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

God vs Evil?

The Problem of Evil forms the basis of a compelling argument against the existence of God. We will consider the argument as formulated by J.L. Mackie in his work, “Evil and Omnipotence.” After analyzing the argument and its implications, we will consider the “Fifth Way” argument posited by St. Thomas Aquinas, which is, in a sense, the converse of Mackie’s argument. While Mackie argues that the presence of evil contradicts the notion that there is a being both omnipotent and good, St. Thomas argues that the ordering of creatures toward their end (which is their good) can only be the work of divine governance. By analyzing Thomas’ argument and its corollaries, it shall be proven that Mackie’s argument from evil does not demonstrate that God’s goodness or omnipotence is impossible.

J.L. Mackie’s Argument
Mackie’s argument is as follows: If there is a being that is both omnipotent and completely good, then it would not allow evil to exist. But evil does exist. Therefore, there cannot be a being that is both omnipotent and good. To fully understand this argument, the terms ‘omnipotent’, ‘good’, and ‘evil’ must all be defined.
According to Mackie, “there are no limits to what an omnipotent thing can do” (Mackie, 305). So, ‘omnipotent’ means ‘having unlimited ability.’ But what is meant by ‘limit’ is yet unclear: In mathematics, for example, the set of all integers is an infinite set, but it is also limited by its definition, so that there are also an infinite many numbers which are not contained in that same set (e.g. all fractions). So, one might argue, for instance, that God’s power is infinite in a sense, but not absolutely.
But this description of omnipotence seems superfluous. A man may be considered “omnipotent” by the same token, because there is no limit to how many things he may do in a day, albeit he will never actually do all of them. To avoid such a trivial definition, we must assert that there is nothing that could prevent God from acting. Hence, ‘omnipotent’ may be defined as ‘having the ability to act without impediment.’
Mackie does not offer a definition of ‘good’ or ‘evil’ per se, but states that “good is opposed to evil, in such a way that a good thing always eliminates evil as far as it can” (Mackie, 305). He implies that the concept of evil as privatio boni is “inconsistent” but does not say why. What he does allow for, however, is a kind of hierarchy of goods.
The most visceral, “basic” evils, such as pain and its antecedents, he calls “first order evils.” Conversely, pleasure is a “first order good.” There are greater goods than pleasure, however, termed “second order goods.” Second order goods, such as virtue, are only possible as a contrast or reaction to first order evils. For example, one cannot be courageous unless there is some evil to oppose by means of courage.
By delineating the hierarchy of goods in this way, Mackie anticipates a classic solution to the problem of evil; namely, that evil must be allowed in order to have a world that contains the greatest possible good. But this solution seems inadequate, because, just as first order evils make second order goods possible, so also do they make second order evils possible. For example, the ability to cause pain provides man with the capacity for unspeakable cruelty. If courage is greater than simple pleasure, then cruelty must be worse than simple pain. Mackie concludes that, since greater evil is made possible alongside greater good, the objection, which asserts that greater goods are made possible by evil, ultimately fails.
Mackie notes that an additional objection may be made, which asserts that free will itself is a third order good. And in order for the will to be free, the possibility of choosing first and second order evils must at least be available to it. Therefore, the objection concludes, God allows even second order evils for the sake of the third order good of freedom.
There are three problems with the assertion that free will is itself a third order good. The first is that the assertion seems arbitrary. If ‘freedom’ is itself a kind of good, then what can be said of a will that “freely” chooses evil? One might claim that a will which chooses evil is no longer free and thus no longer good. But, if a will could destroy its own freedom, is it not therefore the cause of a third order evil; that is, the contrary of a third order good?
The second problem with the notion of free will as a third order good is its reliance on the possibility of evil. If evil is only the result of human free will, then this seems to imply a notion of freedom that is purely arbitrary because, rather than the will determining itself by the character of its own goodness, it acts completely at random. But if free will is random, and not at least self-determined by a will that was created good, then there seems to be no reason to consider free will good at all, as there is no assurance that it will not be the cause of evil.
The third problem with the notion of a free will that requires the possibility of evil is a problem of logic: It is absurd to speak of a “necessary possibility.” A thing is either necessary or it is only possible. If the existence of free will necessitates the existence of evil, then there seems to be no reason why free will should be considered good. If the existence of free will presents merely the possibility of evil, then it is possible for God to create free will and also to prevent evil. And if it were possible for God to create free will without the allowance of evil, then God is responsible for evil.
According to Mackie, asserting that the mere possibility of evil is inherent in a created will creates yet another problem; not with the nature of freedom, in this case, but with the nature of omnipotence. Can God create a free will that cannot choose evil? If He can, then it would seem that the will is only “free” in a trivial sense. And if God cannot, then God’s omnipotence seems to have clear limits.
Thus, Mackie asserts that God’s goodness and omnipotence cannot both coexist with evil. Furthermore, the assertion that free will is a third order good, for which it is necessary to allow evil, seems to create five additional problems: (1) Any increase in good on account of evil is also met with an increase in evil; (2) if free will is a third order good, but can cause evil, then it is also a third order evil; (3) if free will is not determined by good, then neither is free will good; (4) if evil is not a necessary prerequisite for free will, then God is responsible for evil; and (5) it seems contradictory to posit that God can create something which can impede his power.

