Principles of Labyrinth Design (Part 1 - Elements)

 There are as many kinds of labyrinth as there are dimensions in which to design them (excepting the first dimension alone, which permits only a binary and trivial variation). The 2-dimensional labyrinth is, of course, the simplest non-trivial variety. Of the 2-dimensional labyrinths, there are two kinds; linear and non-linear. 2-dimensional, linear labyrinths include only four directions; south, east, north, and west. Non-linear labyrinths are omni-directional (throughout 360 degrees). 

A 'simple labyrinth' is any 2-dimensional linear labyrinth.

A 'true labyrinth' has only one exit, and therefore one non-trivial solution.

A labyrinth's 'direction-value' (DV) is the number which denotes the total orientation of its solution. A right turn equals +1 to the DV. A left turn equals -1 to the DV. Hence, if a labyrinth's solution necessitates 5 right-turns and 3 left-turns, its DV equals 2.

An 'open labyrinth' has its exit on the periphery of the labyrinth. This kind of labyrinth always has a DV of -1, 0, or 1.

A 'closed labyrinth' has an end-point that is enclosed within the perimeter of the labyrinth. A closed labyrinth is not necessarily direction-neutral.

The fundamental, or "1st order", elements of simple labyrinths can be laid out and enumerated such that each element corresponds to a number of the hexadecimal system (fig. 1):

With this system of labeling, any simple labyrinth can be described numerically with a matrix. For example, the following simple labyrinth (fig. 2) can be described with the corresponding matrix (fig. 3). This matrix can be written as follows: 326/451/035.

Simple labyrinths are modular; that is, larger matrices can be reduced to smaller matrices, or even single numbers. For example, fig. 3 can be reduced to 'c' because fig. 2 is reducible to a north-facing dead-end. However, the DV of a given labyrinth is not affected by modular reduction: Every fundamental dead-end has a DV of zero, whereas fig. 2 has a DV of -4.

Reörienting every labyrinth so that the initial orientation is north (i.e. the entrance always faces south), and fully modulating it to its most fundamental solution, we can see that every simple open true labyrinth can be reduced to 1, 3, or 6. Every simple closed true labyrinth can be reduced to 'c'.

There are elements composed of 1st order elements, called "2nd order" elements. The 2nd order elements are 'loops' and 'trees'. Both loops and trees can be open or closed.

A loop is any pattern which leads back to its initial point. Examples are 36/75 for a closed loop and 36/b5 for a closed loop.

A tree is any pattern which diverts to multiple paths (i.e. branches) from one path. E.g. a/b.

3rd order elements are composed of 2nd order elements. The 3rd order elements are 'wheels' and 'double loops'.

A wheel is a conjunction of trees, such that there are multiple branches in all four directions from a single point. E.g. bb/bb.

A double loop is a loop circumscribed by a loop.

Commentary on Jean Daneliou's "Prayer as a Political Problem" (Part 1)

The Church of the Poor

The argument in this chapter is that Christianity is universal; its message and promise is destined to all people. The ‘poor’ does not mean simply those of meager economic power, but those of meager power in any regard. The poor lack intellectual and even spiritual means as well. If the Church is the “church of the poor” because it is universal, it cannot be an elite society. 

With this truth in mind, Danielou identifies an urgent problem: The world is inhospitable to the Faith. This is not a new revelation by any means. “The flesh lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh” (Gal 5:17). “The lust of the flesh is of the world” and “we received not the spirit of the world” for “the world knew Him not.” We are called therefore to be “in the world but not of it.” That the Faith is not of the world, however, is a fact of its divine origin. Our mission is to be the light of the world, to spread the Gospel, and to baptize all nations, for the world belongs to Christ.

Danielou is addressing a deeper, more troubling fact about the world that is particular to modernity: “A world has come into being in which everything serves to turn men away from their spiritual calling.” The world is infested with temptations to every kind of vice, temptations that are carefully crafted for maximum effect to yield maximum profit. Not only is the man of Faith a stranger in this world, but any kind of religious activity whatsoever is alien. Christianity is a supernatural revelation and therefore will never be quite at home in the world, but religion is perfectly natural. Man is born with an impulse to revere the divine and the sacred; to conduct himself with respect to what is mightier, nobler, and more sublime than himself. Yet modern society is hostile to religion of any kind. One who seeks to sanctify the mundane with daily practices of devotion will constantly struggle against conflicting duties, social expectations, and the more pressing human needs which arise as their result. Even civic holidays and the vestigial pastiches of religious festivals like Christmas, Easter, and Halloween have been reduced to motions of mere economic expedience. For the Christian, to consider only one example, Holy Days of Obligation are observed only under tension with one’s obligations to his employer or to his family (by either “taking the day off” to hear morning mass or forfeiting his evening to hear evening mass–in either case there is no impression of a sacred festival). The seasonal patience of thaw, harvest, and solstice; the cyclical tempo of light and dark, expectation and remembrance, abundance and want, is lost. Even the pagan spirit of bacchanalia, which seems to persist in some recognizable forms, is neither ritualized nor dedicated to any god, but is rather tolerated as a useful stimulus to the most banal functions of modern life.

Such is our problem. Hence, Danielou says, “it is sufficiently clear that Christians ought to be trying to change the shape and pattern of society so as to make possible a Christian life for the whole of mankind.”

Common Objections Against the Existence of the Soul

 It might seem that the soul is some emergent property or function of matter arising out of a material cause:

1. If the soul is the form of the body, then the soul only exists insofar as it informs the body.  Therefore, it is reasonable to infer that the soul is something dependent on the body.

2. If souls are identified according to their activity (as a vegetative soul vegetates and a sensible soul senses) then we ought to consider them precisely to be activities and nothing more.  For what we observe in living things are not souls as such, but vegetation and sensation, by which we infer that there is something other than what we observe which performs those activities.  But this is an unnecessary abstraction, as we perceive nothing other than activity in a material body.

3. If the soul is the principle of movement in material things, then it interacts with material. But what is immaterial is impassible and cannot interact with what is material.  Therefore the soul must not be immaterial but something material.

4. The end of a living thing is to preserve its life.  But self-preservation is achieved in and through the preservation of the body.  Therefore, life-as-end is not distinct from the body but is merely the integrity of the body and its functions.

Contra 1: If we regard the form as dependent on matter as a kind of supervening quality, then we would subvert the order of substance and accidents.  What is accidental to a thing is secondary to what the thing primarily is, which is its substance.  When the soul is called the form of the body, it is precisely meant as the substantial form.  Even though matter is a necessary part of a natural living thing, the matter is not enough to identify that thing as what it is, as we see that a plant or animal can grow and diminish over time while maintaining its individuality.  But to say that a living thing's soul exists only insofar as it has matter is to put accidents prior to substance or else make matter the substantial form of the body, which is absurd.  Hence, if we wish to concede that there are individual living things, then the primacy of the soul is a necessary conclusion from what is perceived.

