2.6 Augustinianism and Pelagianism in Late Medieval Theology

2.6 Augustinianism and Pelagianism in Late Medieval Theology

Case Studies

Case Study 2.1 Arguments for the Existence of God

During the Middle Ages, considerable emphasis was placed upon the rationality of the Christian faith. This was especially the case during the thirteenth century, when Christianity came into contact with Islam at various places in western Europe, including the University of Paris. Since Christianity and Islam shared little in common, debates between the two faiths were often conducted on the basis of an appeal to reason.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the question of whether God’s existence could be proved was a frequent topic of debate. Few scholastic theologians thought it was possible to prove that God existed from first principles. A more general approach was to take the general Christian understanding of God and show that this fitted in with human rationality, or with what could be observed of the natural world. In this case study, we shall consider two families of arguments for the existence of God that emerged during the Middle Ages – Anselm of Canterbury’s eleventh-century argument and the “Five Ways” of Thomas Aquinas, developed during the thirteenth century.

Anselm of Canterbury’s “Ontological” Argument

The “ontological argument” is first set out in Anselm’s work entitled the Proslogion (this Greek word is not easily translated: “foreword” might be an acceptable starting point), a devotional work that dates from 1079. (The term “ontological” refers to the branch of philosophy that deals with the notion of “being.”) Anselm himself does not refer to his discussion as an “ontological” argument. When his contemporaries wished to refer to his approach, they dubbed it “Anselm’s argument.” In fact, there is really no “ontological” character to the argument, as Anselm presents it and Anselm never actually suggested that his reflections were to be seen as an “argument” for the existence of God. The Proslogion is really a work of meditation, not of logical argument. In the course of this work, Anselm reflects on how self-evident the idea of God has become to him and what the implications of this might be.

Anselm of Canterbury (c.1033–1109). Born in Italy, Anselm migrated to Normandy in 1059, entering the famous monastery of Bec, becoming its prior in 1063 and abbot in 1078. In 1093 he was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury. He is chiefly noted for his strong defense of the intellectual foundations of Christianity and is especially associated with the “ontological argument” for the existence of God.

In his Proslogion, Anselm offers a definition of God as “that than which no greater thing can be thought (aliquid quo maius cogitari non potest).” He argues that, if this definition of God is correct, it necessarily implies the existence of God. The reason for this is as follows. If God does not exist, the idea of God remains, yet the reality of God is absent. Yet the reality of God is greater than the idea of God. Therefore, if God is “that than which no greater thing can be thought,” the idea of God must lead to accepting the reality of God, in that otherwise the mere idea of God is the greatest thing that can be thought. This contradicts the definition of God on which the argument is based. Therefore, given the existence of the idea of God and the acceptance of the definition of God as “that than which no greater thing can be thought,” the reality of God necessarily follows. (Note that the Latin verb cogitare is sometimes translated as “conceive,” leading to the definition of God as “that than which no greater thing can be conceived.” Both translations are acceptable.)

This is not an easy argument to follow, so it may be helpful to go over this again. God is defined as “that than which nothing greater can be conceived.” Now the idea of such a being is one thing; the reality is another. Thinking of a 100-dollar bill is quite different from having a 100-dollar bill in your hands – and much less satisfying as well. Anselm’s point is this: the idea of something is inferior to the reality. So the idea of God as “that than which nothing greater can be conceived” contains a contradiction – because the reality of God would be superior to this idea. In other words, if this definition of God is correct, and exists in the human mind, then the corresponding reality must also exist.

This [definition of God] is indeed so true that it cannot be thought of as not being true. For it is quite possible to think of something whose non-existence cannot be thought of. This must be greater than something whose non-existence can be thought of. So if this thing (than which no greater thing can be thought) can be thought of as not existing, then that very thing than which a greater thing cannot be thought is not that than which nothing greater can be thought. This is a contradiction. So it is true that there exists something than which nothing greater can be thought, that it cannot be thought of as not existing. And you are this thing, O Lord our God! So truly therefore do you exist, O Lord my God, that you cannot be thought of as not existing, and with good reason; for if a human mind could think of anything greater than you, the creature would rise above the Creator and judge you; which is obviously absurd. And in truth whatever else there be beside you may be thought of as not existing. So you alone, most truly of all, and therefore most of all, have existence: because whatever else exists, does not exist as truly as you, and therefore exists to a lesser degree.

This is an important and much-discussed argument, and it is worth focusing on its central elements.

This argument did not persuade one of his earliest critics, a monk named Gaunilo, based at the Benedictine abbey of Marmoutier, who made a response that is generally known as “A Reply on Behalf of the Fool” (the reference being to Psalm 14:1, cited by Anselm, “The fool says in his heart that there is no God”). There is, according to Gaunilo, an obvious logical weakness in Anselm’s “argument” (although it must be stressed that Anselm does not really regard it as an argument in the first place). Imagine, Gaunilo suggests, an island, so lovely that a more perfect island cannot be conceived. By the same argument, Gaunilo suggests, that island must exist, in that the reality of the island is necessarily more perfect that the mere idea. In much the same way, we might argue that the idea of a 100-dollar bill seems, according to Anselm, to imply that we have such a bill in our hands. The mere idea of something – whether a perfect island or God – thus does not guarantee its existence. Gaunilo expresses this point as follows.

People say that somewhere in the ocean there is an island which, because of the difficulty (or rather the impossibility) of finding that which does not exist, some have called the “Lost Island.” And we are told that it is blessed with all manner of priceless riches and delights in abundance, far more than the Happy Isles, and, having no owner or inhabitant, it is superior in every respect in the abundance of its riches to all those other lands that are inhabited by people. Now, if someone were to tell me about this, I shall easily understand what is said, since there is nothing difficult about it. But if I am then told, as though it were a direct consequence of this: “You cannot any more doubt that this island that is more excellent than all other lands truly exists somewhere in reality than you can doubt that it is in your mind; and since it is more excellent to exist not just in your mind but in reality as well, therefore it must exist. For if it did not exist, any other land existing in reality would be more excellent than it, and so this island, already conceived by you to be more excellent than others, will not be more excellent.” I say that if anyone wanted to persuade me in this way that this island really exists beyond all doubt, I should either think that they were joking, or I should find it hard to decide which of us I ought to think of as the bigger fool: I myself, if I agreed with them, or they, if they thought that they had proved the existence of this island with any certainty, unless they had first persuaded me that its very excellence exists in my mind precisely as a thing existing truly and indubitably and not just as something unreal or doubtfully real.

The response offered by Gaunilo is widely regarded as exposing a serious weakness in Anselm’s argument. The text itself is so clear that no comment is needed. It may, however, be pointed out that Anselm is not so easily dismissed. Part of his argument is that the definition of God is “that than which nothing greater can be conceived.” God therefore belongs to a totally different category than islands or dollar bills. It is part of the nature of God to transcend everything else. Once the believer has come to understand what the word “God” means, then God really does exist for him or her. This is the intention of Anselm’s meditation: to reflect on how the Christian understanding of the nature of God reinforces belief in his reality. The “argument” does not really have force outside this context of faith and Anselm never intended it to be used in this general philosophical manner.

