The case for Aristotelian metaphysics (part 2 of 2)

Part 1

Substance and accident

    As we’ve seen, in any instance of change, there must be both something that changes and something that underlies and persists through the change. In ordinary cases of change, the principle of persistence is a substance and the principle of change is an accident. For example, when a banana changes from yellow to green, its yellowness (an accident) goes from potency to act, and the banana itself (a substance) persists through the change. Likewise, when an object moves spatially, its location (an accident) changes while the object itself (a substance) persists.

    What exactly is a substance? To put it in more familiar terms, a substance is an object and its accidents are its properties. A substance is an object that has independent ontological reality, so that accidents (like color, shape, and size) inhere in substances, but substances don’t inhere in anything else. The banana’s yellowness exists in the banana and can’t exist apart from it, but the banana itself exists independently of other things. A substance also has causal powers that are irreducible to the powers of its parts, which distinguishes it from a mere aggregate (like a pile of rocks). This gives us three interlocking principles for identifying a substance:

1. It underlies and persists through ordinary instances of change.

2. It has independent ontological reality.

3. It has powers that are irreducible to those of its parts.

Accidents, on the other hand, are what change during ordinary instances of change, and they don’t have ontological reality apart from the substances in which they inhere.

    Using this definition of substance, the fundamental particles are substances. Fundamental particles persist through change (such as change in spatial location), they have ontological reality apart from other particles, and their powers are irreducible, since they have no (physical) parts that their powers could reduce to. Whether other substances exist depends on whether reductionism is true – Aristotelians are almost all anti-reductionists, accepting that (some) wholes are more than the sum of their parts, and that ordinary, natural objects like water, stones, and trees are substances. (I won’t defend this view here, but it’s worth noting that reductionism has been largely abandoned in chemistry and biology; see the SEP articles on these topics for explanation.)

The bundle theory of substances

    There is some kind of substance/accident distinction, as even hyper-reductionists must accept about fundamental particles. But how exactly do substances relate to accidents? There are a few different views in modern philosophy. One of the most common views is the ‘bundle theory,’ which originated with David Hume. According to the bundle theory, objects are only the aggregates of all their properties. A banana is the aggregate of its yellowness, its firmness, its shape and size, its spatial location, etc., and nothing over and above those properties.

    This view basically amounts to a denial that substances really exist; accidents alone exist, and so-called ‘substances’ are just aggregates of accidents. So does this denial of substance lead to any problems? Yes, there are serious issues with the bundle theory. First, it’s unable to account for persistence through change. The bundle of banana attributes that includes greenness isn’t numerically identical to the bundle that includes yellowness, in the same way that a pile of rocks isn’t numerically identical to the pile with one of the rocks replaced. Mere aggregates don’t persist through the replacement of their parts, without something underlying that ties them together and accounts for identity over time. Therefore, denying the reality of substance leads to the Heraclitean error.

    The bundle theory also leads to a few other puzzles. If objects are merely bundles of accidents, why can’t an accident leave the bundle and exist on its own or in another bundle? It’s impossible for this banana’s yellowness to exist in any other object. For that matter, what makes the bundle stay together if there’s no substance underlying it? The banana’s color, shape, and size can’t break away from each other, of course, but it’s difficult for the bundle theory to account for this fact.

    Finally, what distinguishes different objects’ accidents from each other? A substance theorist can say that this banana’s yellowness and that banana’s yellowness are distinguished because they inhere in two different substances. A bundle theorist, on the other hand, has to say that they’re distinguished by the bundles to which they belong. But the bundles are themselves defined by their accidents, since there’s nothing else underlying them. Therefore, the bundle theorist’s explanation for how yellowness in general is tied down and distinguished in different objects is circular.

Bare substrata?

    These problems with bundle theory show that substances must really exist and underlie their accidents. But if substances by themselves have no accidents, are they nothing more than bare substrata or ‘thin particulars’ with no features? This has often been seen as the alternative to bundle theory. John Locke, who accepted the existence of substances, famously referred to substance as “a something I know not what” because of its apparent featurelessness.

    However, this bare substratum theory is also problematic. It leaves no room for an explanation of what a thing is, and why certain accidents are proper to some things but not others. (For example, it’s proper for a human to have arms and legs, but not a banana.) Is it right to say that “Bertrand Russell could have been a fried egg” or that “this banana could have been a dog”? It seems intuitively wrong to say that one and the same thing could have been two very different kinds of things. But according to the bare substratum theory, these statements are true, since the underlying substance is utterly featureless with nothing to determine which accidents are proper to it.

    This problem demonstrates the need for the Aristotelian notion of essence, the quiddity or “what it is” of a thing. Substances aren’t utterly featureless substrata; they have essences intrinsic to them, that determine which accidents are proper to them. One and the same substance can’t be a human or a fried egg, a banana or a dog. It could only be one of these things because it has just one essence. In order to preserve the substance/accident distinction (and avoid bundle theory), essences can’t be accidents or bundles of accidents; instead, essences are things from which certain accidents (proper accidents, or essential properties) flow.

Matter and form

    The reality of change and persistence, in ordinary instances of change, show that there must be a real distinction between substance and accident. But what about substantial changes where one substance changes into another? In this case, what underlies the change can’t itself be a substance; it must be something that isn’t a substance, but is capable of taking on new accidents and powers. Aristotle referred to this as “matter” (hylē). And what changes can’t be an accident, since entirely new powers are taken on during substantial change; it must be something in virtue of which matter comes to have new accidents and powers. Aristotle referred to this as “form” (morphē).

    If substantial change occurs, then physical objects must be composites of matter and form. As it turns out, even hyper-reductionists must accept the reality of substantial change (and thus of matter and form), since fundamental particles can decay into other types of fundamental particles. For example, a muon decays into an electron and two neutrinos. Therefore, even if fundamental particles are the only real substances, they must be composed of matter and form.

    Later Aristotelian philosophers further distinguished between prime matter and secondary matter, and between substantial form and accidental form. Prime matter is utterly featureless, pure potentiality, which can’t exist apart from form; substantial form is what informs prime matter with an essence. These are the principles of persistence and change, respectively, in cases of substantial form. Secondary matter is matter that is already informed by some substantial form; accidental form is what informs secondary matter with its accidental properties, which can change without changing the substance itself.

    Let’s return to our banana example. In this case, the banana itself is a composite of prime matter and substantial form; in other words, it’s made up of secondary matter. When it changes from green to yellow, the accidental form of the banana changes, but its substantial form remains the same (i.e., it continues to be a banana). Or take the example of a statue. The clay that makes up the statue is a composite of prime matter and substantial form. The statue itself, on the other hand, is composed of secondary matter (i.e., the clay) and an accidental form (i.e., the shape of the statue).

Forms as universals

    We’ve already seen, in three different contexts, the need for essence/substantial form in metaphysics. But are essences particulars or universals? That is, does every individual substance have its own unique essence, or is there such a thing as an essence like humanity that’s shared by every human? We can ask the same question about accidental forms. For example, does each ‘red’ thing have its own unique accidental form that we call ‘redness,’ or is there really such a thing as redness that’s shared by every red thing?

    Some philosophers deny the reality of universals, arguing that even though we call different things by the same name (e.g., ‘human’ or ‘red’), each thing is really completely unique. This position is called nominalism. One of the most prominent nominalists is William of Ockham, who used his famous razor to ‘shave off’ universals from his ontology, since he thought that they were superfluous and didn’t actually explain anything.

    However, there are a few serious problems with nominalism. For one thing, it seems to be incompatible with the pursuit of logic, mathematics, and science. Science relies on our ability to generalize the results of our experiments. For example, if I perform an experiment on the group dynamics of a population of fish, I have to assume the results can be generalized (at least) to the whole species, not just that population, or else my experiment is basically pointless. Likewise, when someone discovers a new valid argument form, or a new mathematical proof, we assume that the results can be generalized to multiple situations, or else the discovery is basically useless.

    Furthermore, nominalism has a problem with explaining resemblance between things. According to nominalists, red things don’t instantiate the universal redness, but merely resemble each other in such a way that we call them ‘red.’ But as Bertrand Russell noted, in this case resemblance is also a universal, which is instantiated in multiple relationships between things. The nominalist could respond that we call these relationships ‘resemblance,’ but it’s not mind-independent; we only call these instances by the same name because of some other relationship between them, let’s call it super-resemblance. But this would also be a universal. So if nominalism is true, the resemblance between things is either a vicious infinite regress, or (if we stop the regress at an arbitrary point) a brute fact.

    Finally, the nominalist says that the universal redness doesn’t exist, we just use the word ‘red’ to describe different things. But words are also universals! If nominalism is true, then each time someone uses the word ‘red,’ it’s not actually the same word, just different words that resemble each other. But communication relies on words having determinate meaning; if they didn’t, then we couldn’t really know what other people mean by a word. This makes nominalism self-undermining, since no one else could truly understand what the nominalist’s arguments mean.

    These problems show that (at least some) universals must be real. Even if redness and other colors aren’t universals – suppose that they’re reducible to the wavelengths of photons – even hyper-reductionists have to agree that some universals exist. (The laws of nature depend on universals being real; for example, Coulomb’s law claims to be generalizable to all charged objects, which relies on the reality of negative charge and positive charge as universals.)

    Therefore, substantial forms (like humanity and electron-ness) and accidental forms (like negative charge) are universals. This further demonstrates the need for matter (in the Aristotelian sense), as a limiting principle of form. The substantial form banana-ness doesn’t exist in any spatial location, nor is it identical to any particular individual; it requires matter to tie it down to a specific location and individual, making a concrete banana out of abstract banana-ness.

Material and formal causes

    This understanding of matter and form allows us to round out the Aristotelian theory of causation. In Aristotle’s thought, a cause is anything that explains “why”: why a thing is the way that it is, and changes the way that it does. We’ve already seen his concept of efficient cause, which is what we usually mean by “cause,” and final cause, which is a thing’s disposition to act and change in a particular way. There’s also material cause, which refers to the matter that makes up a thing, and formal cause, which refers to the form of a thing.

    All four of these types of causes interact to explain why a thing is the way that it is. Take the example of a statue. The efficient cause of the statue is the artist who sculpted it. The final cause of the statue is its end purpose, which could be decoration. The material cause of the statue is the clay from which it is made. The formal cause of the statue is its shape. Each of these things partially explains the “why” of the statue, and all four together give a complete explanation of its “why.”

Essence and existence

    So far, we’ve examined cases of accidental and substantial change, but what about the most extreme cases of change: coming into existence (creation) and going out of existence (annihilation)? Aristotle didn’t investigate such instances of change, but later Aristotelians did, like Ibn Sina (Avicenna) and Thomas Aquinas. In cases of creation and annihilation, the principle of change must be existence itself, since a thing goes from existing to not existing (or vice versa). What persists through the change is the (universal) essence of the thing. For example, if our banana ceases to exist – even if all bananas cease to exist – then banana-ness in the abstract will persist.

    There are a few ways to avoid this conclusion. You could simply deny that anything is really created or annihilated. The first law of thermodynamics – that energy can’t be created nor destroyed – might support this view. However, that law only tells us what is physically impossible, not that creation and annihilation are metaphysically impossible. Furthermore, it says nothing about the creation or annihilation of things other than energy. Science tells us that there was a time when no humans existed, when no liquid water existed, even when no atoms existed... Since these things are kinds of substances (in the Aristotelian sense), the essence/existence distinction would apply to them.

    But why should we believe that anything persists through the annihilation of a thing? Simply put, because what it is to be that thing (i.e., its essence) would remain. Even though (non-avian) dinosaurs have long been extinct, dinosaur-ness persists (otherwise we couldn’t study them). Likewise, even though unicorns don’t exist (and have never existed), we can grasp unicorn-ness. Even if there were no countable objects in the world (e.g., if only God existed), mathematical truths like 2 + 2 = 4 would still be true. And if all bananas suddenly went extinct, it would be possible for a banana to exist again in the future (for example, through genetic engineering), which shows that banana-ness persists.