Contra 2: We ascertain the form of a thing when we identify what it is specifically (i.e. according to a species), for matter is informed according to its species by its form.  This is not merely a logical device, for to refer to a substantial form is to say that there is some active principle in that living thing which unifies the parts into a whole.  Now when we observe some activity in a certain thing, we can attribute that activity in two ways; to the part in which the activity is manifested, and to the whole to which the part belongs.  E.g. when a worm is prodded, we may say that there is a reaction in certain material parts of that worm, and that what we observe is the action of material apparata in response to some material stimulus.  This may be true with respect to chemistry, but it is ultimately unintelligible without respect to the thing acting, viz. the worm.  If we cannot account for the substantial form of the worm, then we cannot say that the worm moves, but only that the parts of the worm move.  But this is an unnecessary reduction, whereas it is reasonable to attribute the movement observed within a thing to the thing itself.

Contra 3: It would indeed seem that immaterial things cannot interact with material for two reasons; viz. that what is material cannot harm or hinder what is immaterial (e.g. we cannot tie down an angel or transplant a soul) and that there is no known mechanism which would explain how such an interaction could take place.  But we should not form too simple a concept of immaterial things.  Some tend to think of interaction in terms of bodies reacting to force or contact, like two rocks hitting together.  But no interaction at all can be attributed to purely material causes.  The rocks that one knocks together are being moved ultimately by something that does the moving.  So the answer to the question, how does the immaterial interact with the material, is found in the question, “what is interaction?”  Strictly speaking, “pure matter” does not act.  To hold this would ultimately be to conflate material cause and efficient cause and to disregard the act-potency distinction altogether.  Therefore we must concede that there is something immaterial in a living thing which is the principle of its action.

Contra 4: If the soul is the substantial form of a living thing, then the body is the matter which is informed by the soul, and by means of which the soul acts.  Thus the integrity of the body is due to the soul's act, which works in and through the body as the means to preserve its proper place as form.  It does not follow that what is attained by means of the body is the body itself.

The Black Mirror

John Dee was a widely-respected and influential mathematician, navigation tutor, cartographer, and scientific adviser to Queen Elizabeth I of England. When Francis Bacon was just nine years old, John Dee wrote an impassioned introduction to the English translation of Euclid’s Elements of Geometry. In it he glorifies the “thaumaturgy” made possible by the mathematical arts and urges the reader to view the pursuit of scientific marvels as an honorable Christian pursuit and pleasing to God: He also finds it necessary to explicitly distinguish the wonder-working of science from conjury and diabolism. It is easy to see in Dee’s writing the seeds of the spirit of modern science; the conviction that knowledge ought to be pursued liberally and not for its own sake, but for what it can be used. The scholastic tradition of the centuries prior had a different take. Aristotle famously observes that all men by nature desire to know, because to know is man’s greatest activity. Truth is therefore sought for its own sake. Yet Aristotle’s greatest commentator, Saint Thomas Aquinas, explains that, while truth is good in itself, it is possible for the desire or pursuit of knowledge to be sinful; that is, the sin of curiosity. The quest for knowledge becomes vicious curiosity when it is driven by pride, when it distracts from one’s duties, when it involves illicit means, or when it is simply too great an undertaking for his mental resources, as it were, so that one ends up more confused and ignorant than before he started. There is one more way one may fall into curiosity, which is perhaps the most pertinent to Dee’s exhortation; namely, when knowledge is not referred to its due end. In other words, if what one endeavors to learn does not lead us closer to God in some way, such as by increasing our understanding of Him, by rendering the practice of virtue more effective, or by helping us to fulfill our station in life, then we might be giving into curiosity.

The supposed thousand-year suppression of science by the medieval Catholic Church is still a common trope, but Saint Thomas and his medieval colleagues were no opponents of science. Thomas' intellectual work was heavily influenced by the work of Aristotle, the ancient biologist and metaphysician who systematized classical logic. It is well known that Thomas’ teacher, Saint Albert, was among the first proponents of Aristotelianism in Europe. At that time, the university system (which the Catholic Church had recently invented) received newly accessible Latin translations of manuscripts preserved by Muslim scholars in the near east. Albert generated a considerable amount of controversy by his endorsement of Aristotle and patiently restrained his opinions while the Church decided whether the new school of philosophy was reconcilable with the Faith. It decided in Aristotle’s favor, of course.

Those familiar with the history of medieval scholasticism might also be aware of Saint Albert’s love of natural philosophy and his extensive research and contributions in geology, zoology, biology, botany, and astronomy. It is perhaps not so well known that Saint Albert worked on some marvelous science projects in his laboratory at the university of Cologne. One of these projects was an automaton; a mechanical bust which could move and speak of its own accord. The automaton was eventually destroyed, but neither by decree of the Inquisition nor at the hands of a frightened mob. Saint Thomas, the legend says, was poking about in his teacher’s lab one night when he was startled by a jangling voice which belted from the darkness “salve!” Thomas instinctively lashed out at the thing, smashing it to pieces. Albert was of course annoyed that so much of his work had perished so frivolously, but this was anything but a life-ruining moment for him. The purpose of Albert’s study was not to dazzle or to hoard power, but to deepen his understanding of truth. Likewise, the spirit of inquiry evident in scholasticism was typically not curious, because it was not vain.

Whether the spirit of modern science ushered in by John Dee and others of his era amounts to the deification of curiosity is a moot point, but it is clear that Dee was himself a profoundly curious man. In the latter half of his life, Dee toured Europe with his confidant, Edward Kelley, a rather shady character with a checkered past. It had come to Kelley’s attention that the man of science was attempting to extract knowledge from higher “angelic” powers by occult means, so he made his acquaintance with Dee by offering his services as a scryer and a medium. Throughout their travels, the two together conducted countless hours of divination sessions using a variety of implements including sigils, incantations, and crystal balls. Dee recounts these practices in his own diary.

Perhaps the most famous relic of Dee’s career as a conjurer is a polished obsidian mirror, into which he set his gaze and purportedly saw weird visions from another plane of existence. Today his mirror is displayed at the British Museum of History, along with myriad other items which no well-formed conscience would ever consider keeping in his own house; not just objects used in black arts, but sacred vessels that belong in God’s service, and human remains that deserve repose. The display is itself a testament to the vain and voyeuristic spirit of curiosity. Considering the institutionalization of such curiosity and its malign origins, one might be tempted to call such a spirit not merely curious, but luciferian. Again, we can be quite clear in Dee’s case, as the origins of his pastime reveal.