St. Thomas’ Fifth Way
The “Fifth Way” can be seen as the converse of Mackie’s argument in that it argues for God’s existence on the premise that things desire the good:

We see that things which lack intelligence, such as natural bodies, act for an end, and this is evident from their acting always, or nearly always, in the same way, so as to obtain the best result. Hence it is plain that not fortuitously, but designedly, do they achieve their end. Now whatever lacks intelligence cannot move towards an end, unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence; as the arrow is shot to its mark by the archer. Therefore some intelligent being exists by whom all natural things are directed to their end; and this being we call God (ST Ia, q.2, a.3).

Here, Thomas draws on a clear definition of the good. This definition, however, is multifaceted, as ‘good’ can be said in many ways. In the simplest sense, ‘good’ is a term that is convertible with ‘being.’ Hence, goodness is a necessary attribute of God, because ‘God’ is defined as ‘subsistent Being itself’ (ipsum esse subsistens).
When we speak of specific beings, however, their good is what is essential to their specific being. In this second sense, ‘good’ is a thing’s final cause, because a thing’s final cause is first and foremost its own perfection. For example, the good of a man is to be a perfect man; hence a good man more fully realizes his humanity than a man who is less good.
There is a third sense of ‘good,’ which is participatory good, and is a kind of relation between the first and second senses. Specific beings participate in Being by means of their final cause. For example, a man exists as a man, so the more perfect a man he is, the more fully he participates in Being. Therefore, these three senses of ‘good’ are really three aspects of the same thing, which is Being: The Good is Being itself, which is also the good of the creature, and which the creature attains by its own perfection.
Thomas’ argument observes that even irrational beings pursue and attain their own good. If the movement of things toward their end cannot be attributed to a deliberation on their own part, then it must be attributed to some other principle. The ultimate governing principle of this movement is called God.

Good, Evil, and Omnipotence
We now have two competing arguments, one positing that the existence of evil precludes the existence of God, the other positing that the existence and pursuit of the good requires God’s existence. As Mackie’s argument rests on implicit notions of evil, free will, and omnipotence, we will consider how Thomas understands those same notions. Whether the notions as explained by Thomas can overcome the problems outlined by Mackie will help determine the efficacy of both arguments.
St. Thomas defines ‘Omnipotence’ as “unlimited power,” but a thing can be limited in two ways; namely, by privation and by negation. A thing without limit according to privation is deprived of the limits which it should have by nature. Only mathematical concepts can be unlimited in this way. That which has no limit according to negation cannot have a limit, and only God can be unlimited in this way. In other words, because God is Being, there is nothing in which He is not.
Furthermore, God is pure Act, so there is no imperfection in God and no potency that is not already actualized. With such an understanding of God, we refer to the principle agere sequitur esse (act follows being) and conclude that, because God is ipsum esse subsistens, His power necessarily pervades and contains all existence. Furthermore, this power has both an extension and an intensity which is unlimited by God’s nature. However, His power is more or less efficacious according to the reception of the thing in which He acts.
God’s power has a limited effect in the receiver because of a limit of nature or of disposition. As noted above, specific things participate in being according to their specific natures. Hence, God’s power is manifest in each thing according to the limits of its nature. For example, a tree’s being is not boundless, despite having received it from God, but its being is limited specifically by its being a tree.
The second limit of God’s effect is a thing’s disposition. In a thing considered by itself, there are two powers at work; the power of God by which a thing exists, and the power of the thing’s nature by which it participates in existence. But some other power may corrupt the nature of the thing itself. For example, a tree may be eaten by termites, in which case its subsequent imperfection hinders the effects of God’s power according to its nature.
Because a thing participates in being according to its nature, and the perfection of a thing’s nature is its good, the limit of God’s power according to a thing’s disposition is evil. Hence, evil is defined as privatio boni (the privation of good), and every privation of good is ultimately a privation of being and a limit to the effect of God’s power.
Evil, thus defined, can only be parasitic on the good: It is not directly opposed to the good as a competing power, but is merely a corruption or deficiency in an essentially good nature. Even if one were to point to tangible “phenomenological” evils such as pain or cruelty as evidence that evil is not merely a privation, careful analysis of the evils in question nevertheless reveal some kind of privation. For example, pain is felt in response to some stimulus: If one breaks his foot, he will feel an intense pain. But it would be worse in such a case not to feel pain, otherwise he would not be aware of the severity of his injury. His injury itself is a privation: The integrity and proper function of his foot are lost.
We likewise discover privation in considering second order evils. For example, what we call cruelty is deliberately and unnecessarily causing pain in another. It would seem that a man’s cruelty is a positive evil, because his actions are explicitly and immediately experienced as evil. However, the agent of cruelty does not choose to be cruel for the sake of evil itself, but because he sees in it some apparent good which he desires, such as vengeance or obedience or pleasure.
In every example of evil thus far, we come across a common theme: in every instance of evil, we see not only a parasitic relation to the good, but a derivation of good (real or at least attempted) from evil. The corruption of a tree by termites is good for termites; pain that is a proper response to injury is good; and the man who resorts to cruelty does so out of desire for some good.
Of course, not every good which arises from the corruption of some other good is necessarily greater. If one breaks his own foot to produce the good of a properly responsive pain, he does not better his situation. Nevertheless, it is due to the relation between good and evil that it is at least possible for the presence of evil to give rise to more good than if there were no evil at all. That good is usually produced from evil is especially evident with regard to the order of nature, as St. Thomas says:

Corruption and defects in natural things are said to be contrary to some particular nature; yet they are in keeping with the plan of universal nature; inasmuch as the defect in one thing yields to the good of another, or even to the universal good: for the corruption of one is the generation of another, and through this it is that a species is kept in existence. Since God, then, provides universally for all being, it belongs to His providence to permit certain defects in particular effects, that the perfect good of the universe may not be hindered, for if all evil were prevented, much good would be absent from the universe. A lion would cease to live, if there were no slaying of animals; and there would be no patience of martyrs if there were no tyrannical persecution (ST Ia, q.22, a.2, ad 2).