Furthermore, Anselm argued that Gaunilo had not entirely understood him. The argument that he set out in the Proslogion did not involve the idea that there is a being that is, as a matter of fact, greater than any other being; rather, Anselm had argued for a being so great that a greater one could not even be conceived. The argument continues and it remains a disputed question to this day as to whether Anselm’s argument has a genuine basis. The philosopher Alvin Plantinga, for example, has been an important recent advocate of this kind of approach.

The “Five Ways” of Thomas Aquinas

A very different approach (or, perhaps we should say, range of approaches) is offered by the great scholastic writer Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas believed that it was entirely proper to identify pointers toward the existence of God, drawn from general human experience of the world. So what kind of pointers does Aquinas identify? The basic line of thought guiding Aquinas is that the world mirrors God, as its creator – an idea that is given more formal expression in his doctrine of the “analogy of being.” Just as an artist might sign a painting to identify it as his handiwork, so God has stamped a divine “signature” upon the creation. What we observe in the world – for example, its signs of ordering – can be explained on the basis of the existence of God as its creator. God is both its first cause and its designer. God both brought the world into existence and impressed the divine image and likeness upon it.

Thomas Aquinas (c.1225–1274). Probably the most famous and influential theologian of the Middle Ages. Born in Italy, he achieved his fame through his teaching and writing at the University of Paris and other northern universities. His fame rests chiefly on his Summa Theologiae, composed toward the end of his life and not totally finished at the time of his death. However, he also wrote many other significant works, particularly the Summa contra Gentiles, which represents a major statement of the rationality of the Christian faith.

So where might we look in creation to find evidence for the existence of God? Aquinas argues that the ordering of the world is the most convincing evidence of God’s existence and wisdom. This basic assumption underlies each of the “Five Ways,” although it is of particular importance in the case of the argument often referred to as the “argument from design” or the “teleological argument.” We shall consider each of these “ways” individually.

The first way begins from the observation that things in the world are in motion or change. The world is not static, but is dynamic. Examples of this are easy to list. Rain falls from the sky. Stones roll down valleys. The earth revolves around the sun (a fact, incidentally, unknown to Aquinas). This, the first of Aquinas’s arguments, is normally referred to as the “argument from motion”; however, it is clear that the “movement” in question is actually understood in more general terms, so that the term “change” is more appropriate as a translation at points. (The Latin word motus can bear both the meaning of “motion” or “change.”

So how did nature come to be in motion? Why is it changing? Why isn’t it static? Aquinas argues that everything that moves is moved by something else. For every motion, there is a cause. Things don’t just move – they are moved. Now each cause of motion must itself have a cause and that cause must have a cause as well. Therefore Aquinas argues that there is a whole series of causes of motion lying behind the world as we know it. Now unless there is an infinite number of these causes, Aquinas argues, there must be a single cause right at the origin of the series. From this original cause of motion, all other motion is ultimately derived. This is the origin of the great chain of causality that we see reflected in the way the world behaves. From the fact that things are in motion, Aquinas thus argues for the existence of a single original cause of all this motion – and this, he concludes, is none other than God. In the passage that follows, I have translated the Latin term motus as “change.”

The existence of God can be proved in five ways. The first and most obvious proof is the argument from change (ex parte motus). It is clearly the case that some things in this world are in the process of changing. Now everything that is in the process of being changed is changed by something else…. If, then, whatever is changing it is itself changed, this also must be changed by something else, and this in turn by something else again. But this cannot go on forever, since there would then be no first cause to this process of change, and consequently no other agent of change, because secondary things which change cannot change unless they are changed by a first cause, in the same way as a stick cannot move unless it is moved by the hand. We are therefore bound to arrive at a first cause of change which is not changed by anything, and everyone understands that this is God.

The second way begins from the idea of causation. In other words, Aquinas notes the existence of causes and effects in the world. One event (the effect) is explained by the influence of another (the cause). The idea of motion, which we looked at briefly above, is a good example of this cause-and-effect sequence. Using a line of reasoning similar to that used above, Aquinas thus argues that all effects may be traced back to a single original cause – which is God.

The third way concerns the existence of contingent beings. In other words, the world contains entities (such as human beings) that are not there as a matter of necessity. Aquinas contrasts this type of being with a necessary being (one who is there as a matter of necessity). Whilst God is a necessary being, Aquinas argues that humans are contingent beings. The fact that we are here needs explanation. Why are we here? What happened to bring us into existence? Aquinas argues that a being comes into existence because something that already exists brought it into being. In other words, our existence is caused by another being. We are the effects of a series of causation. Tracing this series back to its origin, Aquinas declares that this original cause of being can only be someone whose existence is necessary – in other words, God.

The fourth way begins from human values, such as truth, goodness, and nobility. Where do these values come from? What causes them? Aquinas argues that there must be something that is in itself true, good, and noble, and that this brings into being our ideas of truth, goodness, and nobility. The origin of these ideas, Aquinas suggests, is God, who is their original cause.

The fifth and final way is the teleological argument itself. Aquinas notes that the world shows obvious traces of intelligent design. Natural processes and objects seem to be adapted with certain definite objectives in mind. They seem to have a purpose. They seem to have been designed. However, things do not design themselves: they are caused and designed by someone or something else. Arguing from this observation, Aquinas concludes that the source of this natural ordering must be conceded to be God.

It will be obvious that most of Aquinas’s arguments are rather similar. Each depends on tracing a causal sequence back to its single origin, and identifying this with God. A number of criticisms of the “Five Ways” were made by Aquinas’s critics during the Middle Ages, such as Duns Scotus and William of Ockham. The following are especially important:

In the end, Aquinas’s arguments only go some way toward suggesting that it is reasonable to believe in a creator of the world, or an intelligent being who is able to cause effects in the world. Nevertheless, a leap of faith is still required. It still remains to be shown that this creator or intelligent being is the God that Christians know, worship, and adore. Aquinas’s arguments could lead to faith in the existence of a god rather like that favored by the Greek philosopher Aristotle – an Unmoved Mover, who is distant from and uninvolved in the affairs of the world.

Case Study 2.2 Understandings of the Atonement

The medieval period saw considerable interest in the doctrine of the work of Christ (often also referred to as “the atonement”), both in academic theology and in popular religion. Writers such as Anselm of Canterbury and Peter Abelard developed quite different approaches to the meaning of the death of Christ, Anselm emphasising its legal significance and Abelard its transformative subjective impact on the believer.

One theme that became especially significant in popular religion was the idea of the “harrowing of Hell.” Both the New Testament and writers of the early church laid considerable emphasis upon the victory gained by Christ over sin, death, and Satan through his crucifixion and resurrection. This theme of victory, often linked liturgically with the Easter celebrations, was of major importance within the western Christian theological tradition until the Enlightenment. The theme of “Christ the victor (Christus Victor)” brought together a series of themes, centering on the idea of a decisive victory over forces of evil and oppression.