Researchers have ascertained that John Dee’s mirror is ultimately of Aztec origin. Many similar mirrors have been discovered in Mexico and are typically associated with the worship of the Aztec god Tezcatlipoca (sometimes translated as “Smoking-Mirror”). The god was believed to be omniscient; able to see all things in his mirror, including the thoughts and actions of men. The Aztec elite carried obsidian mirrors to show that they too had special knowledge and could commune with the gods by looking into their world through the glass. Smoking-Mirror was thought to be both a creator deity and associated with discord and conflict. Such associations are only paradoxical at first glance. Creation, it seems, is typically a violent affair. To make a house, one must cut down trees, saw them into pieces, and nail the pieces together. Similar acts of violence and struggle go into all manner of making things, whether it is baking bread or birthing a baby. This dynamic is especially evident with the introduction of new technologies: As the mathematical arts produce for us some new marvel, some other artifact is rendered obsolete, and with it all the patterns of life which accompanied it. Creation thus necessitates destruction as the old gives way to the new: So goes the demonic logic.

The strongest lies most easily pass as truth. Of course, only God can create, properly speaking. We know from divine revelation that creation is from nothing, and it is a peaceful process. God spoke, and it came to be, and it was good. When creatures produce something, they ideally elevate one form of existence into a more noble one: It is, for example, better for a tree to house the sons of God than to stand alone in the wilderness. Any heartache that accompanies man’s attempt at ordering the world is a consequence of sin. Yet in the haze of sinful ignorance these truths are easily missed, and one should expect prevarication from an infernal spirit masquerading as a creator deity.

Those under the spell of such a spirit, as John Dee was, might accustom themselves to the idea that the marvelous products of knowledge require sacrifice. Dee’s curiosity was motivated by the desire to produce wonders. He recounted tales of marvelous images which fooled the senses, mechanical doves who sang as sweetly as real doves, and artificial eagles which could fly of their own accord. The beauty of ages past which we as a society have sacrificed for such vanities has become a tired topic. But each person who yields to curiosity must inevitably render sacrifice as well. There is an allegory hidden in the explicit sacrifices which the Aztecs made to Smoking-Mirror. A full year before the sacrifice was to be made, a prisoner of war was selected. For that year, he was treated as though he were the god himself. He was given royal clothes, luxurious living arrangements, and even a modest harem. He spent his time indulging himself, eating, and playing music. Finally, on the day of the sacrifice, he was brought to the temple where the priests cut out his heart.

I would wager that what motivated the Aztecs to sacrifice to this cruel deity is precisely what motivated the royal English scientist to continue some of their traditions. It is what today motivates a growing social acceptance of occultism in general, even as we simultaneously lionize science. We are all perhaps primed to accept the vain promises of unbounded inquiry because we unwittingly participate in its rituals. Most of us carry on our person a little device into which we gaze for countless hours. We tend to think of our little black mirror as a kind of window. Through it we can see what we presume is the whole world. Some even impetuously declare that the whole sum of human knowledge is contained in it. The Aztecs thought of mirrors as windows into another realm. I remember playing with mirrors as a child, trying to outwit my reflection or to see around the corner of the mirror’s boundaries. But all this is childish fancy. Mirrors and windows are two very different things.

Windows are meant to let the light in and to let a person who is inside see what is outside. Those who have heard the saying “eyes are windows to the soul” might have heard it in the context of art. Eyes are a very telling feature of the face. If you look at a person’s eyes, you can get a read on what is happening interiorly. Hence, an artist can say a lot with eyes. The saying is also used in the context of spiritual direction. Saint Thomas notes the special relationship vision has to knowledge: Knowledge begins in the senses, and sight is our primary sense. All manner of things can enter the soul through the eyes. We must therefore take great care in what we set our gaze on. Custody of the eyes is a rare virtue today, but one can imperil his soul by simply looking at what is unwholesome. Mirrors, on the other hand, reflect. They turn our vision back onto ourselves. Mirrors are therefore a symbol of pride and vanity. No one complains about the overuse of windows, but spending too much time before a mirror is a strong indication of vice.

Maybe it is fair to say that a smartphone is a window in some ways; in others it is a mirror. In its glass we can conjure up whatever we wish to see and learn whatever we wish to learn. Though its obsidian surface is animated by the hidden processes of arcane mathematical arts, its use of course does not qualify as a direct compact with demons. However, it is certainly a product of the kind of spirit which we have presently identified, and its utilization very easily disposes one to pay tribute to such a spirit in perilous ways.

“Screen time” is not an uncommon object of fasting for Christians today. To warn of its mere overuse has become a platitude. But what we might miss between the platitudes of older generations and the tired pre-internet romanticism cherished only by the extremely online is a kind of knowledge that absolutely cannot be received through the glass. This knowledge is at first apophatic; a purely negative experience of life without the mirror. One who fasts from screens will invariably find, alarmingly soon, that the world is in fact very big; overwhelmingly big. And in the immensity of the world, he might find himself terribly alone. His friends are likely many miles away. He might find that his own microcosm, disconnected from the others, is quite empty. He has only so many things with which to occupy his time; books and a few odd hobbies perhaps. His leisure time moves excruciatingly slowly. In the immensity of his time, he might have an unbearable many thoughts; thoughts that cannot be developed or verified by a quick Google search. Out of sheer necessity, he might begin to develop what the Benedictine tradition calls “poverty of mind,” wherein he abandons the cacophony of thoughts that are vain, distracting or unhelpful, and embark into a desert of internal silence. With grace, his curiosity will begin to wear off.

The experience might gradually become kataphatic; one that is positive and enlightening. He might become aware that his brain is purging itself of excess humors; clarifying his thoughts and alleviating his anxieties. As he becomes more acutely aware of the present, so too will he begin to sense eternity. His soul becomes still, and prayer feels natural. Maybe. 

More likely, he will become enamored anew at the thrill of the little world in the looking glass. He will gaze back into the mirror, despite his better instincts that he is watched inasmuch as he watches; that he pays for his curiosity with indulgence; that his indulgence is preparing him for a final sacrifice.

The Order of War

I assume the definitions of ‘power’ and ‘authority’ here.

Just war is, in a sense, power applied to bring social order out of social disorder. War is understood to involve at least two contrary powers. In order for war to be possible, there must be an order to which both powers actually belong.

An analogy to war is competitive sports, in which two opposing teams compete against each other. Each team tries to accomplish two goals at once; to score points against its opponent and to prevent its opponent from scoring points against itself. There are intrinsic and extrinsic common goods proper to each team: Individual athletes must work well together as a team, and they all share in their team’s victories. There are, however, common goods proper to the sport in general; goods in which all teams share even as they compete against each other.

With respect to the intrinsic common goods of the sport, if there were no rules of play, then there would be no game; and, if it were not assumed that both teams would honor the rules equally, then competition would not be possible. As for the extrinsic goods of the game (the goods for which those who compete), were there none to be enjoyed, there would be no purpose for playing.

War is similar in the sense that there is an extrinsic common good that is supposedly exclusive to one party in the conflict: viz., the terms of victory and the driving motives for declaring war. However, if there were no fundamental order that was shared by all opposing forces, there would be no war: It would at most look like war, but would more appropriately be called suppression or interdiction if done well; a riot or massacre if not.