Therefore, it is not merely possible, but probable that God allows defects in nature so as to multiply good, as the order of nature suggests.
Though “natural” evil may be accounted for by divine providence, there is still the problem of free will as it relates to God’s omnipotence. However, most of Mackie’s contentions about free will are solved by considering what is meant by “free will.” St. Thomas explains how a will is considered free as follows:

Man acts from judgment, because by his apprehensive power he judges that something should be avoided or sought. But because this judgment, in the case of some particular act, is not from a natural instinct, but from some act of comparison in the reason, therefore he acts from free judgment and retains the power of being inclined to various things. For reason in contingent matters may follow opposite courses, as we see in dialectic syllogisms and rhetorical arguments. Now particular operations are contingent, and therefore in such matters the judgment of reason may follow opposite courses, and is not determinate to one. And forasmuch as man is rational is it necessary that man have a free-will (ST Ia, q.83, a.1).

In other words, the will is free when it is determined by reason. Therefore, it may be said that the will is less free insofar as it is affected by a corruption of reason. Furthermore, the use of reason pertains to man’s nature, which is none other than man’s participation in being. Therefore, free will is itself a good insofar as it is essential to man.
If free will is good insofar as it is free, then the presence of evil is not a prerequisite of freedom. It would then follow, according to Mackie, that the primary cause of evil is not human free will, but God. And if God is the primary cause of evil, then God himself cannot be completely good.
However, evil is merely a defect of nature, and has itself no nature or substance. Therefore, evil can only be caused accidentally. Furthermore, a defect can be caused accidentally in two ways; in form and in action. A defect in form results from the agency of some good, such as when termites, in pursuit of their own perfection, destroy the form of a tree. A defect in action results from a deficiency in the agent, such as when a man burns his meal out of ignorance.
Therefore, we may say that God causes certain formal defects accidentally (such as the corruption of things in the order of nature) but, in so doing, we still must maintain that God is absolute Good. A deficiency in action, however, can only be attributed to a being which is capable of corruption, such as man. So, evil which is found in nature as defect or corruption may be attributed to God, who orders corruptible things for the greater good of the whole. But evil that results from a corrupt will can only be attributed to man.
The final contention which Mackie raises is that there is no suitable answer to whether God can create a free will which He cannot control. Such a contention can only be made by equivocating God’s will with the power of created will. Man’s freedom is none other than the determination of his will by his own reason, which is itself a participation in God’s will. Therefore, man’s very nature is an expression of the will of God, Who is its author; and the free act of the will, which follows from man’s nature, is only possible as a participation in God’s will. Were God to override a man’s will, as it were, it would not take the form of violence, but would illumine and strengthen man’s reason and deliberation.
We may conclude then that the first premise of Mackie’s argument is false. If God is both omnipotent and absolutely good, He would allow evil to exist, provided that it result in greater good. Though there is evident evil in the world, it is yet possible for an omnipotent and absolutely good God to allow evil. Moreover, the possibility of bringing greater good out of evil serves as a kind of supplement to the “fifth way”: Not only is the nature of each particular thing ordered to its own good, but even the corruption of particular things may redound to the greater good of the whole order of nature.

Bibliography
Feser, Edward. Five Proofs of the Existence of God. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2017.
Mackie, J. L. “Evil and Omnipotence.” In Philosophy of Religion; Selected Readings, ed. Michael Peterson,William Hasker, Bruce Reichenbach, and David Basinger, 304-314. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007.
Thomas Aquinas. Quaestiones Disputate De Potentia Dei. q. 1, a. 2, trans. English Dominican Fathers. Westminster, MD: Newman Press, 1952. At https://dhspriory.org/thomas/QDdePotentia1.htm#1:2
Thomas Aquinas. Summa Theologiae. trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province. Benziger bros., 1947. At https://dhspriory.org/thomas/summa/index.html.

Why the Mind Cannot Err With Respect to Essence

In the Summa Theologica (I, Q 85, A 6), St. Thomas argues that the intellect cannot err with respect to a thing's essence. This seems counter-intuitive, as Thomas himself wrote an entire work on properly understanding essence. So why one cannot err in apprehending essence is not entirely clear. In order to understand what is meant by his claim, we will determine what the intellect is, how it operates, what an essence is, and what is meant by error on the part of the intellect. To the question treated in the Summa, we being with the sed contra:

Augustine says (Questions. 83, qu. 32), that "everyone who is deceived, does not rightly understand that wherein he is deceived." And the Philosopher says (De Anima iii, 10), that "the intellect is always true."¹

This gives us a two-pronged approach to the problem. On one hand, there is the proposition that deception implies an imperfect operation of the intellect. On the other hand, there is the proposition that the intellect itself is true by nature. This prompts an account of exactly what the intellect is, for if there is error or deception at all, it would seem to be on account of the intellect (as is stated in objections 1 and 2 of the same question).²