Acts of existence

    We’ve now seen that essence and existence must be distinct, but what exactly is existence? We can run through the same possibilities that we did about the laws of nature: either existence refers to something extrinsic to a thing, something neither extrinsic nor intrinsic, or intrinsic to a thing.

    If existence refers to something extrinsic, it could be something personal outside the natural order (i.e., God) or something impersonal outside the natural order (i.e., a Platonic form). The first option directly leads to pantheism, since it means that the existence of anything just refers to God existing. Most people won’t want to accept this huge theoretical cost. The second option says that things exist by participating in some Platonic Form of Existence. But this leads to a vicious circle: the Form of Existence exists, which means that it exists by participating in itself, which means that it’s explanatorily prior to itself.

    This shows that a thing’s existence can’t merely refer to something outside of itself. But what if existence is simply a fact, not any ontological reality extrinsic or intrinsic to a thing? This is similar to the Frege-Russell-Quine view held by most analytic philosophers, who see the statement that “xs exist” as meaning nothing more than “there are xs,” not analyzable as anything more than that. But this view doesn’t explain how some possible kinds of things exist and others don’t, it simply asserts that they do. (In fact, on this view, statements like “unicorns don’t exist” are contradictions, since they boil down to “the existing unicorns don’t exist.”) This boils down to the Parmenidean error of denying that potentials exist, since it denies that we can make true statements about anything that doesn’t actually exist. (For further problems with this view, see Nevitt 2018.)

    If existence isn’t something extrinsic to a thing, and it isn’t neither extrinsic nor intrinsic, then it must be intrinsic to a thing. This leads to the Aristotelian notion of existence as an act which is intrinsic to a thing. For the reasons described earlier, a thing’s act of existence must be really distinct from its essence (at least, in ordinary things). Nor can a thing’s existence flow from its essence, because then every possible essence would exist, which isn’t the case. Its existence must be prior to, and actualize, its essence. (This naturally leads to the question of what unites a thing’s essence to its act of existence, but that’s outside the scope of this post.)

    We can arrive at the same conclusion if we consider what accounts for the existence of a material substance (matter-form composite). Form by itself can’t account for the substance’s existence, since then every possible form would actually exist as a substance. Matter by itself (i.e., prime matter) is pure potentiality, so it can’t account for the actual existence of anything. The matter-form composite can’t account for its own existence, since this would be a vicious explanatory circle. Therefore, there must be something in addition to and prior to both matter and form, which accounts for the substance’s existence: this is its act of existence.

The unity and simplicity of existence

    In his work De Ente et Essentia, Aquinas offers another argument for the real distinction between essence and existence. He tries to show that, if there were a being whose essence is its existence, there could only be one such being and it would be simple (without parts). Since none of the things we ordinarily observe are like that, essence and existence must be really distinct in all those things.

    First, consider that this thing in which essence and existence aren’t distinct must have a perfectly simple essence. Existence couldn’t merely be a part of its essence, because existence would have to be prior to the other part(s) of its essence and actualize them (see above). There would still be a real distinction between its existence and this other part(s), so the other part(s) would be the real essence of the thing, and it would still be an essence-existence composite. Something that has no essence/existence distinction would have to have an essence that is pure existence with no composition.

    It follows that this thing would also not be a composite of matter and form, since its essence (substantial form) would be to exist, and it would subsist on its own without entering into composition with matter. It wouldn’t be a composite of substance and accidents, since it would be a self-subsisting substantial form, and accidental forms inhere in material substances – not substantial forms. Since it isn’t composed in any of these ways, it would be immutable, unable to undergo any of the types of change we’ve examined, and therefore timeless. Furthermore, it would necessarily exist, and would be unable to come into existence or go out of existence, because its essence is to exist.

    Now consider the following principle:

Identity of Necessary Indiscernibles (INI): it is impossible for there to be separate entities that have all of their properties, including possible properties, in common.

Note that this is a weaker principle than the Identity of Indiscernibles, which is the above principle minus the “including possible properties” caveat. There are several proposed counterexamples to II, but those don’t apply to INI. INI says that if it’s not even possible to distinguish between two things (i.e., they necessarily share the same properties), then they’re one and the same thing.

    If there were two beings of pure existence, they would both be an individual, self-subsisting substantial form which just is pure existence. They couldn’t be distinguished by something over and above existence in their essence, since their essence is pure existence. They couldn’t be distinguished by different parcels of matter, like we normally distinguish different material substances of the same kind, since they have no matter. They couldn’t be distinguished by different accidents, since accidental forms inhere in material substances, not in other (substantial) forms. Since it’s not even possible to distinguish two beings of pure existence, there could only be one such being.

    This shows that a being whose essence and existence aren’t distinct would be utterly unique, simple, immaterial, immutable, timeless, and impossible to come into or go out of existence. Such a being, if it exists, could only be God. Since none of the natural objects we ordinarily observe are like this, existence and essence must be really distinct in all those things.

Conclusion

    Understanding the reality of change and persistence allows us to carve reality at its joints and find the metaphysical realities that underlie the physical world, in line with Aristotelian metaphysics. From these principles we can deduce the reality of (and distinction between) substance and accident, matter and form, and essence and existence. All the natural things we see in the world are metaphysical composites of these underlying realities.

    Why is this important? For one, even though we don’t often think about these things, they’re necessary for us to truly discover anything about the world. Philosophers and scientists who deny the reality of any of these principles inevitably fall into the Parmenidean error of denying change or the Heraclitean error of denying persistence, which undermines their own pursuit of truth. Furthermore, carving reality at its joints allows us to get at the most basic level of reality, beyond what science can discover. This furthers our knowledge of the world, which is valuable in its own right.

    Finally, Aristotelian metaphysics, better than any other metaphysical framework, helps us discover the existence of God. Aristotle himself, even though he lived in a pagan context, deduced from his own metaphysics the existence of a transcendent, unique, personal, intrinsically relational Being at the most fundamental level of reality. He effectively developed the first philosophical argument for God’s existence, and his arguments were further developed and improved upon by his followers (like Thomas Aquinas). I didn’t really get into arguments for God in this post, but I might in the future.

The case for Aristotelian metaphysics (part 1 of 2)

    In my recent philosophical posts, I’ve presupposed a background of Aristotelian metaphysics, but without giving any serious justification for this. In this post, I’ll actually provide a case for the truth of (at least the basics of) Aristotelian metaphysics, starting with the distinction between act and potency. I think these basics are actually pretty intuitive and can be deduced from obvious features of the world, especially the reality of change.

Act and potency

    Aristotelian metaphysics is centered around the analysis of change, from which the distinction between act (or actuality) and potency (or potentiality) is deduced. For example, a banana could be actually green and potentially yellow; its potency for yellowness does exist (otherwise it couldn’t become yellow), but not actually (otherwise it would already be yellow). Why should we believe this, rather than just saying that the banana is green now and will be yellow later? To understand Aristotle’s theory of act and potency, we have to look at the alternative views of change held by pre-Aristotelian philosophers.

    The Eleatic philosophical school, led by Parmenides of Elea, denied the existence of change. He began from the assumption that there are only two possibilities for a thing: being or non-being. If the banana is green, then the banana’s greenness exists, and the banana’s yellowness doesn’t exist. But nothing can arise from non-existence – ex nihilo nihil fit (“nothing comes from nothing”). Therefore, anything that does not now exist can never exist, and change is impossible. The Heraclitean philosophical school, led by Heraclitus of Ephesus, went to the other extreme and said that only change exists. There’s no such thing as being, only becoming. The green banana ceases to exist when the yellow banana begins to exist, and there’s no “banana” that persists through the change and stays the same.

    Both of these views turn out to be self-defeating. According to the Eleatic view, change is an illusion. But this means that Parmenides himself can’t move from considering the premises of his argument to the conclusion; his reasoning process is itself an illusion. According to the Heraclitean view, nothing actually exists for more than a fleeting moment. But then the “Heraclitus” who considers the premises of his argument isn’t the same person as the “Heraclitus” who reaches the conclusion; his reasoning process is also an illusion. Unless change happens and we persist through change, no philosophical argument could possibly be valid.

    How can we avoid the self-defeating extremes of the Eleatics and Heracliteans? Aristotle argued against them by denying that only “being” exists (per Parmenides) or only “becoming” exists (per Heraclitus). Instead, between actual existence and non-existence, there is potential existence; “being” (act) and “becoming” (potency) are complementary aspects of reality. This distinction between act and potency is necessary to make sense of change.

    While the banana is actually green (i.e., its greenness exists actually), it’s potentially yellow (i.e., its yellowness exists potentially). Because the banana’s yellowness is potential, not non-existent, the banana can turn yellow without anything arising from non-being, contrary to Parmenides. Because the banana’s yellowness is potential, the banana persists through the change from greenness to yellowness, contrary to Heraclitus. The distinction and balance between act and potency, between persistence and change, makes a middle ground possible between the twin errors of Parmenides and Heraclitus.

    Aristotle’s distinction between act and potency also helps to solve the classical problem of “the one and the many,” the balance between unity and multiplicity in the world. Parmenides argued that there’s really only one thing in the world, based on a dilemma: if there are multiple things, are they distinguished by being or by non-being? They can’t be distinguished by being, because they share being (i.e., they exist); but they can’t be distinguished by non-being, since non-being doesn’t exist by definition. Therefore, there can only be one thing. Heraclitus’ view, on the other hand, leads to a radical multiplicity in the world. Since nothing persists through change, the things that exist now aren’t the same as the things that exist at any other time.

    Once again, the Eleatic view of perfect unity and the Heraclitean view of perfect multiplicity turn out to be self-defeating. If Parmenides is right that there’s only one thing, then the premises and conclusion of his argument are the same thing; his reasoning is an illusion. If Heraclitus is right that the things we experience aren’t really unified or connected to each other across change, then neither are his premises and conclusion really connected to each other. 

    Aristotle’s view again charts a middle path between these two extremes. By accounting for another kind of being, potential being, in between actual being and non-being, we avoid the two horns of Parmenides’ dilemma and can allow for the existence of multiple things in the world. Furthermore, since the distinction between act and potency allows for the persistence of objects through change, it can allow for the unity of ordinary things over time and across change, contrary to Heraclitus.

    In summary, the distinction between act and potency is necessary to make sense of the reality of change, persistence, unity, and multiplicity. In contrast to the Eleatic school’s claim that only “being,” persistence, and unity are real, and the Heraclitean school’s claim that only “becoming,” change, and multiplicity are real, Aristotelians can accept the reality of all these things. This is because act (or actuality) serves as the principle of persistence and unity, while potency (or potentiality) serves as the principle of change and multiplicity. Any attempt to deny the reality of either act or potency is ultimately self-defeating.

The reality of essence

    The ideas of essences and powers are also central to Aristotelian metaphysics. A power is a disposition of a thing for change. These can be divided into active powers, which are dispositions to cause changes in other things, and passive powers, which are dispositions of a thing to be changed in some way. A thing’s potencies are directed toward specific actualities, giving it certain dispositions. The essence of a thing is what a thing is, from which its particular properties and powers flow. (The term “essence” is translated from Aristotle’s phrase to ti ēn einai, literally, “the what it is to be.”) These ideas are seen by many non-Aristotelians as pre-scientific or even anti-scientific. However, for the Aristotelian, they’re actually necessary for and presupposed by all scientific inquiry.

    To understand why essences and powers must really exist, let’s look at the laws of nature. What do these laws actually describe? There are three logically possible answers: either they describe something external to nature, internal to nature, or neither external nor internal to nature.

Extrinsic to nature

    There are two ways that the laws of nature could be something extrinsic to nature: by reference to God (i.e., something personal outside of nature) or some kind of Platonic forms (i.e., something impersonal outside of nature).

