Afterword

David d’Avray

The Franciscan university master and minister general Bonaventure (c. 1217–74) once gave a talk about the ‘order’ of university study which, like this book, is an interpretative history of scholasticism.¹ He writes that there are four kinds of writing which are the object of study: first, the books of holy scriptures; second, the ‘original [Patristic] texts’ (libri originalium);² the Summae of the [university] masters (Summae magistrorum) are the third kind of writing; and the fourth are the writings of worldly teachings (doctrina mundialium) (Collationes, pp. 214–5). With the scriptures one must start with the literal sense, then go on to the ‘spiritual’ (symbolic/ allegorical) sense. One must master the Bible as a whole (oportet totum textum sacrae Scripturae habere in promptu). To understand the literal sense of the scriptures properly, one must turn to the ‘Fathers’, who have had help from the holy spirit. Their writings too are difficult to understand, however; and some people studying them on their own have fallen into very many errors and heresies. Hence one needs to have recourse to the Summae of the masters, in which those difficulties are elucidated. Because these writings of the masters make much use of texts from the (pagan) philosophers (verba Philosophorum), it is necessary for the student of sacred scripture to hear lectures on and study the latter (Collationes, p. 216). Each kind of study has its danger. The Summae can mislead because the masters do not always understand the Fathers: for example, Peter Lombard (c.1100–60), though a great man, did not understand Augustine (354–430) in certain places (Collationes, p. 216). Moreover, (pagan) philosophy is full of dangers. It ought to be a preparatory study (in scriptis Philosophorum transeundo studendum est) (Collationes, p. 217). It does not work like that, however, ‘because those who teach it [professores], even if not openly, nonetheless secretly read, copy and hide booklets [quaternos] of the philosophers like idols’ (Collationes, p. 218).

This is meant to be a sort of syllabus but stands up well as a short history. Scholastic theology started with questions about the Bible and the ‘Fathers’ of the Church, who themselves seldom strayed far from biblical exegesis. Both sources of authority generated problems for anyone who read them in a spirit of intellectual enquiry, as did Peter Abelard, whose Sic et non juxtaposed authoritative texts which appeared to refute one another. ‘Gratian’s’ Decretum (a theological as well as legal synthesis from the 1130s–50s; the inverted commas indicate scholars’ uncertainty about the author or possibly the two authors) did the same.³ The Decretum was itself a Summa, theological as well as legal; and the theological Summa of Peter Lombard, his Sentences, resolved the naked tensions emphasized by Abelard to make students think and set the parameters for a whole series of subsequent Summae in what would, by the early thirteenth century, become the university system as we still know it today. Logic and philosophical linguistics were at first the main problem-solving tools, but with the translation into Latin of the substantive philosophical works of Aristotle, Avicenna and Averroes, Bonaventure’s ‘philosophers’ with their ‘worldly teachings’, the relation of these to theological data became a central preoccupation.

Bible, Fathers, Summae and pagan philosophy: Bonaventure’s summary does considerable justice in a small compass to the intellectual movement with which this book is concerned. Dufal’s chapter is all about the relation of the masters to the Fathers; and Kempshall focuses on the influence exercised by the greatest Latin Father, Augustine, on the historical writing of Nicholas Trevet, who chose the ‘deliberate restatement of Augustinian restraint’ over alternative approaches of which he was well aware. The Summae of the masters are at the centre of other analyses: Sabapathy’s of Robert of Courson; Corran’s of Peter the Chanter and Raymond of Peñafort and Linde’s on Robert Holcot’s commentary on the Sentences. Piron writes important pages on ideas from Peter John Olivi’s rather loosely articulated Summa. Rolando of Cremona, the centre of Biller’s chapter, also wrote a Summa (though it is only one of a range of sources used). Philosophy – non-Christian – is at the core of the contributions by Fitzpatrick (the ideas of Aristotle and Averroes were hugely important in the debate she studies) and Marenbon, writing about the celebrity arts professor Pomponazzi. Even in Iribarren’s chapter on a poem about Mary and Joseph, in which one would not expect arts-faculty thinking or pagan philosophy, it is argued that conjectural reasoning is used to justify devotional truths described in language which goes back to the Arab tradition of commentaries on the Aristotelian Organon.