The intellect is understood as being passive in that it is predisposed to what is intelligible, as Thomas explains, “[T]he human intellect, which is the lowest in the order of intelligence and most remote from the perfection of the Divine intellect, is in potentiality with regard to things intelligible, and is at first 'like a clean tablet on which nothing is written,' as the Philosopher says.”³ Aristotle likewise compares the intellect to the senses because of its passivity to external objects. But neither intellect nor sense is purely passive. Though the senses receive impressions from external objects, they are passive only in that they are potentially receptive to their proper objects.⁴ In a similar way, the passive intellect receives external objects, and is potential to them in the sense that it must lack the natures which it apprehends, as Thomas explains, “if the intellect were restricted to any particular nature, this connatural restriction would prevent it from knowing other natures.”⁵ We can see this analogously in the eye: It is incorrect to say that the eye contains light and color by its nature, rather that it is by nature receptive to light and color. Moreover, the intelligible forms which we perceive in matter exist in matter, though matter is not intelligible per se. What makes them intelligible is the power of the active intellect which discerns form from matter by abstraction.⁶ So the intellect, in order to know, must have a nature that is distinct from all the other things that it knows. Therefore, if it can know all sensible things, it must be distinct from any sensible nature. This precludes any notion of the intellect as a bodily organ, which leads us to conclude that the intellect must be something immaterial.⁷

That the intellect is immaterial helps us to understand how it is passive in one respect but active in another. While both intellect and the bodily senses are receptive to their proper objects (not in the same way but analogously), they are each active in different ways. As Thomas explains, “the difference is that sensitivity acts in the body, but the intellect acts on its own.”⁸ We can see this in the effects their proper objects have on their operation: The eye sees by receiving light, so that the material organ is effected by a material object. Too much of its object can overwhelm the organ, as when the eye is blinded by an excess of light. But the intellect is never overwhelmed by “too much truth.” Rather than being blinded or brought low by its object, the intellect is strengthened in its operation such that what was difficult to receive at first makes it see all other objects more easily.⁹ Because the intellect acquires knowledge primarily through the senses, its activity presupposes the activity of the senses. But because the intellect does not of necessity work through some bodily organ, it works by its own intrinsic principle.

As said above, the intellect is receptive to truth as a kind of potency. It acquires knowledge with reference to sensible things, but it works in itself from the self-evident first principles that it possesses by nature. And there are also principles external to a man which can aid in the acquisition of knowledge. So there are two principles involved in the activity of acquiring knowledge, extrinsic and intrinsic; extrinsic in what man learns by instruction and intrinsic in what he discovers by his own act. Because the intellect acts by an intrinsic principle, it acts on an active potency.¹⁰ Hence instruction, being an extrinsic principle, is something secondary to the activity of the intellect, and is not necessary for its perfect operation. In order to ascertain whether it is possible for the intellect to err with respect to its own operation, we should focus primarily on the intrinsic principle of knowledge.

Having given an account of the intellect, what it is and by what principle it operates, we have now to explore how the intellect understands its object. We have already mentioned that matter is not in itself intelligible but that the intellect nevertheless understands in connection with the sensitive faculties. While matter itself is not something which the intellect directly apprehends it is perceived through the senses. And it is from its perception through the senses that the intellect creates an image (a phantasm) of what is perceived from which it can abstract the intelligible form.¹¹ According to St. Thomas, one can abstract in two ways. One way is to consider something to be separate from that in which it is understood as if they were separate in reality; e.g. if one were to abstract “red” from “surface,” taking the color to be something distinct and separate from colored surfaces. This type of abstraction admits error, because the intellect in this way does not consider things as they are. The second way in which the intellect can abstract is to consider something absolutely, such that we disregard those things which are not necessary to the thing in question; e.g. if we consider “red” apart from “apple,” we are not erroneously understanding what “red” is but regarding “apple” as something unnecessary to redness. Simply put, we may correctly understand “red” by itself as an (accidental) essence, but we cannot understand it as something which exists by itself.¹²

Aristotle's insight into the process of understanding is crucial to forming a complete account of the intellect's operation. In the beginning of the Physics he explains,

[T]he natural road is from what is more familiar and clearer to us to what is clearer and better known by nature; for it is not the same things that are well known to us and well known simply. For this reason it is necessary to lead ourselves forward in this way; from what is less clear by nature but clearer to us to what is clearer and better known by nature. But the things that are first evident and clear to us are more so the ones that are jumbled together, but later the elements and beginnings become known to those who separate them out from these. Thus it is necessary to proceed from what is general to what is particular, for it is the whole that is better known by perceiving, and what is general is a kind of whole since it embraces many things as though they were parts.¹³

So, taking as the object of intellection what is perceived by the senses, the intellect begins its process of coming to know with a general and confused image of things, and from there proceeds by means of abstraction to a more precise knowledge of things in themselves. Thomas expounds on this when he says, “the perfect act of the intellect is complete knowledge, when the object is distinctly and determinately known; whereas the incomplete act is imperfect knowledge, when the object is known indistinctly, and as it were confusedly.”¹⁴ So we refer to the act of the intellect from its active potency as being perfected in the complete and determinate knowledge of its object. But this process is not possible without having a starting point which is found in the first principles.¹⁵ Yet how these first principles are acquired must be explained in order to complete our account of the process of coming to know.

