems more concerned with preserving the morality of rational beings than with resolving “difficult considerations,” and so is content with a tensive position. As he sidelines one question on Judas for another, then stresses the inability of humans to answer either, his stance depends on a basic mystery. Unlike Malebranche, Leibniz avoids claiming that the simple, general, and most perfect laws which govern the universe constrain the deity. While they share a commitment to the divine plan turning imperfections or evils into greater goods, Leibniz takes defects as contributing to the most perfect whole, not a cost of obeying general laws. Malebranche seeks to lessen the glare of imperfections in the universe, moral or natural. Leibniz embraces the glare.35 For the French priest, God created Judas for his intended end according to general laws. Leibniz refuses to appeal to general laws as an excuse for betrayal. To do so puts an exterior force on Judas’ act, losing his freedom, or displaces his agency to the deity and predicates the action to God. The upshot is that all particulars were chosen by God as ultimately contributing to the most perfect whole, and this contribution is their own (within the overarching harmony). Judas remains a perplexing choice.36 These observals lead to the climactic mystery of existence. Inexplicability ushers rational beings to the infinite depths of God’s choice. So, on Judas, Leibniz shrugs, “Therefore only this question remains, why does such a Judas, the traitor, who is merely possible in God’s idea, actually exist? But no reply to this question is to be expected on earth, expect that, in general . . . ” (A VI 4, 306, 1576; AG 61). But his shrug is a pious one. On God’s general will, Leibniz goes on to rehearse familiar lines: evil is recompensed with usury, the deity allows sin but is not its cause, that a great good will come about through this allowance, which justifies how God found it good to create Judas and others, and so the sinner is part of the most perfect universe. Leibniz has set up a metaphysical architecture to explain sin and other imperfections so that they do not clash with the divine nature or moral quality. At the same time, his system’s contours preserve the mystery of God’s choice most clearly with the existence of evils and imperfections. For here, no comprehension is to be expected. He continues, But we cannot always explain the admirable economy of this choice while we are travelers in this world; it is enough to know it without understanding it. And here is the occasion to recognize the altitudinem divitarum,37 the depth and

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abyss of divine wisdom, without seeking a detail that involves infinite consideration. (ibid.)

Contingency itself blocks the inquiring mind from exhausting the reasons for all things. In the next chapter I return to the claim that someone can know without understanding since this describes salvation. For Leibniz, the vexing question of Judas reduces to the mystery of every particular within the economy of God’s choice. Compare what we have worked through above with ‘Examen’ and they cohere. God allows evils and imperfections for the sake of a greater perfection to which they uniquely contribute. The Complete Concept Theory explains this mysterious turning. Just as Leibniz appealed to the complete concept to put an individual within the whole and affirm divine goodness, now he defends the same, save to support a moral view that uses Judas and other evil persons and imperfections to point us to divine wisdom. The same can be said of original sin. Leibniz reduces problems with Judas to the incomprehensible reason for a contingency so that all of creation points to the basic mystery. In this way, metaphysics and morality strengthen one another. While ‘Examen’ and ‘Discours’ cohere, Leibniz approaches his topics differently. His concern in ‘Examen’ is the Creator’s goodness despite sin. Preserving humanity’s moral condition is his worry in ‘Discours.’ Among other reasons, this distances the texts. Yet they complement one another, hand in glove. NATURE’S STAIN The role of grace and faith cannot be defined until the effects of sin are. After ensuring creation’s defects leave the Creator unscathed in ‘Examen,’ or that sinful acts merit punishment and that sinners, too, contribute uniquely to the divine plan in ‘Discours,’ Leibniz declares original sin’s effects. Three church doctrines are in play: first, sin comes from an abuse of human freedom; second, sin results in a compulsion toward evil; third, humanity, once perfect, became less so.38 The first concerns the nature of sin, the second its effects, and the third humanity. Unsettled is how Leibniz fleshes out these views within his commitments. For his Catholic contemporaries, Adam and Eve’s choice ruined human bliss, yet did not utterly deprave them since humans still tend toward the good.39 For Francis Bacon and others, scientific programs ameliorate the effects of the Fall.40 Given the aim of science—human flourishing—Leibniz may have something similar in mind. Yet he wants to preserve the role of grace and God’s salvation. We saw already that the moral condition holds before and after the Fall, and the capacity to deliberate and suspend action makes one responsible. How does original sin influence one’s

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ability to avoid sin? What are its effects? Answers to these questions set up the role of divine grace, which remedies sin. Let me begin with ‘Discours’ since Leibniz is brief. His brevity and silence may cause alarm, in fact, given how he deals with original sin in ‘Examen.’ The texts seem to diverge. He cites St. Augustine, as he does in ‘Examen,’ and endorses the condition for sin holding before the Fall. No mention is made of the possibility that sin never occurs. Instead, Leibniz leaves unsaid what the effects of original sin are. He writes, Yet one sees clearly that God is not the cause of evil. For not only did original sin take possession of the soul after the innocence of men had been lost, but even before this, there was an original imperfection or limitation connatural to all creatures, which makes them liable to sin or capable of error. Thus, the supralapsarians raise no more problems than the others do. And it is to this, in my view, that we must reduce the opinion of Saint Augustine and other authors, the opinion that the root of evil is in nothingness, that is to say, in the privation or limitation of creatures. (A VI 4, 306, 1577; AG 62)

Leibniz leads into the origin of evil from the thorny case of Judas in ‘Discours,’ though he begins with the possibility of sin in ‘Examen.’ Unsaid is why God chose to create this Adam who sins rather than the one who does not, but it is a small leap to claim that his answer would be the familiar one found in his theological text: God knew it would bring about greater perfection than otherwise. Note the loaded phrase “possession,” or s’emparer, to describe original sin’s effects. It means not only to possess, but to take violently, to subjugate, or to take avidly for use, as if humans were conquered by sin.41 So Leibniz alludes to a great shock without giving his reader details. He thinks the problems raised by those who believe in election (e.g., Calvinists) are not unique, but apply to the mystery of God’s choice. Another point of note is the “reduction” of St. Augustine’s view and others. What does he put aside? Let me suggest that the broader picture can be found in ‘Examen.’ A caveat to importing the view of original sin from ‘Examen’ to "Discours" is that no mention is made of original sin in ¶ 33, on the body and soul’s union. You will see why this is significant soon. In ‘Examen,’ Leibniz states clear effects of original sin. Human nature is changed for the worse, which gives room for divine grace. Therefore, when certain angels fell, apparently through pride, and when afterwards the first man, seduced by an evil angel, also fell through concupiscence (the former being diabolical sin, the latter bestial sin), original sin invaded humankind through the first parent, that is, a certain depravity was contracted which renders men slow to act rightly and quick to act wickedly since their

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understanding is obscured and their senses have more influence. (A VI 4, 420, 2359)

Leibniz rehearses the familiar story. The first human sin was bestial in the sense that it resulted from a carnal nature: a neutral limit left open the possibility of sin so that God is not its cause. I dealt with this claim earlier, though it still is less neutral than some may like. The deity still created this pair of first parents who would sin. Note the ambivalence of the effects. On one hand, they heighten otherwise neutral limits: human understanding lessens and their senses have more force. The sciences and knowledge seem adequate means to compensate. For example, criteria of truth and falsity better equip humans to navigate uncertainty. These formal guidelines also prompt deliberation and prolong suspended action. Thus, humans better avoid sin. But, on the other hand, the natural inclination toward the good, which Leibniz takes as a sign of divine goodness in ‘Discours,’ seems damaged. No longer do humans act as quickly toward the good, but act more for wickedness. Maybe the explanation for this change will clarify. In uncertainly dated manuscripts placed before 1686, Leibniz lists problems with the origin and nature of the soul. In one, he refers to Church doctrine as a reason for accepting the view that the animal-like part of human form (the sensitive soul) is conceived bodily, while at the same time God miraculously infuses that being with a rational soul that transforms its nature thoroughly (A VI 4, N. 297).42 He takes an analogous tack in ‘Examen,’ except now it is union with the body that transforms the soul: And although the soul is pure when it emanates from God (for traducianism is unintelligible), nevertheless, by virtue of its union with the body that has a corrupted constitution as a result of the sin of the parents, or [sive] because of its connection with external things, there arises in it original sin, i.e., the disposition to sin, although no moment can be identified when it was free from blemish and inserted into a corrupted body. (A VI 4, 420, 2359)

Leibniz rejects traducianism, the view that Adam’s soul and body are passed to his offspring, and holds that, before its infusion into a body, the soul is pure and unaffected by original sin. If body has a form, this stance coheres with his manuscript on the soul’s origin. The sensitive soul passes from Adam, but God infuses the rational soul. Those details are not in this passage, yet, if he holds that view, he separates the miraculous act from sin. Put again, sinful souls do not emanate from God, nor does God touch corrupted bodies. The soul’s origin and nature may be issues that make traducianism unintelligible. Original sin infects the soul through the body, which was affected by the parents, or from how the soul relates to external things. These are not

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alternatives: it is not as if either its union with the body or its external relations dispose the soul to sin. ‘Or,’ sive, introduces more precision since it can be inclusive (‘that is’). Assuming the body is not external to the soul, but thoroughly united to it, Leibniz lessens the weight of transmission and reframes the effects of Adam’s seed. Original sin emerges from human’s relation to external things. Leibniz described how corrupted humans relate a moment ago: obscure understanding and stronger influence of the senses.43 This blindness and lethargy are presumably inherited, yet they are elicited from external things. The thrust of original sin comes from the sensible world. Leibniz depicts a fallen world. If so, Leibniz does not damn the body simply, but claims the body is yet one more artefact of original sin’s pervasive effects. Nor does Leibniz set his hopes on some intact purity of the soul. He ends the quote above with the remark that no purity remains. He goes on, “And so all have become ‘children of wrath’44 and ‘concluded under sin,’45 and will go head first into ruin unless assisted by a great grace of God” (A VI 4, 420, 2359). Here we see one reason why Leibniz stresses the effects of original sin: the more pervasive the effects, the more divine intervention is called for. The soul’s union with the body is such that no one would avoid ruin unless God offers grace. So the effects of original sin and its pervasiveness must be remedied, not only the stain of personal sin. This remark will be important in the next chapter on salvation: the moral import of salvation is not limited to individuals who can act well and be saved thereby. Yet natural grace remedies these wider effects so that sincere intent results in salvation. But this is less straightforward than it seems. For now, Leibniz has put the soul in a corrupted body that lives in a corrupted world. One response to this paragraph in ‘Examen’ is to dismiss it. After all, Leibniz is silent on original sin when discussing the union of soul and body in ‘Discours.’ The objection gains motive in how severe Leibniz seems on bodily corruption, which seems out of tune with the more placid description of the body in the metaphysical treatise. A brief response leads into the next chapter and summarizes this chapter’s main claims. Our two texts may complement one another in a surprising way. If the presence of sin leads us to the mystery of God’s choice to create this world, along with the individuals within it, then the pervasiveness of original sin likewise prompts us toward the depths of this mystery. In a strange parallelism, the mark of the Creator is in his work in two ways: from natural perfection, which expresses the divine nature, and in the depths of divine wisdom that are sounded out from imperfection and sin. The latter prompts praise over the incomprehensibility of natural perfection since divine lovers grant the unseen, all-perfect whole. Difficulties remain, but they result from natural limits and so ‘resolve’ in one’s disposition toward God. With grace, however, Leibniz walks back original sin’s effects to preserve