The image of Christ’s death as a ransom came to be of central importance to Greek patristic writers, such as Irenaeus, but what were the implications of this idea? If Christ’s death was a ransom, Origen argued, it must have been paid to someone, but to whom? It could not have been paid to God, in that God was not holding sinners to ransom. So it seemed that it had to be paid to the devil. The influential sixth century writer Gregory the Great (c.540–604) developed this idea still further, arguing that the devil had acquired legitimate rights over fallen humanity on account of their disobedience, which God was obliged to respect. The only means by which humanity could be released from this satanic domination and oppression was through the devil exceeding the limits of his authority, and thus being obliged to forfeit his rights. So how could this be achieved? Gregory suggests that it could come about if a sinless person were to enter the world, yet in the form of a normal sinful person. The devil would not notice until it was too late: in claiming authority over this sinless person, the devil would have overstepped the limits of his authority and thus be obliged to abandon his rights.

Gregory suggested the image of a baited hook: Christ’s humanity is the bait and his divinity the hook. The devil, like a great sea-monster, snaps at the bait – and then discovers, too late, the hook. “The bait tempts in order that the hook may wound. Our Lord therefore, when coming for the redemption of humanity, made a kind of hook of himself for the death of the devil.” Other writers explored other images for the same idea – that of trapping the devil. Christ’s death was like a net for catching birds or a trap for catching mice. It was this aspect of this approach to the meaning of the cross that caused the most disquiet subsequently. It seemed that God was guilty of deception. It was against any such idea of deception on the part of God that Anselm of Canterbury reacted – an idea to which we shall return presently.

The imagery of victory over the devil proved to have enormous popular appeal. The medieval idea of “the harrowing of hell” bears witness to its power. According to this, after dying upon the cross, Christ descended to hell and broke down its gates in order that souls who were imprisoned might go free. The idea rested (rather tenuously, it has to be said) upon 1 Peter 3:18–22, which makes reference to Christ “preaching to the spirits in prison.” The great medieval hymn “You choirs of New Jerusalem,” written by Fulbert of Chartres (d. 1028), expresses this theme in two of its verses, picking up the theme of Christ, as the lion of Judah (Revelation 5:5) defeating Satan, the serpent (Genesis 3:15):

For Judah’s lion bursts his chains

Crushing the serpent’s head;

And cries aloud through death’s domain

To wake the imprisoned dead.

Devouring depths of hell their prey

At his command restore;

His ransomed hosts pursue their way

Where Jesus goes before.

A similar idea can be found in a fourteenth-century English mystery play, which describes the “harrowing of hell” in the following manner:

And when Christ was dead, his spirit went in haste to hell. And soon he broke down the strong gates that were wrongfully barred against him. … He bound Satan fast with eternal bonds, and so shall Satan ever remain bound until the day of doom. He took with him Adam and Eve and others that were dear to him … all these he led out of hell and set in paradise.

Anselm of Canterbury (c.1033–1109). Born in Italy, Anselm migrated to Normandy in 1059, entering the famous monastery of Bec, becoming its prior in 1063 and abbot in 1078. In 1093 he was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury. He is chiefly noted for his strong defense of the intellectual foundations of Christianity and is especially associated with the “ontological argument” for the existence of God.

A very different approach was developed during the eleventh century by Anselm of Canterbury, who reacted against any idea of God deceiving the devil. It was nonsense to suggest that the devil had “rights” of any kind over fallen humanity or that God had to respect such “rights.” At best, the devil might be allowed to have a de facto power over humanity – a power that exists as a matter of fact, even if it is an illegitimate and unjustified power. Yet this cannot be thought of as a de jure authority – that is, an authority firmly grounded in some legal or moral principle. “I do not see what force this has,” he comments, in dismissing the notion. Equally, Anselm is dismissive of any notion that God deceives the devil in the process of redemption. The entire trajectory of redemption is grounded in and reflects the righteousness of God.

Anselm’s emphasis falls totally upon the righteousness of God. God redeems humanity in a manner that is totally consistent with the divine quality of righteousness. Anselm’s treatise Cur Deus homo (“Why God became human”) is a sustained engagement with the question of the possibility of human redemption, cast in the form of a dialogue. In the course of his analysis, he demonstrates – although how successfully is a matter of dispute – both the necessity of the incarnation and the saving potential of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The argument is complex. Its main points can be summarized as follows:

A number of points require comment. First, sin is conceived as an offense against God. The weight of that offense appears to be proportional to the status of the offended party. For many scholars, this suggests that Anselm has been deeply influenced by the feudal assumptions of his time, perhaps regarding God as the equivalent of the “lord of the manor.”

Second, there has been considerable debate over the origins of Anselm’s idea of a “satisfaction.” It is possible that the idea may derive from the Germanic laws of the period, which stipulated that an offense had to be purged through an appropriate payment. However, most scholars believe that Anselm is appealing directly to the existing penitential system of the church. A sinner, seeking penance, was required to confess every sin. In pronouncing forgiveness, the priest would require that the penitent should do something (such as go on a pilgrimage or undertake some charitable work) as a “satisfaction” – that is, a means of publicly demonstrating gratitude for forgiveness. It is possible that Anselm derived the idea from this source.

While there are some difficulties with Anselm’s approach, it is clear that an important advance had been made. Anselm’s insistence that God acts according to the principles of justice in the redemption of humanity marks a decisive break with the dubious morality of the Christus Victor approach. In taking up Anselm’s approach, later writers were able to place it on a more secure foundation by grounding it in the general principles of law.

Thomas Aquinas (c.1225–1274) is probably the most famous and influential theologian of the Middle Ages. Born in Italy, he achieved his fame through his teaching and writing at the University of Paris and other northern universities. His fame rests chiefly on his Summa Theologiae (“The Totality of Theology), which he began to write in 1265, toward the end of his life, but was not totally finished at the time of his death. However, he also wrote many other significant works, particularly the Summa contra Gentiles, which represents a major statement of the rationality of the Christian faith.

Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae (“The Totality of Theology”) is widely regarded as the greatest work of medieval theology. In this important and influential analysis, Aquinas develops the idea of “satisfaction,” as stated by Anselm, dealing with a number of objections that had been raised against it. His response to the criticism that the dignity of Christ was not sufficient to obtain God’s forgiveness of human sin is of especial interest. As the passage is of interest and importance, we shall cite it in some detail, to allow the main points to be properly understood.

I reply that a proper satisfaction comes about when someone offers to the person offended something which gives him a delight greater than his hatred of the offense. Now Christ by suffering as a result of love and obedience offered to God something greater than what might be exacted in compensation for the whole offense of humanity; firstly, because of the greatness of the love, as a result of which he suffered; secondly, because of the worth of the life which he laid down for a satisfaction, which was the life of God and of a human being; thirdly, because of the comprehensiveness of his passion and the greatness of the sorrow which he took upon himself. … And therefore the passion of Christ was not only sufficient but a superabundant satisfaction for the sins of the human race. As John says, “he is a propitiation for our sins, not only for ours, but also for those of the whole world” (1 John 2:2).