    Let’s take the first option. On this view, laws of nature just describe what God does, so gravity describes that God moves things with mass toward each other at a rate consistent with our equations (F = G * m1 * m2 / d^2). This entails that physical things are causally inert – they don’t actually do anything, it’s God who does everything. The sun doesn’t melt an ice cube; God causes the ice cube to melt when the sun comes out. This view is called occasionalism. Taken to its logical conclusion, occasionalism seems to entail something like pantheism; since our observations rely on the laws of nature, we don’t actually observe anything as it really is, but how God causes it to appear to us. This is bad theology.

    It’s also bad science. The goal of science is to discover things about nature; but on this view, we can never discover anything about nature itself (which is causally inert), merely the different ways that God acts. Furthermore, it gives us no reason to think that the laws of nature will be consistent over time. This is because the ‘laws’ don’t actually describe anything about nature itself, but instead how God has chosen to act, and it’s conceivable that he could act otherwise.

    What if we take the second view? According to Platonic metaphysics, things in nature have properties by participating in higher-level forms. Things have mass insofar as they participate in the Form of Mass. Laws of nature, likewise, are explained by participation in forms; so just as massive things participate in the Form of Mass, they also participate in the Form of Gravity, which corresponds to our equation (F = G * m1 * m2 / d^2).

    But this leads to an explanatory problem: why do things participate in these forms rather than others (for example, the Form of Schmavity which says that massive things repel each other)? We can explain this with reference to even higher-level forms, and so on, but unless the explanation bottoms out in something else, we have a vicious infinite regress that doesn’t really explain anything. Perhaps it can be explained by something personal outside of nature – but this leads us back to theistic occasionalism. Perhaps it can be explained by something intrinsic to nature, or it’s simply a brute fact – but this leads us to one of the other two explanations (see below). Any way you slice it, Platonic forms can’t explain the laws of nature.

Neither extrinsic nor intrinsic

    Maybe the laws of nature aren’t explained by anything extrinsic or intrinsic to nature. They could just describe regularities that we observe across nature, but nothing deeper explains these regularities. This view has a few serious problems. First, it makes the laws of nature a brute (unexplained) fact, which violates the Principle of Sufficient Reason: that every fact which could have an explanation does have an explanation. If the PSR is false, our sense data and/or our conclusions from that data could simply have popped into our mind for no reason whatsoever. Denying the PSR makes science and all empirical investigation impossible, so the ‘mere regularity’ view of laws of nature is self-defeating.

    Second, this view makes the laws of nature only dependent on our past and present observations, and therefore can’t predict anything about the future. To riff off the famous (in philosophy) “grue” paradox, let’s say that there’s a property schmass, and things with schmass exhibit schmavity: they attract other things with schmass before January 1, 2050, after which they repel them. Can our observations tell us whether things have mass or schmass? No, because all of our observations (so far) have taken place before January 1, 2050! Thus, if the ‘laws of nature’ merely describe regularities that we observe, and nothing deeper about nature, we can’t know if they’ll fail in the future, which makes scientific inquiry impossible.

    Finally, the laws of nature aren’t regularities. For gravity, no two masses ever exist in complete isolation from all other forces. The equation F = G * m1 * m2 / d^2 tells us what would happen if, counterfactually, two masses existed apart from all other forces. The same is true of other laws of nature, like Coulomb’s law (no charged particles exist in isolation from all other forces). The laws of nature describe tendencies that things exhibit, which can be masked by counteracting influences. Therefore, the ‘mere regularity’ view fails on all counts.

    Perhaps, as some philosophers of science (such as Nancy Cartwright) argue, the laws of nature don’t really exist at all; they’re just ‘convenient fictions’ that we use because they help us make accurate predictions. If so, it would be truly miraculous that every single mass we see consistently attracts all other masses according to the same equation (and the same goes for the other laws of nature). This view can be rejected just because of its improbability. To be sure, our understanding of the laws of nature could change in the future with a new scientific theory, but there must be something that explains the otherwise miraculous regularities we see in nature.

Intrinsic to nature

    By process of elimination, the laws of nature must be something intrinsic to nature. This is also the most common-sense view (at least to me): we assume, when we’re doing science, that we’re actually discovering something about the things we’re studying. We’re not discovering something about God or about Platonic forms, and we’re not describing mere regularities or inventing ‘convenient fictions.’

    To continue with the example of gravity, this refers to a disposition within the massive thing itself, namely its disposition to attract other masses to itself (an active power) and to be attracted to other masses (a passive power). What’s true of gravity is true of the other laws of nature, which also describe active and passive powers of natural things. The potencies of natural things are indeed directed toward specific actualities. And the fact that things have specific powers that remain consistent over time – for example, an electron has a particular mass and charge – is explained by its essence. Therefore, even hyper-reductionist physicalists, who think that fundamental particles are the only real objects, should admit the existence of powers and essences.

    In summary, rather than being merely pre-scientific (much less anti-scientific), the Aristotelian concepts of powers and essences are presupposed by science. Science seeks to discover what things are (i.e., their essences), and how they act under controlled circumstances (i.e, their powers in the absence of masking influences). Furthermore, despite the reductionist approach taken above, this is true not only of particle physics but also of larger chemical and biological systems, which have powers that aren’t reducible to those of fundamental particles. (The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy article on the philosophy of chemistry refers to an “anti-reductionist consensus in the philosophy of chemistry literature”.)

The reality of causation

    The above argument for powers is also an implicit argument for the reality of cause and effect. After all, an active power (disposition to cause a change) is precisely a disposition to produce some effect, and a passive power (disposition to be changed) is a disposition to be caused in some way. However, some philosophers argue that the cause-effect relationship is only conceptual, and there’s no such thing as causation in the real (extra-mental) world.

Hume vs. causation

    David Hume famously argued, based on empiricism, that causation doesn’t exist because we never observe anything causing anything else – we merely observe regular correlations between things. Hume defined a ‘cause’ as “an object, followed by another, and where all the objects similar to the first, are followed by objects similar to the second” (Enquiry VII.2), but this connection between ‘cause’ and ‘effect’ is based on our observations and is entirely conceptual. For example, every time we see a rock thrown toward a window, it’s followed by the window breaking, so we call these things ‘cause’ and ‘effect’; but it’s logically possible that a rock being thrown toward a window could lead to something else, like the rock passing through the glass without breaking it.

    This view that the cause-effect relationship is only a regular correlation falls prey to the same fatal problems as the ‘regularity’ view of laws of nature described above. If causation merely describes regularities in our observation, then (1) the regularity is a brute fact, (2) the regularity could fail at any point in the future, and (3) it’s unable to explain why some causes only sometimes produce their effects (for example, quantum indeterminacy). Still, Hume puts forth an argument for the non-reality of causation (Treatise I.3.3):

1. Whatever is distinguishable can be conceived to be separate from each other.

2. The cause and effect are distinguishable.

3. Therefore, the cause and effect can be conceived to be separate from each other.

4. Whatever is conceivable is possible in reality.

5. Therefore, the cause and effect can be separate from each other in reality.

In other words, we can conceive of a window breaking for no reason whatsoever, and we can conceive of a rock being thrown at a window without breaking it. What we can conceive of is logically possible in reality. Therefore, it’s possible for the cause (rock being thrown) and effect (window breaking) to be separate in reality. This is true of all causes and effects, which means that ‘causation’ is only a regular correlation.

    But this argument has a few problems. Just because some things are conceivably separable doesn’t mean that they’re really separable. We can conceive of the radius of a circle separately from its circumference, and the sides of a triangle separately from its angles, but neither of these pairs can really be separated. Second, the classical concept of causation is simultaneous, not consecutive; the relevant cause and effect in our example aren’t just the rock being thrown and the window breaking, but the rock pushing through the window and the window giving way to the rock. It’s not at all clear that these last two things can be imagined separately.

    Finally, can we imagine the window breaking with no cause? Even if we imagine it breaking without anything hitting it, maybe it broke due to external stresses we couldn’t ‘see’ (imagine). This might sound pedantic, but the entire argument is based on imagination. Trying to imagine something happening for truly no reason whatsoever stretches the limits of the imagination, and it might not even be possible. Therefore, Hume’s argument against the reality of causation fails, or at least, it’s very plausibly unsound.

Russell vs. causation

    Bertrand Russell also argued against the reality of causation in his 1913 paper “On the Notion of Cause, with Applications to the Free-Will Problem.” He argued (in part) that because the notions of “cause” and “effect” can’t be represented in physics equations, they aren’t necessary to make sense of the world, since the world is described by physics. Even more importantly, there is a temporal asymmetry between cause and effect (cause comes before effect), but there is no such asymmetry in physics equations, so causation is ruled out as a possibility (at least at the microphysical level).

    The first part of his argument is simply a non sequitur. Just because something isn’t represented in physics equations doesn’t mean it isn’t a real aspect of reality, as Russell himself went on to argue (in his 1959 book My Philosophical Development). In his own words, “All that physics gives us is certain equations giving abstract properties of... changes. But as to what it is that changes, and what it changes from and to — as to this, physics is silent.” As we saw above, any robust account of the laws of nature has to involve causal powers, so even though causation isn’t represented in physics equations, it is presupposed by them.

    The second part of the argument is more serious. It shows that temporally asymmetric notions of causation won’t work in physics. When two charged particles are attracted to each other, it’s impossible to say that one particle’s attraction of the other happened before the other particle’s movement. But this doesn’t show that causation isn’t involved; it shows that this causation must be simultaneous, which is perfectly in line with the Aristotelian notion of causation. The related objection that quantum mechanics shows causation isn’t real, because of indeterminacy at the quantum level, likewise misses the mark since causes don’t necessitate their effects on the Aristotelian account.

    Finally, even if it were true that causation is irrelevant to physics, this doesn’t change the fact that causation is very important in other sciences like chemistry and biology. At the most, Russell’s argument would show that these other sciences are irreducible to physics, which Aristotelians agree with.

The principles of causality

    We’ve now seen that causation must be a real feature of the world. Furthermore, Hume’s and Russell’s arguments suggest that causes are simultaneous with their immediate effects, which is an important part of the Aristotelian notion of causation. There are two further principles of causation that Aristotelians affirm:

Principle of Causality (PC): A potential can only be actualized by something that is actual.

Principle of Proportionate Causality (PPC): Whatever exists in an effect must exist in some way in its total cause.

    Why should we accept these principles? Well, PC follows from the Principle of Sufficient Reason, that every natural fact has an explanation. According to PSR, a potency being actualized must be explained by something, and it can’t be explained by itself or any other potency, since mere potencies (like an unripe banana’s potential to be yellow) can’t actualize anything by definition. Therefore, a potency can only be actualized by something already actual. PC is as certain as PSR, and as I noted above, PSR is pretty certain – otherwise empirical and rational investigation would be impossible, since our sense data and beliefs could happen for no reason whatsoever.

    PPC sounds more controversial than PC, but it’s really not if properly understood. PPC doesn’t say that whatever exists in an effect must exist in the same way as in the cause, only in some way. It could exist in the same way in the cause (i.e., “formally”), such as if I have a twenty dollar bill that I give you. It could also exist in a different way in the cause (i.e., “virtually”), such as if I have twenty dollars in a savings account and allow you to withdraw my twenty dollars as cash from an ATM. It could exist in the cause as a power to produce it (i.e., “eminently”), such as if I have the power to print a new, genuine twenty dollar bill for you.

    With this in mind, PPC also follows directly from PSR. If something in an effect doesn’t exist in any way in the cause – not even eminently, as a power to produce it – then it has no explanation. There would be a potency that was actualized without anything to actualize it. It would be as if I told you I could give you a genuine twenty dollar bill, but I had no cash, no money in any other form, and no power to print any genuine money.