Only the chapter by Melville resists easy insertion into Bonaventure’s schema. It is true that it dovetails with the book as a whole because of its affinities with Piron’s contribution. Both explore the same paradox: belief in institutions by misfits in the institutions of their time who felt inspired by God. Piron finds in Spiritual Franciscans a ‘tendency to attribute a strong historical meaning to the Franciscan institution itself ’ which ‘would develop especially among a minority group; and that this use would grow stronger the more they were marginalized and “de-institutionalized”’. Melville illustrates from the history of religious orders the paradox that charismatic leaders subversive of institutions had to institutionalize their movements. Peter John Olivi (c.1248–98), the man at the centre of Piron’s article, had a conventional, ‘scholastic’ university training, even if from wholly Franciscan institutions; and can be counted among the writers of Summae, something which brings him into line with most of the thinkers discussed in the volume. However, Melville’s contribution to the history of canon law and religious orders forces us to think about where we draw the boundaries around ‘scholasticism’.

‘Gratian’ is Melville’s starting point and, as already noted, there is a strong affinity between ‘Gratian’s’ modus operandi and the technique of ‘contrasting authorities’ associated with academic theology from Abelard onwards. The excellent ideal-type of scholasticism which the editors borrow from the late Riccardo Quinto (1961–2014) fits academic canon law as well as academic theology, especially if one can understand ‘truth value’ to include truth about the state of the law:

(1) an ‘objective’ engagement with texts ‘independent of the subjective conditions of the commentator’ i.e. not primarily concerned with a ‘subjective’ personal, spiritual engagement – as in monastic texts;

(2) texts are subject to an analytical reading, with ‘individual statements’ compatibility established though dialectical means’;

(3) the text’s value comes wholly from its truth-value and not from its ‘own’ interest or purpose – to that degree it produces knowledge (scientia), ‘an ensemble of propositions guaranteed by their conformity to an authoritative text, integrated yet in a new ensemble in which their legitimacy and reciprocal connection shines in an even clearer way.⁴

That raises a question, however, for by no means all the texts studied in this volume fit that definition. Nor do they all fit other definitions of scholasticism which might plausibly be proposed (and which overlap a good deal with Quinto’s): one could for instance define scholasticism as the systematic use of quaestiones to resolve problems and contradictions in authoritative tradition; or one could adopt Martin Grabmann’s classic definition: the application of reason to revelation.⁵ There is thus a surface contradiction between the contents of the volume and the definition of its subject endorsed by its editors. The editors themselves provide the conceptual tools to resolve the contradiction; and also to think in new ways about the relationship between ‘ideas’ and ‘society’, about which the introduction proposes some seminal ideas, going far beyond the conceptual frameworks for intellectual history which survive from the twentieth century.

What is the legacy of the twentieth century as far as frameworks for intellectual history are concerned? For the middle ages, a key role was assigned to ‘the rise of towns and trade’ by scholars far beyond the narrow circle of Marxisant historians: a diluted version of the ‘socio-economic substructure/ ideological superstructure’ schema. Its typical Annales form was to point to homologies rather than a one-directional causal relationship. Out of the same tradition came the Jacques Le Goff (1924–2014) school of ‘historical anthropology’; then ‘scholastic anthropology’ (the school of Alain Boureau which helped to form Piron and Dufal), working scholastic thought into its social setting in life. It focused on the penetration, into the actual content of high-level academic thought, of ideas underlying the social and political practice of their time; and perhaps also on scholastic thought which still seems relevant to understanding humanity. Also emanating from Paris were the theories of Michel Foucault (1926–84) of a dominant discourse in each age. From Cambridge came an emphasis on the immediate context of ideas as opposed to their long-term life. Meanwhile, most historians of scholastic texts have been primarily engaged in editions and high-quality description of content. None of this will provide an answer to the question of how to find a concept of ‘scholasticism’ which includes the rich variety in this volume without being impossibly vague. To this may be added the questions of how to integrate the intellectual and social aspects of scholasticism; and of where the field should go next.