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the condition for morality, and so ameliorates the Fall akin to how he handles Judas. His reliance on mystery cannot upend the moral quality of God or man. NOTES 1. It is worth noting that original sin and the emanation of the soul from God are views that the 19th century, Catholic translator, Broglie, viewed as contrary to Catholic teaching (Strickland, “The Nineteenth Century Reception,” forthcoming). 2. On the threat of sin for Leibniz’s metaphysics, see (Newlands, “Leibniz on Privations, Limitations, and the Metaphysics of Evil”). 3. Strickland also notes this signposting as framing the topics that came before (Strickland, “The Nineteenth Century Reception,” forthcoming). 4. On the explanation of mysteries in Theodicy, see (G VI 145). 5. On the claim that rewards and punishments are required for morality, see (Carlin, “Reward and Punishment in the Best Possible World”; Strickland, “Leibniz’s Harmony between the Kingdoms of Nature and Grace”). 6. I take up justification in the next chapter. 7. Compare with his claim in ‘Discours’ that “the innocence of man had been lost” as sin took “possession of the soul” (A VI 4, 306, 1577; AG 62). He will go on to make the same claim in ‘Examen.’ I look at both below. 8. For Leibniz’s handling of the question of whether more perfection is possible, see (Strickland, “Leibniz on Whether the World Increases in Perfection”). 9. The coupling of word and deed resurfaces in Leibniz’s discussion of faith, which I return to next chapter. 10. On the mark of the Creator in his work, see ch. 2. 11. See Roman 8.28 on the good of those who love God. 12. On Hobbes’ theism (or atheism), see (Jesseph, “Hobbes’s Atheism”). 13. See (‘Rationale of the Catholic Faith’ [A VI 4, 409; LGR 78], ‘Genuine Dialogue’ [A II 3, pgs. 9–17; LGR 278], and Theodicy [G VI, 115]). 14. See (Augustine, City of God, 608–609). For Leibniz’s interaction with Augustine, see (Backus, Leibniz, Protestant Theologian, ch. 5). 15. On divine wisdom in the Theodicy, see (G VI 134 & 179). 16. Though, unlike Malebranche, Leibniz rejects the claim that creation could have been better because perfection is an infinite continuum and admits no greatest degree (see chapter 3). 17. See (Malebranche, T III.7–8). 18. On Leibniz’s Complete Concept Theory during this time, see (Garber, Body, chapter 5). 19. In the next chapter, I will cite passages in which “divine aid” and “grace” are used as equivalents. 20. Whether Leibniz preserves human freedom is a much debated and vexed question. 21. It remains an open question whether Leibniz believed in eternal damnation. See (Strickland, “Leibniz on eternal punishment”; Lodge, “Eternal Punishment, Universal

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Salvation, and Pragmatic Theology in Leibniz”). On the question of salvation in his Theodicy, see (G VI 133 & 266). 22. His claim may call to mind Thomas of Aquinas’s argument that the parts of creation are only best according to the whole (Summa theologiae, I. q. 47, a. 2, ad. 1). 23. Leibniz states the position around 1677 or 1678 (A VI 4, 256, 1362) and again in Theodicy (G VI 107). 24. For Leibniz’s critique of Descartes’ criterion of true ideas, see ch. 3. 25. It is noteworthy that Leibniz parallel the certainty achieved through demonstration with obtaining the beatific vision. Strict inference, it seems, which has ontological bearing, may illuminate akin to that final illumination of the divine. 26. And so Leibniz’s ‘revival’ of substantial form in ‘Discours’ due to moral concerns (see chapter 1) threads together with miracles. Both commitments join metaphysics with morality. 27. See (A VI 4, 288, 1476). 28. For recent scholarship on spontaneity, see (Jorati, “Three Types of Spontaneity and Teleology in Leibniz”). 29. That individual substances are the source of their own activity is returned to in ¶ 29, before addressing sin. 30. See ch. 1. 31. Leibniz’s treatment of indifference in Theodicy can be found here (G VI 302, 324, & 369). 32. On Leibniz’s understanding of deliberation, see (A VI 4, 66, 268; 114, 451; 231, 1093; 256, 1362; 274, 1456; 409, 2318). 33. On the composition of ‘Discours,’ see (Strickland, “Discourse on Metaphysics”). 34. I will not attempt a defense of his position or articulate what Leibniz’s full argument may be. But one reason Leibniz adopts the Complete Concept Theory may be because it serves as an adequate basis for morality. If so, this reasoning parallels a motive for adopting substantial form (see ch. 1). 35. This contrast is too stark: Malebranche also believes that defects contribute to the overall perfection. 36. More precisely, ‘this Judas’ rather than another possible one remains a perplexing choice. 37. Likely an allusion to Malebranche’s Traité de la nature et de la Grace, LVI, where Malebranche attributes the line to St. Paul. 38. See Catechism of the Catholic Church, 111–115. 39. See (Quantin, “Catholic Moral Theology, 1550–1800”). 40. See (Harrison, “Original Sin and the Problem of Knowledge in Early Modern Europe”). 41. See entry for s’emparer in Le Petit Robert. 42. For more on Leibniz’s various treatments of reproduction, see (Smith, Divine Machines). 43. For a broader take on Leibniz view of sin, see (Davidson, “Video Meliora Proboque, Deteriora Sequor”). 44. Ephesians 2.3. 45. Galatians 3.22.

Chapter 6

Salvation

Sometime between the summers of 1680 and 1684, Leibniz penned some thoughts on freedom and grace. He notes that future acts cannot be contained in the subject intrinsically, or by “some real affect in the will,” because then the will is not indifferent. Yet the will cannot be determined by either God or the will itself without violating freedom, too (A VI 4, 274, 1458). The answer, he goes on, is to consider ideas as prior to divine decrees. Ideas reside in the divine understanding, not products of the divine will, and so are indifferent until created. Although all ideas are possible, some ideas please God most and those exist. On familiar lines, Leibniz argues that the deity choses the complete concept of individuals that contribute to the best, which includes the degree of grace received. God concurs with some acts more than others due to grace. Some receive more grace than others for the mysterious reasons we know, but do not comprehend. Leading up to 1686, Leibniz fleshes out his concept of grace with respect to contingency, individuality, essence, and existence. This manuscript (among others) supports Schepers’ suggestion that Leibniz’s metaphysics in 1686 as well as his religious and theological concerns depend on freedom (A VI 4, “Einleitung,” LXVIII). I propose a caveat: the moral quality of Creator and creation is the lynchpin.1 My thesis assumes a positive role for mystery. Unknown are the reasons for God’s choice of the traitor, Judas, and Peter, who repents. The next step is to show that this basic mystery of existence culminates in Jesus. Salvation is in question.2 Scholastic theologians before Ockham debated salvation— specifically, the doctrine of justification—by answering the question, ‘How can divine grace be present in fallen humanity?’3 Peter Lombard claimed that salvific human love amounts to inner divine working.4 Thomas of Aquinas countered that acts of love were voluntary, acts of a person’s own. Love was a habit.5 This view seems to coerce God, Duns Scotus rebuffed, and so infused the sacraments with divine power. He countered that God did not love creation from its intrinsic beauty, but despite.6 Crux was how to relate the workings of divine grace to the sacraments.7 129

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‘Examen’ also answers the Medieval question, beginning with God’s moral quality, then love, Christian tenets, and the sacraments (favoring Thomas over Duns Scotus). There is little anticipation of his excursion circa 1686 besides much shorter treatments of the Trinity, Incarnation, and Eucharist. These doctrines are concerns before, yet not in this way. Nor would ‘Discours’ preface such a writing. It resists a neat coupling. But ‘Examen’ also responds to debate between Lutherans and Catholics in an analogous way to his handling of Judas: namely, he reduces debate through preserving moral conditions. And so moral grounding is shared by these two writings. Leibniz defends a “theology of love” that complements his moral metaphysics. Their link explains why ‘Discours’ culminates in the vision of the City of God. Leibniz gives four roles to grace: (i) aids human action, (ii) illuminates, and (iii) expresses the transformation from evil to good. These will be anchored in text below. The contested fourth is that grace saves and renews persons. Leibniz separates natural graces, which enable humans to act well, from salvific graces. It is unclear where to draw the line. Leibniz also defines efficacious grace as distinct from sufficient grace.8 The former is the operation of grace in an individual; the latter saves and secures one from sin. Leibniz handles grace to meet two demands: first, grace cannot remove human agency, and so humans must be held to a moral bar that they are responsible to satisfy; second, human agency in salvation cannot lessen the need for divine intervention, otherwise man saves himself. These demands come to a head in faith and love of God. Both involve a disposition toward God, truth, beauty, and goodness that is at once the result of God and man. To preserve moral and theological requirements, Leibniz sets bounds on how far a stance on justification can be held. Paul Lodge recently argued that Leibniz held neither the doctrine of eternal damnation,9 temporary damnation (i.e., progressive salvation), or universal salvation (Lodge, “Eternal Punishment”). Lodge defends and extends Robert Adams’ view that Leibniz holds a pragmatic theology, that is, he adopts positions in revealed theology based on their engendering of piety or love of God. This explains why Leibniz seems dodgy in theology. Lodge grants manuscripts in which Leibniz espouses eternal damnation. Read closely, he notes, Leibniz qualifies his espousal in ways that distance him from it. For similar reasons, Lodge rejects the opposite conclusion that Leibniz endorsed universal salvation.10 Leibniz maintains distance. While Lodge leaves ‘Examen’ out of his argument, Adams’s proposal came from reading the theological text. Unsurprisingly so. Salvation, grace, and faith have less to do with the afterlife, for Leibniz, than for perfecting humanity now. It is enough that humans expect rewards and punishments after death. The scientia generalis is a Christian program, then, because it depends on natural and supernatural graces and models society like the City of God.

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So grace aids humans without taking their freedom, illumines from the light of souls, and expresses the higher perfection resulting from misery and sin. The sketch of the Scholastic debate foregrounds the risks. The more Leibniz stresses natural graces, he minimizes the Christian mysteries and Holy Spirit. But exclusive reliance on Christian doctrines cuts off the pagan philosophers, say, from virtue and knowledge. Nor does Leibniz want to say that God condemns someone like Socrates. In his discussion of the sacraments, Leibniz also drifts between immanent divine power and an affective ritual. His theological system presents an alternative to mainline Catholicism and Protestantism grounded in a moral quality around which his metaphysics revolves. I begin with Leibniz’s treatment of grace in ‘Discours,’ then compare with ‘Examen.’ The distribution of graces nicely leads into salvation, faith, and the Holy Spirit’s work. Then I end with Leibniz’s vision of the City of God as expressing the place of Christ in his system. ABOUNDING GRACE God chose this world because it was most perfect, simplest in means and richest in result. This choice was certain, being made by an embodiment of all perfections. Leibniz does not demonstrate as much in the writings of 1686. The Sameness of Goods problem resolves through a moral ideal, if at all. But conceptual difficulties lose their force when we suppose that God created the best and grant the mystery of how the details bear this out. Along these lines, instances of misery and depravity (should) prompt the divine lover to praise God’s infinite wisdom. In the title of ¶ 31, Leibniz similarly declares, On the motives of election, on faith foreseen, on middle knowledge, on the absolute decree and that it all reduces to the reason why God has chosen for existence such a possible person whose notion includes just such a sequence of graces and free acts; this puts an end to all difficulties at once. (A VI 4, 306, 1578; AG 62; italics added)

A list of theological issues concerning God’s relation to humanity reduce to the mystery of God’s choice of individuals. And, from last chapter, the mystery in the details prompts our mind to the depths of divine wisdom evinced in the whole. Leibniz was not so bold as to declare the troublous presence of sin lifted before, yet says as much here. One suggestion is that Leibniz thinks the proper bounds for theological doctrine are moral: theology affirms and engenders love of God, which entails love for humanity. In this sense we can conceive his theology as pragmatic, and so agree with Adams and Lodge.