Final causality

    So far, we’ve only talked about what Aristotle referred to as efficient causes. An efficient cause of a change is the agent of the change, the thing which actualizes a potential; this is what we usually mean today when we talk about a “cause.” But efficient causes are directed toward particular ends, which Aristotle refers to as the final cause of their effects – “that for the sake of which a thing is done” (Physics II.3). Without final causes, efficient causes could produce no specific effects, since there would be no terminus of the changes that they cause. These final causes are the 'directionality' or 'intentionality' of a thing's potencies toward their specific actualities.

    This is controversial in modern philosophy, but it’s also necessary to make sense of the regularities we see in nature. Things obviously have dispositions to produce particular effects. For example (to return to the laws of nature), masses attract other masses, and negative charges attract other negative charges and repel positive charges. Based on our earlier argument for the reality of powers, these dispositions must be intrinsic, not ‘mere regularities’ or something imposed from the outside. This is exactly what Aristotle means by “final causes.” Therefore, just like powers, final causes are actually presupposed by science.

Conclusion

    To sum up what we’ve seen so far: Based on features of the world like change, persistence, unity, multiplicity, regularity, and causation, we can deduce the basics of Aristotelian metaphysics like the distinction between act and potency and the reality of powers, essences, and efficient and final causes. Although many philosophers have tried to deny the reality of these features of the world, these views ultimately end up being self-defeating, and undermine any empirical or rational pursuit of knowledge. What else can we deduce about the world using these basics of Aristotelian metaphysics? That’s what we’ll look at next time.

The Restoration of All: Universalism in Early Christianity (part 11)

Summary and Conclusion

    Over the course of this series, we’ve looked at the reception and development of the doctrine of universal restoration over the history of the early church. Most of these posts have dealt with the theologians and fathers of the first five centuries of the church, and their views on the ultimate fate of unbelievers. We can roughly categorize these thinkers into three categories – universalism, infernalism, and annihilationism/conditionalism:

Certain universalists: Clement of Alexandria; Bardaisan of Edessa; Origen of Alexandria; Gregory Thaumaturgus; Didymus the Blind; Macarius of Magnesia; Marius Victorinus; Gregory of Nazianzus; Gregory of Nyssa; Evagrius Ponticus; Diodore of Tarsus; Theodore of Mopsuestia; Theodoret of Cyrrhus; Jerome of Stridon (before his turn against Origen)

Probable universalists: Clement of Rome; Odes of Solomon; some apocryphal writings (esp. Apocalypse of Peter); Dionysius the Great; Pamphilus of Caesarea; Methodius of Olympus; Anthony the Great; Novatian (?); Eusebius of Caesarea; Marcellus of Ancyra; Athanasius of Alexandria; Basil of Caesarea; Ambrose of Milan; Synesius of Cyrene; Paulinus of Nola; Peter Chrysologus (?); Cyril of Alexandria (?)

Certain annihilationists/conditionalists: Arnobius of Sicca

Probable annihilationists/conditionalists: Didache; Epistle of Barnabas; Shepherd of Hermas; Polycarp of Smyrna

Certain infernalists: Tertullian of Carthage; Minucius Felix; Cyprian of Carthage; Lactantius; Jerome of Stridon (after his turn against Origen); Augustine of Hippo; Leo the Great

Probable infernalists: Tatian of Adiabene; Hilary of Poitiers; Epiphanius of Salamis; Theophilus of Alexandria (?)

    There are also some church fathers that aren’t easily categorized within this schema. Ignatius of Antioch, Irenaeus of Lyons, and Theophilus of Antioch have statements that point toward annihilationism or conditionalism, but also statements that point toward universalism. Justin Martyr's and Hippolytus’ writings have statements that point toward annihilationism and infernalism. Aphrahat the Persian was a conditionalist with regard to the most wicked dead, and an infernalist with regard to less wicked sinners. Ephrem the Syrian was a hopeful universalist, which means he hoped for the restoration of all people but was not certain of it, as were possibly John Cassian and John Chrysostom. Rufinus of Aquileia was simply unsure of the ultimate fate of the wicked, and admitted as much in his writings against Jerome.

    What’s clear from this is that universalism was a fairly popular view in the first five centuries of the church, and in fact the majority position in the East during the third and fourth centuries. In the first two centuries, most church fathers didn’t have a clearly developed and/or articulated position on the ultimate fate of unbelievers, and the first systematic thinker on this point was Origen of Alexandria, who developed his Christian universalism in opposition to ‘gnostic’ heresies. His influence helped to popularize the doctrine of universal restoration in the East and, eventually, in the West with theologians like Hilary of Poitiers, Ambrose of Milan, Jerome of Stridon, and John Cassian who adopted many of Origen’s ideas. However, the ‘Origenist’ controversy of the early fifth century and the influence of Augustine (who was an anti-universalist) reduced the popularity of universalism, especially in the West where it effectively disappeared.

    In the last two posts, we surveyed the fate of Christian universalism after the fifth century. The universal restoration had some influential proponents in the sixth century, such as Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite and Theodore of Caesarea, both of whom held a radical ‘Origenist’ form of this doctrine. ‘Origenism’ was condemned at the fifth ecumenical council in 553, which reduced the popularity of universalism in the East even further. However, the doctrine of universal restoration was maintained in a non-‘Origenist’ form by the seventh-century theologian Maximus the Confessor. In the Syriac Church of the East, where the fifth ecumenical council was never accepted, Christian universalism maintained a respectable status even into the second millennium. The ninth-century systematic theologian John Scotus Eriugena held to the doctrine of universal restoration, although he tried to reconcile it with Augustinian infernalism. Finally, universalism existed in scattered pockets on the periphery of Christianity up to the Reformation.

The roots of Christian universalism

    The reason that universalism was so popular in early Christianity is, I argue, because it makes sense within the Christian mutation of second-Temple Jewish thought about God’s true enemy. As I showed in a few earlier posts – following the research of N. T. Wright – a major point of disagreement between the new Jesus movement and mainstream second-Temple Judaism was over the nature and identity of “the enemy.” [1] After oppression under several pagan empires, the mainstream of second-Temple Judaism identified “the enemy” with the pagans and pagan empire itself, and believed that the gentiles would be utterly destroyed when God’s kingdom arrived (e.g., Ps Sol 17:21–32; 1QSb 5.23–293; Wis 3:7–8; 5:17–6:5; 4 Ezra 13:3-11, 25-38).

    Jesus turned this picture on its head by identifying “the enemy” not with the gentiles, but with the dark forces that corrupt the pagans, which he also saw at work behind the Israelite leadership of his day. The problem isn’t with the pagans, or rather isn’t just with the pagans; it’s a universal problem affecting Jew and gentile alike. Paul expanded further on this point and identified “the enemy” with sin and death itself: the kingdom of God will arrive not when the gentiles are destroyed, but when “the last enemy, death, is abolished” (1 Cor 15:24–28). [1] “Our struggle,” Paul (or one of his followers) tells us, “is not against flesh and blood but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (Eph 6:12).

    If the enemy is not to be identified with any individual humans or class of humans, but with the sin and death that plague all humans, then God’s victorious defeat of the enemy would imply the restoration of all humanity. The other three options – annihilationism, conditionalism, and infernalism – imply something less than God’s total victory over the enemy: they imply that sin and death succeed in permanently corrupting a part of God’s good creation. These options point to a kind of dualism, where part of God’s creation is evil (or somehow becomes identified with its evil). With this in mind, it’s easy to see why universalism was so popular in the first few centuries of Christianity, even though mainstream Christianity eventually came to accept infernalism in tension with its opposition to dualism.

The patristic doctrine of universalism

    For the early church fathers who taught universal restoration, this doctrine existed within a wider, interconnected theological framework. There were a number of other beliefs that these early patristic universalists shared, especially (1) creaturely freedom of choice, (2) the inherent goodness of God’s creation, (3) the restorative nature of God’s punishment, and (4) the central importance of Jesus Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection.

    Creaturely freedom of choice. Against the ‘gnostic’ groups and Manichaeans who believed that creatures are either morally good or evil by nature, these church fathers held that every creature has the freedom to choose good or evil. This free will isn’t set against God’s sovereignty and providence. For example, John Cassian says that “God’s grace and free will seem opposed to each other, but are really in harmony... God works all things in us, and yet all can be ascribed to free will” (Conf XIII.11, 18). Rather, it’s set against the view that our moral choices are determined by our internal (good or evil) nature.

    The goodness of God’s creation. Also against the ‘gnostics’ and Manichaeans, the church fathers believed that God’s creation is inherently good. Because God is good – indeed Goodness itself – anything that he creates must be good. Therefore, all creatures (even the devil) are intrinsically good in their substance. Evil exists only as a privation, a failure to live up to God’s good purpose, and comes from the misuse of creaturely free will. No one could ever be wholly evil, because evil is a privation, and to be wholly evil would be to cease to exist: a “wholly evil being” is a metaphysical impossibility.

    God’s restorative punishment. The patristic universalists believed that God punishes in order to restore his creatures, against Marcionite ‘gnosticism’ which pitted divine goodness against divine justice. God is good – indeed Goodness itself – so he would not intentionally act to harm any creature. Furthermore, God is impassible, and could not become angry toward anyone (except metaphorically). Thus, everything that God does is intended to restore the goodness within his creatures, and ‘harms’ only their evil – which they may perceive as painful insofar as they identify with their evil.

    Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection. Despite the way their view was sometimes caricatured, these church fathers believed that Jesus Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection were central to the restoration of creation. When he became human, Christ united divine nature with created and human nature; in his death, he recapitulated and nullified all sin and death; and his resurrection guaranteed the resurrection and restoration of the entire creation. Origen is clear that the once-for-all sacrifice of Christ is what guaranteed the universal restoration, and God’s love in Jesus Christ is why no one will ever fall again after all have been restored (Comm in Rom V.12–16).

    The universal restoration. Taken together, these doctrines point to the eventual restoration of all people, and indeed the whole creation. Everything that God creates is inherently good in its substance, but evil is introduced into the creation against God’s good purpose by the misuse of creaturely free will. Since rational creatures always have this freedom of choice, even the most evil people can move from evil to goodness (or vice versa), and God’s restorative punishment always leads us toward restoration. However, even this doesn’t guarantee the final restoration of anyone: only through the incarnation, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ has God chosen to defeat evil once and for all, and to restore and deify the whole creation.

Dispelling myths about patristic universalism

    Having looked at the views of many early church fathers on the ultimate fate of evil and unbelievers, we’re in a position to dispel some myths about universalism in the early church. One idea that’s sometimes spread or encouraged by modern Christian universalists is that Augustine was the first infernalist, which is false. Even though Augustine’s influence ensured that infernalism (and a fairly extreme version of infernalism at that) became the dominant view in the West, the doctrine of eternal torment was around well before him, and was popularized by Tertullian of Carthage at the turn of the third century. Tatian of Adiabene in the mid-second century was also an infernalist, but he later converted from orthodox Christianity to Valentinian ‘gnosticism’ (perhaps unsurprising, seeing as infernalism lends itself to a kind of dualism).

    Another myth spread by some modern Christian infernalists is that universalism was a fringe view in the early church: it was believed by Origen (along with other strange views), and perhaps also by Gregory of Nyssa, but no other major church fathers. This is also false. As we’ve seen, the doctrine of universal restoration was accepted by many church fathers before and after Origen, and became the majority position of the Eastern church in the third and fourth centuries. Origen was the first one to systematize his theology, so his universalism was much more developed than any earlier Christian writer, but he was certainly not the only universalist, and his doctrine of universal restoration was very influential on the later church.

    Finally, I want to dispel the idea that I’ve proven in this series that two-thirds of the early church was universalist (see the list above). This study wasn’t comprehensive, since I was mainly focusing on the reception of the doctrine of universal restoration, and not the views of every writer in the early church on the ultimate fate of unbelievers. The list above isn’t intended to give the correct proportion of belief in universalism, annihilation/conditionalism, and infernalism in the early church, but to show that the universal restoration really was a popular doctrine in the first centuries of Christianity. In fact, the theological heroes of the first through sixth ecumenical councils (that is, Athanasius, the Cappadocians, Cyril of Alexandria, Theodore of Caesarea, and Maximus the Confessor) were probably all universalists. [2]

______________________________

[1] See my posts “The coming wrath: God’s kingdom at hand“ and “Reading Romans narratively (part 2)“; this is dealt with in much greater detail by N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (London: SPCK, 1996), 446–63; Paul and the Faithfulness of God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013), 737–72.