In this extended passage, Aquinas addresses a number of points of importance. The following are of especial interest and should be noted carefully.

Peter Abelard (1079–1142). French theologian, who achieved a considerable reputation as a teacher at the University of Paris. Among his many contributions to the development of medieval theology, his most noted is his emphasis upon the subjective aspects of the atonement.

Aquinas’ analysis shows the theological potential of the “satisfaction” model of atonement. Other medieval writers were, however, uneasy about Anselm’s approach, for different reasons. Some felt that it failed to deal adequately with the subjective aspects of salvation, including the personal appropriation of faith. Others wondered whether the theme of the “love of God” had really been adequately explored and wished to see a greater emphasis placed upon the manner in which the death of Christ showed the love of God. Perhaps the most important medieval statement of this emphasis can be found in the writings of Peter Abelard (c.1079–1142). Abelard does not, as some of his interpreters suggest, reduce the meaning of the cross to a demonstration of the love of God. This is one among many components of Abelard’s soteriology, which includes traditional ideas concerning Christ’s death as a sacrifice for human sin. It is Abelard’s emphasis upon the subjective impact of the cross that is distinctive.

For Abelard, “the purpose and cause of the incarnation was that Christ might illuminate the world by his wisdom, and excite it to love of himself.” In this, Abelard restates the Augustinian idea of Christ’s incarnation as a public demonstration of the extent of the love of God, with the intent of evoking a response of love from humanity. “The Son of God took our nature, and in it took upon himself to teach us by both word and example, even to the point of death, thus binding us to himself through love.” This insight is pressed home with considerable force, as the subjective impact of the love of God in Christ is explored further:

Everyone is made more righteous, that is more loving toward God, after the passion of Christ than before, because people are incited to love. … And so our redemption is that great love for us shown in the passion of Christ, which not only sets us free from the bondage of sin, but also gains for us the true liberty of the children of God, so that we should fulfill all things not so much through fear as through love.

To his critics, Abelard fails to provide an adequate theological foundation to allow us to understand precisely why Christ’s death is to be understood as a demonstration of the love of God. Nevertheless, his approach to the meaning of the death of Christ brought home the powerful subjective impact of that death, which had been somewhat ignored or downplayed by some other writers of this period, such as Anselm of Canterbury.

It will therefore be clear that the medieval period witnessed considerable interest in the doctrine of the work of Christ and made significant contributions to its development. Much the same may be said of its approach to the question of the nature and function of the sacraments, to which we now turn.

Case Study 2.3 The Theology of the Sacraments

The first centuries of the Christian tradition were characterized by a relative lack of interest in the theology of the sacraments. During the second century, some discussions of a general sacramental nature can be found in such writings as the Didache and the works of Irenaeus. It is only in the writings of Augustine that the issues, including that of the definition of a sacrament, begin to be fully addressed. Augustine laid down two general principles relating to the definition of sacraments, as follows:

These definitions are, however, still imprecise and inadequate. For example, does it follow that every “sign of a sacred thing” is to be regarded as a sacrament? In practice, Augustine understands by “sacraments” a number of things that are no longer regarded as sacramental in character – for example, the creed and the Lord’s Prayer. As time developed, it became increasingly clear that the definition of a sacrament simply as “a sign of a sacred thing” was inadequate.

Hugh of St. Victor (died 1142). A theologian of Flemish or German origin, who entered the Augustinian monastery of St. Victor in Paris around 1115. His most important work is de sacramentis Christianae fidei (“On the Sacraments of the Christian Faith”), which shows awareness of the new theological debates that were beginning to develop at this time.

It was during the earlier Middle Ages – the period of sacramental development par excellence – that further clarification took place. In this case study, we shall explore the general area of the definition of a sacrament. In the first half of the twelfth century, the Paris-based theologian Hugh of St. Victor revised the very imprecise definition offered by Augustine. In his comprehensive account of the theology of the sacraments, written in the first half of the twelfth century, Hugh of St. Victor set out a definition of a sacrament that included the need for a physical element that bore some resemblance to the grace it signified. This had the important – and apparently unintended – consequence of excluding penance from the list of sacraments.

Not every sign of a sacred thing can properly be called a sacrament. … Anyone wanting a fuller and better definition of a sacrament can define it as follows: “a sacrament is a physical or material element set before the external senses, representing by likeness, signifying by its institution, and containing by sanctification, some invisible and spiritual grace.” This definition is recognized as being so appropriate and perfect that it turns out to be appropriate in the case of every sacrament, yet only the sacraments. For everything that has these three elements is a sacrament; and everything that lacks these three cannot be considered as a sacrament. For every sacrament ought to have a kind of likeness to the thing of which it is the sacrament, according to which it is capable of representing the same thing. It ought also to have been instituted in such a way that it is ordained to signify this thing. And finally, it ought to have been sanctified in such a way that it contains that thing, and is efficacious in conferring the same on those who are to be sanctified.

Hugh thus asserts that there are four essential elements in the understanding of the nature of a sacrament.

The third of these points is of especial interest. In medieval theology, a careful distinction was drawn between the “sacraments of the Old Covenant” (such as circumcision) and the “sacraments of the New Covenant” (such as baptism). The essential distinction between them is that the sacraments of the Old Covenant merely signified spiritual realities, whereas the sacraments of the New Covenant actualized what they signified.

This point is emphasised in most thirteenth-century discussions of the nature of a sacrament. For example, Thomas Aquinas argues that a sacrament is an efficacious sign – something that both signifies and causes holiness.

Signs are given to humanity, so that they can discover the unknown by means of the known. As a result, a sacrament in the proper sense of the term is something that is the sign of some sacred thing pertaining to humanity; so that properly speaking a sacrament, as considered by us now, is to be defined as being the “sign of a holy thing which makes humanity holy.”

The thirteenth-century Franciscan writer Bonaventure of Bagnoregio made this point using a medicinal analogy:

Under the Old Law, there were ointments of a kind, but they were figurative and did not heal. The disease was lethal, but the anointings were superficial. … Genuinely healing ointments must bring both spiritual anointing and a life-giving power; it was only Christ our Lord who did this, since … through his death, the sacraments have the power to bring to life.

Let us return to Hugh of St. Victor’s influential definition of a sacrament. By the middle of the twelfth century, it was clear that there were problems with this definition. By this time, there was general agreement that there were seven sacraments – baptism, confirmation, the eucharist, penance, marriage, ordination, and extreme unction. However, Hugh’s definition did not allow penance to be considered as a sacrament. Why not? Because penance did not involve any material element. Theory and practice were thus seriously out of line.

The situation was resolved through the contribution of Peter Lombard. In his Four Books of the Sentences, compiled in Paris during the years 1155–1158 (see pp. 90–1), Peter Lombard set out a definition of a sacrament that differed from that offered by Hugh of St. Victor by avoiding any reference to any physical element (such as bread, wine, or water). Using this definition, Peter was able to set out a list of seven sacraments, which became definitive for medieval Catholic theology.