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Before working through ¶ 31, I left off last chapter near the end of the prior paragraph. Leibniz had altered the question to be asked of Judas, which led to the mystery of God’s choice and his infinite wisdom. We know without comprehending this truth.11 For this reason, the deity is not the cause of sin either since the Fall occurred from a neutral limit. God remedies sin through “the degree of perfection it pleases him to give” (A VI 4, 306, 1577; AG 62). And then Leibniz distinguishes efficacious and sufficient grace, as he will do in ‘Examen.’12 To pick up in ‘Discours,’ This grace of God, whether ordinary or extraordinary, [1] has its degrees and its measures; [2] in itself, it is always efficacious in producing a certain proportionate effect, and further, [3] it is always sufficient, [a] not only to secure us from sin, [b] but even to produce salvation, [c] assuming that man unites himself to it by what derives from him. (ibid.)

The first claim, that grace has its degrees and measures, enables the distinction between efficacious and sufficient grace. I will work through these claims and then compare with ‘Examen.’ First, there are ordinary and extraordinary graces, but Leibniz puts the difference aside. Extraordinary graces do not have a unique nature. Likely, they result from God’s particular will akin to miracles. But we may wonder if extraordinary graces have much roll in Leibniz’s system. More on that later. Salvation and damnation are thresholds on a spectrum. The flexibility allows Leibniz to hold tensive views: God remains generous, good, and just, and humans remain free, culpable, and aided in their fallen state. Why the deity distributed graces as he has is mysterious, yet the same general claims about this choice can be made. Pure grace, or grace apart from its expression in free creatures, is always efficacious. The deity is active, his perfection full, and grace he gives likewise actualizing. If grace was in some way inefficacious as a divine act, God would be imperfect and passive. Where he dispenses grace, unless hindered by the recipient, it is realized. Compare this claim with natural perfections, akin to capacities that creatures realize or not (e.g., the capacity to be virtuous). Whereas humans realize their inborn perfections depending on their notion, disposition, habits, and choices,13 graces effect humanity over and above their own capacities and inborn perfection. Their actuality in persons will depend on the person to an extent, as we will see shortly, since efficacious grace is purely divine. More, such grace supports the broader commitment that God can save everyone. Nothing hinders God from doing so, except the higher perfection that comes about if he allows some to be damned. Sufficient grace, by contrast, suffices for two ends: security from sin and salvation.14 Thinking back on earlier chapters, Leibniz’s claim on security fits well: prior paragraphs in ‘Discours’ evinced Leibniz securing reason from

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arbitrariness, for exhaustive rationality throughout creation and divinity, as an activity increasing perfection and eliciting praise. And the faithful and devout hold a rational faith.15 Now Leibniz adds security to the requirement that one sincerely will the good. He holds that no harm will come to the one who loves God, nor anxiety threaten their peace. Reasons for this confidence stem from the revelation of, and trust in, sufficient grace. Before comparing this distinction with its use in ‘Examen,’ let me add three comments. The capacity to suspend action and deliberate means everyone is responsible for every act.16 Sometimes, humans will neglect this capacity and sin. We are fallen, after all, so that our understanding is weak and senses powerful. As if Leibniz were aware that original sin puts the odds against human goodness, he affirms sufficient grace as securing us from sin. This addition nuances his morality since it can be asked whether, apart from grace, humans would be overpowered by their fallenness. If so, everyone requires some measure of grace to ensure just rewards or punishments. That is, grace props up the capacity to suspend action and deliberate. Without grace, some sins are inescapable. While this first caveat concerns humanity’s fallen nature, a second concerns objects and events around fallen beings. Grace seems to head off the lure of sinful acts whose object or end overpowers. While sinful acts are contingent, good acts free, grace weakens contingency such that humans remain free to resist. If so, some bestowal of sufficient grace is needed to meet the moral condition, or the ascription of rewards or punishments to acts. To preserve human freedom, grace overpowers the otherwise overpowering effects of the Fall in mankind. An odd stance, though one that leads us back to the mystery of God’s choice. But the view is less paradoxical than it seems at first blush. Leibniz remarks that sufficient grace does not always overcome human inclination. It joins to a will, and so remains dependent on someone’s disposition. Here is the tensive kernel in the individual notion that receives from its nature only so much grace to combat original sin’s effects. These degrees are such that every person is free according to the conditions Leibniz holds, but even so Judas betrays Jesus and Peter repents. Leibniz stresses to end ¶ 30 that grace does not secure everyone’s salvation de facto. If universal salvation were true, he seems to imply, the requirement for morality would be violated because this security has no relation to human acts.17 In fact, the opposite: humans become thereby secure to satiate their sinful desires. Leibniz makes a similar claim against the Calvinists in ‘Examen.’ While all may receive some grace to merit rewards or punishments, there is a threshold for salvation. My third comment looks forward to the opening of ¶ 31, where Leibniz writes that divine graces are “pure” in the sense that humans have no claim on them. God is just when withholding grace. His nature does not entail the salvation of all just as the Fall does not mean all are damned. Original sin

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and grace parallel one another. Where once Adam and Eve were perfect, yet limited, original sin distorts their perfection and grace compensates. And the compensation leads to a higher perfection than can be obtained without sin. As the scope of sin and misery in the world expands the infinite wisdom of the divine plan, grace enacts that wisdom as evidence of all things being made right. Note, too, that since graces are not owed to man, graces received are unmerited, which is important for theology (more on this soon). Salvation is not a reward for someone acting well because graces are given for a hidden reason behind the divine plan. Some receive more grace, others less, to increase the glory of God. From these comments we see the moral stakes in a doctrine on grace and salvation. The threshold past which humans are saved is not on one side of grace. All receive some measure of grace, it seems, as there are natural graces. Up to this point in ‘Discours’ Leibniz is mum on salvation, even in ¶ 4 on love, yet salvation concerns God’s commune with humans and the higher perfection for which he allows sin and misery. And he distinguishes the graces to end ¶ 30 when handling original sin, not salvation. God is just despite sin because his grace protects the blessed from fatal sin and saves them. This satisfies the requirement for divine justice, but not supreme perfection. That stronger claim—that God is all perfect—relies on his choice, which Leibniz supposes or, at best, argues for indirectly from its moral affects and how it reduces difficulties. It is the basic mystery, the core of Leibniz’s system in 1686. Let us turn to ‘Examen’ and see how graces define a threshold for salvation. In ‘Examen,’ Leibniz claims God obliges a sincere will and “nothing further is required for salvation that is not in their own power” due to sufficient grace (A VI 4, 420, 2369). Earlier, he writes that God only requires a sincere will, likely referring to morality. He then glosses that sole obligation as salvific from the prior bestowal of grace. The move merits questioning. It coheres with the claim that grace enables persons to be responsible for their actions yet puts salvation within their power. As Luther worried about making love salvific rather than a symptom of salvation, divine grace through Jesus’ death and resurrection seems diminished.18 Grace does not operate primarily through divine intervention in the mystery of the Incarnation. Or that mystery simply adds weight to the reckoning of human action. On the other end, the requirement of sincerity seems too weak if salvific. A sincere will for the good lacks orthodox hallmarks for salvation: namely, trust and dependence on God through Jesus, repentance of past sin, confessing Jesus as Lord. Salvation seems uniquely Christian, not merely so much virtue, if it requires knowledge of Jesus as messiah and lord. Leibniz accepts this requirement, then firmly states that no human is left ignorant. Or, if ignorant, it is willful. In his words,

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And hence many pious men are persuaded that every man coming into this world is so enlightened by the light of minds, the eternal Son of God, and by its Holy Spirit, that, at least before his death, he may attain, either by external preaching or by internal illumination of the mind, knowledge to the extent considered sufficient and necessary for him to be able to obtain salvation, provided he himself wills it. This is so that he be left without excuse if he obstinately resists the calling of God, which divine justice doubtless requires. (A VI 4, 420, 2369–70)

Leibniz likely alludes to John 1.9, where God is the “true light” for everyone who comes into the world. In ¶ 28 of ‘Discours,’ he also quotes the verse (in Latin) to support the claim that God is the only external object that humans perceive, speaking absolutely (A VI 4, 306, 1573; AG 60). Instead of speaking of God generally as the light of souls, here he splits the illuminating agency between “the eternal Son of God” and the Holy Spirit. Leibniz shifts from natural revelation, which God’s existence as all-perfect being falls under, to special revelation as truths found in scripture and church tradition. The crossing from metaphysics to theology shows their harmony: that God is the immediate object of perception underlies the stance that humans have the knowledge requisite for salvation. Not that humans perceive God immediately and so are culpable; they perceive God culpably, though confusedly, because God can make himself known. And Leibniz believes he will do so insofar as it is required for rewards or punishments. A just legislator makes his laws known. In chapter 2, we saw Leibniz waver over morally required knowledge. He also hesitates on the knowledge requisite for salvation. As before, the right disposition compensates for some ignorance. The quote above suggests there is necessary and sufficient knowledge, a threshold that must be passed before death. Leibniz ties sufficient grace to this epistemic requirement for salvation, that is, sufficient grace supplies the needed knowledge so that salvation is within one’s power as a matter of the will. God cannot justly demand someone to know that of which they are ignorant. So the onus of Leibniz’s grander scientific program cannot strictly be spreading the notion of Christ as to save the condemned.19 Two avenues clarify salvific knowledge: preaching or inner illumination. With preaching, the “notion of the Gospel of Christ” is passed on. The mechanism of preaching is taken as self-evident. On illumination, Leibniz takes a step akin to his response to the Judas case. How God illumines the ignorant before death is “left to his wisdom and mercy.” Leibniz shrugs off an explanation as beyond our comprehension yet holds the possibility— required of divine justice—that some are saved who never hear the good news of Christ. Unclear is the role of reason in this mysterious revealing. His

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criterion for truth seems to conflict with an unobserved revelation within one person’s intellect. Elsewhere, Leibniz affirms the possibility that pagans can be saved through natural reason.20 Natural revelation suffices for salvation, which meshes with St. Paul’s claim that “no one is without excuse” due to the divine attributes in creation (Rom. 1.20). On the other hand, it butts against the apostle’s later question, “How can they hear without a preacher?” (Rom. 10.14). But these concerns motivate him to leave them up to divine wisdom. Sufficient grace ensures the requisite knowledge so that someone must will their own salvation. But then Leibniz describes efficacious graces nearly repeating in Latin what he put months before in French: “But God does not always give to all men that efficacious or victorious grace that produces good-will, triumphs over the inclinations of man, and outweighs the opposing solicitations of an imperfect or corrupt nature, otherwise all would be saved” (A VI 4, 420, 2370). Note the implied passivity of persons in this description that starkly contrasts with sufficient grace. Leibniz stresses in ¶ 4 of ‘Discours’ that love is active and love, we will see, is salvific. Still, it is heretical to believe that salvation depends exclusively on humans. One response is to show that knowledge is required and God gives such knowledge. Now he adds that victorious grace overcomes and transforms (fallen) human nature. Leibniz wants to maintain utter dependence on God while also giving humanity an active role. Key here is that human nature is conflicted: original sin draws them to imperfection (senses are powerful, understanding obscure), while divine grace pulls them to truth, goodness, and beauty in God. And humans are at once active and passive in this conflict. Leibniz maintains the tension to preserve the moral quality of God and man. As I build a case for a type of pragmatic theology in Leibniz, one in which moral conditions set its bounds and a basic mystery orients it, a few claims have been made. Grace compensates to a degree for the effects of the Fall; while grace is abundant, there is a threshold from which salvation occurs; sufficient grace makes salvation up to us; as a result, humanity is at once active and passive in their conflicted nature. Leibniz will continue to move between the necessary and active work of God to commune with fallen beings and the onus on free beings to respond. All the while, mystery persists in this union that engenders love for God, rationalizes it, and spurs human action. These positions culminate in a vision of the City of God around which his philosophy coalesces. THE ELECT After a sentence defining efficacious grace (we are still in ‘Examen’), Leibniz asks, “Why, though, is this not done?” that is, why are only some