[2] The least certain of these is Cyril of Alexandria, who has statements that could be interpreted to support both universalism and infernalism. Theodore of Caesarea was both the ‘hero’ and ‘villain’ of the fifth ecumenical council, since his Christology was vindicated at the first session of this council and his ‘Origenism’ condemned at the second session.

The Restoration of All: Universalism in Early Christianity (part 10)

Late and Post-Patristic Universalism

    The patristic period is generally considered to have ended after John of Damascus (675–749), who was the last great patristic theologian. Although the Christian doctrine of universal restoration didn’t survive well in the period after Constantinople II, there were still some important proponents of this view from the seventh century onward. In my last post, we saw one such proponent (Maximus the Confessor). In this post, we’ll look at several more theologians from the late and post-patristic periods who had something to say about the universal restoration.

John of Damascus

    John of Damascus was a systematic theologian whose views were very influential on later Christianity, especially in the East. He was definitely not a universalist, since he says that repentance is impossible after death – people’s wills are simply unchangeable at that point (Contra Manichaeos [PG 94.1573]). His view of hell is similar to Maximus’, and became the predominant Eastern Orthodox view: God will be present to all people, and will bestow good things upon all of them (even the devil), but the wicked will perceive this as suffering since they desire evil and not good [PG 94.1569–70]. In his words, the wicked “suffer without being healed, without God making hell, but because we lay out hell for ourselves.”

    John Damascene’s views are relevant to the universal restoration because of his testimony about the meaning of the words aiōn and aiōnios:

It must be understood that the noun “aeon” is polysemic, for it denotes many things. The life of each man is called “aeon”; again, a period of a thousand years is called “aeon”; again, the whole present life is called “aeon,” and the future aeon, the endless one after the resurrection; and again, “aeon” is used to denote, not time nor a part of time, but that which is co-extensive with eternal things [tois aidiois], since what time is for temporal things is what “aeon” is for eternal things [aidiois]... God is spoken of as aeonian and pre-aeonian [proaiōnios], for the aeon is itself his creation... Further, aeonian life and aeonian punishment prove that the future aeon is endless. (De fide orth II.1)

This shows that as late as the eighth century, it was still an established fact that aiōn and aiōnios had many meanings and didn’t necessarily mean “eternal.” John actually presupposes that aeonian life and punishment are endless, and concludes from this that the future aeon is endless, rather than arguing the other way around.

Syriac Universalists

    The Church of the East split from the Chalcedonian church in the fifth century over the ‘Nestorian’ controversy, and never accepted Constantinople II’s condemnations of the “Three Chapters” and Origen. They venerated Diodore of Tarsus and Theodore of Mopsuestia as saints, both of whom were explicitly universalist and were condemned by the Chalcedonian church for allegedly ‘Nestorian’ Christology. For these reasons, the universal restoration was considered more acceptable to Syriac theologians than it was for Eastern Chalcedonians, let alone the Latin-speaking church. Even John of Dara, who was a Syriac dogmatic infernalist, fully admitted that the saints Diodore, Theodore, and Gregory of Nyssa believed in the universal restoration (On the Resurrection IV.21).

Isaac of Nineveh

    Isaac was the bishop of Nineveh from 676 to his death in ca. 700, and he is venerated as a saint by the Catholics, Eastern Orthodox, and the Church of the East. Until 1983, we only had the First Part of his work, which is not explicitly universalist. It does describe the torments of Gehenna as “torments of love,” in that the sinners there are not deprived of God’s love, but experience it as torture (I.28); this is in line with Maximus’ and John Damascene’s views. He also says that we should not call God “just,” citing the parables of the vineyard and the prodigal son, and concluding, “Where then is God’s justice, for when we were sinners Christ died for us!” (I.51) We should understand Isaac to be speaking of retributive justice here, since he certainly accepts restorative punishment for sin.

    When his Second Part was discovered in 1983, it revealed that Isaac was an explicit universalist. He says that God’s love is equal for all his creatures, whether fallen or unfallen, saint or sinner (II.38; 40.1–3). God does not feel anger (a passion), nor exact retribution (II.39.2–3, 15–19), so even physical death was instituted as restorative, to transport us to the future world (II.39.4–5). Isaac is “of the opinion that [God] will manifest some wonderful outcome, a matter of immense and ineffable compassion” with regard to Gehenna, because “[i]t is not the way of the compassionate Maker to create rational beings to deliver them over mercilessly to unending affliction for things of which he knew even before they were fashioned” (II.39.6). He cites Diodore and Theodore, “pillars of the church,” to show that this opinion is orthodox and not novel (II.39.7–14). Thus, he concludes,

That we should further say or think that [Gehenna] is not full of love and mingled with compassion would be an opinion full of blasphemy and insult to our Lord God. By saying that he will even hand us over to burning for the sake of sufferings, torment and all sorts of ills, we are attributing to the divine nature an enmity towards the very rational beings which he created through grace. The same is true if we say that he acts or thinks with spite and with a vengeful purpose, as though he was avenging himself. Among all his actions there is none which is not entirely a matter of mercy, love and compassion: this constitutes the beginning and the end of his dealings with us. (II.39.22)

    Isaac goes on to describe the final restoration. In this state, God will bring even demons and sinners “to a single equal state of perfection in relationship to his own Being, in a state in which the holy angels are now... they will be perfected in love for him” (II.40.4). Maybe this is even greater than the state that the angels are in now (II.40.5). “No part belonging to any one of the rational beings will be lost, as far as God is concerned, in the preparation of that heavenly kingdom which is prepared for all worlds” (II.40.7). Most humans will not even have to go to Gehenna, but those who do will be restored when they repent (II.40.8–17). Isaac continues that although Gehenna has a limit, it is the most terrible experience, so we should be careful to avoid laziness and develop virtue (II.41). This concludes his Second Part.

John of Dalyatha

    John of Dalyatha (ca. 690–780) was a monk and writer in the Church of the East, whose works were condemned as ‘Messalian’ (a trinitarian heresy) shortly after his death, but he was rehabilitated several decades later. He believed in future punishment in Gehenna, and expounds the view that hell will be precisely God himself, experienced by sinners as suffering (Letter 50.12–16). The unquenchable fire is Christ himself, who purifies us from iniquity (4.6; 15.2; cf. 10.2; 25.2; 29.2; 43.12; 51.2). John describes future beatitude as “without end,” but not future torment (47.2). In his letter 40, he seems to expound the universal restoration, when all beings, even those who are now immature, will be united and perfected by means of Jesus’ action. After contemplating Judgment and Providence, one realizes that there will be no distinction between righteous and sinner, “but Christ appears wholly in everyone” (49.9).

Solomon of Basra

    Solomon was the bishop of Basra in the first half of the 13th century, and he authored the Book of the Bee, which details the history of the world from creation to restoration. In the last chapter (60), he explains that there is one view of judgment which is terrifying and “well adapted to the simple-minded and transgressors of the law,” and another merciful view, which is “suitable and adapted to the perfect and those of settled minds and the pious.” In support of this second view, he quotes passages from Isaac of Nineveh, Theodore of Mopsuestia, and Diodore of Tarsus. This shows that as late as the 13th century, at least some theologians in the Church of the East were still aware of the doctrine of universal restoration and supported it.

John Scotus Eriugena

    John Scotus Eriugena (“the Irish-born”) was a ninth-century theologian who served as head of the Carolingian palace school in France from ca. 850 to his death in ca. 880. His magnum opus was the Periphyseon (“On the Division of Nature”), a work of metaphysics which attempted to synthesize Scripture and the teachings of the church fathers (mainly Origen, the Cappadocians, Ambrose, Ps.-Dionysius, and Augustine) into a coherent framework. Before this, however, he was commissioned by Hincmar of Reims to write a treatise on divine predestination in 850, to counter the monk Gottschalk, who was spreading the view of double predestination (that God predestines both the righteous and wicked to their fates).

    Eriugena’s main arguments against double predestination rest on divine simplicity, which means that God cannot have two separate ‘predestinations’ (De div praed 1.4–3.1), and the ontological non-subsistence of evil, which God did not create, so he can’t be said to have predestined evil (3.2–3; 10.2–5). All evil comes from rational creatures exercising their free will, which humans have essentially at all times, even after the fall (4.6–8.9). Thus, God only has one predestination, by which he predestines the righteous to glory (4.1–5; 11.3–7). Moreover, since God exists beyond time, any talk of him ‘predestining’ or ‘foreknowing’ events is only by metaphor (9). As for punishment, the substance of creatures is good and won’t, indeed can’t, be punished; only the evil wills shall be punished, and they will be punished precisely by their sins (16). The wicked will lack no perfection of nature, only the happiness that comes from grace (19.1–3).

    In his De divina praedestinatione, Eriugena relies primarily on Augustine and Gregory the Great, not any of the Eastern fathers. His Periphyseon shows a much greater reliance on the Eastern church fathers, especially Origen, the Cappadocians, Ambrose, Maximus the Confessor, and Ps.-Dionysius. (Between these two works, he translated some writings of Gregory of Nyssa, Maximus, and Ps.-Dionysius into Latin.) The Periphyseon is divided into four parts, corresponding to the four divisions of nature: Book I on that which is not created and creates (God as Beginning); Book II on that which is created and creates (the primordial Causes/Forms); Books III–IV on that which is created and does not create (the corporeal world); and Book V on that which is not created and does not create (God as End).

    Eriugena argues for an extremely apophatic theology, relying primarily on Ps.-Dionysius (Periphyseon I:451C–524B; II:586C–98A). Nothing can be properly predicated of God except by metaphor; all we can properly say is that God is beyond substance, beyond power, beyond eternity, and so on. The “nothing” from which the universe was created is the superabundant Nothingness of God – not that he lacks anything but that he is beyond any definition (III:680C–88A). Eriugena’s concern for reconciling the Latin and Greek fathers can be seen in his treatment of the filioque, where he attempts to synthesize the conflicting teachings of the church fathers (II:601B–14B).

    Eriugena continues to hold that evil is ontologically non-subsistent, and sin exists only in the will as a privation of good (IV:826A–29B). He quotes Gregory of Nyssa to support the impossibility of anyone resting in evil, and the necessity of eventually turning toward the Good (V:917A–19D). Eriugena’s metaphysics entail the return of all things into their Causes, which means that God is both the Beginning and End of everything (V:867B–72A). According to Maximus, nature is divided in five ways: (1) the division between God and creation, (2) between the sensible and intelligible creation, (3) between heaven and earth, (4) between Paradise and the existing globe, and (5) the division of the human being between male and female due to sin (II:529C–31A; V:893B). These divisions will be undone in the restoration (V:876AB), thanks to Christ’s incarnation and ascension (II:531C–539C). [1] Our bodies and the sensible creation won’t cease to exist, but will be transformed into something greater: the Causes from which they came (II:590BC; V:876B–85B).

    Eriugena is clear that the whole human nature, meaning every individual human nature, will be restored, because Christ assumed the whole human nature in his incarnation (V:921B–22C). And since, as Maximus says, humanity is a microcosm of the entire universe (containing both material and spiritual nature) – “by the incarnation of the Son of God every creature in heaven and on earth was saved” (V:910D–13B; cf. IV:763–86C). He quotes Origen and Gregory of Nyssa to support the restoration of the whole humanity, and concludes regarding the wicked, “their eternal damnation will consist in the total abolition of their wickedness and impiety” (V:922C–23D). Later on he cites many Scripture passages that he interprets to support the universal restoration of humanity (V:1001A–06A). Even the substance of the demons, including the devil, is good and will be restored – on this point he cites Origen, Ambrose, and Ps.-Dionysius – thus “only nature will rise again; evil and wickedness will perish in eternal damnation” (V:927B–35B).