The introduction suggests solutions by drawing attention to Niklas Luhmann’s brand of systems theory as a way to think about scholasticism; and offers an excellent short summary of his thought which need not be repeated. One way in which Luhmann (1927–98) differs from most previous anthropologists and sociologists is that he does not think in terms of ‘the social system’ so much as a myriad of systems and subsystems: any sequence of communications with boundaries is a social system. Scholasticism as defined by Quinto is a feature shared by a range of (but not all of ) the subsystems within a loose, overarching system, something one might define grosso modo as the academic world of the central and late middle ages: universities and the institutions modelled on them (mendicant studia). The tradition of teaching the Sentences and writing Summa is a subsystem, as is the tradition of commenting on the works of Aristotle in texts and in the classroom. One could call scholasticism as defined by Quinto the scholastic method; and the over-arching system the world of scholasticism.

If social systems are sequences of communications within boundaries, we move beyond the world of texts. Textual arguments about excommunication, usury, rapine, vows, scandal and due process (Sabapathy); perfection (Piron); casuistical questions (Corran); or Holcot’s interpretation of Omnis utriusque sexus (Linde) are just the – to us – most visible parts of ways of religious life, confessional conversations and tense disputes between friars and bishops. This volume is about a series of subsystems consisting not only of writings but also of oral teaching and debate and of ideas in action.

Even debates which are much more tightly defined can be re-conceived as social systems. Fitzpatrick’s chapter on the ‘unicity of substantial forms’ makes this clear. She shows Franciscans and Dominicans locked in conflict over this apparently technical issue. (Actually, it was rather fundamental, as it involved questions about the continuity between an individual’s body in life and after the resurrection.) Luhmann argues that conflicts can be highly integrated social systems.⁶ Furthermore, the subject of the debate was more protean than its technical name might suggest. Dominican intellectuals who claimed to represent the position of Thomas Aquinas (1225–74) actually had different views.⁷ It was the conflict as much as the content which makes this an identifiable subject of research. Furthermore, the conflict continued into the fifteenth century. It evolved into a debate about the status of Christ’s blood and became relevant to popular devotion. The orders attacked each other vehemently and in public.⁸ It was truly a ‘conflict system’ which had taken on a life of its own and moved into a new, popular arena.

A striking parallel is the argument about the immaculate conception of the Virgin: was she born free from original sin? As with the argument about bodily continuity before and after the resurrection, the conflict was about institutional identities and rivalries as well as belief. Broadly speaking, the doctrine of the immaculate conception was rejected by Dominicans and adopted by the Franciscan order, together with the Jesuits in the early modern period. The debate was fought out with scholastic intellectual weapons but also by mobilizing public opinion.⁹

This suggests a route for future research: the long-term history not of ideas as such, but of what might be called ‘conversational threads’: sequences of communication starting from the discussion of a specific problem or text, although evolving – as conversations (and arguments) do. The communication consists of oral teaching limited by tacit expectations as well as quaestiones in written Summae. The longer the sequence the better: these conversational threads can certainly be studied up to the Reformation, if not beyond.

This is different from the ‘unit-idea’ approach¹⁰ because the conversations may shift their focus and change their character and even their content over time; and are not necessarily about one idea. For instance, ‘ethics’ in classical Greece, its boundaries marking it off from the religion of the Olympians with all their goings-on, can be seen as a conversation started by Sophists and continued by Socrates (469–399 bc) and Plato (c.429–347 bc). It embraced new themes with stoicism; slid into a Christian framework without losing the boundaries which marked off natural virtues from other religious duties; then started to part company with politics in Machiavelli’s thought (1469–1527); and so on. This ‘conversational-thread’ approach would also be different from the study of the reception of an individual text or thinker. The sequence of communications could, in principle, consist only of authors replying to authors, but normally it will be more ‘embodied’.