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given salvific grace.21 The question is recast to set up a response analogous to what I treated at length last chapter on Judas. It is nearly identical to an argument made in ¶ 31, both of which go beyond the example of Judas by locating human activity in God’s chosen distribution of grace. Once we see Leibniz’s condensed argument in ‘Examen,’ I will turn to the more elaborated form given in ‘Discours,’ then return to Leibniz’s version of election and his critique of Calvin.22 Leibniz answers the question as we expect: God is pleased with his arrangement, which brings about the most perfection, and that evils result in greater good. He adds a commitment, though, when rewording the question: That is, why does God admit some persons to existence in place of many others who are equally possible, even though the notion or foreknowledge of the former includes impenitence and other free actions incompatible with salvation along with certain degrees of divine grace inferior to the supreme degree of victorious grace? (A VI 4, 420, 2370)

The metaphysics of God’s choice is familiar, as is the claim on the degrees of grace reaching a tipping point for salvation. Leibniz alludes to his understanding of divine foreknowledge,23 again similar to ‘Discours.’ He adds that “impenitence and other free actions” are contrary to salvation (saluti contrarias). This claim is not striking on first blush since, without repentance of sin, one cannot be saved. The open-ended qualifier, on the other hand, may give us pause. What does Leibniz mean by “other free actions” besides unrepentance? Again, grace compensates for original sin’s affects so that salvation is in one’s power.24 Maybe there are mortal sins, sins that condemn one or lead to one’s condemnation, that are against others or oneself but are not directly against God. Then salvation has moral stakes outside theology proper. Also, the role of grace may fix the conditions for moral action or, more robustly, compel persons to act morally or operate in such action. Depending which graces (if any) are extraordinary, salvation may be available via natural virtue. These elements of grace bring us to the effects of the sacraments for salvation. God’s distribution of graces reduces to mystery. In chapter 2, I noted how Leibniz wavers on the significance of knowledge for salvation, right reason, and piety. Ignorance does not preclude acting well, yet seems to put one at a disadvantage. This issue recurs with respect to faith. At a minimum, a right notion of God seems necessary. In response to his question about God’s choice of persons, Leibniz answers with some divine properties related to creation: “The answer lies in the secrets [arcana]25 of divine government, inaccessible to mortals, and with regard to these secrets it is sufficient for us to grasp this one point, that whatever has pleased God is best . . . ,” brings

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about the most perfection, and evil results in good (A VI 4, 420, 2370). To recall a curious claim from last chapter, Leibniz may be describing truths that defy our comprehension, yet can be known. This passage mirrors ¶ 30 in ‘Discours’ where the claim is made (though not identical). Both passages underscore that God obliges humans to be disposed toward him and creation in a certain way, and the emphasis here is on what must be “grasped.” These beliefs fall under natural theology since nothing is said of the Christian mysteries. These graces may still be given through Christ, yet their distribution results from God’s choice to create some rather than others. There is a lacuna between the secrets of divine governance and the Christian mysteries that threatens my reading. Maybe Leibniz kept them apart. The final vision in ‘Discours’ suggests no. A few more pieces need to be set before sifting through the last paragraph, however. Leibniz expands on his claims in ‘Examen’ when dealing with election, foreseen faith, middle knowledge, and absolute decrees in ‘Discours’ (¶ 31). His question differs from what we just saw. As for God’s foreknowledge of faith and good works, it is very true that he has elected only those whose faith and charity he foresaw, whom he foreknew he would endow with faith. But the same question returns, why will God give the grace of faith or of good works to some rather than to others? (A VI 4, 306, 1578–9; AG 62)

Notice that Leibniz uses the theologically laden term, ‘elect,’ which he will caveat in ‘Examen.’ Also, distinctly Christian virtues are cited as distinguishing the elect and these are given by God, including the grace of good works. Faith and good works, another troublous difference, are paired as if mutually necessary for salvation. So far, salvation and even good acts seem gifts of the deity, not merits of man. The question asked will hang until the mystery of God’s choice to create individuals. But it tilts away from God’s admittance of select persons—an allowance for the sake of higher perfection—to the faith and charity that God gives to persons. Leibniz then quickly qualifies God’s active dispensation of graces to preserve human morality before reaffirming it. Rewards and punishments cannot be given for graces received or withheld for the sake of a larger plan. That seems unjust. The twists in Leibniz’s position seem strained, yet it evinces the tact I take him to be taking: articulating general views based on preserving and engendering the moral quality of God and man. Let us walk through his moves. “And as for this knowledge God has, which is the foresight not of faith and good works, but of their grounds and predisposition, that is, foresight of what a man would contribute to them on his side . . . ” (A VI 4, 306, 1579; AG 62). He separates God’s foreknowledge of a person’s faith

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and good works from their grounds and predisposition. The worry here is an absolute decree of someone’s salvation, along lines Leibniz reads Calvin as taking, and it will reappear in ‘Examen.’ God does elect those whose faith and good works—salvific predicates in an individual’s notion—he foresaw; however, these graces respond (in a way) to a person’s contribution. Leibniz expones, “ . . . for it is true that there are differences among men whenever there are differences in grace and that, in fact, although a man needs to be stimulated to the good and be converted, he must also act in that direction afterwards . . . ” (ibid.). So degrees of grace mirror natural differences in persons. Peter who repents has a better nature than Judas. While conversion results from divine aid, a person must be disposed to persist. Conversion, too, is put next to being stirred toward the good, and so sustains the moral stake of salvation. Yet there is a latent goodness, a virtuous disposition apart from grace perhaps, that God foresees and acts on. Leibniz goes on, . . . it seems to several people that one could say that God, seeing what a man would do without grace or extraordinary assistance, or at least seeing the sort of person he is, leaving grace aside, might resolve to give grace to those whose natural dispositions were better or, at least, less imperfect or less bad. (A VI 4, 306, 1579; AG 62–3)

There are hesitations in these claims. First, Leibniz ascribes the views to “several people,” not himself. Second, this is a way of explaining the dispensation of grace among limited rational beings; no one but God would see the elect apart from grace. It is an anthropomorphism to make sense of the secrets of divine governance. Third, God “might resolve.” Leibniz lessens any pretense to knowing how the deity chose. He opened the paragraph by remarking that humans are not due divine graces. God is just in dispensing them as he wishes. Now he cuts back to say that this free dispensation also responds to the nature of persons, otherwise it seems arbitrary or in violation of a moral condition. Then he comes full circle. He speaks of “extraordinary” help, and so picks up the difference between natural and extraordinary grace. Avoiding too much stock in natural virtue (which given original sin seems suspect), he adds grace back into the picture of the graceless counterfactual:26 “But even if that were the case, one can say that these natural dispositions, insofar as they are good, are still the effect of grace, although ordinary grace, since God has favored some more than others” (A VI 4, 306, 1579; AG 63). Leibniz takes back his description of the deity’s response to mankind by affirming that these natural differences (as he called them before) are themselves ordinary graces, and so man apart from extraordinary grace remains buoyed from total depravity. God’s gift of

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grace is a response to a more natural gift of grace, not to man’s better nature. Grace is circular:27 “And since [God] knows that these natural advantages [i.e., graces] he gives will serve as motives for grace or extraordinary assistance, is it not true . . . that in the end everything is completely reduced to his mercy?” (ibid.). In sum, God gives degrees of natural grace to persons as the goodness in their natural predisposition. From last section, these graces compensate for the effects of the Fall. God then gives extraordinary graces in some proportion with natural graces. Since humanity lacks claim on these graces, God is free to give them as he likes. Still, the pull in Leibniz’s account to affirm humanity’s natural goodness reveals the tension of grace with his moral views. Natural and extraordinary graces are contained in an individual’s complete concept, Leibniz goes on to write, and God chose the best individual among other possible ones. Yet he is discontent with ending the paragraph on these familiar terms and repeats “this single great question, why it pleased God to choose him from among so many other possible persons” (A VI 4, 306, 1579; AG 63). He rejects the absolute decree as unreasonable, repeats that the details of the divine plan escape us, then reframes his reduction of these difficulties to God’s choice. . . . it would be best to say with Saint Paul, that God here followed certain great reasons of wisdom or appropriateness, unknown to mortals and based on the general order, whose aim is the greatest perfection of the universe. It is to this that the motives of the glory of God and the manifestation of his justice are reduced, as well as of his mercy and generally of his perfections and finally the immense depth of his riches, with which the soul of St. Paul was enraptured. (A VI 4, 306, 1580; AG 63.)

Since God dispenses grace according to his wisdom, divine glory, justice, mercy, and perfections express as much. Leibniz contributes to these debates by defining the boundary of the mystery of existence so as to preserve and engender more love of God. In the next paragraph, after all, he states that his views “enflame souls with a divine love” (ibid.). With this strategy and the operations of grace in mind, we can return to ‘Examen’ and compare. After distinguishing sufficient and efficacious grace, then offering his condense claims about God’s choice of some persons rather than others, Leibniz addresses Calvinism. He again rails on an “absolute decree” without using the phrase. But his set up differs from ‘Discours.’ Nothing is said of foreknowledge, ordinary, or extraordinary graces. But his aim to sustain morality is the same. He writes,

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Yet it should not be thought that the divine will for men’s salvation along with the merit of Christ, or at any rate efficacious grace, are extended to the elect alone, upon whom that supreme and final grace of blessed perseverance is bestowed. For Christ indeed died for all, and efficacious grace as well as the true conversion and regeneration through the Spirit of God, whereby we are received into the number of his children, can be granted to many who will not persevere. (A VI 4, 420, 2370)