    However, not all will be restored to the same station. There is a difference between nature and grace (examined in V:902D–06C), and although God must restore all beings by nature to their Causes, he only brings some to the height of deification by grace. At the end of the Periphyseon, Eriugena interprets the parable of the ten virgins (Matt. 25:1–13) to refer to the restoration; all will be restored, but only some (represented by the five wise virgins) will be deified, thus “all... shall return to Paradise, but not all shall enjoy the Tree of Life [which is Christ] – or rather, all shall receive of the Tree of Life, but not all equally” (V:1011A–18D). This would have been the case even if humanity had not sinned; just as God created different classes of angels, he created the elect and non-elect humans by grace (V:1012C–15C). But evil and wickedness will most certainly be destroyed, as Eriugena repeats over and over again:

[R]ight reason shows that nothing contrary to the Divine Goodness and Life and Blessedness can be coeternal therewith. For the Divine Goodness shall consume evil, eternal Life shall swallow up death, Blessedness shall absorb unhappiness. (Periphyseon V:926D)

In this argument against the eternity of evil and torment, Eriugena adopts precisely Origen’s argument against the coeternity of life and death (Comm in Rom V.7.8).

    Even so, Eriugena seems to affirm the reality of eternal punishment in one section of the Periphyseon. The torment of the wicked will consist in the fact that although they desire evil, evil will no longer exist anywhere (V:935B–38B). Thus, what is punished is not the nature of the wicked, but their perverted will (V:938B–48D). But how can these punishments be eternal if evil can’t be eternal? The phantasies of the wicked, which lead them to desire evil, are in themselves good, and so can be eternal (V:961C–64A). Eriugena doesn’t answer how anyone could continue to desire evil when wickedness has been completely purged from them. Furthermore, his claim that anyone will be eternally unhappy – rather than simply happy to a lesser degree than the elect, as he suggests elsewhere (see above) – seems to directly contradict his argument that unhappiness can’t be coeternal with blessedness.

    It’s possible that these statements are merely a nod to Augustine, and Eriugena didn’t actually believe in eternal unhappiness. He does suggestively mention that “many” believe suffering will not be coeternal with blessedness, even though the Scriptural statements about everlasting fire “seem to be against them” (II:543B). Whether or not Eriugena was actually a universalist, or an infernalist who inconsistently believed in the universal restoration, his attempted synthesis of the Augustinian and Origenian traditions is very relevant to our study. It’s interesting that in the ninth century, a respected theologian like Eriugena could speak of “the blessed Origen... the great Origen, that most diligent enquirer into the nature of things” (V:922C; 929A).

Later Universalists

    Eriugena can be considered the last patristic supporter of universal restoration. After him, the Origenian tradition died off, until its resurgence in the seventeenth century among the Cambridge Platonists. [2] However, non-Origenian universalism existed on the fringes of Christianity throughout the medieval period. [3] Aelfric of Eynsham, a prolific writer from tenth-century England, testifies in his homily On the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin (184–186) that certain “heretics” believe Mary and the saints will intercede for and harrow the sinners from the devil. The eleventh-century bishop Theophylact of Ochrid, in his commentary on 1 Corinthians 15:28, says that “some” interpret this verse to refer to “the elimination of evilness, because God will be ‘all in all’ clearly once sin has ceased to exist.”

    Amalric of Bena was a teacher of philosophy and theology at the University of Paris in the second half of the twelfth century. Amalric’s actual views are unclear, because his writings have not survived, but he was forced by the Catholic Church to recant his views in 1206, and his views along with the views of Joachim of Fiore were condemned at the 1215 Lateran Council. The followers of both Joachim and Amalric believed that they were on the cusp of the “Age of the Holy Spirit” which would be a utopia for humanity. The Amalricians also had a pantheistic tendency, as they claimed that “God is all things” and “all things are One, because whatever exists is God.” Amalric was influenced by Eriugena’s Periphyseon, which was subsequently condemned in 1225 by Pope Honorius III.

    Meister Eckhart (1260–1328) was a theologian, philosopher, and mystic of the Dominican Order. His anthropology and view of the incarnation were influenced by Origen, whom he quotes about fifty times throughout his writings. [4] He was also influenced in his theology by Ps.-Dionysius. Eckhart never develops a clear theory of universal restoration, but his view of hell is that “nothing” burns there, that is, the nothingness of evil which is a privation, and there torments the soul (Sermon 13b). The pain of hell is being separated from God, and to be separated from him even for an instant is to be separated forever (57). But even in hell the soul is inclined toward goodness (32ab), and those in hell retain the “nobility of nature” and existence, so those in hell would not desire to cease to exist (2; 23; 32b; 65; 84; 89). Eckhart cites Origen to say that the seed of goodness that God plants in each being can never be destroyed, and always inclines toward God (The Nobleman).

    Julian of Norwich (1343–1416) was an influential mystic, who came down with the plague in ca. 1373 and had sixteen visions of Christ. In her thirteenth vision, she questions why God didn’t prevent sin from happening in the first place, since then “all should have been well.” Christ answers: “It was necessary that there should be sin, but all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” Julian then sees that sin “has no manner of substance nor any part of being, nor could it be known except by the pain that it causes.” She then considers that she is required to believe in “hell without end” by the Church, and thinks that it is impossible for all manner of things to be well. God responds, “What seems impossible to you is not impossible to me: I will save my word in all things, and I will make all manner of things well.” Like Eckhart, Julian never develops a clear theory of universal restoration, but her views point in that direction.

    Christian universalism saw a resurgence among some thinkers in the Radical Reformation, from the sixteenth century onward. [5] The clearest universalist thinker was Gerrard Winstanley, the leader of the Diggers, a dissident religious group in seventeenth-century England that can be reasonably regarded as proto-socialist and proto-anarchist. [6] Winstanley believed that “everything that is in or about the Creature that is of God will stand; but everything that is in or from the Creature that is not of God will fall and perish” (The mysterie of God 20–21). The purpose of hell is that “the Serpent [i.e., the corrupt will] only shall perish, and God will not lose a hair that he made, he will redeem his whole creation from death” (47). In the consummation of creation, God will

take up all his Creation, Mankind, into himself, and will become the only, endless, pure, absolute, and infinite being, even infinitely forever all in all, in every one, and in the whole, that no flesh may glory in itself, but in the Lord only. (13)

Winstanley’s universalism takes an extreme view of the restoration, in which humanity will be “taken up into the Being of God” (18), reminiscent of the radical ‘Origenism’ of the sixth century. As I mentioned earlier, some of the seventeenth-century Cambridge Platonists held to a less radical, more authentically Origenian view of the universal restoration. [2]

Conclusion

    Although the doctrine of universal restoration largely died off after the condemnation of ‘Origenism’ in the sixth century, this view survived among some Christian thinkers over the next millennium. In the Church of the East, where Diodore of Tarsus and Theodore of Mopsuestia were known as universalists and still venerated, universalism was considered a respectable view into the second millennium, and was supported by Isaac of Nineveh, John of Dalyatha, and Solomon of Basra. The Latin theologian John Scotus Eriugena was a proponent of the universal restoration, although it's uncertain whether he was a universalist or infernalist. Meister Eckhart and Julian of Norwich, two medieval theologians and mystics, may have supported the universal restoration.

______________________________

[1] Eriugena believed that the distinction between God and creation would only be undone in the elect, who would be deified by grace. This deification won’t entail the elect transforming into the substance of God, but as Eriugena repeats over and over again, “like air into light.” The elect will become totally ‘transparent’ to God so that in them only God can be seen, just as air is transparent to light.

[2] Christian Hengstermann, “Pre-existence and universal salvation – the Origenian renaissance in early modern Cambridge,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 25 (2017): 971–89.

[3] Ilaria L. E. Ramelli, A Larger Hope? Universal Salvation from Christian Beginnings to Norwich (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2019), 197–210.

[4] Elisabeth Boncour, “Maître Eckhart, lecteur d’Origène,” PhD diss., (Paris, 2014).

[5] Robin Parry and Ilaria L. E. Ramelli, A Larger Hope? Universal Salvation from the Reformation to the Nineteenth Century (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2019), 11–69.

[6] Interestingly, I’ve found that Christian universalism and anarchism have been linked in many key thinkers, from Gregory of Nyssa, to the Diggers, to Jacques Ellul and David Bentley Hart in the modern day (along with myself).

The Restoration of All: Universalism in Early Christianity (part 9)

The Condemnation of ‘Origenism’

    In the last post, we looked at the doctrine of universal restoration throughout the first Origenist controversy and afterward. Although this doctrine wasn’t the main focus of the controversy, it became less popular as a result, due to its association with Origen. In this post, we’ll look at the resurgence of ‘Origenism’ in the sixth century, its condemnation by the Byzantine emperor Justinian I and the Council of Constantinople in 553, and especially the reception of the doctrine of universal restoration before and after these events. 

Palestinian ‘Origenists’

    Origenian and ‘Origenist’ thought saw a resurgence in Syria and Palestine around the turn of the sixth century, along with belief in the universal restoration. For example, John of Caesarea, an important neo-Chalcedonian theologian in the early sixth century, supported this doctrine in his polemic against the Manichaeans: there he argues that evil is no substance, and punishment is intended to reform sinners, so that eventually evil will cease (Syll 1; 3; 5; 10). [1] His fellow neo-Chalcedonian Leontius of Byzantium, on the other hand, seems to have opposed the doctrine of universal restoration (e.g., Con Nest et Eut 3), although he was an Origenian thinker in other respects (and was actually expelled from his monastery at one point for alleged ‘Origenism’). [2]

    Severus, the Syrian miaphysite bishop of Antioch (512–518) and the Christological opponent of John of Caesarea, also opposed universalism, to which end he cites Matthew 25:46, along with the disputed passage from Basil’s Regulae and several other passages from Gregory of Nazianzus, John Chrysostom, and Cyril of Alexandria that he believes to support endless punishment (Letter 98). Philoxenus of Mabbug (d. 523), another Syrian miaphysite theologian, may have been a supporter of the universal restoration. [3] Philoxenus conceived of the restoration (universal or not) principally as a unity between God and creation, which will involve the disappearance of material bodies. This puts him squarely within the Evagrian school of thought on the restoration (even though he opposed to most radical ‘Origenism’ of bar Sudayli – see below).

    Aeneas of Gaza was a Neoplatonist philosopher who converted to Christianity in the early sixth century. After his conversion, he wrote against certain Neoplatonist doctrines that he viewed as incompatible with Christianity, which were also associated with ‘Origenism’. He especially refutes the ideas of preexistence and transmigration of souls (Theophrastus 13.1–36.3), along with the non-bodily resurrection, or the idea that the resurrection body will be “luminous, airy, or oyster-like” (51.25–61.19). Rather, we will be resurrected with the same body, which will be made “pure, light, and immortal” (54.15–60.3). The bodies of the wicked will be made fit for punishment in the resurrection, according to what is deserved by the person’s actions on earth (35.26–36.3; 61.5–9).

    For Aeneas, the purpose of punishment is to restore those who rebel against the Creator, by exposing the weakness of their rebellion and eventually destroying it, restoring the former rebels; this is “an exhibition of the power, justice, gentleness, and love of humanity of the Creator” (50.20–51.12). Even physical death was instituted so that “wickedness could be eradicated and [the soul] could find punishment for itself” (60.1–3; cf. 51.2–9), an idea which is first found in Theophilus of Antioch and Origen. Thus, in the end, every creature will be restored and made immortal, not just humanity but the whole universe (51.21–24). This will take place when God wishes it, and absolutely everything will exist in unity and harmony, according to the will of the Creator (43.10–19). Aeneas of Gaza’s view seems to be a recovery of genuine Origenian thought, in contrast to the ‘Origenism’ of the time.