So, what is the order that enables man to wage war? Primarily, man desires to live and to live well. War is waged on this assumption; that death and needless suffering is to be avoided. However, peoples wage war by means of those who actively risk death and suffering on their behalf: The essence of a warrior is to undergo such risk for the sake of victory.

The relation between the warrior and the authority which empowers him to wage war implies the common nature of victory: Even fallen warriors can share victory. However, the good to which the warrior consecrates himself is greater than the admittedly thin consolation of posthumous victory and honor. If it were not the case that the warrior’s risk is itself a testament to the greatness of his cause, a good that encompasses his whole community, then military service should have no honor attached to it. In other words, if individual life and prosperity is the greatest good to which a man can aspire; if the commonweal is nothing greater than the totality of individual goods; or if the warrior’s moral calculus simply means gambling his life for a greater number of potential beneficiaries, then the warrior is reckless by nature, because such an outcome is far from certain. Rather, it is more likely that not only the warrior suffer, but the whole nation.

The nature of war includes sacrifice for a higher good, viz. the peace and order of the nations involved.

Labor and Property

A robust understanding of the relationship between labor and property can be developed from the concepts of order and authority. In this way, we can avoid the nebulous attribution of "value".

A man, by his labor, incorporates something into an order: i.e. it is reordered to some good that is extrinsic to it; the laborer's work is given a new or deepened participation in the order of man, as it were.

The man, whose reason and will has moved it into a more noble participation, assumes authority over it. In a sense, the laborer is a lawgiver over his work. We should here avoid such misattributions as "legitimacy" or "sovereignty". The laborer has authority over his work insofar as it does not contradict with the order in which he himself is a part.

With such an approach to labor, we can honor P. Leo XIII's judgment on the relation of labor and property; viz. that man has the right to property by virtue of reason through labor.

We may also maintain St. Thomas' position; viz. that common property is by natural law granted to man to furnish the necessities of life, and private property is a matter of positive law. Positive law builds, as it were, on the natural law; human authority maintains the order of society (a perfectly natural thing) by promulgating among his subjects ordinances of reason for their common good. Labor begins as an ordinance of reason, and is carried out as obedience to that ordinance.

It is not appropriate to consider labor separately from that for which labor is accomplished; labor is immediately undertaken for the sake of the social order of the family, and ultimately for the good of the state. Here, too, various extremes may be avoided: The order of the state ought not to be contradicted by so-called "private" interests, yet without the household dimension, (most) labor becomes inordinate by reason of proportion to its end.

Because labor is bound up with order, and property is that over which one has authority by virtue of his labor, not all activities which serve to accumulate possessions are labor, properly speaking; and not all possessions are property. For example, theft, extortion, and usury are intrinsically disordered activities: possessions obtained unjustly are not proper to those who hold them, as opposed to the things a man might get through, say, farming poorly (a disordered, but intrinsically good activity).

Thoughts on Civic Liturgy

 The Catholic Encyclopedia describes the archeology of liturgy as follows:

At Athens the leitourgia was the public service performed by the wealthier citizens at their own expense, such as the office of gymnasiarch, who superintended the gymnasium, that of choregus, who paid the singers of a chorus in the theatre, that of the hestiator, who gave a banquet to his tribe, of the trierarchus, who provided a warship for the state. The meaning of the word liturgy is then extended to cover any general service of a public kind. In the Septuagint it (and the verb leitourgeo) is used for the public service of the temple (e.g., Exodus 38:27; 39:12, etc.). Thence it comes to have a religious sense as the function of the priests, the ritual service of the temple (e.g., Joel 1:9, 2:17, etc.). In the New Testament this religious meaning has become definitely established. In Luke 1:23, Zachary goes home when "the days of his liturgy" (ai hemerai tes leitourgias autou) are over. In Hebrews 8:6, the high priest of the New Law "has obtained a better liturgy", that is a better kind of public religious service than that of the Temple.

So in Christian use liturgy meant the public official service of the Church, that corresponded to the official service of the Temple in the Old Law.(1)

The liturgy of the New Law is primarily indicative of the Celebration of the Eucharist (called the Sacrifice of the Mass in the Roman Rite, and the Divine Liturgy in the Eastern Rites). There are several important aspects of this perfect and sacred Liturgy: It has four ends, viz. adoration, thanksgiving, propitiation, and petition; all members of the Church participate in it, though only the Priest alone is its minister; and the Eucharist, as Pope St. Paul VI says, "contains the entire spiritual boon of the Church, that is, Christ Himself, our Pasch and Living Bread, by the action of the Holy Spirit through His very flesh vital and vitalizing, giving life to men who are thus invited and encouraged to offer themselves, their labors and all created things, together with Him."(2)

With the Sacred Liturgy as the perfect model, we can define liturgy in general according to certain essential characteristics: It is a ritual, performed on behalf of a community, which is at once the expression of a common good of that community, and is a common good itself. These characteristics are entirely possible to achieve on a natural level, in what I shall term 'civic liturgy'. 

So, setting aside the supernatural economy of grace made known in the revelation of Divine Law, what does civic liturgy look like?

We have examples of civic liturgy from the world and from history. The simplest and most common is the parade: Its purpose is usually to commemorate some event, honor a holiday, or to celebrate a personal achievement that has redounded to the benefit of the community (e.g. the Roman Triumph). In any event, a parade is always held for a reason, and that reason often assumes the parade itself: The anniversary of a nation's founding, for instance, is established as a commemorative festival; the parade commemorates the event, and becomes a part of the event. Parades also follow a set ritual, albeit a very simple one; the members of a parade march or process down a public avenue. Moreover, parades are held for the community, though not every member of the community is a part of the parade; yet it would be absurd to hold a parade without a spectating public. Hence, there is common participation, though relatively few liturgical "ministers."

The distinction between participant and minister is more drastic in liturgies wherein one assumes public office. The most extravagant and fitting example is the coronation, though any ritual in which a citizen is sworn into office is certainly liturgical. The ritual aspect is essential to these events. Precise actions must be performed for the purpose of the liturgy to be consummated: A hand is raised, words are recited, a crown is donned, etc. It is obvious that these rituals are performed for the good of the community. By such a ritual, a leader is appointed and the ritual is the appointment: The common good is expressed through the ritual, and the common good contains the ritual. Moreover, the entire community participates in this ritual insofar as they are implicated in it: Their leader is appointed, and the order of the community in which they share is continued.

A third example of civic liturgy is the award ceremony; usually academic, military, or occupational. Such ceremonies celebrate the achievement of an individual insofar as it has served the common good of his community (e.g. a medal of merit or Nobel prize), or has elevated the mode by which he participates in the community (e.g. a school graduation or military promotion).

Is civic liturgy needed under the reign of Christ? All of the above examples, and indeed any civic liturgy that is originally secular are, simply put, celebrations of the highest natural goods. As such, they are good in their own right; they affirm a good to which we are ordered by nature and which we receive ultimately from God, Who is the source of all good. Civic liturgy, then, is not competitive with Christian liturgy, because it belongs to a different "tier," as it were. Even so, any civic, secular liturgy can be "baptized," and history provides us with countless examples of Christianized civic liturgies.