In other words, God wills the salvation of all and bestowes Christ’s merit or efficacious grace to more than the elect—those with the added grace to persevere. The surprise comes in imputing Christ’s merit to the unsaved, or those who turn away. Leibniz seems to realize this and soften his claim (“or at any rate efficacious grace”). What we have seen above on the role of grace fits here. If only the elect receive Christ’s merit (an extraordinary grace) or efficacious grace, injustice reigns. Those God rejects have no chance of salvation despite seeming to live well. Leibniz denies as much. God gives grace so that salvation is in one’s power, recall, and so efficacious grace must be openly given to counteract original sin’s effects. But Leibniz pushes the thought further. “True conversion and regeneration through the Spirit of God” are granted to many who do not persevere. Leibniz may be declaring that some convert yet are not chosen, but this has the unsettling result that some who are not chosen become children of God. If Leibniz holds that one can fall out of faith, he is consistent. Or he could be claiming that, since Christ died for all, the opportunity of conversion and regeneration spans beyond the elect. God “can grant” (concedi potest) efficacious grace to those who would turn away. In other words, the deity is not withholding grace from those who want it. Whichever way Leibniz intends (and he suggests the former as safer shortly), he is clear in the next lines that salvation and morality entwine and should not be separated. God’s choice to save some, damn others, must be responsive to their moral bearing.28 Leibniz sees an abuse in certain doctrines of election and means to correct it: Nor do I see how this has driven certain learned men29 to defend those great paradoxes that are abhorrent both in their intrinsic meaning and in their consequences, so that, fixing laws for God and circumscribing the economy of divine grace according to their will, they think that a person who will not persevere does not in fact receive grace and the Holy Spirit, no matter what he does, no matter how pious and well-disposed he may appear to himself and others, and conversely, that a person who is elect and really will make final penitence, does not lose the grace he received from God and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, no matter whether he lives his life alternating between adulteries and murders. (A VI 4, 420, 2369–70)

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He likely alludes to what he calls the “absolute decree” of God’s choice to save in ‘Discours.’ Given his reliance on mystery and the tension between morality and grace, it is interesting to hear Leibniz condemn paradox. The paradox he seems to have in mind is moral in that God’s choice to save or damn is insulated from how people act. A few responses are in order. First, these paradoxes are “abhorrent” in meaning and consequence. Let me stipulate what he may mean: the paradox abhors in meaning because it makes God’s dispensation akin to a tyrannical will; in consequence because humans can act how they please irrespective of salvation and God’s presumed will. Leibniz is less repulsed by paradox here than the kind of paradox defended. Second—and this offers weighty support for my reading—the paradox results from denying the mysterious status of the economy of divine grace (in practice, if not in word).30 Some theologians circumscribe God’s dispensation according to their own rules rather than affirming the infinite depths of divine wisdom. Leibniz motivates his rolling back of theological stances within human bounds by observing a repulsive view that results otherwise. This strong doctrine of election does not affirm and engender love of God. Though Leibniz is sensitive to the need for security against evil and damnation, Leibniz refuses to grant that salvation is wholly secure from one’s dispositions and actions because it violates divine justice. It also seems to threaten the moral quality of God and man by divorcing salvation from human wills. Leibniz ends his critique by noting the scriptures in support of the doctrine of election: Indeed, even if these novel and offensive dogmas could be excused, I do not see on what foundation they rest or what use they have for edification. For if we occasionally encounter some expressions that appear to favor such a crude opinion, it is better to soften them with a comparison to others much more numerous than to make them worse by a rigorous interpretation. And it seems more appropriate for God to give a grace that is temporary and revocable but visible than a grace that is perpetual and inamissible but completely hidden, and compatible with the worst habit of the soul and the greatest crimes. (A VI 4, 420, 2371)

Notice that the doctrine has no evidential basis or use for edification, for Leibniz. There is also a latent charge of novelty, breaking from tradition and precedent, which was a stark accusation then. Leibniz disagrees with the practice of isolating a verse of scripture and reading it in its most rigorous sense. We see in this passage a principle guiding theological doctrine: authority does not suffice; one must compare across authorities (Holy Scripture, pious antiquity, right reason, and historical facts)31 and adopt the safest position for one’s soul. And for this reason he tentatively adopts the view that I suggested above: namely, that God will grant conversion and regeneration to

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those who are ultimately damned. No doubt, the view grinds against God’s choice of salvation in creating some rather than others. And there are other unanswered questions on the nature of salvation that result, but Leibniz affirms the safer view. Morality has priority, which also sustains the commune between God and man. Grace has a role in sustaining morality. In this section, that insight expands so that God dispenses grace in response to human disposition and will, both in dispensing ordinary and extraordinary graces. But this claim remains conflicted since graces aid an individual’s pursuit and realization of the good, and so dampens their claim on rewards and punishments. Leibniz reconciles the conflict in the mystery of divine wisdom—an affirmation that the economy of divine grace exceeds humanity’s comprehension. Theological doctrine that instead circumscribes that economy result in abhorrent stances. Better to hold views that preserve the moral quality of God and man, that is, their rational commune. With these claims in place, I move on to the nature of salvation. FAITH IN LOVE Famously, Leibniz declared that the only requirement for a good action is a sincere will. This requirement seems straightforward in ‘Discours.’ Less so in ‘Examen.’ In the latter, Leibniz writes of the Holy Spirit’s regenerative work that helps produce a sincere will, secure it, and aid in its flourishing. Add to this the observation from earlier chapters that the right disposition compensates for ignorance and error, which we will see again shortly. Fallen humanity does not will the good until God intervenes. Due to natural graces, though, this point seems trivial if divine sustenance also dispenses natural grace to will the good. Then every existing person can. Leibniz adds in ‘Examen’ that the object of the sincere will is not simply the good, but the divine will. The lover of God wills the same as him. Natural goods prompt us toward the deity who reveals our true good. That is, the sole requirement for a good act is set back against a richer theological canvas. To pinpoint how Leibniz conceives salvation, then, let’s begin with God’s obligation on humanity. There is a requirement of justice, then its softening by grace. Leibniz sets up the requirement by coupling conversion with a “filial act of faith and love.” Grace works in concert with human disposition and action—its “visible” counterpart. Then Leibniz’s continues, For although it is necessary, according to the rigor of justice, for the mind to be pure and well-disposed towards God, Christ has brought it about that, as a result of the equity of divine grace, even in the case of someone once-born [i.e., not

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saved] all past sins are erased by a sincere love of God and thus by repentance of the past along with a resolution to lead a better life. (A VI 4, 420, 2368)

The requirement of justice is that someone is always well-disposed toward God. Their affections are bent toward him continually. But Christ’s merit has softened this requirement so that love of God suffices for removing past sin, even for those who are not saved. What he means by the qualifier is unclear and this section’s onus is to illumine as much. One thought is that ordinary graces suffice for love of God, though one may love God without being saved. God will not hold repented sins against one. Then salvation, perhaps, requires an extraordinary grace or divine intervention. This reading matches his claim that God will dispense graces to the non-elect. Those who fail to persevere, in other words, face a lighter punishment than those who never love the deity. Someone can love God without such love being salvific. Coming passages test, qualify, and expand on this claim. Leibniz adopts a doctrine of justification and places charity, hope, and faith according to the event of salvation. In the next paragraph he remarks that no one disagrees on this event and further conjecture or debate “seems quite pointless” (A VI 4, 420, 2372). Again, we see a rolling back of doctrine. There are stages. First, they awaken “by God’s prevenient grace” from the “sleep” of sin (A VI 4, 420, 2371). This initial movement switches attention from “the distractions of the world and the flesh” to the soul and “a firm resolution to seek and follow the truth of salvation” (ibid.). Sin obscures one’s awareness and strengthens bodily attachments, so God steps in. A kind of enlightenment results that encompasses the disposition and affects. Knowledge of misery couples with a firm resolution toward the truth. Misery alone recalls the Modern apathy Leibniz corrects. Notice that it is not a belief in the Creator that begins the path of salvation, but an altered disposition oriented toward the (natural) moral law. Disposed toward truth, these persons realize the standard of divine justice by their “natural light,” then remember past actions that missed the bar. This remembrance results in groans and trembling. Though guided by natural reason, they become aware that they have offended the Creator and deserve punishment because they owed the deity worship and love. Leibniz inserts the sole requirement God puts on man: to love God. Failing to do so results in misery. So much for the first stage. While God’s moral law first burdens with guilt, it then becomes cause for hope. There is more to the divine moral quality than judgment. “Pursuing this consideration,” Leibniz goes on, “he draws from amid the terrors of his conscience the light of a new hope, for he recognizes that the same supremely just judge, in accordance with his supreme goodness, shows pity for human weakness . . . ” (A VI 4, 420, 2371). Divine justice also encloses goodness and mercy. The new hope for mercy leads to the Incarnation: “And the

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gospel shows him that Christ is the port of salvation for all who seriously turn to God, with entry being granted through a true penitence (which, in order to be sufficient, must proceed not only from fear of punishment or hope of rewards but from a sincere love of God)” (ibid.). From an awareness of divine perfection, the penitent realizes Christ as the means of salvation. Fear of punishment, the weight of conscience that is the first stage, will not save.32 One is disposed toward God as just judge, perhaps, but not as the most benevolent legislator who desires mankind’s salvation. Or penitence comes from self-concern. Instead, persons must be moved toward divine goodness, which draws us to the deity. Leibniz does not bring up the conflict of motives problem here, but his view meshes with his resolution:33 someone cannot will the same as God per se if their reason has nothing to do with divine goodness. Love of God means to find pleasure in divine perfection and the desire to will what he wills. St. Paul describes salvation as putting on a “new man” or becoming a “new creature” (Eph. 4.24 & 2nd Cor. 5.17). Leibniz alludes to this language in the last stage of salvation in which grace secures one from sin (not entirely) and strengthens one for a better life through the Holy Spirit’s regeneration. Not only are the saved absolved from sin through Christ, they also “don the habit of justice and the new self, having been infused with the charity of divine love” (A VI 4, 420, 2372). For Luther, charity was a symptom of salvation gained through repentance and faith in Christ.34 Leibniz’s language here agrees since these changes result from “those who turn to [God] and repent” (ibid.). Charity results from repentance. On the other hand, “the justification of the sinner” comes after both occur: repentance and the infusion of charity. Leibniz will defend their mutuality (contra Luther) next. Keep in mind that this event of salvation does not keep the saved from turning away. The elect persevere in their resolution to live a better life, aided by God. It is worth remarking, too, that the structure of ‘Discours’ begins with a criteria of perfection, asserts God’s moral quality, fleshing out implications for metaphysics and physics that inflame love of God, then culminates in a vision of Christ’s kingdom, and so shares key commitments for this doctrine of justification.35 A brief aside. The doctors at Trent chart a tight course with respect to justification. Reading the sixth session, Leibniz may easily conclude that God’s concourse with humanity is mysterious and to be explained by divine glory. The Council holds a series of tensive positions. Justification cannot be slimmed to belief or faith merely, nor is eternal security detached from action, nor can someone lose the chance at regeneration before death. Justification is bound up in the sacraments, yet the sacraments in themselves do not enact salvation. Good acts increase divine presence as obedience, which forms part of salvation, yet these acts are enabled and sustained by grace. Bossuet, a later contemporary of Leibniz who exposited the Council’s doctrines, has a similar