A sacrament bears a likeness to the thing of which it is a sign. “For if sacraments did not have a likeness of the things whose sacraments they are, they would not properly be called sacraments” (Augustine). … Something can properly be called a sacrament if it is a sign of the grace of God and a form of invisible grace, so that it bears its image and exists as its cause. Sacraments were therefore instituted for the sake of sanctifying, as well as of signifying. … Those things which were instituted for the purpose of signifying alone are nothing more than signs, and are not sacraments, as in the case of the physical sacrifices and ceremonial observances of the Old Law, which were never able to make those who offered them righteous. … Now let us consider the sacraments of the New Law, which are baptism, confirmation, the bread of blessing (that is, the eucharist), penance, extreme unction, ordination, and marriage. Some of these, such as baptism, provide a remedy against sin and confer the assistance of grace; others, such as marriage, are only a remedy; and others, such as the eucharist and ordination, strengthen us with grace and power.

Note the following points:

Case Study 2.4 The Interpretation of the Bible

The question of how the Bible is to be interpreted has always been of theological importance and was discussed at some length during the medieval period, particularly as the reading of the Bible played such an important role in monastic spirituality. It was during this era of Christian thought that the interpretive scheme usually known as the “Fourfold Sense of Scripture” received its final form. In view of the importance of this method, and its impact on the theology of the period, we shall consider it in a little detail.

One major issue concerned how Christians should interpret the Hebrew Bible – the Old Testament. How can its ideas, events, and individuals be related to the Christian gospel? In what way can the Old Testament be seen as an anticipation of the New? One of the most important early reflections on this question is found in the “Homily on the Passover” by the second-century theologian Melito of Sardis. The full text of this homily, which is believed to have been written in Greek between 160 and 170, became available in the late twentieth century, through the discovery of three manuscripts of the text. Melito develops the highly important idea that the Passover is to be seen as a “type” (Greek: typos) of the death of Christ. The form of biblical interpretation known as “typology” is the search for correspondence between events, persons, or things within the historical framework of revelation. The Passover once celebrated in Egypt is thus seen as prefiguring “Christ our Passover” (1 Corinthians 5:7), just as the passover lamb slain in Egypt is to be seen as anticipating the “Lamb slain from the foundation of the world” (Revelation 13:8). Similarly, the history of Israel in Egypt is to be seen as an anticipation of the history of Christ in Judaea, while the history of Christ in Judaea is to be seen as a recapitulation of the history of Israel in Egypt.

A major influence, especially within the Alexandrian school, at this time was the Jewish writer Philo of Alexandria (c.30 bc–c.45 ad). Philo argued that it was necessary to look beneath the surface meaning of scripture to discern a deeper meaning that lay beneath the surface of the text. In addition to the “literal” meaning of the text, there was a deeper “spiritual” meaning, which could be uncovered by treating the passages in question as allegories, pointing to these deeper truths.

These ideas were taken up by a group of Christian theologians based in the great cosmopolitan Egyptian city of Alexandria, such as Origen. The scope of the allegorical method can be seen from Origen’s interpretation of key Old Testament images. Joshua’s conquest of the promised land, interpreted allegorically, referred to Christ’s conquest of sin upon the cross, just as the sacrificial legislation in Leviticus pointed ahead to the spiritual sacrifices of Christians. It might at first sight seem that this represents a degeneration into “eisegesis,” in which the interpreter simply reads any meaning he or she likes into the text of Scripture. However, as the writings of Didymus the Blind make clear, this need not be the case. It seems that a consensus developed about the images and texts of the Old Testament that were to be interpreted allegorically. For example, Jerusalem regularly came to be seen as an allegory of the church.

In contrast, the Antiochene school placed an emphasis upon the interpretation of Scripture in the light of its historical context. This school, especially associated with writers such as Diodore of Tarsus, John Chrysostom, and Theodore of Mopsuestia, gave an emphasis to the historical location of Old Testament prophecies, which is quite absent from the writings of Origen and other representatives of the Alexandrian tradition. Thus Theodore, in dealing with Old Testament prophecy, stresses that the prophetic message was relevant to those to whom it was directly addressed, as well as having a developed meaning for a Christian readership. Every prophetic oracle is to be interpreted as having a single consistent historical or literal meaning. In consequence, Theodore tended to interpret relatively few Old Testament passages as referring directly to Christ, whereas the Alexandrian school regarded Christ as the hidden content of many Old Testament passages, both prophetic and historical.

In the western church a slightly distinct approach can be seen to develop, which would eventually find full expression in the Quadriga. This Latin term, which really means “a four-horse chariot,” sees the four senses of Scripture as the powerhouse of the church’s interpretation of the Bible. The roots of this idea lie in the patristic period. In many of his writings, Ambrose of Milan (c.337–397) developed a threefold understanding of the senses of Scripture: in addition to the natural sense, the interpreter may discern a moral and rational or theological sense. Augustine chose to follow this approach, and instead argued for a twofold sense – a literal–fleshly–historical approach and an allegorical–mystical–spiritual sense, although Augustine allows that some passages can possess both senses. “The sayings of the prophets are found to have a threefold meaning, in that some have in mind the earthly Jerusalem, others the heavenly city, and others refer to both.” To understand the Old Testament at a purely historical level is unacceptable; the key to its understanding lies in its correct interpretation. Among the major lines of “spiritual” interpretation, the following should be noted: Adam represents Christ; Eve represents the church; Noah’s ark represents the cross; the door of Noah’s ark represents Christ’s pierced side; the city of Jerusalem represents the heavenly Jerusalem.

By the use of such lines of analysis, Augustine is able to stress the unity of both Old and New Testaments. They bear witness to the same faith, even if its modes of expression may be different. Augustine expresses this idea in a text that has become of major importance to biblical interpretation, especially as it bears on the relation between Old and New Testaments: “The New Testament is hidden in the Old; the Old is made accessible by the New (In Vetere Novum latet et in Novo Vetus patet).”

This distinction between the literal or historical sense of Scripture, on the one hand, and a deeper spiritual or allegorical meaning, on the other, came to be generally accepted within the church during the early Middle Ages. The standard method of biblical interpretation used during the Middle Ages is usually known as the Quadriga, or the “fourfold sense of Scripture.” (The Latin word “Quadriga” originally meant a chariot drawn by four horses.) The origins of this method lie specifically in the distinction between the literal and spiritual senses. Scripture possesses four different senses. In addition to the literal sense, three non-literal senses can be distinguished: the allegorical, defining what Christians are to believe; the tropological or moral, defining what Christians are to do; and the anagogical, defining what Christians are to hope for. The four senses of Scripture were thus the following:

This scheme was often summed up by a Latin mnemonic, found in the writings of Augustine of Denmark and many other writers of the early Middle Ages:

Littera gesta docet, quid credas allegoria

Moralis quid agas, quid speres anagogia.

A rough translation of this is: “The literal [sense] teaches about deeds; the allegorical what to believe; the moral what to do; the anagogical what to hope for.”

A potential weakness was avoided by insisting that nothing should be believed on the basis of a non-literal sense of Scripture, unless it could first be established on the basis of the literal sense. This insistence on the priority of the literal sense of Scripture may be seen as an implied criticism of the allegorical approach adopted by Origen, which virtually allowed interpreters of Scripture to read whatever “spiritual” interpretations they liked into any passage.