Unfortunately, the popular sense and understanding of liturgy is weak. Just as the Divine Liturgy is mocked by "neo-pagan" or satanic "masses" which invert the purpose and significance of sacred liturgy, there are perversions of civic liturgies which express not the common good of the community, but its affliction and fragmentation. Examples of such perversions can be seen in "pride parades," which are more like a foreign army's show of force in a conquered city than they are a common celebration of a shared good (albeit even a conquering army expresses a good that is intrinsic to its own community, despite offense to the native public), and certain awards ceremonies (such as the Academy of Motion Pictures Awards) which are focused on individual achievements specifically to the exclusion of others.

Nevertheless, the proliferation of  (good) liturgical practice can increase the goods which those liturgies express. Just as a healthy body rejoices in its health by engaging in physical activities which in turn contribute to its good health, so too is a healthy community replete with ritual expressions which spur its members to participate more fully in their community.

(1) Fortescue, Adrian. "Liturgy." The Catholic Encyclopedia. Vol. 9. New York: Robert Appleton Company, 1910. 5 Sept. 2020 <http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/09306a.htm>.

(2) Presbyterorum Ordinis, 5.

A Preliminary Theory of Power and Authority

To exert power is for some principle to cause some potential to become actual. For example, a tree has the power to grow, but it does not have the power to burn. A man, by contrast, cannot make a tree grow, but can only cooperate with the tree in this regard. But a man has the power to burn a tree. The tree has no potential to burn without this (or some similar) external power. So, the potential to burn follows from the will of a man as its principle. Power and potential are not identical terms: 'Power' refers to the relation of an object's potential to the principle of that potential. Hence a tree has the potential to burn, but it does not have the power to burn.

Authority is the principle by which power is ordered to its proper end. A man may have the power to burn a tree without the authority to do so. Likewise, a man may have the authority to burn a tree without the power to do so. Authority serves to direct power to its end both by informing an agent in power (e.g. by issuing lawful commands) and by ensuring the agreement of the application of power with order (e.g. through prudential consideration). Hence, the ordinary expression of authority is law. Power without authority decays, but with authority it is sustained. Authority does not necessitate acts of power; rather, power is the means of fulfilling the aim of authority. 

Notes on "Evil Societies"

A community is an association of persons united by a common good. The nature of that good determines the nature of the association which is ordered to it.

If an association does not have a good as its unitive principle, then it is not, properly speaking, a community. However, as persons associate for a variety of specific intentions, and it is impossible to intend an evil per se, there is no association that is evil per se. However, while there can always be found at least a vestigial good by which every personal association is sought, an association that is not oriented to a common good only has the appearance of a community.

An association that is made purely from individual intentions, and thus fails to give rise to communion, might be called an "evil society" if it is directly detrimental to the attainment of any common good. As a corpse or a wax sculpture might resemble a living creature, so can an evil society resemble a community.

The most prevalent kind of evil society is a kind of economic association; that is, an association that is sought for purely economic intentions; that is, aimed at the acquisition of individual -- i.e. material -- goods. Both crime syndicates and large-scale corporations can have such a character.

There can be real communities of a purely economic nature, so long as they serve a common good by providing for the material resources necessary for its fulfilment. But, of course, without a proper relation to the common good, such associations are not communities properly speaking. Furthermore, it is likely that such an association (whose intended goods, though individual, are necessary for the attainment of higher goods) is a serious detriment to the development of real community. In other words, it is quite rare to find an innocuous economic association which is not immediately subordinated to the common good.

He who has authority over a community will therefore find such evil societies to be his greatest enemies.

Peace

The common idea of peace is a negative one: Peace is not war. Thomas Hobbes, one of the fathers of liberalism, is partly to blame for this impoverished view. In Leviathan, he writes, “the nature of war, consisteth not in actual fighting; but in the known disposition thereto, during all the time there is no assurance to the contrary. All other time is Peace.” Hobbes argues that peace is simply the absence of war, and war is the natural state of man’s relation to man. For Hobbes, therefore, peace is not a natural inclination, but an imposition. But evidence against this view is everywhere: The best and most humane human beings desire peace, not conflict. And to anyone actually acquainted with war, the idea that peace is enforced because war comes naturally must seem a bit funny.

Hobbes’ argument about the nature of peace and war is a new one. Saint Augustine, who was well educated and heavily influenced by Plato, Cicero, and the Stoics, maintains that all things strive for peace. In City of God, he clearly explains what he means by ‘peace’; a “harmony of congruous elements” and “the tranquility of order.” Augustine always speaks of peace with respect to order: The peace of the body is ordered proportion, the peace of the irrational soul is the order of appetites, the peace of the human soul is the order of intellect and will, etc. Peace with respect to human association is, as Augustine says, “the ordered agreement of mind with mind.” This peace is what characterizes the peace hoped for in the “earthly city” (human society). Still more noble than this peace is the peace of the Heavenly City, “a perfectly ordered and perfectly harmonious fellowship in the enjoyment of God, and a mutual fellowship in God.”

Peace, therefore, is an attribute of perfected nature. Because man has a rational nature which inclines him to associate with other men, the perfection of human association must involve an accordance of reason. It is contrary to man’s nature to place the goods of the body above spiritual goods, hence a man who does so is disordered and is not at peace. Likewise, it is contrary to man’s nature to love himself over the commonweal, hence one who sacrifices the common good for the sake of personal gain destroys the peace he enjoys with other men.

Of course, the earthly city is marred by a variety of evils that corrupt the natural order by which man attains peace. The earthly city (along with its rulers and laws) is not evil by nature, because nothing is naturally evil. But because of the effects of sin, it is perennially disordered. We can enjoy true peace only in the Heavenly City, whose order is the Love of God.

The greatest sign of the earthly city’s inability to attain true and lasting peace is the state of human justice. Justice, according to Augustine, is the virtue which sets man in relation to the city as a citizen. It is the virtue by which man participates in society for the sake of the common good. In other words, peace is realized through justice. But justice is practically impossible due to the effects of original sin. Man is damaged, born into a state of disorder. He cannot attain justice without grace. Therefore, the only recourse one has for attaining true peace is to God: That is, only by receiving grace as a citizen of the Heavenly City can one be a true citizen at all.

Saint Augustine acknowledges the goodness of man’s nature, and by extension the goodness of political association. But he adamantly opposes the notion that the earthly city can be perfected in practice; for man is corrupt and in dire need of God’s grace. Yet, even in his low estimation of the merits of human politics, Augustine holds that the earthly city can help its citizens attain true peace by helping them to participate in the Heavenly City. And when citizens have true peace, the earthly city itself can benefit from the grace merited by that participation.