According to Aristotle, the first principles required for knowledge are neither innate, for infants would be as capable of knowledge as a grown man, nor are they acquired at some later point, for learning and discovery would be impossible until then. Because knowledge is acquired through sense-perception, he concludes that the first principles are gathered from sense-perception and the accumulation of memory which, over time, make up experience. Irrational animals have the capacity of both sense-perception and memory, but they are not capable of gathering the principles of knowledge which is a capacity of the intellectual soul.¹⁶ Thomas elaborates on this by reference to the agent intellect, reminding us that the intellect is not merely passive but must actively derive the universal from the experience of particulars.¹⁷

We are now equipped to give a complete account of the intellectual operation in man. A man begins by perceiving sensible objects through his senses (rust, a hard surface, heaviness, etc.). The objects of his senses are unintelligible, but his passive intellect receives an image of the thing perceived and holds this in memory. After many instances of this, the agent intellect is able to abstract from his experience a universal principle (the concept of iron). With the universal now in mind, he is able to proceed to knowledge of particulars (knowing what iron is in general, he can identify particular bodies of iron). It is clear from this that the intellect understands its object by combination and division.¹⁸ This is easily seen with respect to the twofold composition of material things. In one sense a thing is composed of form and matter, in another sense it is composed of substance and accidents. The intellect divides with respect to both these compositions, as our very consideration of them attests, and in combination we acknowledge those composites to be whole in reality.¹⁹

With the intellect and its operations accounted for, we now consider what essence is. Aristotle explains, “a thing's essence is what a thing is.”²⁰ An essence is like a definition, and is indeed expressed by a definition, but is strictly speaking a definition of a thing in its own right, rather than a property or something which can only exist parasitically on something else: E.g. 'man' or 'tree' is an essence but 'white' is not, because 'white' only exists as a property which adheres to man or tree. There are however essential properties of man which are not accidental. “Bipedal”, for instance, is an essential part of 'man'. There is a correspondence here to species, as 'man' is a species of the genus 'animal', and one of the differentiae which distinguishes 'man' from 'cow' is “bipedal,” though “bipedal” itself is not an essence. Aristotle thus concludes, “essence will not be found in any of those things which are not a species of a genus.”²¹

To understand an essence is the same as to identify it. That is, the question, “why is that a man” can be answered by explaining what a man is, and vice versa.²² So, in a general sense, an essence is what a thing is. Depending on what is meant by a “thing” however, there can be a distinction between an essence and a thing. For example, a man is a composite of form and matter. Thus the question “what is a man?” cannot be answered without reference to a body and its constituents. To the question “why is that body a man's body?” the answer will refer to the form which makes the body a man's body. The distinction between the composite and the components points to the substantial form which composes the elements into a whole: E.g. Even though a man by definition has body parts, a collection of body parts is not a man.²³

Essence, in the formulation of its definition, is generally understood with regard to species (though the two terms are not strictly synonymous). A species is a member of some genus which is distinguished from other species of that genus by some difference.; for instance, 'man' is defined as a 'rational animal'. He is generically an animal and specifically rational, 'rational' being the key difference from other animals. It is important to note that man is distinct from animals in species, but not in genus. Man is an animal, albeit a rational one.²⁴ Though there are many men in the species 'man', the species itself is one, as Thomas says,

“[I]t is evident that a multiplicity of parts in a definition does not signify a multiplicity of essential parts of which the essence is constituted as if they were distinct things; but all signify one thing which is made determinate by an ultimate difference. It is also evident from this that there is one substantial form for every species.”²⁵

An essence is expressed by a definition, so that there are many men does not prove that there are many essences or species of man, because where and how many they are does not belong to the definition of man. Neither does the multiplicity of “parts” implicit in the definition (for example man's two legs) mean that there are many essences within an essence, because essence belongs primarily to substance, but each of those so-called parts do not exist as a substance.²⁶ So one could say that there is a definition of “leg” and thus that a leg has in a certain sense an essence, but a leg is not a substance. Furthermore, a leg is defined as part of a body, so it cannot be a leg unless it is subsumed under the essence of the thing to which it belongs.

What we have considered thus far is essence in terms of its definition. But we should consider essence in terms of being as well. As regards to what a thing is in itself, essence is the composite of form and matter.²⁷ It is by its essence that an individual thing participates in being. This is not to say that everything which has an essence also has being, but that all things which exist do so insofar as they have an essence. As noted above, it belongs to the species of material beings to have matter, but not this or that matter. The prerequisite matter for a given species is called indeterminate matter, while the matter by which an individual participates in the species is called determinate. Therefore material things in particular participate in a species through determinate matter and, by the same token, are distinct from other individuals who share the same essence.²⁸ Though essence is the composition of form and matter, neither the form nor the matter are separate in reality, this means that essence cannot be broken into parts: It is understood by combining terms (form and matter, genus and difference, etc.) into a definition, but an essence is a distinct unity in reality.

Now that it is clear what the intellect is and how it operates, as well as what essence is and how it is known, we may at last consider Thomas' argument in full. He recalls the comparison between sense and intellect, viz. that both are always directed to their proper object, adding that, “as long as the faculty exists, its judgment concerning its own proper object does not fail.”²⁹ The senses may be deceived with respect objects that are “common,” such as size or color; e.g. the eye perceives the sun to be yellow and an inch across. The senses may also be deceived with respect to objects in an accidental way; e.g. salt may be mistaken for sugar. With common objects, the eye is deceived because what is perceives is other than what it is, as the sun is not yellow nor an inch across. With the latter case (salt and sugar), the eye is not deceived with respect to what it apprehends, for it takes the salt to be white and translucent, but is deceived in conflating its object with what appears to be an identical object but is in fact different. In both of these cases, one's sight functions perfectly; it apprehends precisely what it receives. This is why Thomas says, “as long as the faculty exists, its judgment concerning its own proper object does not fail.”³⁰