Pseudo-Hierotheus and Pseudo-Dionysius

    The most radically ‘Origenist’ thinker of this period was Stephen bar Sudayli, a Syriac Christian mystic and monk. He left his hometown of Edessa in the early sixth century for Jerusalem, where ‘Origenism’ was considered more acceptable. Bar Sudayli was an overt supporter of the universal restoration. He was most likely the author of the Book of Hierotheus, which purports to be written by Hierotheus – a student of Paul, the first bishop of Athens, and the teacher of Dionysius the Areopagite (Acts 17:34). The end of this book deals with the eschatological restoration:

Then know this, my son, that the nature of all is destined to be commingled in the Father; nothing perishes or is annihilated; all returns, all is sanctified, all is made One, all is commingled, and the word is fulfilled which was said, “God will be all in all.” Even hell passes away and the damned return. Orders that are above pass away, and distinctions that are below are abolished, and all becomes One Thing: for even God [the Father] will pass away, and Christ will be done away, and the Spirit shall no longer be called Spirit, for names pass away and not essence. For if distinctions will pass away, who will call whom? And who, on the other hand, will answer whom? For One neither names nor is named. This is the limit of all and the end of everything; and take heed. (Book of Hierotheus V.2)

Whether or not this was written by Stephen bar Sudayli, this is the same view that is attributed to him in the Letter to Abraham and Orestes. This letter, written by Philoxenus of Mabbug against Stephen’s views, attributes to him the view that there will be no judgment, so that all will receive the same retribution followed by the same honor (!), and that everything will become consubstantial and identical with God, so that even distinctions between divine persons are lost. Philoxenus was himself an ‘Origenist’, but these views are far too radical for him.

    A related theologian from this period is the author of the Corpus Areopagiticum, a group of texts which purport to be written by Paul’s Athenian convert Dionysius the Areopagite. These texts were most likely written shortly after, and influenced by, the Book of Hierotheus. [4] The author, who is commonly referred to as Pseudo-Dionysius, speaks of Hierotheus as his teacher and highly praises him (Divine Names III.2). This author was a Christian Neoplatonist philosopher, most likely based in Syria, and he extensively paraphrases the Neoplatonist philosopher Proclus throughout his works, especially on the topic of the ontological non-subsistence of evil (DN IV.18–35). At the beginning of his treatise on divine names, he seems to relate the Neoplatonist concept of emanation-and-return (epistrophē) of all beings to the Christian concept of creation-and-restoration:

The Cause of all is, according to the saying, “all in all,” and truly must be praised as the Giver of existence to all, the Originator of all beings, who perfects all [teleiōtikē], holding them together and protecting them; their shrine, which has them all return [epistreptikē] to itself, and this in a uniform, irresistible, and preeminent way. (DN I.7)

Ps.-Dionysius relates the return of all beings to their “perfection,” which he elsewhere relates to the removal of ignorance and turning toward the true Being and Good, that is, God (DN IV.6). He also speaks of this cyclical view of emanation/creation-and-return/restoration of all things in his section on God as “the Good,” which he bolsters with a quote from ‘Hierotheus,’ which may actually be a paraphrase from Origen’s commentary on the Song of Songs (DN IV.14–17). [5] He goes on to prove that evil is not a substance nor in a substance, but is rather a privation, and therefore “unstable”; even the demons are good in their essence, and evil only in their wills (DN IV.18–35).

    Ps.-Dionysius insists on future punishment and that such punishment is just, because creatures have freedom of choice (DN IV.35; Ecclesiastical Hierarchy VII.3.1–3). However, he doesn’t describe such punishment as eternal or endless. [6] He is aware that aiōn and aiōnios do not strictly refer to eternity or endlessness. As he recognizes in his discussion of God’s name “Ancient of days,” aiōnios can refer to things that are strictly without beginning and without end, or to things that are only without end, or to things that seem to be without end, or to ancient things, or to the duration of our time and aeon; therefore, “one must not consider the things called ‘aeonian’ to be co-eternal with God, who is prior to every aeon” (DN X.3).

    Ps.-Dionysius conceives of the restoration as a state in which, “when our many distinctions [heterotētas] are folded up in a supermundane manner, we are collected into a God-like monad and God-imitating union [henōsin]” (DN I.4). Likewise, at the beginning of his Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, he states that God “elevates us, folds up our many distinctions, and... perfects us into a onelike [henoeidē] and divine life, habit, and activity”; in this way “we shall be able to become offerings and offerers, luminating and divine-workers, perfected and perfecting” (EH I.1). The one who is himself both offering and offerer, and divine-worker, and perfecter, is Christ (EH IV.3.12), so this implies a kind of identity with Christ. However, in both passages Ps.-Dionysius says that this will be “according to our power” (DN I.4; EH I.1), which implies that personal identities will remain in the restoration; thus, his ‘Origenism’ was less radical than Ps.-Hierotheus.

    The Corpus Areopagiticum was incredibly influential on later theologians, such as John of Damascus and Thomas Aquinas, both of whom quote from this corpus extensively. Ps.-Dionysius’ negative or apophatic theology had a large impact on later Eastern Christian thinking. This raises the question, how did he have such influence on Christian theology after his ‘Origenism’ was condemned? First, the Greek text of his corpus was likely altered to make it more orthodox. The earlier, Syriac translation of his work by Sergius of Reshaina is more explicitly ‘Origenist’ than the surviving Greek text. [7] Moreover, his expressions of ‘Origenism’ are clothed in philosophical language that could be reinterpreted by later anti-‘Origenist’ authors. Even so, the fact remains that one of the most influential Eastern theologians was an ‘Origenist’ and universalist.

Theodore of Caesarea

    Another prominent ‘Origenist’ from this period was Theodore of Caesarea, also known as Theodore “the Wine-Sack” (askidas). He was a monk from the New Lavra community in Palestine, who became bishop of Caesarea in Cappadocia around 536, and from then on until 553 was the primary religious adviser to the Byzantine emperor Justinian I. [8] According to the anti-‘Origenist’ church historian, Cyril of Scythopolis, he was so influential on Justinian that he “held in his hands the affairs of the state” (Vita Sabae 89). He was a proponent of neo-Chalcedonian Christology, and his influence resulted in the official acceptance of this view at the Council of Constantinople II.

    Theodore belonged to the Isochrist faction of ‘Origenists’ – those who believed that, in the restoration, all rational beings would become equal to Christ’s created nature – as opposed to the Protoctists, those who believed that Christ’s created nature has an ontological priority over all others. (Ps.-Dionysius probably belonged to the Protoctist faction. [7]) This intra-‘Origenist’ dispute was a Christological one: the Isochrists accused the Protoctists of being ‘Nestorians,’ due to their overemphasis on Christ’s created nature, while the Protoctists accused the Isochrists of teaching the equality of the saints with Christ.

    The Questions and Answers of Caesarius, a work which claims to be written by Gregory of Nazianzus’ brother Caesarius, was most likely authored by Theodore of Caesarea. [9] This book repeatedly condemns Origen himself, which indicates that it was written after Justinian’s condemnation of Origen in 543, but it presents a consistently ‘Origenist’ protology, cosmology, and eschatology. [10] Ps.-Caesarius cryptically speaks of the creation of rational beings as a unified substance, which fell resulting in the material world and bodies; but when we are perfected we will “put off the tunic of matter, which is full of passions.” Following Origen and Evagrius, Ps.-Caesarius interprets Romans 11:25–26 (and 1 Cor 15:28) to refer, not to the salvation of the Jewish people, but to the restoration and subjection of all people (126; 217). [11] He refers to Christ’s incarnation as a “hook” intended to deceive the devil (represented as a sea dragon) and save people, eventually including the Dragon himself (133); this precise metaphor was developed by Gregory of Nyssa to expound his own universalism (Cat Orat 24; 26).

    In summary, far from being a marginal group within sixth-century Christianity, ‘Origenism’ was actually rather influential among theologians during this period. Two of the most influential Eastern theologians of the sixth century – Ps.-Dionysius and Theodore of Caesarea, who greatly impacted later theology and Christology – were themselves ‘Origenists’ who belonged to opposing factions (the Protoctists and Isochrists respectively). Furthermore, alongside the more radical ‘Origenist’ view, there existed some strands of authentic Origenian thought (represented by Aeneas of Gaza and possibly John of Caesarea).

Justinian and Constantinople II

    The floruit of ‘Origenism’ took place before and toward the beginning of the reign of Justinian I (527–565). He was concerned with uniting and centralizing the Roman Empire under him, both politically and religiously. Justinian was very concerned about ‘Origenism’ as both a heresy and a destabilizing force, even though his closest religious adviser, Theodore of Caesarea, was an ‘Origenist’ (and may have kept his views under wraps for this reason). At the Synod of Constantinople in 543, he condemned both Origen himself and ‘Origenism’, including the views that the soul preexisted the body (anathemas 1–3), that the resurrection body is spherical (5), and that Christ will be crucified again for demons (8). The final, ninth anathema deals with the universal restoration:

If anyone says or holds that the punishment of demons and impious human beings is temporary and that it will have an end at some time, and that there will be a restoration of demons and impious human beings, let him be anathema.

Whereas the anti-‘Origenists’ of the first controversy (Epiphanius, Theophilus of Alexandria, and Jerome) were primarily concerned about the restoration of the devil, Justinian is concerned about the restoration of demons and “impious” humans (cf. Jerome, Dial adv Pelag I.26).

    In his letter to Menas, patriarch of Constantinople, which accompanied these anathemas, he provides a few arguments against the universal restoration [PG 86.975]: it will make people lazy (this concern was shared by Origen himself, who thought that the doctrine shouldn’t be taught to the masses); it contradicts Jesus’ teaching in Matt 25:41, 46 that both heaven and hell are aeonian (this Augustinian argument was already refuted by Origen in Comm in Rom V.7.8); it makes Christ’s crucifixion worthless (not true of the authentic Origenian doctrine, nor probably ‘Origenism,’ which are both centered around Christ’s incarnation and death); and it gives sinners and saints the same reward (this concern was shared by some patristic universalists, such as Jerome in his Origenian phase).

    After Origen’s condemnation by Justinian, Theodore of Caesarea sought to also condemn some writings he viewed as ‘Nestorian’. These came to be known as the “Three Chapters”: the person and writings of Theodore of Mopsuestia, the writings of Theodoret of Cyrrhus, and the letter of Ibas of Edessa to Maris. Theodore’s crusade against the “Three Chapters” may have been, as Facundus of Hermiane suggests, a kind of ‘revenge’ against the condemnation of Origen; more likely, it had to do with the intra-‘Origenist’ feud between the Isochrists and Protoctists. Theodore of Caesarea, as an Isochrist, would have been concerned about any overemphasis on Christ’s created nature, which he saw as ‘Nestorian’.

    Theodore succeeded in getting his condemnation against the “Three Chapters,” since Justinian called an ecumenical council in 553 for this purpose (the Council of Constantinople II). However, in what may have been a political move by the emperor, a later session of this council examined Theodore himself and condemned his ‘Origenism’. [12] The fifteen anti-‘Origenist’ anathemas, which may or may not have been officially promulgated at Constantinople II, reveal exactly what was condemned:

If anyone advocates the mythical pre-existence of souls and the monstrous restoration that follows from this, let him be anathema. (anathema 1)

What was condemned here was not the universal restoration as such, but the concept of restoration to a bodiless state, which was propounded by Evagrius and sixth-century ‘Origenists’.

    The anathemas go on to condemn the view that rational beings first existed as a henad without numbers or names (2), that bodies after the resurrection are aethereal and spherical (10), that the judgment will result in disappearance of bodies (11), that all rational beings will be united to God in the same way that Christ is (12), that there will be no difference between rational beings (13) and all rational beings will form a henad (14), so that the end is identical to the beginning (15). These anathemas are focused against ‘Origenism’, and especially Theodore of Caesarea’s Isochrist faction (see anathema 12), although 13 and 14 also apply to Ps.-Dionysius’ view that distinctions will fold away and rational beings will form a monad and henad.