Peace is a positive good that is shared between persons. It requires active participation by those who share it. It is the natural state of relations between human beings; it is integral to human nature. We crave it from the depths of our being. Because peace flows from human nature, we must put our natural capacities -- our minds and our hearts -- to work in it. Peace, then, is not synonymous with truce. It involves cooperation and commitment to a mutually held understanding of the true and the good. Hence, the most challenging aspect of peace: In order to share peace, we must share the truth.

It is no surprise then that a misunderstanding of peace would follow a denial of our ability to share the truth. And this was exactly the motivation behind Hobbes’ thesis. He was well aware of the terrors of the Religious Wars, which spread a despair for peace throughout Europe.

But Hobbes did not offer a new and effective way to achieve peace amidst a growing divergence of opinion. Rather, what he and his legacy embraced was a method of waging war more efficiently. As all the great military strategists have taught, a skilled general will overwhelm, deceive, divide, and intimidate his enemy. He controls the terms of engagement. He knows all. But most importantly, a general has mastered war when he can conquer his enemy without shedding blood. The ruler of the state, in Hobbes’ vision, is not concerned with peace at all, but with waging war on his own citizens.

Let us once more revisit Hobbes’ thesis: Peace is the absence of conflict, and conflict is only avoided by the threat of an all-powerful state with a monopoly on violence. But intimidation and threats are the marks of a power at war. So, if peace is simply the absence of war, is there such a thing as peace? The answer is, “no.”

In short, the Hobbesian idea of peace -- i.e. the modern, liberal idea of peace -- is indistinguishable from war.

A Crash Course in Thomistic Politics

To properly understand the political order as St. Thomas understands it, we must begin with human nature. A thing’s nature constitutes formal, material, and final cause. With respect to man, his formal cause is the soul, which acts in and through his material cause, the body by which it lives. But man’s soul is preeminently rational, so he is endowed with reason and will, in whose activity man is not dependent upon the material, but is capable of knowing the truth and directing his will in love toward the good.

The true and the good are the proper objects of intellect and will, respectively. Hence, man’s knowledge and love are not mere “capacities” in the sense that a porcupine is capable of flight (provided it gains enough momentum). Rather, man finds his perfection in the operations proper to his nature, to which he is ordered by a final cause. It is with respect to final cause that St. Thomas understands the good, since what accords with a thing’s final cause is identical to its own perfection, and is said to be that thing’s good.

It is important to note that, although man finds his supreme good in the perfection of his intellect and will, the highest faculties of his soul, he exists as a suppositum, a substantial whole which includes every aspect of his nature, including his body. Hence, man’s good is both material and spiritual, involving every perfection of his body and soul.

The Common Good

The common good is defined as that good which is had by participation. Because St. Thomas identifies absolute Good as an aspect of Being, he says, “in the whole created universe there is not a good which is not such by participation.” However, we can understand the common good more narrowly with respect to the goods of human association, as opposed to goods which are exclusive to an individual.

In other words, a good is a common good if and only if it is common. Individual goods are exclusive, and are proper only to the individual as such. For example, food is an individual good, because it can only be consumed as food by an individual; peace is a common good, because it can only be enjoyed as the tranquility of order between persons. Multiple individuals cannot eat the same morsel, nor can one man enjoy peace in isolation.

The more particular goods one identifies, both common and individual, the more it becomes apparent that material goods are always proper to the individual as individual goods, whereas common goods are always proper to rational beings as goods of the soul. Hence, Aristotle notes that man, by virtue of his rational nature, is most suited to social life and is appropriately defined as a political animal. It is in light of this relation between reason and political participation that De Koninck identifies the common good as the greatest good proper to man:

The highest good of a man belongs to him not insofar as he is himself a certain whole in which the self is the principal object of his love, but "insofar as he is part of a whole," a whole which is accessible to him because of the very universality of his knowledge[…] Thus it is indeed as part that we are ordered to this greatest of all goods which can only be ours most completely through being communicable to others.

In other words, because the highest perfection of man is the perfection of his rational soul, and the common good is available to man insofar as he is rational, then man’s highest good must be a common good.

The End of Politics

Aristotle, whose thought is a major influence on Thomas’ political philosophy, begins his discussion of politics in the Ethics, identifying the “master art” as that which deals with the most excellent good proper to man:

If, then, there is some end of the things we do, which we desire for its own sake (everything else being desired for the sake of this), and if we do not choose everything for the sake of something else (for at that rate the process would go on to infinity, so that our desire would be empty and vain), clearly this must be the good and the chief good[...] We must try, in outline at least, to determine what it is, and of which of the sciences or capacities it is the object. It would seem to belong to the most authoritative art and that which is most truly the master art. And politics appears to be of this nature…”

What Aristotle then treats of in the Ethics, namely, the development of virtue, which St. Thomas ultimately considers to be the perfection of man’s nature, is brought to completion in the Politics.

Aristotle understands political association as an activity with the express view of attaining the good: “Observation shows us, first, that every polis is a species of association, and, secondly, that all associations come into being for the sake of some good -- for all men do all their acts with a view to achieving something which is, in their view, a good.” St. Thomas follows Aristotle closely on this point, but stresses an important qualification, as he comments, “all men perform everything they do for the sake of that which is seen as a good, whether it is truly good or not.”

The subtle shift from the good in itself to “what is seen as a good” reveals an important characteristic of political association. Only beings of a rational nature are able to direct themselves to the good according to their own understanding. When man understands and chooses what is truly good, this constitutes human freedom, a freedom which non-rational beings do not have. Therefore, the ability to enter into political association for the sake of the common good can be seen as a manifestation of this freedom, though this freedom is only realized with respect to what is truly good.

Species of Association

St. Thomas, in his commentary on the Politics, delineates the various types of human association. As the guiding principle of his treatment, he states that, “every human association is an association according to certain acts.” With this observation in mind, he begins with a discussion of the most fundamental sphere of human association, namely, domestic society.

Domestic society, Thomas notes, is an association for the sake of the everyday necessities of human life. These necessities can be divided into two activities; that which generates human life, and that which preserves it. The first activity of domestic society, therefore, is proper to the association of husband and wife, an association that is common also to plants and animals. The second activity of domestic society is that of ruler and subject: This association is not necessarily one of master and slave, but involves any relationship whereby useful work is made effective enough for the fulfillment of daily needs. These two associations together constitute domestic society.

For Thomas, the next order of society is the village, which is composed of several households, and is characterized by communal activity that is not everyday, or at least not of immediate necessity. In modern context, some of the activities which might be relegated to this association are waste disposal, public transportation, or the paving of roads.

 Lastly, Thomas considers the city to be (in the order of nature) the perfect society, because it is entirely sufficient for the necessities of human life. On this level of association, not only daily necessities, but the various activities necessary for the preservation of human society are carried out, such as the levying of taxes or martial defense. However, in each of these associations, reference has been made only to individual goods of a material nature.