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strategy, both of which seem akin to Leibniz’s own: formulate doctrines in the safest way given various considerations, centering these views around divine transcendence, and rejecting extremes. In this, Leibniz theological pragmatism (as we are calling it) had precedent. As seen in his response to Calvinism, Leibniz thinks theological doctrines can engender a virtuous or vicious disposition. It resulted in excessive speculation before. Debate over whether justification was the imputed merit of Christ or a “habitual infused justice” minces words and lead to a dangerous separation of faith and charity. In question is whether faith is the mechanism of salvation or both faith and love. Luther argued that faith alone suffices, otherwise Christ diminishes.36 To respond to this debate, Leibniz separates justification in its legal sense from its ethical sense. Legally, Christ’s merits absolve the sinner because from his sacrifice pardon is given. This is the second stage of salvation. There are then two distinctions made under the ethical sense. First, justification is the new self, the regeneration of the Holy Spirit. This accords with the divine plan, and so does not depend on our acts (though responsive to them in a way). The sacraments are graces given “gratuitously,” or graces open to all. Humans are free to participate and will improve thereby, even before regeneration. This distinction seems to imply that one is pardoned from Christ alone and, presumably, the response of repentance in faith. Regeneration occurs after the fact as a symptom. Yet Leibniz goes on to say that both faith and charity qua penance are required for absolution, too, and so this distinction does not entail a priority of faith to charity, as Luther argued. Salvation entails human excellence: in oneself, toward one another, and in submission to the supreme legislator. To presume the divine will for one’s own life means pursuing the good of all. As such, it complements the ideal of the sciences. By linking faith and charity, Leibniz keeps salvation within his broader ideal. Faith is not merely repentance toward God that reckons a heavenly debt; it is bound up with one’s awareness and disposition now. In his article on ‘Examen,’ Robert Adams takes Leibniz’s concept of faith as a serious theological contribution.37 Faith, for him, is tied to love that disposes virtuously. It is the last step before we consider the City of God. As before, the theologians debate an empty question when asking about the priorities of the Christian virtues. Leibniz rejects the assumption that faith or charity can be prior to the other, citing the oft quoted line that faith without works is dead (James 2.17). He adds, “ . . . so also it is evident that charity without faith (love without knowledge) is of no value” (A VI 4, 420, 2373). In other words, faith requires charity, charity complements faith. Striking is that Leibniz takes ‘knowledge’ as synonymous with faith. These concepts are more often opposed. Faith is often described as trust, dependence, or belief in God and Christ’s merits,38 but to call it knowledge suggests the sense of the word in ‘Discours,’ that is, divine perfections that are known but

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incomprehensible. If so, then it does not suffice to know God or have faith in him, as the just judge, for example. One must also love the most lovable and benevolent deity. Leibniz then contrasts the notion of faith “in the schools” with the unnamed Lutheran tradition. The latter adopts a novel psychology, which enables them to redefine faith. Lutherans “locate the whole power of justification in faith alone” because they include the will and intellect in faith, whereas the schoolmen restricted faith to the intellect (hence the replacement of faith with knowledge above). Lutherans also add “filial confidence in God” as faith, which Leibniz puts in charity. Assuming their notion of faith, they can claim salvation through faith alone, but they “instigate a dispute about words” by changing their terms. Leibniz accepts the schoolmen’s terms save that faith involves the will, affects, and a disposition toward truth. How he includes the will is crucial for his notion, its relation to charity, and the nature of salvation. Like many concepts for Leibniz, faith is on a spectrum of higher and lower perfection. For this notion, though, he makes an unexpected move that affirms the moral conditioning of knowledge. Granting that faith involves the will, he observes that some hold as true what they cannot give reason for; more, they take as true what they lack a reason to believe. Leibniz explains, . . . such faith is excited by God in the minds even of simple men who do not inquire into the motives of their belief, so that, in truth, unreasoning assent consists in that state of mind which makes those who have it as disposed and prepared to act and suffer as those who are conscious of their motives, indeed sometimes more efficaciously. (A VI 4, 420, 2373)

Some of the faithful know without comprehending, it seems. God elicits faith in the learned and simple—one assents reasonably, the other without reason—yet their dispositions toward truth are the same. Faith, then, is affective and epistemic. Affective in that faith orients someone to a truth they do not comprehend so that they act accordingly. Love for God then enables us to presume the divine will despite our ignorance of it, the reasons for its details, and our inability to comprehend the divine nature. This aligns with how I argued Leibniz dealt with the Sameness of Goods problem. Leibniz does not attempt to demonstrate that the divine good is the same as ours from the deity’s nature; rather, there are general propositions on perfection that the divine lover knows (in this affective sense) and accepts. And the lover acts on this truth. Leibniz’s commitment to science, an organization, increase, and dissemination of knowledge, would seem to bar him from saying that the faith of simple men could be more efficacious than the learned. A few claims from earlier help place this statement without resolving the tension in play. Leibniz

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is critical of Modernity, as we saw in Chapter 3, especially due to the affects shown by the learned. Their science results in apathy. As such, the faith of the ignorant would be more effective than the faith of a follower of Descartes. Learning does little to groom affects, save make one stoic. Similarly, Leibniz is critical of those who overestimate their knowledge (again, a charge levelled at Descartes). These remarks do not resolve the tension for a couple reasons, though. First, it is not obvious that Leibniz has these criticisms in mind here. I mean them only as a broader setting in which knowledge is not flatly endorsed as bettering oneself and others. Second, the tension does not come from defective knowing, but the relationship between knowledge and affects. Leibniz wants them to be mutually enforcing despite evidence to the contrary. And, as noted before, this tension weakens the religious and moral motives for the scientia generalis. Imagine two men in a dark wood, Leibniz narrates. One has good reasons in daylight that he will never meet a ghost in the dark yet is seized with terror once alone at night. Another man has never heard an argument to that effect and has none, yet spends whole nights alone in the woods without fear. The first man has mere “speculative opinion,” Leibniz explains, while the latter has “a firm faith and conviction” (A VI 4, 420, 2373–2374). The former does not have faith. Leibniz cites Christ’s commendation of the Canaanite woman (Matt. 15.21–28) and Centurion (Matt. 8.5–9) in support of his claim that faith has degrees. In his example, faith involves the will in the sense that the latter man ‘knew’ there were no ghosts as expressed in his behavior. The man with arguments did not know in this sense. Leibniz does not endorse a ‘leap of faith,’ however, since there are reasons available or, in the case of the Christian mysteries, there are arguments why these doctrines are not absurd or contradictory.39 And the affects that come with these views indirectly support them. The persisting tension between knowledge and ignorance is that learning or being persuaded by these arguments does not seem to increase love of God. Yet the ‘leap of faith’ sounds near the mark in Leibniz’s next description of faith: “the disposition of the mind ready to follow the opinion it has received,” and so submit to authority or tradition, “even if reason should seem not only to disfavor it but even to contradict it” (A VI 4, 420, 2374). Leibniz affirms elsewhere in ‘Examen’ that Christian tenets do not result in contradiction so again there is no leap.40 If he is not diverging, his point is that the faithful persist even when convincing arguments oppose it. Besides disposed toward truth, faith disposes toward authority. Later in ‘Examen,’ Leibniz defends the need for a central church authority to navigate dispute.41 His notion of faith includes a willingness to submit to the church hierarchy and tradition which quietly critiques Protestantism and promotes ecumenicism (as well as political unity).42 Faith has two heads: elicited by God, it

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disposes one toward truth and authority so that (i) one acts according to the truth and (ii) safe from error.43 The object of faith cannot be one’s own justification without absurdity, Leibniz goes on. Either one must believe what is not the case to make it the case, and so believe a falsity, or add the superfluous condition that one believe what will be. Faith is not purely epistemic, for him, either belief in doctrine or in one’s own salvation. It is not self-aware per se or self-reflective. He writes, “For if someone has faith and charity then he will have the grace of justification, even if he should not think about this reflective act, whether he receives it or not” (A VI 4, 420, 2374). One receives the grace apart from thoughts about whether it was received. But “filial confidence” or hope that God has saved is excluded from faith, too. Leibniz’s reasons separate beliefs about oneself from affects toward God: As for this filial confidence, or the hope which makes us believe and trust that our sins are remitted and that we are received in grace and made children of God, this does not belong to that divine faith concerning God’s general promises and revelations, in which no falsehood can be concealed, because, aside from the contemplation of divine goodness, this confidence is concerned with human and particular things that are matters of fact, and it arises from the consideration and memory of things that occur in our mind, and consequently does not rise beyond moral certainty. (ibid.)

The object of faith is God’s promises and revelations. Hope is concerned with the goods that result from divine goodness, not divine goodness itself. Whether one is saved and persists are observable, human matters. It concerns one’s thoughts. By contrast, faith concerns one’s disposition to the divine. Doubts about our salvation do not threaten hope, Leibniz adds, nor do doubts about doctrine threaten faith. It is surprising he so cleanly separates them. Some will not persist, after all, and Leibniz needs to explain how they fall away.44 Still, hope and faith are secure, “for when the soul is fixed firmly on God’s goodness we should believe that he will not permit those who thirst after truth and seek grace to be deceived by a ruinous falsehood or not to obtain mercy” (ibid.). This fixed attention comes from and engenders love of God. Faith and hope are the visible effects of such love. The cornerstone of Leibniz’s doctrine of salvation is love of God. Faith has its role relative to love. The emphasis throughout has been how humans live, and the rewards and punishments of the afterlife are a moral condition and little more. The graces God dispenses are not blind to the moral worth of their recipients, nor is salvation simply an assurance for the life to come. Leibniz declares,

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But since reason attests, and scripture confirms, that a true and sincere love is not only prescribed by God but is also the greatest of those virtues man can practice towards his God, and that without it faith is dead, it has been justly and aptly established that through it our justification, reconciliation, and regeneration are completed. (A VI 4, 420, 2375–6)

Leibniz has in mind 1st Cor. 13.1–13 in which St. Paul stresses the need for love.45 It is the highest virtue toward God and man, and requisite for faith. All salvation is bound up in it. God places the need to love him as the sole obligation, which is where the sacrifice of Jesus comes in. “However, the actual grace of love is obtained for us, and granted to us (who beforehand were separated from God) solely through Christ the mediator, its power to erase sin arising solely from Christ’s merit, imputed to us through a living faith” (ibid.). Christ obtains love for us and God grants it. Love is possible from grace, though it is unsaid whether this grace is ordinary or extraordinary. Since salvation is within our power, likely it is natural. But since some knowledge of Christ is required, how someone receives what is necessary is unknown. Either way, living faith receives Christ’s merit through practical assent. Faith is the enacting of the presumed divine will, which is to love God. A condition for the moral life is grace, alongside the receipt of rewards and punishments and the capacity to remember. But love of God is not inherently or automatically salvific. Only the elect persevere. Leibniz describes the event of salvation as the benchmark for theological doctrine so that charity and faith are mutually required and closely defined. Love is to will the same as another, so love for God wills the same as his presumed will. It is an affection, at least, to do as much. Faith is the active disposition to affirm the truth and divine authority. It is epistemic, but not exclusively so. Faith acts out love and, as such, keeps one safe from error. The role of Christ is enabling faith and love, yet the basic Christian mystery seems marginal in Leibniz’s account of salvation. Less so in ‘Discours’ which ends with the vision of Christ’s kingdom. So where is Christ in moral life? RULE & REIGN OF CHRIST There is the mystery of existence and the Christian mysteries. So far, these play separate but analogous roles in philosophy and theology. Since faith is a visible enactment of love, the sacraments are practices of faith that strengthen and express love. But Christ seems little more than a condition for a virtuous life, given the Fall, and the Holy Spirit an auxiliary agent. Besides being a sacrifice for human sin, Jesus “governs the City” and serves as a