Take Augustine’s idea of predestination. It takes off through controversy involving not just books but a council and popes. Opposition to it comes from John Cassian (c.360–after 430), working in a monastic social setting in which man did not seem so hopelessly sinful, as long as he thought about scripture enough. Ninth-century intellectuals revive the argument (Gottschalk, Hincmar of Reims). With John Wyclif (c. 1330–84) the idea evolves into a union with his notion of an eternal Bible in the mind of God. From then onwards the debate spilled into the public sphere, where it had begun, with Martin Luther (1483–1546); John Calvin (1509–64); the Council of Trent (1545–63); Jansenism; Jacobus Arminius (1560–1609), etc. Between Gottschalk and Hincmar, and within the larger conversation about predestination, there is a more specifically scholastic conversational thread which one can trace through commentaries on Peter Lombard’s Sentences. Research on the debate about predestination in commentaries on book 1, distinctions 40 and 41 can serve as a model for other investigations. Russell Friedman traces the debate up to 1320, distinctions 40–41 providing a thread to follow.¹¹ The subsequent exchanges have been more sketchily surveyed.¹² In the nature of the case, one would expect each to be responding to previous commentaries as well as to the original text.

Many other new questions could be asked about medieval scholasticism. A promising method, successfully applied to Duns Scotus by Michael Sylwanowicz, is to uncover deep presuppositions far below the surface of a master’s work.¹³ According to Sylwanowicz, Scotus had a much fierier, more dynamic idea of being than did Aquinas and a more generous notion of God. The approach could be applied to other thinkers. Again, one could investigate the significant absences from the range of topics scholasticism characteristically covered in its initial phase and its thirteenth- and early fourteenth-century flowering. Negative facts matter. The whole theme of ecclesiology is left on the margins of scholasticism, for instance, though it was on the minds of theologians in the later middle ages. Canon lawyers thought about it systematically much earlier.

These two types of university intellectual and their respective paradigms should be studied together. The respective origins and methods of lawyers and theologians were similar: notably disputations and syntheses. Sociologically speaking, they were increasingly separate, however, and the same can be said of most of the scholars who study them today. To reconstruct the intellectual barriers of the middle ages some modern barriers need to come down.

The relationship of scholastic theology to preaching also needs systematic attention. The whole problem has been obscured by a tendency to characterize the preaching method of the mid thirteenth century on as ‘scholastic’. That seems natural since these sermons were full of distinctions and authorities; but whereas scholastic theology proper used distinctions to resolve apparent contradictions between authorities, thirteenth-century sermons used them to unpack a topic – just as French students and scholars do in essays and lectures today ( les trois points etc.) – and subsumed authorities under the parts thus divided, without any particular interest in contradictions between them. Furthermore, there are hardly any quaestiones in thirteenth-century sermons. Gradually, starting with a few exceptional cases in the thirteenth century and then, after that, less exceptionally, we meet quaestiones and genuine philosophical reasoning in sermons.¹⁴ The stages of this and many other developments have still to be mapped, but no user of the present volume is likely to feel pessimistic about the future of the field.

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¹ Bonaventure, Collationes in Hexaemeron, ed. F. Delorme (Bibliotheca Franciscana Scholastica Medii Aevi, viii, Ad Claras Aquas, 1934), pp. 212–22 (visio III, Collatio VII). Henceforth references will be given in the text.

² Later Bonaventure uses the phrase ‘Sanctorum originalia’ (Collationes, p. 216). All translations are my own.

³ On ‘Gratian’ see the editors’ note in their introduction.