So how was this method of biblical interpretation applied? An example will help understand the scope of the Quadriga, as well as indicate its potential limitations. In the course of his exposition of Song of Songs 1:16, written in Latin in the first half of the twelfth century, Bernard of Clairvaux provides an allegorical interpretation of the phrase “the beams of our houses are of cedar, and our panels are of cypress.”

By “houses” we are to understand the great mass of the Christian people, who are bound together with those who possess power and dignity, rulers of the church and the state, as “beams.” These hold them together by wise and firm laws; otherwise, if each of them were to operate in any way that they pleased, the walls would bend and collapse, and the whole house would fall in ruins. By the “panels,” which are firmly attached to the beams and which adorn the house in a royal manner, we are to understand the kindly and ordered lives of a properly instructed clergy and the proper administration of the rites of the church. Yet how can the clergy carry out their work, or the church discharge her duties, unless the princes, like strong and solid beams, sustain them through their goodwill and munificence, and protect them through their power?

This extract is an excellent illustration of the way in which doctrinal or spiritual meaning was “read into” otherwise unpromising passages at this time. Note especially the way in which developed meanings, often with virtually no connection with the text itself, were drawn out of the passage in question. The advantages and disadvantages of the method will be immediately obvious. On the positive side, significant meanings can be attached to otherwise apparently unimportant passages of the Bible; on the negative side, the meanings in question often rest on somewhat flimsy or even arbitrary foundations.

A further development of major importance to biblical interpretation in the later Middle Ages was the rise of Renaissance humanism, with its distinctive emphasis on returning to the original sources in the original languages. We shall explore this further in the following case study.

Case Study 2.5 Renaissance Humanism and the Bible

In our overview of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, we drew attention to the importance of humanism in relation to biblical scholarship in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and touched on the importance of translation alterations to theological revisionism. Since this is such an important issue for historical theology, we shall explore it in greater detail. The present case study aims to set out the implications of the methods and goals associated with the Renaissance for Christian theology at the time. We begin by exploring what a typical medieval theologian would have understood by the phrase “the Bible.”

When medieval theologians refer to “Scripture,” they almost invariably mean the Latin translation of the Bible widely referred to as the textus vulgatus (literally, the “common text,” always referred to as “the Vulgate” in English) developed by the great patristic biblical scholar Jerome in the late fourth and early fifth centuries. Although the term “Vulgate” did not come into general use until the sixteenth century, it is perfectly acceptable to use this term to refer to the specific Latin translation of the Bible prepared by Jerome in the late fourth and early fifth centuries. This text was passed down to the Middle Ages in a number of forms, with considerable variations between them. For example, Theodulf of Orléan and Alcuin of York, two noted scholars of the late eighth and early ninth centuries, used quite different versions of the Vulgate text. A new period of intellectual activity opened up in the eleventh century, leading to a resurgence of theological reflection and writing. It was clear that a standard version of the Vulgate text was required to service the new interest in theology that developed as part of this intellectual renaissance. If theologians were to base their theology upon different versions of the Vulgate, an equally great, if not greater, variation in their conclusions would be the inevitable result.

This need for standardization was met by what appears to have been a joint speculative venture by some Paris theologians and stationers in 1226, resulting in what is known as the “Paris version” of the Vulgate text. By then, Paris was recognized as the leading center of theological education in Europe, with the inevitable result that – despite its many obvious imperfections – the “Paris version” of the Vulgate became established as normative. This version, it must be emphasized, was not commissioned or sponsored by any ecclesiastical figure: it appears to have been a purely commercial venture. As a result, many medieval theologians depended on a rather bad commercial edition of an already faulty Latin translation of the Bible. The rise of humanist textual and philological techniques would expose the distressing discrepancies between the Vulgate and the texts it purported to translate – and thus open the way to doctrinal reformation as a consequence.

An important development was the rise of Hebrew linguistic and textual scholarship during the thirteenth century, especially at the University of Paris. David Kimhi (1160–1235) was of particular importance in developing introductions to Hebrew lexicography and grammar that became standard works in the Middle Ages, which were widely used by Christian biblical scholars. The increased accessibility of introductions to the Hebrew Bible led to growing Christian interest in the Hebrew text of the Old Testament and the question of how it was to be interpreted. The Franciscan Nicholas of Lyra (c.1370–1349), for example, drew on the works of the medieval French rabbi Rashi and other rabbinical scholars in developing his grasp of the Hebrew text and came to place an increasing emphasis on the literal sense of the biblical text in the process of interpretation – a theme that came to be increasingly associated with the Protestant Reformation.

So what was the significance of humanism in relation to the many theological questions concerning the authority, interpretation, and application of the Bible? The main elements of the humanist contribution to this important question are summarized below.

In what follows, we will look at two key passages in which humanist scholars detected translation errors and consider the theological implications of the translation changes that were introduced through humanist scholarship.

1. Matthew 4:17

This verse describes the beginning of the ministry of Jesus and the basic content of his preaching at this stage. The gospel of Matthew was widely used in the Middle Ages as a source for Christian teaching in parish sermons, with the result that this verse appears to have had considerable impact on the popular understanding of what Christianity was all about. The Vulgate Latin text reads as follows:

Exinde coepit Iesus praedicare et dicere paenitentiam agite adpropinquavit enim regnum caelorum.

A literal English translation of this Latin text is: “Then Jesus began to preach and say: ‘do penance (paenitentiam agite), for the kingdom of heaven has drawn near’.” The natural way of reading this would be to assume that Jesus was directing those who wished to respond to his preaching of the coming of the kingdom to “do penance” – that is, to confess their sins to a priest. There is thus a clearly implied link between the preaching of Jesus and the institution of the church. The Greek original, however, does not bear this meaning. The most natural translation of the Greek text of Matthew’s gospel at this point would be that Jesus is calling on people to “repent,” not to “do penance.” In other words, the original Greek text calls for a personal transformation of the individual, with no implied connection with the institution or sacraments of the church. The translation change thus had considerable theological implications.

2. Luke 1:28

This text describes what is generally known as “the annunciation” – that is, the declaration by Gabriel to Mary that she is to bear a child. The Latin of the Vulgate texts reads as follows:

Et ingressus angelus at eam dixit: ave gratia plena Dominus tecum benedicta tu in mulieribus.

A rough translation of this is: “And the angel went in, and said to her: ‘Hail, one that is full of grace (ave gratia plena) the Lord is with you, blessed are you among women.’” The implications of this greeting were considerable, in that the clear implication is that Mary is to be regarded as a person who is “full of grace.” In medieval theology, grace was characteristically thought of as a divine or quasi-divine substance, rather than a gracious attitude on the part of God. This passage would therefore have been understood to imply that Mary was a vessel containing grace and thus further to imply that access could be had to this grace by those who needed it in times of distress. These themes certainly became an important aspect of late medieval Marian spirituality. However, humanist scholars (such as Erasmus) argued that the Greek original of the gospel text could not be translated in this way. The natural interpretation of the text would be to refer to Mary as “one who has found favor [with God],” an idea that is better expressed in the Latin term gratificata rather than gratia plena. The implications of this translation alteration for both theology and spirituality were thus potentially considerable.