The proper object of the intellect is essence (in this instance referred to as quiddity which simply emphasizes the “what” of the thing). As we have said, a thing's essence is what a thing is, and it is something unified which we come to understand as a composition. So, in an absolute sense, we have an essence that is indivisible in reality which is apprehended by the intellect which is immaterial. But in order for the intellect to understand an essence, it must move to its act of knowing by means of combination and division. Thus we have two types of error to consider, the apprehension of an object by the intellect taken absolutely, and the understanding of it in terms of its definition (its intellectual composition). If the intellect is said to err with regard to apprehending something absolutely, as for instance one might be said to err in his understanding of what “space” is, then he does not know what it is. There is nothing complex about this type of “error.” Either one knows it or he does not. In fact, if one does not know “space” then he is not mistaken about it, because there is nothing in his mind to mistake. In this regard, i.e. with things that are apprehended simply, the mind cannot err. It is only in the process of discerning composition, as it pertains to a thing's definition, that the mind can be mistaken; for instance, if one were to regard a circle as a “three-sided figure.” Another way in which the intellect could err is to combine incompatible terms into a definition, as for instance in “rational plant.” The error in both of these examples is attributed either to the mis-attribution of a definition or to the combination of incompatible terms into an attempted definition.³¹ But both of these errors are accidental to intellectual operation. The result of both of these errors is to fail to understand an essence completely.

An analogous way of understanding the truth of intellection is by considering the various levels of “error” with regard to apprehension. For example, a young reader may come across a word never before seen and pronounce it “hoar-is-on.” The mistake is in combining the syllables in a way that misses the meaning of the word. The is no “half-understanding” in this regard; the word is a complete mystery. With help from his teacher, the child learns that the word is “horizon” and suddenly understands completely. In another example, a hunter might mistake an elk for a deer. He does not misapprehend the essence of elk, rather he completely understands the essence of deer and misappropriates it to the wrong sense object. Finally, in a more complex case, one might attempt to define an animal without reference to form or the soul, regarding it as merely mechanical or “purely material.” In this case, it should be said that either he does not understand what an animal is because, while he may understand the parts of its definition, i.e. the terms “matter,” “body,” “life,” “motion,” etc. are correctly apprehended, but they are out placed out of order in that definition. So he does not “half-understand” what an animal is; he does not understand what an animal is at all, though he understands all of the parts necessary to combine a correct definition and come to knowledge of its essence.

It may seem trivial to argue for the truth of the intellect if what is meant is simply that error is only in the process of learning and that substantial ignorance is absolute. But all science (especially philosophy) is at stake if this distinction is not understood properly. The intellect has the power to know the truth, it has the means to attain it, and it knows truth with certainty. That the means of attaining knowledge is prone to fault does not mean that the intellect does not know truth, for to say that the intellect is not true is to say that there is no intellect.

1 ST I, Q 85, A 6 sed contra.(Benziger Bros., 1947)

2 Op. cit. obj 1 & 2

3 ST I, Q 79, A 2 resp.

4 Aquinas, Commentary on De Anima, trans. Foster and Humphries (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1951) 676.

5 Op. cit. 680.

6 ST I, Q 79, A 3 resp.

7 Aquinas, Commentary on De Anima, 681.

8 Op. cit. 688.

9 Ibid.

10 St. Thomas Aquinas, On the Teacher in Thomas Aquinas: Selected Writings, trans. Ralph McInerny (New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1998), 199.

11 ST I, Q 86, A 1 sed contra

12 ST I, Q 86, A 1 resp.

13 Aristotle, Physics in Aristotle’s Physics: A Guided Study, trans. Joe Sachs (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2011), 33 (1.i).

14 ST I, Q 85, A 3 resp.

15 Physics 99b20

16 Physics 100a4

17 St. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the Posterior Analytics, trans. Fabian R. Larcher, (http://dhspriory.org/thomas/PostAnalytica.htm), II, xx.

18 ST I, Q 85, A 5 resp.

19 ST I, Q 85, A 5, ad 3

20 St. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the Metaphysics, trans. John P. Rowan, (Chicago, 1961) (http://dhspriory.org/thomas/Metaphysics7.htm), VII, iii, 581.

21 Ibid.

22 Aristotle, Metaphysics in Commentary on the Metaphysics by Thomas Aquinas, trans. John P. Rowan (Chicago, 1961) (http://dhspriory.org/thomas/Metaphysics7.htm), 1651.

23 Commentary on Metaphysics, 1674.

24 Aquinas, Commentary on Metaphysics, 1328.

25 Aquinas, Commentary on Metaphysics, 1339.

26 Op. cit., 1339.

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

28 De Ente, IV.v

29 ST I, Q 85, A 6 resp.

30 ibid.

31 ST I, Q 85, A 6

Labor and the Human Person

Labor is not without reason and purpose. It is what St. Thomas Aquinas calls a human act. It requires conscious deliberation and is therefore a moral action. We do not labor unthinkingly, but with the intention of achieving a clear purpose: The laborer plans and makes predictions, designs and builds, troubleshoots and solves problems; in short, labor requires intelligence. This purpose, of course, is necessity. We must eat and sleep, we must stay reasonably warm and dry, we must guard against injury and disease, etc. Labor is first and foremost what man does to achieve these ends, which are the necessary prerequisites for life. In short, man labors because he has a body.

Because labor requires intelligence and is primarily for the sake of his material body, it is a peculiarly human activity; That is, he who labors is human. Furthermore, because the level of intelligence and particular intellectual gifts vary from person to person, a great deal of one's personality is manifested in his labor. Not only does each particular person approach his tasks according to his particular gifts and temperament, but the intrinsic personality of labor can be observed even in the mastery of particular crafts and disciplines: The greater the perfection of a given work, the greater its style and uniqueness. Labor is therefore not only peculiarly human, but peculiarly personal.