As stated above, the ultimate goal of human association is not individual goods, but spiritual, common goods. St. Thomas, well aware of this, states that “from [the city’s] existence it comes about that men not only live but that they live well, in so far as by the laws of the city the life of men is ordered to the virtues.” It is through the city that laws are made, which are necessary to educate its citizens in virtue; and virtue, in turn, is necessary for human perfection.

Law

St. Thomas defines law as having four essential characteristics; “an ordinance of reason for the common good, made by him who has care of the community, and promulgated.” The most universal law is the Eternal Law, which is the ratio of divine governance. All of creation, receiving its being from God, attains its perfection according to this intelligible order. The natural law is the participation in the Eternal Law by rational creatures. Insofar as the human person apprehends the order of creation of which he is a part, and directs his action in accord with it, he conforms himself to the natural law.

The law which is legislated by cities is called the human law. This law is derived from the natural law as the application of its precepts for a particular community, but is enforced by human authority:

Something may be derived from the natural law in two ways: first, as a conclusion from premises, secondly, by way of determination of certain generalities. The first way is like to that by which, in sciences, demonstrated conclusions are drawn from the principles: while the second mode is likened to that whereby, in the arts, general forms are particularized as to details[…] Accordingly both modes of derivation are found in the human law. But those things which are derived in the first way, are contained in human law not as emanating therefrom exclusively, but have some force from the natural law also. But those things which are derived in the second way, have no other force than that of human law.”

Every human being is governed equally by the natural law, but human law is subject to change according to culture or custom.

That human law is mutable does not imply that it is arbitrary, as if it followed from the will of civil authority without qualification. Rather, human law, insofar as it is directed for the particularities of a given community, is guided by justice at the service of regnitive prudence: That is, because justice renders to each person what is due according to the order of reason, an unjust law is without reason, and so a human law has the character of law only insofar as it is just.

Human law is not necessary only for the sake of educating citizens in virtue, else a virtuous people would need no law. Yet even a virtuous citizenry still acts for the sake of the common good which can only be enjoyed in community. Hence, the existence of law is not determined by the lack of perfection among the citizens it governs; rather, it is the rational principle by which the order of the community is governed and by which the common good is made possible. Gilson explains this notion as follows:

[R]eason directs a person’s acts for his own welfare; but this individual lives in society and is a member of the body politic, and, as is always the case with groups, he is directed in view of the whole of which he is a part. This or that man’s reason, though qualified to guide his actions for his welfare, is not, therefore, qualified to shape them for the good of the community to which he belongs, and to subordinate them to it.

Human law can therefore be understood as analogous to the Eternal Law: As all creatures find their perfection by participation in the Eternal Law, which precedes them as the principle of that perfection, so too does every human association attain its perfection by cooperation in human law, which is the organizing principle of that association

Participation

Does the common good have primacy over the person, or is the person completely inviolable, even in the name of the common good? Understanding this question in a Thomistic context, the answer is something of a compromise between the two apparent options. In coming to this determination, however, we must discern what the person is, what the common good is, and what the relation is between the person and the common good. Once we grasp the full scope of this relation, we must conclude that the human person can only be perfected by acting for the sake of the common good.^[1]

The Individual and the Person

In discussing the human person, we will make use of Jacques Maritain’s distinction between man-as-individual and man-as-person. Before defining the ‘person,’ however, we will consider what Maritain thinks about the individual:

Outside of the mind, only individual realities exist. Only they are capable of exercising the act of existing. Individuality is opposed to the state of universality which things have in the mind. It designates that concrete state of unity and indivision, required by existence, in virtue of which every actually or possibly existing nature can posit itself in existence as distinct from other beings. The angels are individual essences; the Divine Essence, in Its sovereign unity and simplicity, is supremely individual.^[2]

We know what an individual is intuitively: when one comes to know what a thing is, his intellect defines that thing by differentiating it from others; specifically within a genus, and individually with reference to determinate matter.^[3] This definition is the expression of the thing’s essence, which is, independent of the human intellect, the composite of substantial form and determinate matter.^[4]

We cannot say, however, that only individual realities exist outside the mind absolutely, because nothing exists outside the mind of God. Everything is intelligible precisely because it has form: This form exists substantially outside the human intellect, but the existence of each form ultimately depends upon God, Who renders the forms intelligible and is the first formal cause of all things.^[5] In short, all creatures exist by virtue of the Divine Intellect.

Moreover, everything participates in Being according to its essence, which is the source of its apparent individuality, but a thing is not identical to its essence. For example, every man is made according to a common nature, human nature, which is not only essential, but teleological. Interwoven in the essential union of form and matter is his final cause. To understand this “interweaving,” however, we must look past the immediate cause of man's being toward his ultimate Cause.

A thing is a man if it has a human form, but no man is self-informed: It is God who informs man. Hence, every man has an immediate formal cause, which is his soul, and an ultimate formal cause, which is God. Because substantial form is the determining factor of a thing's essence, and a thing's essence is its participation in Being, we may say that the immediate formal cause is a participation in the ultimate formal cause.

Though formal causation explains a man's existence simply, his nature is not fully understood without reference to final causation.^[6] A thing’s final cause is simply that for the sake of which it acts. Therefore, whatever is good for a thing is good insofar as it concurs with its final cause.^[7] Like all beings, man has a proximate final cause, which is his own perfection, and an ultimate final cause, which is God.^[8] The ultimate final cause is not separate from the proximate final cause; rather, the latter is pursued for the sake of the former. Therefore, a creature approaches its perfection insofar as it approaches its last End.

Man, however, differs from irrational creatures in the way by which he attains his ultimate final cause: He is not ordered merely for God, but attains his end by knowing and loving God.^[9] In other words, man is set above irrational creatures in that he attains his ultimate final cause, and thereby reaches his perfection, in the contemplation of the Divine.^[10]

That man's perfection involves contemplation is indicative of Maritain's distinction between ‘individual’ and ‘person.’ Maritain observes that rational beings are not merely individuals, as St. Thomas says,“‘person’ signifies what is most perfect in all nature -- that is, a subsistent individual of a rational nature.”^[11] In other words, personality is an aspect of the individual’s rationality. Maritain concludes, “personality, therefore, signifies interiority to self… it is the spirit in man which takes him, in contrast to the plant and animal, beyond the threshold of independence properly so called…”^[12]

Though every creature is ordered toward the Good, the irrational creature’s participation in the Good is passive to the agency of Divine Providence.^[13] Human beings, on the other hand, attain their ultimate End through the free exercise of reason and will. Therefore, their orientation to the Good is preeminently personal.

Having thus far distinguished essence from nature, we can see that individuality alone does not give us a complete picture of a man, because individuality is determined by merely essential characteristics (viz. specific form and determinate matter). Rather, each man is uniquely personal because of his rational nature, which includes not only his substantial form (i.e. his rational soul), but the end toward which his reason is ordered.