Case Study 2.6 Augustinianism and Pelagianism in Late Medieval Theology

The late medieval period saw some fascinating theological developments taking place. These are often interpreted (especially in older textbooks) in terms of a confrontation between “Nominalism” and “Augustinianism” within the scholastic theology of the later Middle Ages. In recent years, however, considerable progress has been made in understanding the nature of late medieval scholasticism, leading to a rewriting of the intellectual history of the early Reformation. In what follows, we shall attempt to present an up-to-date account of trends in late medieval scholasticism and assess their significance.

An earlier generation of scholars, writing in the period 1920–1965, regarded “nominalism” as a religious school of thought that captured most northern European university faculties of theology in the later Middle Ages. It proved remarkably difficult, however, to identify the exact features of this theology. Some “nominalist” theologians (such as William of Ockham and Gabriel Biel) seemed to be very optimistic about human abilities, suggesting that it was possible for a human being to do everything that was necessary to enter into a relationship with God. Other “nominalist” theologians (such as Gregory of Rimini and Hugolino of Orvieto) appeared to be profoundly pessimistic about those same abilities, suggesting that without the grace of God, humanity was totally unable to enter into such a relationship. It seemed that the word “nominalist” was incoherent, of no real value to scholarship. In desperation, scholars began to speak of “nominalistic diversity.” Eventually, however, the real solution to the problem emerged: there were actually two different schools of thought, the sole common feature of which was a philosophical anti-realism or nominalism. Both schools adopted a nominalist position in matters of logic and the theory of knowledge – but their theological positions differed radically. It was possible to combine a nominalist theory of knowledge with a theology that came close to Pelagianism or one that was strongly Augustinian.

The term via moderna is now becoming generally accepted as the best way of referring to the movement once known as “nominalism,” including among its representatives such leading fourteenth- and fifteenth-century thinkers as William of Ockham, Pierre d’Ailly, Robert Holcot, and Gabriel Biel. During the fifteenth century, the via moderna began to make significant inroads into many northern European universities – for example, at Paris, Heidelberg, and Erfurt (Martin Luther would study theology at the University of Erfurt in the early 1500s). In addition to its philosophical nominalism, the movement adopted a doctrine of justification that many of its critics branded “Pelagian.” In view of the importance of this form of scholasticism to Luther’s theological breakthrough, we shall explain its understanding of justification in some detail.

The central feature of the soteriology, or doctrine of salvation, of the via moderna is a covenant between God and humanity. The later Middle Ages saw the development of political and economic theories based upon the concept of a covenant (for example, between a king and his people) and the theologians of the via moderna were quick to realize the theological potential of this idea. Just as a political covenant between a king and his people defined the obligations of king to people and people to king, so a religious covenant between God and his people defined God’s obligations to his people and their obligation to God. This covenant was not negotiated, of course, but was unilaterally imposed by God. The theologians of the via moderna were able to develop this theme – already familiar to readers of the Old Testament – using ideas borrowed from their own political and economic world.

According to these theologians, the covenant between God and human beings established the conditions necessary for justification. God has ordained to accept an individual, on condition that this individual first fulfills certain demands. These demands were summarized using the Latin tag facere quod in se est, literally “doing what lies within you” or “doing your best.” When individuals met this precondition, God was obliged, by the terms of the covenant, to accept them. A Latin maxim was often used to express this point: facientibus quod in se est Deus non denegat gratiam, “God will not deny grace to those who do what lies within them.” The noted late medieval theologian Gabriel Biel, who is known to have influenced Luther through his writings, explained that “doing your best” meant rejecting evil and trying to do good.

At this point, the parallels between the theology of the via moderna and Pelagius become obvious. Both assert that men and women are accepted on the basis of their own efforts and achievements. Both assert that human works place God under an obligation to reward them. It would seem that the writers of the via moderna are simply reproducing the ideas of Pelagius, using a more sophisticated covenantal framework. At this point, however, the theologians of the via moderna drew upon contemporary economic theory to argue that they were doing nothing of the sort. Their use of late medieval economic theory is fascinating, in that it illustrates the extent to which medieval theologians were prepared to exploit ideas drawn from their social context. We shall consider their argument in some detail.

The classic example invariably cited by these theologians to illustrate the relation between good works and justification is the king and the small lead coin. Most medieval coinage systems used gold and silver coins. This had the advantage of guaranteeing the value of the coins, even if it also encouraged the practice of “clipping” precious metal from the coin’s sides. The introduction of milled edges to coins represented an attempt to prevent removal of gold or silver in this way. Occasionally, however, kings found themselves in a financial crisis, through war, for example. A standard way of meeting this was to recall gold and silver coins, and melt them down. The gold and silver thus retrieved could be used to finance a war.

In the meantime, however, currency of some sort was still required. To meet this need, small leaden coins were issued, which bore the same face value as the gold and silver coins. Although their inherent value was negligible, their ascribed or imposed value was considerable. The king would promise to replace the lead coins with their gold or silver equivalents once the financial crisis was past. The value of the lead coins thus resided in the king’s promise to redeem them at their full ascribed value at a later date. The value of a gold coin derives from the gold – but the value of these special lead coin derives from the royal covenant to treat these coins as if they were gold. A similar situation, of course, exists in most modern economies. For example, paper money is of negligible inherent value. Its value derives from the promise of the issuing bank to honor its notes to their full face value.

The theologians of the via moderna used this economic analogy to counter the charge of Pelagianism. To the suggestion that they were exaggerating the value of human works (in that they seemed to be making them capable of meriting salvation), they replied that they were doing nothing of the sort. Human works were like lead coins, they argued – of little inherent value. However, God had ordained, through the covenant, to treat them as if they were of much greater value, in just the same way as a king could treat a lead coin as if it were gold. Pelagius, they conceded, certainly treated human works as if they were gold, capable of purchasing salvation. However, they were arguing that human works were like lead: the only reason they were of any value was that God had graciously undertaken to treat them as if they were much more valuable. The theological exploitation of the difference between the inherent and imposed value of coins thus served to get the theologians of the via moderna out of a potentially awkward situation, even it if would not satisfy their more severe critics, such as Martin Luther.

It is this “covenantal” understanding of justification that underlies Martin Luther’s theological breakthrough, to which we shall return in a later case study. Our attention now turns to a trend within late medieval scholastic theology that re-embraced the ideas of Augustine, in deliberate opposition to the via moderna – the movement that is now generally known as the Schola Augustiniana Moderna, the “modern Augustinian school.”