    The eleventh canon of Constantinople II officially anathematizes “Arius, Eunomius, Macedonius, Apollinarius, Nestorius, Eutyches and Origen... who have already been condemned and anathematized by the holy, catholic and apostolic church and by the four holy [ecumenical] synods”. However, as Ramelli argues, Origen’s name may not even be original to the text of the canons. [13] The other heretics are listed in chronological order, are Christological heretics, and were actually condemned at the four previous ecumenical councils. Origen fits none of this pattern, which suggests that his name is an interpolation. Even if the council did condemn him, however, the doctrines it condemns have nothing to do with his authentic thought, only the later ‘Origenism’ which was wrongly associated with him.

Maximus the Confessor

    The fifth ecumenical council didn’t condemn the universal restoration as such, but Justinian’s influence and the death of ‘Origenism’ resulted in the loss of this doctrine, for the most part, in the East (just as Augustine’s influence did earlier in the West). However, Maximus the Confessor – an influential seventh-century theologian (d. 662) – was most likely a proponent of the universal restoration. Maximus is best known for his role in the monothelite controversy, where he supported the dyothelite position (that Christ has a divine and a human will) and was actually persecuted for this. He was vindicated by the sixth ecumenical council, the Council of Constantinople III in 680–1, which condemned monothelitism as a Christological heresy.

    Maximus was a critic of both radical ‘Origenism’ and radical anti-‘Origenism’. [14] In his Ambigua, where he interprets difficult passages from Ps.-Dionysius and Gregory of Nazianzus, he comments on Gregory’s statement that we “are a portion of God that has flowed down from above,” and refutes the ‘Origenist’ interpretation that this refers to the preexistence of souls in a divine henad (Amb 7 [PG 91.1068–1101]). Our souls did not preexist; what ‘preexisted,’ in a sense, was the logoi, God’s purposes for his creatures, which existed within the Logos prior to creation [PG 91.1077–80]. This, and not the ‘Origenist’ myth of preexistence, was Origen’s actual view. [15] If a being moves in accordance with its logos (God’s purpose for it), it finds rest in God [PG 91.1080–81]. Maximus also criticizes the view that bodies will pass away into non-being after the restoration in Ambiguum 42.

    In a few places, Maximus speaks of an interpretation that he knows of, but which he will not divulge for the sake of beginners. When he talks about Christ’s victory over evil, he says that there is a “more mystical and sublime interpretation... [which] must not be committed to writing” (Ad Thal 21.8). When he comments on the “eternal chains” of fallen angels in Jude 6, he says that this might mean they will never achieve divine rest, or that they are restrained from doing evil to us now, and the fate of these fallen angels is known only to God (Ad Thal 11.3). In his comments on Luke 3:6 (“all flesh will see God’s salvation”), he says that this means “faithful flesh,” but hints at a “loftier contemplation” which relates to God becoming “all in all” in order to “save all” (Ad Thal 47.8). In his interpretation of the two trees in the garden of Eden, he says that there is another interpretation which should only be divulged to advanced believers (Ad Thal 43.2). He refers to the same in his comments on Adam’s pre-fallen state (Amb 45 [PG 91.1356]).

    Maximus believed in the ontological non-subsistence of evil (e.g., Amb 20; 45 [PG 91.1237, 1332]), and that the choice of evil is the result of ignorance (Ad Thal 16.5). It is impossible for any being to rest, that is, cease from motion, in evil (Amb 15 [PG 91.1217–20]). Thus, it’s unsurprising that he conceives of the restoration as one in which evil will cease:

The third meaning [of “restoration”] is used by Gregory of Nyssa to refer to the powers of the soul that had been corrupted by sin and then are restored to their natural state...  the powers of the soul that have been led astray will, in the duration of the aeons, shed all imprints of evil clinging to them. After passing through all aeons without finding rest, they reach God, who is without limit. Thus, by full knowledge [of God], not by participating in good things, it will recover its powers and be restored to its original state, so that the Creator will be revealed as not being responsible for sin. (Q et Dub 19)

    This passage doesn’t explicitly describe the restoration as universal, but it’s a holistic interpretation of restoration which Maximus draws directly from Gregory of Nyssa. In other passages, he does speak of the restoration of the whole human nature and bringing it to harmony within itself (Or dom I.82; Myst 19, 24; In Ps 59). Given his metaphysics of universals, in which universals only subsist in their particulars (Amb 41 [PG 91.1312]), the whole human nature could only participate in God if every individual human does. Indeed, later in the same passage Maximus says that God will unite every particular to its universal (PG 91.1313; cf. Ad Thal 2). [16] Perhaps his most universalistic passage is found toward the end of his Ambiguum 7:

The Godhead will really be “all in all,” [1 Cor 15:28] embracing all and giving substance to all in itself, in that no being will have any movement separate from it and nobody will be deprived of its presence. Thanks to this presence, we will be, and will be called, gods and children, body and limbs, because we shall be restored to the perfection of God’s project. [PG 91.1092]

    This aligns with his interpretation of 1 Cor 15:24–28 elsewhere: the subjection there is a voluntary one [PG 91.1076–77], and the last enemy, death, is destroyed when we submit our will to God (Q et Dub 21). It’s significant that this comes at the end of his anti-‘Origenist’ passage; he rejects the mythology of the preexistence of souls and disappearance of bodies, but supports the universal restoration. As Maximus says elsewhere, “divinization will be present in actuality to all, transforming all human beings into the divine likeness, in a manner proportionate to each, to the extent that each one is receptive of it” (Ad Thal 59.11; cf. Amb 47 [PG 91.1357–61]). Thus, personal distinctions will remain when all are divinized, contrary to some radical ‘Origenists’.

    Maximus certainly believed in future punishment in hell, and described it not only as aiōnios, but also apeiros (“unlimited”) and ateleutētos (“unending”) on occasion (although never as aidios, “eternal,” which he did use to describe future life). His fearsome hell passages can be explained by the fact that, in his view, “beginners” are motivated primarily by the fear of hell, whereas the “advanced” and “perfect” are motivated by love, not threats (Cap theol II.9; Myst 1060–70; cf. Ad Thal 10). In fact, he interprets “the fire of judgment” as one that consumes sin in sinners, while resulting in repentance and salvation for the human being (Q et Dub 159). In the parable of wheat and tares, the wheat are “the good things God planted in beings,” which means that the tares are evilness, and they will be completely burned away when “all the aeons have reached their appointed limit” (Amb 46 [PG 91.1357]).

    According to Maximus’ view of hell, when Christ returns, God will unite to all people, but those who act contrary to nature will experience this as suffering (Ad Thal 59.8). The wicked “will be like a part of the body utterly bereft of the soul’s vital energy” (Ad Thal 61.13–15). Maximus’ most difficult hell passage is found in his Ambiguum 65:

If, then, voluntary activity makes use of the potential of nature, either according to nature or against nature, it will receive nature’s limit of either well-being or ill-being – and this is always-being [aei einai], in which the souls celebrate their Sabbath, receiving cessation from all motion... to those who have willfully used the principle [logos] of their being contrary to nature, [God] rightly renders not well-being but always-ill-being [to kakos aei ainai], since well-being is no longer accessible to those who have placed themselves in opposition to it, and they have absolutely no motion after the manifestation of what was sought [PG 91.1392]

Maximus seems to say that it will be possible for beings to eternally rest in evil, if they use their logos contrary to nature. This would contradict his earlier statement that no being can rest in evil (Amb 15), along with his other universalist statements. Instead of concluding that his eschatology is irreconcilably contradictory, I think we should view his statement about “eternal ill-being” as a mere logical possibility, not something that will actually be realized. After all, he says elsewhere that because of Christ’s death, all movements contrary to God will cease, so that “in this restoration, not even one of the logoi of creatures will be found falsified” (Ad Thal 63.19).

    In summary, Maximus was one of the last patristic universalists – not an ‘Origenist,’ but a proponent of the Origenian universal restoration in all its key aspects (ontological non-subsistence of evil, restorative future punishment, concern about ‘honorable silence’). At his trial, he was actually accused of ‘Origenism’ in response to which he condemned Origen. He most likely knew of the universal restoration, not from the writings of Origen himself, but through the Cappadocians and Ps.-Dionysius who were deeply influenced by Origen. The fact that Maximus was nevertheless a prominent saint, a confessor who was tortured and died for his belief and was vindicated at an ecumenical council, shows that the universal restoration as such was not condemned at Constantinople II (only in its ‘Origenist’ form).

Conclusion

    Over a century after the first Origenist controversy, there was a resurgence of Origenian and more radical ‘Origenist’ thought, especially in Palestine. The radicalized ‘Origenism’ of some Palestinian monks caught the attention of the Byzantine emperor Justinian I, who believed that this set of doctrines was the authentic teaching of Origen, and took it upon himself to condemn both him and them. The Council of Constantinople (II) in 553, which was convened primarily to condemn suspected ‘Nestorian’ writings (known as the Three Chapters), likely also condemned ‘Origenism’ and possibly Origen himself. However, the doctrine of universal restoration per se was not condemned, and one prominent saint after this council – Maximus the Confessor – was himself a reticent universalist.

______________________________

[1] Brian Daley, The Hope of the Early Church, 187; Ilaria Ramelli, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, 721–22.

[2] Daley, The Hope of the Early Church, 187.

[3] Ramelli, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, 690; but see Daley, The Hope of the Early Church, 176–77.

[4] Nicolò Sassi, “The Corpus Areopagiticum and the Book of the Holy Hierotheos,” Orientala Christiana Analecta 307 (2019), 197–217.

[5] Ramelli, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, 702–04.

[6] The Greek text of EH VII.3.3 refers to the threatened punishment of the wicked as “endless impiety” (anierois ateleutētous), but describes this as a threat intended to be profitable for them, to bring them to “the perfection in Christ” (tēn en Christō teleiōsin), which according to DN I.7 will be experienced by all.

[7] For examples, see István Perczel, “Pseudo-Dionysius and Palestinian Origenism,” Orientala Christiana Analecta 98 (2001), 267–78.

[8] István Perczel, “Clandestine Heresy and Politics in Sixth-Century Constantinople: Theodore of Caesarea at the Court of Justinian,” in New Themes, New Styles in the Eastern Mediterranean (Leuven: Peeters, 2017), 138–45.

[9] István Perczel, “Finding a Place for the Erotapokriseis of Pseudo-Caesarius: A New Document of Sixth-Century Palestinian Origenism,” ARAM 18 (2006): 49–83.

[10] István Perczel, “Pre-Existence and the Creation of the World in Pseudo-Caesarius,” in Questioning the World: Greek Patristic and Byzantine Question-and-Answer Literature (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), 311–60.

[11] István Perczel, “Universal Salvation as an Antidote to Apocalyptic Expectations: Origenism in the Service of Justinian’s Religious Politics,” in Apocalypticism and Eschatology in Late Antiquity (Leuven: Peeters, 2017), 132–40.

[12] Perczel, “Clandestine Heresy and Politics,” 154–56.

[13] Ramelli, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, 737 n. 210.

[14] Vladimir Cvetković, “Maximus the Confessor’s Reading of Origen Between Origenism and Anti-Origenism,” in Origeniana Undecima (Leuven: Peeters, 2016), 747–57.

[15] Daniel Heide, “The Origenism of Maximus Confessor: Critic or True Exegete?,” St Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 63, no. 3 (2019): 277–95.

[16] The universalist implications of this view are made explicit in Maximus’ scholium on this passage, where he refers this to “the union of all men according to a single movement of the will’s inclination toward the principle of nature, a union that is the work of God through His providence, so that, just as all human beings have one nature, they might also have one voluntary inclination, and thus all shall be united to God and to each other through the Spirit” (Ad Thal 2, schol 2).