Unfortunately, modern labor is not only marked by a detachment from creation, but a detachment from humanity and from the human person. The modern norm has each person primarily pursue not a specific task or trade for the sake of a specific necessity, but a career (whatever it may be) for the sake of currency (the exchange commodity). This shift in labor's purpose has been adequately expounded elsewhere, but at present it is enough to note the divorce between labor and its purpose. Whether one is a pipe-fitter, a carpenter, an insurance adjuster, or a corporate accountant, the primary purpose of his labor is to make money; for without money, his material needs cannot be met. This detachment of course is only partial, as there is still a relation, albeit obscure, between his labor and his material needs. Beyond the mere fulfillment of these needs, however, there is a further obscurity of modern labor: As money is the reward of labor, so is money the means by which persons procure their material needs from others. As labor is vitally important for man's life and involves not only his relation to the world but to other persons, so has money not only become the bridge between labor and material needs, but between persons as well. The farmer need not know the persons for whom he grows his corn, and the person who buys his corn is incidental to the amount for which he buys it.

In addition to obscuring these relationships, the immediate purpose of money is quantification. Money is only useful insofar as it is countable. Whatever is exchanged for money likewise becomes quantifiable. No longer does a man expect the just reward of his labor to be precisely what he has wrought. Rather, he is compensated, while he is immediately divorced from the product of his work. Monetized labor is only useful insofar as it is countable. And so, as the laborer has been detached from his work, which is rendered replaceable, the laborer is rendered replaceable. Labor is no longer imbued with personality because labor is no longer personal.

What is, therefore, a quintessentially human activity has become absurd, because it has become inhuman.

Moral Necessity

     When one takes what is generally considered to be a "moral obligation," such as the golden rule or the Decalogue, and compares such an imperative to its practical application, he will soon find out that, in order to call it a law, he must admit that it is more like a civil law than a scientific law; i.e., the "obligation" is suggested but is not evident.  The word implies being drawn from some binding principle (cf. Latin, ligare), but there is nothing directly binding about these moral imperatives.  God Himself says, "Thou shalt not steal," but people steal all the time, and without divine intervention.  The "obligation" of such imperatives are more commonly understood in the sense that there are consequences for those who would disobey them.  In this sense, the imperative is conditional, and is properly understood as implying an "if" clause: "Thou shalt not steal - if thou wilt be spared," "Do unto others as ye would have them do unto you - if ye wish to inherit the Kingdom," etc.  This is probably the same way most people understand the moral import of civil law, e.g. "pay your taxes - if you wish to avoid punishment," which suggests that the "binding" quality of an obligation is found merely in the connection between an action and its imposed consequences.

     There are still real obligations, however, which are so immediately binding as to be called "moral necessities."  The Golden Rule nor any of the Ten Commandments are moral necessities, properly speaking.  This is simply because of what necessity is:  A necessity is that which cannot be impossible or, in other words, a necessity is something which has no alternative.  Take the 7th Commandment again: "Thou shalt not steal."  If it were a necessity, then nobody would be able to steal and, in which case, it would be superfluous to demand that men keep to their own property.  It could be argued that the very fact of the Commandments being commanded proves that they are not moral necessities, but rather practical rules which are based on necessities.  It may be that moral necessities are so little known precisely because they are necessary and not given to alteration or change of form based on their practical import.

     So, we are led to ask the question, "what then, are the moral necessities?"  Moral necessities can be found in what is called the "Natural Law."  In this case, "law" is more akin to the laws of physics than the civil law.  The necessities found in the Natural Law cannot be escaped precisely because they are necessary.  One example of a moral necessity, and part of said law, is that all men must will only what they desire.  This is about as practical as saying "all men must throw with their hands" but is nevertheless important in understanding the rules of morality, just as the necessity of throwing with one's hands is important in drafting the rules of baseball.  Nobody can choose to do something he does not desire to do (if only at least for the sake of something else) because if he chooses to do something he does not desire, he is not choosing it at all, but is rather compelled by some outside force.  (Here, perhaps, one can see what St. Thomas Aquinas meant when he posited that, if God were to “force” his will on a man, the man would still freely choose it because God would be working through the man’s will. God does not impose on a man as a master commanding a slave; rather, He works through men as the architect of his nature:  It is a poor architect who struggles against his own design. [S.T., P1, Q83, A1])

     At this point, it is now possible to show how the so-called moral imperatives are linked to moral necessities.  God, Who commanded certain acts and forbade others, establishes the Natural Law in the act of creating (and creation is not final but is ever dependent on its Creator), so His commandments are inherently linked to man’s nature, man’s ultimate purpose or end, and man’s happiness both now and in eternity.  Consider that it is a moral necessity to desire life and happiness.  Revisiting the 7th commandment once more, we are told “thou shalt not steal” because man necessarily needs material goods in order to live, it is necessary for him to live in society with other men in order to be happy, and it is impossible for a man to maintain a healthy society without mutually respect for the material goods they need.  Of course it is not impossible for a man to steal, but it is impossible to be both a thief and a good neighbor.  So, though the imperative can be ignored, the necessity cannot, and by defying the former, the latter becomes unbearable.