The University of Oxford was one of the strongholds of the via moderna in the early fourteenth century. A group of thinkers, largely based in Merton College, developed the ideas on justification noted above, characteristic of the via moderna. It was also at Oxford that the first backlash against this movement occurred. The individual responsible for this backlash was Thomas Bradwardine, later to become Archbishop of Canterbury, who wrote a furious attack on the ideas of the Oxford representatives of the via moderna, entitled De causa Dei contra Pelagium, “The case of God against Pelagius.” In this book, he charged his Merton colleagues with being “modern Pelagians” and developed a theory of justification that represented a return to the views of Augustine, as they are found in the anti-Pelagian writings. Important though Oxford was as a theological center, the Hundred Years War led to it becoming increasingly isolated from the continent of Europe.

Although Bradwardine’s ideas would be developed in England by John Wycliffe, they were taken up on the mainland of Europe by Gregory of Rimini at the University of Paris. Gregory had one particularly significant advantage over Bradwardine: he was a member of a religious order (the Order of the Hermits of St. Augustine, generally referred to as the “Augustinian Order”). Just as the Dominicans propagated the views of Thomas Aquinas and the Franciscans those of Duns Scotus, so the Augustinians would promote the ideas of Gregory of Rimini. It is this transmission of an Augustinian tradition, deriving from Gregory of Rimini, within the Augustinian Order that is increasingly referred to as the “modern Augustinian school,” schola Augustiniana moderna. Its general features can be described as follows.

First, Gregory adopted a nominalist view on the question of universals. Like many thinkers of his time, he had little time for the realism of Thomas Aquinas or Duns Scotus. In this respect, he has much in common with thinkers of the via moderna, such as Robert Holcot or Gabriel Biel. Second, Gregory developed a soteriology, or doctrine of salvation, which reflects the influence of Augustine. We find an emphasis upon the need for grace, upon the fallenness and sinfulness of humanity, upon the divine initiative in justification, and upon divine predestination. Salvation is understood to be totally a work of God, from its beginning to its end. Where the theologians of the via moderna held that humans could initiate their justification by “doing their best,” Gregory insisted that only God could initiate justification. The via moderna held that most (but not all) necessary soteriological resources were located within human nature. The merits of Christ are an example of a resource lying outside humanity; the ability to desist from sin and turn to righteousness is, for a writer such as Biel, an example of a vital soteriological resource located within humanity.

In marked contrast, Gregory of Rimini argued that these resources were located exclusively outside human nature. Even the ability to desist from sin and turn to righteousness arose through the action of God, not a human action. It is obvious that these represent two totally different ways of understanding the human and divine roles in justification.

Although this academic Augustinianism was particularly associated with the Augustinian Order, not every Augustinian monastery or university school seems to have adopted its ideas. Nevertheless, it seems that a school of thought that was strongly Augustinian in cast was in existence in the late Middle Ages on the eve of the Reformation. In many ways, the Wittenberg reformers, with their particular emphasis upon the anti-Pelagian writings of Augustine, may be regarded as having rediscovered and revitalized this tradition. As a result, were leading reformers, such as Luther or Calvin, influenced, directly or indirectly, by this Augustinian tradition? While this question is too complex to be discussed in detail here, it may be noted that there are excellent reasons for suggesting that both may have been influenced by currents of thought in late medieval scholasticism (although the extent and nature of that influence is a matter for some debate).

We may illustrate this point by considering the case of John Calvin (1509–1564). Calvin began his academic career at the University of Paris in the 1520s. As study after study has made clear, the University of Paris – and especially Calvin’s college within that University, the Collège de Montaigu – was a stronghold of the via moderna. During his four or five years studying at the faculty of arts at Paris, Calvin could not have avoided encountering the leading ideas of this movement. One especially obvious point of affinity between Calvin and late medieval theology concerns voluntarism – the doctrine that the ultimate grounds of merit lie in the will of God, not in the intrinsic goodness of an action. To explore this doctrine, let us consider a human moral action – for example, giving money to a charity. What is the meritorious value of this action? What is it worth in the sight of God? The relation between the moral (that is, the human) and the meritorious (that is, the divine) value of actions was of major concern to late medieval theologians. Two distinct approaches developed: the intellectualist and the voluntarist.

The intellectualist approach argued that the divine intellect recognized the inherent moral value of an act and rewarded it accordingly. There was a direct connection between the moral and the meritorious. The voluntarist approach rejected this, arguing that it made God dependent upon his creatures. The meritorious value of a human action could not be allowed to be predetermined; God had to be free to choose whatever value he liked. There was thus no necessary connection between the moral and the meritorious. So the meritorious value of a human action does not rest upon its inherent value, but is grounded solely in the worth that God chooses to impose upon it. This principle is summarized in the maxim of Duns Scotus (usually, though not entirely correctly, regarded as the originator of the trend toward voluntarism in later medieval thought), to the effect that the value of an offering is determined solely by the divine will, rather than by its inherent goodness. The divine will chose to impose whatever value it cared upon human actions, preserving the freedom of God. In the later Middle Ages, the voluntarist position gained increasing sympathy, especially within radical Augustinian circles. Most theologians of the via moderna and schola Augustiniana moderna adopted it.

In the Institutes, Calvin adopts exactly this voluntarist position in relation to the merit of Christ. Although this is implicit in earlier editions of the work, it is only explicitly stated in the 1559 edition, in the aftermath of Calvin’s correspondence with the Italian biblical scholar Laelius Socinus (1525–1562) on the subject. In 1555, Calvin responded to questions raised by Socinus concerning the merit of Christ and the assurance of faith, and appears to have incorporated these replies directly into the text of the 1559 edition of the Institutes.

The issue concerns the basis of salvation. The death of Christ on the cross is, as Calvin points out, foundational for Christian thinking about salvation. However, why should the death of Christ have such enormous importance? Why is the death of Christ – rather than of any other individual – declared to be of unique significance? In the course of this correspondence, Calvin considers this question, known technically as the ratio meriti Christi (the basis of the merit of Christ). Why is Christ’s death on the cross sufficient to purchase the redemption of humanity? Is it something intrinsic to the person of Christ, as Luther had argued? For Luther, the divinity of Christ was adequate grounds for declaring that his death was uniquely important. Or was it that God chose to accept Christ’s death as sufficient to merit the redemption of humanity? Was this value intrinsic to Christ’s death or was it imposed upon it by God?

Calvin makes clear his view that the basis of Christ’s merit is not located in Christ’s offering of himself (which would correspond to an intellectualist approach to the ratio meriti Christi), but in the divine decision to accept such an offering as being of sufficient merit for the redemption of humanity (which corresponds to the voluntarist approach). For Calvin, “apart from God’s good pleasure, Christ could not merit anything.” The continuity between Calvin and the late medieval voluntarist tradition will be evident.

In the past, this similarity between Calvin and Scotus has been taken to imply the direct influence of Scotus on Calvin. In fact, however, Calvin’s continuity appears to be with the late medieval voluntarist tradition, deriving from William of Ockham and Gregory of Rimini, in relation to which Scotus marks a point of transition. No reason may be given for the meritorious nature of Christ’s sacrifice, save that God benevolently ordained to accept it as such. The continuity of Calvin with this later tradition is evident.

This observation provides a convenient transition to the next part of this work, which deals with the fascinating period of the Reformation itself.

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