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moral exemplar, Leibniz writes in ‘Examen’ (A VI 4, 420, 2365 & 2366). He expands on this role for Jesus in the final paragraph of ‘Discours.’ Leibniz begins ¶ 36 privileging the unique perfection of minds, both human and divine. God’s mind is his highest perfection since, otherwise, there would be no reason he chose to create something rather than another. There would be no mystery of existence. Humans are higher than animals due to our greater expression of God. Then Leibniz draws entailments from the deity’s moral quality: (i) God takes on flesh, (ii) happiness or joy is the highest end of moral life, (iii) humans are immortal, and (iv) God only demands we love him. Leibniz ends his treatise by focusing on the divine goodness and its implications. It is as if he fixed his thoughts as he suggests in ‘Examen’ to shake off doubts.46 I will take his claims in turn. The Incarnation is not mere mystery. It coheres with the divine nature. From God’s commune with mankind, his moral quality, God became man to enter human society. Through humanity, God receives the greatest glory, and so the deity brought out that glory by becoming man. In Leibniz’s words, That is why this moral quality God has, which makes him the lord or monarch of minds, relates to him, so to speak, personally and in a quite singular manner. It is because of this that he humanizes himself, that he is willing to allow anthropomorphism, and that he enters into society with us, as a prince with his subjects; and this consideration is so dear to him that the happy and flourishing state of his empire, which consists in the greatest possible happiness of its inhabitants, becomes the highest of his laws. (A VI 4, 306, 1587; AG 67)

God’s moral quality concerns rule, yet not tyrannically so but for the sake of human flourishing. From what we read in ‘Examen,’ God enters society to reconcile man to himself. A condition for morality is met. No mention is made of the Fall, however, and reconciliation. God enters society as the king par excellence since a good king is among his subjects. Notice, too, that God aligns his own highest good with the good of his subjects. Put again, God aligns his good with his creatures because of his moral quality. And this claim results from the fact that God has a mind, the highest perfection. God’s rule and reign are for our good because God is good. Leibniz then declares an analogy between the perfection of beings, generally, and happiness for rational beings, and returns to the first decree of God’s creation: the universe has the most perfection possible. As a result, “the first intent of the moral world or the City of God, which is the noblest part of the universe, must be to diffuse in it the greatest possible happiness” (A VI 4, 306, 1587). Part of God’s first decree is maximum happiness. This adds significance to Leibniz’s strategy of rolling back theological doctrines by sustaining moral requirements. If God’s reign aims for happiness, a theology must likewise

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cohere with that aim. While the details are mysterious, and evidence to the contrary heightens the depths of its mystery, theologians exceed the bounds of this mystery to violate human well-being. Jesus is a moral exemplar not only in the sense that we should imitate him but also as an affirmation of the virtuous life. Theology likewise centers on human perfection, that is, virtue and happiness. Leibniz writes as God’s rule and reign as the present reality, or at least coming about through time. The future is included in the present, though. Minds live forever, Leibniz continues, preserving their moral quality and self-awareness “so that the city [of God] does not lose a single person, just as the world does not lose any substance” (A VI 4, 306, 1587; AG 68). These are conditions for morality since recompense for action may require God’s future reckoning.47 Even the damned (if such there be) are in the City of God, which is the moral dimension of existence. Leibniz states certain truths that must hold, given moral commitments. I take this to be a condensed form of the strategy Leibniz adopted throughout ‘Discours’ to propose his metaphysical positions: namely, proposing views that cohere with, secure, and engender moral and theological truths. God demands a sincere and serious will and, from ‘Examen,’ we saw that this demand is the lightened form of his obligation to love him constantly. Christ’s merit lifts us from our fallen ways. Leibniz ends the paragraph, “ . . . since God is at the same time the most just and most good-natured of monarchs and since he demands only a good will . . . his subjects cannot wish for a better condition, and, to make them perfectly happy, he wants only for them to love him” (A VI 4, 306, 1587; AG 68). God’s obligation is the easiest and simplest—his “yoke is light” (Matt. 11.30). Where earlier Leibniz claimed that God obliges us to love him, here he caveats that God obliges it for the sake of human happiness. The greatest human good is to love God so that our obligation is at the same time our flourishing. This is also the crux of Leibniz’s doctrine of salvation from before, which was achieved through charity: less a matter of heaven and hell, more so about well-being. ‘Discours’ ends with Jesus Christ and what is revealed through him. A litany of claims are listed. Akin to miracles and misery, but to the highest degree, the Incarnation reveals truths about the universal harmony of all creation and God’s relation to man. These claims revolve around divine love for creation, which upholds and engenders our love for God. First, Leibniz positions the revelation of Christ with respect to ancient philosophies. Then he lists the content of this revelation. I will not exposit each claim singly but pick out those that thread together earlier chapters to conclude. Christ occupies an ambivalent position in Leibniz’s system. On one hand, he is the penultimate revelation; on the other, it is the content of his revelation more so than his person, death, or resurrection that has pride of place.

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No mention is made of articles of faith. The effects of his truth on persons seem key. Leibniz begins ¶ 37, “The ancient philosophers knew very little of these important truths [the ones mentioned above]; Jesus Christ alone has expressed them divinely well and in a manner so clear and familiar that the coarsest of minds have grasped them” (A VI 4, 306, 1588; AG 68). The ancients struggled toward these truths with their reason alone. And Leibniz seems to privilege them since Christ stands apart as revealing them to the simple. The clarity Christ brought “entirely changed the course of human affairs,” however, so this revelation remains supreme. How well this meshes with prevailing orthodoxy I leave aside. If Adams is right, neither Protestant, nor Catholic would agree with the underlying theology (Adams, “Examination”). But, for Leibniz’s system, depending as it does on the moral quality of God, Christ is the cornerstone. Christ “has brought us to know the kingdom of heaven” and “alone has made us see how much God loves us and with what exactitude he has provided for everything that concerns us” (A VI 4, 306, 1588; AG 37). God’s good is the same as ours as revealed in Jesus. The lover of God can be at peace, joyful in suffering, and steadily presume the divine will for their lives because “the economy of our salvation” is unshakable, “God alone can make souls happy or unhappy,” and so we need not fear those who harm the body, and “none of our actions are forgotten” (A VI 4, 306, 1588; AG 68). God is not only the just legislator, but an intimate one who preserves the faithful. Christ has revealed, in other words, that the good will prevail, lover of God be safe, and evil turn to good. In this, he reveals, and orients us to, the mystery of how God orchestrates these ends within a fallen world. While the afterlife is largely relegated at this time, the future does secure the divine lover in the present. Leibniz ends, “ . . . neither our senses nor our mind has ever tasted anything approaching the happiness that God prepares for those who love him” (A VI 4, 306, 1588; AG 68). Future bliss awaits. The deity will conduct a final reckoning to reward unrewarded goods and punish evils that lack requital. Those who persevered can expect great reward. Leibniz does not claim that Christ’s kingdom is to come. It is an odd lacuna, absent in ‘Examen’ as well. The City of God describes the present moral universe exclusively. This may be another departure from orthodoxy, yet it supports my reading that salvation concerns the moral state of us now. Leibniz seems to leave the afterlife in mystery, except for affirming requirements for morality. As we have seen, morality sets the proper bounds of theological doctrine, and the Incarnation and afterlife are not except. Grace enables virtuous living, the wise are oriented toward the mystery of existence revealed in Christ, and salvation occurs through love, expressed in faith.

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NOTES 1. A consequence of my caveat is that Leibniz does not think he has resolved problems with reconciling God’s providence with human freedom, as he writes. Rather, he responds to these issues from preserving the moral quality of God and man while allowing residual difficulties. 2. For comparable passages on salvation in Theodicy, see (G VI 105 & 134). 3. Ozment, Age of Reform, 35. 4. Lombard, Peter. I Sent. D. 17, art. 2, pg. 54. 5. On the scholastic debate between St. Thomas and Duns Scotus on love of God, see (Osborne, Love of Self and Love of God in Thirteenth-Century Ethics). 6. See endnote 4. 7. For an extensive study on the debate over love in the Middle Ages, see (Osborne, Love of Self and Love of God in Thirteenth-Century Ethics). 8. For efficacious grace as it appears in his Theodicy, see (G VI 383). 9. Strickland (“Eternal Punishment”) and Lessing (Philosophical and Theological Writings) hold that Leibniz held to the traditional view of eternal damnation. 10. See Wilson (“The reception of Leibniz in the eighteenth century”) and Eberhard (“Neue Apologie des Sokrates”) for arguments that Leibniz held to universal salvation. 11. See (Antognazza, “Est-il possible de croire sans comprendre?”). 12. On broader debate on grace, see (Cleveland, “Reformed Theology and Medieval Theology”; Marschler, “Providence, Predestination, and Grace in Early Modern Catholic Theology”). On the aid of grace in his Theodicy, see (G VI 40, 80, 85, 113, 126, & 134). 13. For the Aristotelean moral philosophy that Leibniz largely takes for granted, see (Mercer, “Leibniz, Aristotle, and Ethical Knowledge”). 14. For passages on sufficient grace in Theodicy, see (G VI 5, 95, 115, & 134). 15. See the next section for rational faith. 16. For an excellent study on Leibniz’s later views on agency, see (Jorati, Leibniz on Causation and Agency). 17. That Leibniz rejects the security of salvation of all does not imply that he did not hold to universal salvation then, before, or later. His objection is to a de facto security that separates salvation from the human will. Maybe all will be saved after rewards or punishments in the afterlife are carried out in purgatory, for example. 18. On Leibniz’s parting of ways with Luther, see (Hillman, “Leibniz and Luther on the Non-Cognitive Component of Faith”). 19. Unless preaching makes it easier to accept Christ, but Leibniz does not say as much. 20. For example, see Leibniz’s encounter with Chinese belief systems and his arguments that natural wisdom could be salvific (see Cook, “Leibniz, China, and the Problem of Pagan Wisdom”; Perkins, “Virtue, Reason, and Cultural Exchange”). 21. For a broader take on the question of predestination, see (Backus, Leibniz, Ch. 3). 22. On the question of election in his Theodicy, see (G VI 309 & 358).

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23. For further reading on divine foreknowledge, see (Sleigh, “Leibniz on Divine Foreknowledge”). 24. Contrast this with Malebranche’s claim that “après le peché Dieu n’eut plus d’égard à nos volontez” (T II.8). 25. Arcana can be translated ‘mysteries’ or ‘hidden things’ rather than ‘secrets,’ too. See word entry in Dictionary of Ecclesiastical Latin. 26. For further reading on God’s knowledge of counterfactuals in Leibniz, see (Griffen, “Leibniz on God’s Knowledge of Counterfactuals”). 27. Similarly, Rateau describes Leibniz’s notion of love as circular (see Rateau, “L’amour”). 28. Contra Malebranche, who claims that grace is given irrespective of an individual’s desire for it (T II.6). This leads to his claim that only Jesus Christ is the occasion of grace, not us. 29. Strickland suggests that Leibniz may be referring to the Jansenists. See his forthcoming translation. 30. When Bossuet exposits the Council of Trent’s canons and decrees, he stresses the Council’s charge against those who argue about uncertain and suspect matters (Exposition, 64). Bossuet drafted an introduction to a Latin translation of that text (see A IV 3, 11). 31. See (A VI 4, 420, 2357) on the various sources of authority for theology. 32. Later in the text, Leibniz qualifies this view by claiming that the sacraments can add grace so that penance done in fear will suffice (see A VI 4, 420, 2437). 33. See Ch. 1. 34. See (Hillman, “Leibniz and Luther”). 35. To be clear, I am not saying that ‘Discours’ is structured according to the stages of salvation, but that key commitments for salvation are also basic to the philosophical treatise. 36. See (Hillman, “Leibniz and Luther”). 37. See (Adams, “Leibniz’s Examination of the Christian Religion,” 530ff). 38. These three common descriptions of faith oversimply the concept. Sessions identifies six models (see his The Concept of Faith). 39. See Ch. 4, endnote 23. 40. See, for example, his discussion of the Eucharist (A VI 4, 420, 2425ff.). 41. See (A VI 4, 420, 2444ff.). 42. Schepers argues that Leibniz’s broader theological plan had political aims (“Demonstrationes catholicae—Leibniz’ grosser Plan”). See, also, (Antognazza, Leibniz: A Biography). 43. Leibniz goes on to say as much at the end of the next paragraph, which I come to shortly. 44. How persons fall away from the faith is not a mute issue for Leibniz, given the debate on his doctrine of salvation and apparent leanings toward universalism. 45. See also Deut. 10.12. 46. That is, by fixing one’s thoughts on divine goodness. 47. On Leibniz’s thoughts on purgatory, see (Strickland, “Leibniz’s Philosophy of Purgatory”).