     The fact that man must desire what is good (because it is impossible not to) while at the same time choose to do evil is mere evidence of the fact that he is broken.  Even if he knew all the consequences of his actions, both external and innate, he would still not necessarily have the integrity to choose what he knows is good.  Men are not completely free to choose what they want or know to be good. But this does not negate the fact that each man would choose the good if it were in his power to do so.  The more one looks at the human condition of sin, his self-struggle, his incapacity to act in accord with his very nature, the more one might doubt whether there is moral necessity at all, for who can claim to act always with the clear aim of true and integral happiness, let alone claim that he has attained it?  Many people would not even admit to having even a desire for happiness.  But moral necessity, particularly that man must desire and choose the good, is rooted in a metaphysical necessity; namely, that all things are intrinsically good.  This deeper truth involves a commitment bordering on faith, the affirmation of existence, echoing the very words of its Creator, Who is nothing less than Goodness itself, “And God saw all the things that he had made, and they were very good.” (Gen 1:31)

Americanism and Democracy

       “Do not conform yourselves to this age but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and pleasing and perfect.”  Rom 12:2

In 1899, Pope Leo XIII addressed the encyclical, Testem Benevolentiae, to Cardinal Gibbons of Baltimore (the Premier See of the United States) concerning a heresy he referred to as “Americanism.”  In the encyclical, Leo described Americanism as describing collectively a set of opinions to which he believed the American cultural and political atmosphere to be especially susceptible:

“The underlying principle of these new opinions is that, in order to more easily attract those who differ from her, the Church should shape her teachings more in accord with the spirit of the age and relax some of her ancient severity and make some concessions to new opinions.”

That is, if the Church would “get with the times,” there would be greater harmony between the world and disgruntled believers alike.  Cardinal Gibbons was quick to reply, stating in defense of the Church in America that the opinions against which Leo had spoken were virtually non-existent among American Catholics.  Gibbons might have been honest at the time, but Leo was no fool.  About a century later, it is obvious that Americanism is very much alive.

            The reason Americans are especially susceptible to such opinions is that, although they are in principle a democratic people, there is a widespread confusion as to what democracy means.  When one asks any Christian what his beliefs are, he is likely to get an answer like “Conservative Baptist” or “Liberal Catholic, but…”  It seems that Christians let their democratic-political way of thinking shape their religious views.  In addition to this muddling of principles, however, there is a ubiquitous conviction of belief in the separation of Church and State.

            Many argue that Leo XIII sought to abolish this belief, but those who make this assertion misunderstand it.  The Founding Fathers designed the American system of government in response to a system which they felt was too easily prone to tyranny.  A monarchy or aristocracy does not necessarily have a vested interest in the good of their subjects unless it threatens their own wellbeing.  The apparent solution to this problem was to create a government in which the good of a people was put into their own hands under their own governance.  This implied, however, that the people knew well enough what was for their own good.  Activists like Thomas Paine showed that the general population could indeed be well-enough equipped to handle their own affairs so long as the public was capable of participating in the political forum.  It was this capacity for the free exchange of ideas that was seen as the leaven of democracy, though American society at the time was unanimously Christian:  Many social goods that are the center of controversy today were no more than a natural and common disposition.  It is well-known that there was a prejudice against “Papists” which lasted into the nineteenth century mainly for the reason that Catholics were perceived as living under papal obedience and thus incapable of holding their own opinions in the public sphere.  This prejudice, of course, dwindled over time as it became evident that even Catholics could keep Church and State separate.

            The fact that this prejudice existed at all shows that Church and State bear a much closer relationship than is commonly thought, and our forefathers knew this.  Both the Church and the State concern man and his actions with one another.  Whatever one’s religious beliefs may be, they will manifest themselves in his actions, yet one’s actions are also the subject of laws and policies enacted by the State.  Ultimately, therefore, it seems that one need only to determine which actions concern religion and which concern public policy.  This is the general understanding of the separation:  What concerns public policy is one thing and what concerns religion is another.  This usually works well.  The State can mandate brake lights and window tax while the Church obliges Sunday worship and works of charity.  So what do we do when the State commands a priest to testify against his confessants or legalizes the murder of unborn children?

            When “separation” is understood only as drawing a line between the two, there inevitably arise ambiguities of authority which turn the distinction between Church and State into a fierce antagonism.  It should be surprising when it happens, especially in a democratic society, because each institution is concerned with the same thing; namely, the good of the individual and of society.  When each institution becomes the other’s rival, both the individual and society are torn apart, and this is ultimately disastrous for both: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”  The separation of Church and State, then, is only a healthy separation if they strive for a mutually sustainable goal.  Only then will they not interfere with each other.

            American government is designed to prevent tyranny.  Christianity teaches that there is no greater tyranny than sin and moral depravity.  A cursory knowledge of history demonstrates that the most despotic of nations are also the most depraved.  There is nothing which is inherently at odds between sound moral doctrine and sound civil management, yet there is nevertheless a growing demand from “progressive” Christians to change what they believe to be “outdated” theology as well as federal law, as if what is good and natural changes with the times.  Why can we not just live in the 21^st century?  Because Christians live according to a Truth that is eternal and a law which is in accord with that Truth.  A law devoid of Christian morals is ripe for tyranny, democratic or not. 

A true, healthy democracy is not the rule by a majority which decides what is good for their country, it is the rule by a majority which seeks the good of their country.  The greatest good will never be found without the guidance of Christianity.  Democracy is perhaps the safest system of government for its citizens, but an un-Christian majority is ignorant of the goodness of God and thus doomed to live in dysfunction, as Saint Thomas Aquinas observed in the first response of his Summa:

“It was necessary that man should be taught by a divine revelation; because the truth about God such as reason could discover, would only be known by a few, and that after a long time, and with the admixture of many errors.”