Hence, we may say that, because a man is a person, he transcends his individuality through the use of his active intellect. However, that man's powers are active in the attainment of his end does not preclude the participatory aspect of that end: The very act of intellection itself is perfected and governed by the Divine Intellect.^[14] Therefore, man’s personality elevates him into a higher and more complete participation than that of the individual.

That the human intellect is a participation in the Divine Intellect can be seen in at least two ways. Firstly, man is by nature a rational animal, ordered to the use of his intellect by God. Therefore, the very act of intellection is a participation in the order of Divine Governance. Secondly, there must be an intelligent principle by which things are rendered intelligible. Man’s active intellect abstracts intelligible forms from that which he perceives; but the human intellect does not render the forms intelligible. Rather, forms are intelligible because they are the product of a higher Intelligence.^[15] Therefore, even man’s free act of reason is a participation in the Divine Intellect.^[16]

The Common Good

Now that an account of man has been given with respect to his individuality and his personality, we must take note of the recurring theme of participation. Man participates in Being according to his essence; he participates in the order of creation according to his nature, by acting for the sake of his final cause; and he participates in the Divine Intellect through the act of intellection. Furthermore, man’s rational nature indicates that human beings are not mere individuals, but persons; hence the highest mode of participation in the Good, which man enjoys as a rational creature, is preeminently personal.

That good in which things participate is the common good. Because every creature is ordered to God by way of its proximate final cause, we may say that every private good (i.e. the immediate good of the individual) is ordered ultimately to participation in the Common Good. Hence Thomas says, “in the whole created universe there is not a good which is not such by participation.”^[17] This order of participation has its source in the Divine Intellect, which creates and governs all creation for Himself. It is therefore apparent that the extrinsic Common Good, in which all of creation participates, is none other than God Himself.

Even man’s particular, free acts of the will are ultimately ordered to the Common Good as their ultimate end.^[18] However, we recall the difference between the participation of irrational creatures and that of persons: Irrational creatures participate by the necessity of nature, impressed upon them by their Creator, whereas persons (albeit in accord with their nature) participate by their own rational choice. Therefore, because participation requires the ordinance of reason, and reason is distinctly personal, we may conclude that the common good is fundamentally personal.^[19]

Man's Relation to Man

We have thus far dealt with the participation of creation, especially that of the human person, in Divine Providence. Our discussion would not be complete, however, without touching upon the intrinsic common good of human society. Human persons are capable not only of participating in the order of Divine Providence, but of participating in a variety of relations that are shared with other human persons.

It would be misleading to assert that, because human society is primarily expressed in terms of relations, it is merely a relation; accidental or “emergent” upon the individuals who participate in it. Just as it belongs to man’s nature to participate in the ultimate Common Good, so too is it proper to man to participate in human society: He does not merely adopt society with other persons. He is born in it; moulded by it. His relation to other persons is not a mental categorization; rather, it imparts on him a unique character which determines how he communicates himself to others (as son, father, teacher, legislator, etc.).

That man is by nature ordered to participate in human society is primarily evident in his use of language.^[20] Language itself is a common good, and not only does it have a uniquely human and inter-personal character, but it forms the very content of man’s rationality. Therefore, without some participation in human society, the person is, as Aristotle poetically quipped, “either a beast or a god.”^[21]

Even the person who has fulfilled every other requirement of nature has need of human community. A brief example of this need can be seen in St. Thomas’ consideration of friendship:

If we speak of the happiness of this life, the happy man needs friends, as the Philosopher says (Ethic. ix, 9), not, indeed, to make use of them, since he suffices himself; nor to delight in them, since he possesses perfect delight in the operation of virtue; but for the purpose of a good operation, viz. that he may do good to them; that he may delight in seeing them do good; and again that he may be helped by them in his good work. For in order that man may do well, whether in the works of the active life, or in those of the contemplative life, he needs the fellowship of friends.^[22]

Note that the person’s participation in friendship is not exclusively for his own sake, but for the sake of his friends, and for the fellowship which is irreducible to any individual good.

Conclusion

In discussing the nature of the human person and his participation in the common good, we have come to two important conclusions. The first is that the human person cannot be understood without reference to the common good for which he is ordered. The second is that the common good cannot be anything other than that good which is preeminently personal. To say that the good of the person cannot be violated for the sake of the common good is inconsequential, because the common good is the highest good of the person. Likewise, to say that the common good has primacy over the person implies that the common good can exist outside the relation of persons, which has been proven false. Therefore, to fully understand man, we must duly consider both his personality and the common good for which he is made.

---

[1] We assume the distinction between the order of nature and the order of grace, and will discuss only the the order of nature, as grace is more suited to theological discussion.

[2] Jacques Maritain, The Person and the Common Good, 3, trans. John J. Fitzgerald (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1947). At https://www3.nd.edu/~maritain/jmc/etext/CG03.HTM

[3] I.e. a species is differentiated within a genus by an essential difference; an individual is differentiated within a species by determinate matter.

[4] Thomas Aquinas, De Ente et Essentia, trans. Armand Maurer (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1968), 36 (IV.iii).

[5] Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the Metaphysics, II, 4, 320, trans. John P. Rowan (Chicago, 1961), at https://dhspriory.org/thomas/Metaphysics.htm.

[6] Aristotle, Physics, trans. Joe Sachs (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2011), pg. 66.

[7] Aristotle, Physics, trans. Sachs, 195a 26 (pg. 55).

[8] Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, Ia, q. 44, a. 4, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (Benziger, 1947), at https://dhspriory.org/thomas/summa/

[9] Summa Theologiae, Ia-IIae, q. 1, a. 8, trans. English Dominican Province.

[10] Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics, 2087, trans. David Ross (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998).

[11] Summa Theologiae, Ia, q. 29, a. 3, trans. English Dominican Province.

[12] Maritain, The Person and the Common Good, 3, trans. Fitzgerald.

[13] Summa Theologiae, Ia, q. 103, a. 1, ad 3, trans. English Dominican Province.

[14] Summa Theologiae, Ia, q. 103, a. 5, ad 3, trans. English Dominican Province.

[15] Summa Theologiae, Ia, q. 79, a. 4, trans. English Dominican Province.

[16] Thomas Aquinas, De Veritate, 22, 1, trans. Robert W. Schmidt, SJ (Chicago: Henry Regnery Co., 1954), at https://dhspriory.org/thomas/QDdeVer.htm.

[17] Summa Theologiae, Ia, q. 103, a. 2, trans. English Dominican Province.

[18] Summa Theologiae, Ia-IIae, q. 90, a. 2, ad 2, trans. English Dominican Province.

[19] We might be more precise to say “interpersonal,” but space forbids miring ourselves in terminology.

[20] Aristotle, Politics, I.2, 1253a3-17, trans. Ernest Barker (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995).

[21] Aristotle, Politics, I.2, 1253a29, trans. Barker

[22] Summa Theologiae, Ia-IIae, q. 4, a. 8, trans. English Dominican Province.