Conclusion

Loving God is our highest state of perfection, for Leibniz. Such love secures our belief and trust in the Creator, which is integral to the sciences as well as faith. Those who love God reason securely—that is, they can rationally expect to arrive at truth—because they are receptive to the perfection of all things. Loving God, then, is a disposition and tendency toward the most perfect being, the ens perfectissimum. Persons who perceive the divine nature “do not merely fear the power of the supreme and all-seeing monarch,” Leibniz writes, “but also trust in his benevolence, and ultimately (which covers all these things) are inflamed by the love of God above all things” (A VI 4, 420, 2357). In this book, I have shown that God’s moral quality is central to the positions Leibniz adopts in 1686 and, to end, I will walk through my claims. Leibniz begins ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen’ with a disposition toward God. In ‘Discours,’ this disposition forms from criteria of perfection that links the perception of natural perfection (knowledge) with an affection toward God. As one learns, one becomes more satisfied with the divine plan. By contrast, in ‘Examen,’ Leibniz appeals to wisdom as leading to satisfaction if the wise man knew the divine plan. Across both texts Leibniz states such knowledge is out of reach. This opens an important tension that persists. On the one hand, knowledge is linked to affection so that gains in knowledge ought to affect one rightly, that is, dispose one toward God in love. On the other hand, humans are finite. They cannot perceive the divine plan, and so lack the reasons for evil, except in a general, unprovable sense in which God created the most perfect world. Love of God compensates for ignorance. Shortly before 1686, Leibniz identified natural and divine perfections from an inference: If God is most perfect, his good must be the same as his work. If these goods were not the same, the work would be less than perfect, and so tarnish divine perfection. I called this matter the Sameness of Goods problem. Leibniz switches tact in ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ He presumes that goods fall within the criteria of perfection and pivots to make the identification an act of the one who loves God—the lover places their happiness or 157

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perfection in God. More telling is how humans respond to the deity’s moral quality. Since such an act of love disposes one toward God, they are likewise disposed to natural perfection. The wise man, though ignorant, is disposed rightly toward nature and the divine plan. Rather than be a primitive term, the notion of God names a concept for the most perfect being that depends upon the thinker. The lapse between knowledge and love gives ignorance a positive role in Leibniz’s system. God’s choice to create this world as best is mysterious. Perennial issues, like sin, misery, and rational beings’ relation to the Creator reduce to this mystery. But how one appeals to this ignorance must continue to preserve the deity’s absolute perfection. Moderns, like Descartes, Spinoza, and Malebranche, base their systems on their ignorance of the whole in the wrong way because they lessen God’s glory. Leibniz adopts alternative stances to correct their mistake. Love of God secures human reasoning despite the uncertainty of the future and ignorance of the whole in a way that propels action. The lover can presume God’s will because they are in commune with him. Though the divine plan is unknown, they can remain in the dark when properly disposed to God. No harm will come. Revelations and miracles exemplify the positive role of ignorance. Leibniz handles both according to how God communes with individuals. Due to man’s finitude, directives for how to live one’s own life are unclear. The natural moral order is general. Prudence and wisdom are needed to apply general propositions, such as love of neighbor, to one’s own neighbors. But a just legislator makes one’s will known, and so God used revelations and, at times, miracles, to express himself. In this way, the Christian mysteries, as miraculous revelations, have a moral purpose: they put us in commune with God by revealing outer reaches of the divine plan, where human finitude would otherwise keep us wholly ignorant. Revelations and miracles, in other words, help orient us toward the mystery of God’s choice to create this world. These mysteries remain rational, and so defensible from the accusation that they are contradictory, yet not distinctly perceived. In an analogous way, sin, misery, and damnation (or the selective dispensation of grace) reveal the infinite depths of God’s wisdom, and so likewise dispose us to the basic mystery of creation. Although a gap separates knowledge and love, Leibniz wants knowledge to elicit the right affection. After all, for the sciences to promote the common good, they must foster the right disposition and habits. Through perceiving perfection, Leibniz suggests that learning disposes one rightly to the divine plan in ‘Discours.’ Arguably, though Leibniz does not take this step, one’s contentment with nature furnishes hope, which is perfection, happiness, or pleasure gained in the goods God provides. And, as Leibniz states in ‘Examen,’ hope leads to charity, which puts one’s perfection in God himself.

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It is this untaken step that would put theology as the apex of sciences, yet Leibniz holds back or fails to see the link (in these texts). Maybe more theory needed to be put in place. He keeps the world of physics separate from the moral order, though the separation is hardly clean. Their tending to collapse comes out in his appeal to scientific advancements in ‘Examen’ as analogies. Still, a species of knowledge—knowing without comprehending—links knowledge and love. With such a notion, Leibniz can reduce the problem of Judas and the dispensation of grace to the mystery of God’s choice. Divine perfections are affirmed when one fixes attention on God, which assures us in faith and love. The moral quality of God and man must be maintained, and its conditions guide metaphysical, moral, and theological positions. Leibniz grants the tensive nature of evil: it conflicts with divine goodness yet expresses the infinite wisdom of God and his abounding grace. A greater perfection cannot be without evil. The conflict does not resolve except in the divine mystery—similarly, for why God saved some rather than others. Salvation amounts to a divinely aided life of virtue, assured in its blessedness by Christ. The main insight these writings garner is exposing Leibniz’s distinct strategy for stringing positions together. He structures these texts, adopts and defends stances, transitions, and rejects other views from a moral claim: God has a moral quality that realizes itself in humanity’s love of him. And the consequences of this moral ideal enable humans to reason (and so pursue science) despite ignorance and weakness because we are properly disposed toward, and secured by, a good God. The lover is secure for mortal error and sin. Truths are also indirectly affirmed by the affects they engender. Leibniz’s plan for a scientia generalis finds motivation in the moral ties between ‘Discours’ and ‘Examen.’ My narrow focus throughout this book calls for other studies that put these claims within the larger narrative of Leibniz’s life, the broader intellectual debate in which he plays a part, and their engagement with earlier thinkers. Much remains to be said, for example, on how ‘Examen’ relates to Medieval thinkers and St. Augustine. Some of this has already been done, as citations throughout evince. But since few have wrestled with ‘Examen’ (and none to this length), Leibniz’s Middle Years may be set apart by the morality he held during this time, besides his physics. I hope to have contributed to the scholarship on ‘Discours’ by showing how ‘Examen’ informs our understanding of his positions there and adds another dimension. To my knowledge, no other work of Leibniz’s takes the same form as ‘Examen.’ Like ‘Discours,’ it enables us to glimpse an attempt at unifying the sciences—one among others.

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Index

action, 112–122 affection, 13, 117 arbitrariness, 73, 80, 82, 90, 116 body, 124–125 Calvinism, 140–143 cause, 73–82, 98 charity, 15–16, 17–18, 93, 145–152 Complete Concept Theory, 109– 110, 120, 122 Conflict of Motives Problem, 18–20, 145 Containment theory, 114 contingency, 105, 121–122 criteria: of true and false ideas, 36–42, 45, 55–56, 81, 112, 136. See also ideas; knowledge definition, 43–45; of God, 49–53 deliberation, 116–117, 119, 133 election, 137–142 Eucharist, 25–27, 72 expression, 38–39, 47–48, 90, 151 faith, 146–152 formal reason, 74–75, 80 freedom, 105, 120, 129

friendship, 15 General Science, 2–3, 4–5, 34–35, 57–58, 78, 112, 130–131, 148, 159 God: idea of, 46–49, 53–59, 65–66, 76; his choice, 12–13, 71–72, 73–86, 91, 94–95, 99–100, 109, 111, 117–118, 121–122, 131–132, 134, 140, 151; his existence, 53–58; love of, 5–6, 14, 15–16, 19–20, 24, 76, 79, 93, 101, 107–108, 112, 118, 143–144, 149–150, 157–159; his moral quality, 5–6, 20, 49–53, 71–72, 73, 80, 85–86, 99–102, 108, 113, 129, 138–139, 142–143, 151, 159; his perfections, 11–12, 15–16, 22–25, 50, 135, 144–145, 151; will of, 99–102 goods: natural and divine, 11–12, 15–16; sameness of, 76–77, 93, 115–116, 147 grace, 105, 130, 131–136; efficacious and sufficient, 132–133, 136, 139–141 happiness, 107–108, 152, 158 harmony, 83–85, 90–94, 99–102 hope, 16, 17–18, 79, 93, 149 169

170

Index

ideas, 36–42, 129. See also God idolatry, 63–64 images, 61–66 Incarnation, 111, 145, 151–152. See also mystery intuition, 44–45, 63–66; Descartes’ reliance on, 53–59 Jesus, 151–156. See also Incarnation justice, 107 justification, 144, 146, 149 knowledge, 59–61, 91, 94, 96, 105–106, 116, 135–136, 138, 146–147, 153; types of, 39–42 love, 18–19, 93 Maximal Love Thesis, 39–40 miracles, 90–91, 98–102, 113, 132, 158. See also Revelation morality: condition of, 106–107, 110–111, 118, 125–126, 133, 138– 139, 140–143 Motives of Belief, 96 mystery, 28, 85–86, 93–94, 99, 105– 106, 108, 109, 111, 129, 142, 158 nature, 98, 100 perception, 46–49, 79, 135, 151. See also idea; knowledge

perfection, 50, 73–74, 79, 81, 82–86, 108–109, 132–133, 147, 158; rule of, 99. See also God Practical Reason, 4 pragmatic theology, 130–131, 131–132 requirement, 43–44; of praiseworthiness, 48, 78–79, 82–86, 87n10 revelation, 83–85, 89–98, 111, 135, 152–156, 158 salvation, 125, 135–136, 143–150, 152 sciences: unity of the, 17, 33–34, 49, 72–73. See also General Science sin, 97, 105, 131–132, 133, 141; original, 122–126, 133–134, 136 Spinozism, 77–78, 87n13 spontaneity, 115, 118–119 soul, 46–49, 112–122, 124–125 Stoicism, 81 substantial forms, 25–28, 114–115 superstition, 96, 97–98 tradition, 83–84 truth, 36–37, 138, 144, 147, 149 virtue, 7, 18, 131, 135, 137, 152, 159 will, 147–150; presumed, 97, 108, 118, 150 worship, 61–66, 78–79. See also praiseworthiness

About the Author

Ryan Phillip Quandt completed his PhD in philosophy at the University of South Florida under the guidance of Roger Ariew. During his time in Tampa, he was also a researcher for the Advancing Machine and Human Reasoning Lab. He is currently a PhD student in the Department of Economics at Claremont Graduate University and researcher for the Computational Justice Lab.

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