⁴ R. Quinto, Scholastica. Storia di un concetto (Subsidia Mediaevalia Patavina, ii, Padua, 2001), pp. 416–7. See also the editors’ discussion of the topic in their introduction and the comments by Emily Corran in her chapter at pp. 5, 222, 234.

⁵ M. Grabmann, Die Geschichte der scholastischen Methode (2 vols, Freiburg, 1909–11), i. 36: ‘Die scholastische Methode will durch Anwendung der Vernunft, der Philosophie auf die Offenbarungswahrheiten möglichste Einsicht in den Glaubensinhalt gewinnen’ (the definition goes on to include bringing supernatural truth nearer to the thinking human intellect, synthesis and refutation of purportedly rational objections to Christianity (pp. 36–7)).

⁶ N. Luhmann, Soziale Systeme. Grundriß einer allgemeinen Theorie (Frankfurt, 1984), pp. 532–5.

⁷ A. Fitzpatrick, Thomas Aquinas on Bodily Identity (Oxford, 2017), pp. 175–82, ‘Epilogue’.

⁸ A. Fitzpatrick, ‘Mendicant order politics and the status of Christ’s shed blood’, Hist. Research, lxxxv (2011), 210–27.

⁹ The authoritative study is B. Gaspar, ‘The immaculate conception 1100–1700: para-magisterial powers and their politics’ (unpublished University College London PhD thesis, 2012).

¹⁰ Usually represented, in polemics against it, by A. O. Lovejoy, The Great Chain of Being: a Study of the History of an Idea (Cambridge, Mass., 1936).

¹¹ R. L. Friedman, ‘The Sentence commentary, 1250–1320. General trends, the impact of the religious orders, and the test case of predestination’, in Medieval Commentaries on the Sentences of Peter Lombard, ed. G. R. Evans and P. Rosemann (3 vols, Leiden, 2002–15), i. 41–148, especially pp. 84–115.

¹² Research into this or other ‘conversational threads’ through Sentence commentaries is facilitated also by Rosemann’s 2nd and 3rd volumes of Medieval Commentaries on the Sentences and F. Stegmüller, Repertorium Commentariorum in Sententias Petri Lombardi (Würzburg, 1947). Random examples are Hugolini de Urbe Veteri, OESA, Commentarius in Quattuor Libros Sententiarum, ii, ed. W. Eckermann (Würzburg, 1984), pp. 381–402 (he lectured in 1348–49: see Evans and Rosemann, Medieval Commentaries on the Sentences, i. 431); and Heinrich von Gorichem [= Henry of Gorkum], In quatuor libros sententiarum (Basel, 1498, repr. Frankfurt, 1967), Lib. 1, Di. XL and XLI (no page numbers). On Henry of Gorkum, whose commentary was produced at Cologne in the early 14th century, see J. T. Slotemaker, ‘Henry of Gorkum’s Conclusiones super IV libros Sententiarum: studying the Lombard in the first decades of the fifteenth century’, in Evans and Rosemann, Medieval Commentaries on the Sentences, iii. 145–73. For traditional doctrinal history of the predestination doctrine, see W. Pannenberg, Die Prädestinationslehre des Duns Scotus im Zusammenhang der scholastischen Lehrentwicklung (Göttingen, 1954). My thanks to Michael Sylwanowicz for this reference. Pannenberg concentrated on Duns Scotus and his predecessors but provided a short ‘Ausblick’ on subsequent developments up to Luther (pp. 140–9).

¹³ M. E. R. Sylwanowicz, Contingent Causality and the Foundations of Duns Scotus’ Metaphysics (Leiden, 1996).

¹⁴ For unsystematic preliminary findings, see D. L. d’Avray, ‘Philosophy in preaching: the case of a Franciscan based in thirteenth-century Florence (Servasanto da Faenza)’, in Literature and Religion in the Later Middle Ages: Philological Studies in Honor of Siegfried Wenzel, ed. R. G. Newhauser and J. A. Alford (Binghampton, N.Y., 1993) pp. 263–73.