by Ulrich L. Lehner
Merio Scattola and Andreas Wagner, Prinzip und Prinzipienfrage in der Entwicklung des Modernen Naturrechts = The Question of Principles and the Development of Modern Natural Law (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: 2017), 336 pp.
Merio Scattola, who died in 2015, belongs to the important historians of natural law, but is too little known outside Germany and Italy. In his posthumously published work, Scattola gives us an overview of how natural law became a discipline and how it changed from a science of multiple principles to a science with one principle alone.
It should not surprise us that Hugo Grotius is the leading character in this study. Yet, Scattola does not tire of reminding the reader that Grotius uses a wide variety of Catholic sources, such as Domingo de Soto, Fernando Vázquez de Menchaca, Francisco de Vitoria, Diego de Covarrubias y Leyva, and others. In De iure belli et pacis, he arrives at the new idea to take the traditions of political entities seriously and to treat them with a special method, which lays the foundation for the new ius gentium (50–51). Scattola also reminds us of the epistemological differences between modern and pre-modern theories of natural law: While modern theories since the eighteenth century seem to be built on only one principle (e.g., in Schelling, ibid., 65), Melanchthon and Catholic authors of the sixteenth century still believed in several (often four) principles of natural law (73).
Perhaps the last chapter is the most original and interesting, where the author shows new ways of grounding natural law among Catholic philosophers (183–238). Not only Luigi Taparelli SJ (1793–1862) receives his attention but also Antonio Rosmini (1797–1855) and Vincenzo Gioberti (1801–1852). Taparelli, who had great influence on the shaping of Catholic social teaching, transforms Thomistic natural law with the help of Protestant sources such as Grotius and Pufendorf, following in the footsteps of fellow Catholic writer Bonifacio Finetti (1705-1782). The latter had stated: “Ratio a protestantibus inita tradendi ius naturale ut peculiarem separatamque disciplinam non omnino inutilis aut illaudabilis est” (202). In other words, Finetti appreciated the scientific character of Protestant natural law: “the way begun by Protestants of handing down natural law as a peculiar and separate discipline is not entirely useless, and it is not utterly unworthy of praise.”
While Grotius borrowed from Spanish scholasticism, Italian neo-Thomists borrowed from Protestant sources: Isn’t this a remarkable ecumenical exchange of ideas? Yet, I do not think that we have realized what this means for the understanding of theological culture in modernity: how did such exchange work in bi-confessional university cities, between countries? A biography of such exchanges remains to be written.
D.C. Schindler, Freedom from Reality. The Diabolical Character of Modern Liberty (University of Notre Dame Press, 2017), 486 pp.
What is the defining characteristic of modernity? Many different answers seem possible, such as the diversification of life, “secularization” etc., but there is hardly a topic so crucial to the self-understanding of modernity than that of freedom. John Locke serves for Schindler as an example for this new view: Freedom is no longer defined by a good and thus something exterior to my will, but merely by the power (potentia) to desire. Freedom as power ends up being merely freedom to choose: the problem is, however, that such a view alienates us from the real world but especially from persons and “goods.” Only my own self is the seat of freedom and not what it encounters. When actuality in the Aristotelian sense is replaced with potency (mere power), we throw out realism. The modern idea of liberty, however, does not overturn the existing institutions but erodes them from within by giving up any claims to the good as well as by insisting on full neutrality. This, Schindler calls the diabolical characteristic of modern freedom: “Diabolical negation simply nullifies the significance [of goods, for example, U.L.] while leaving the thing more or less in place“ (161). The first thing that came to my mind when I read this sentence was the watered-down core curricula at many Catholic universities—one can clearly observe how these institutions have replaced the real thing with a counterfeit and replaced goods with “options” (207).
Schindler not only dissects and refutes the vacuousness of such an understanding of freedom but also shows a way out—namely, by encouraging us to rediscover Plato and Aristotle, their understanding of act and potency, and thus of symbolic realism: “To make certain kinds of choices is to become a certain kind of person. From this perspective, the more one commits oneself in an act, the more one determines oneself, and so the freer the act is. … We see here the way in which self-determination, thus conceived, is essentially symbolical, that is, a joining of the self to what is other. We also see why the question of the power of self-determination cannot be answered in abstraction from the actuality of the content of the choice under consideration. The random waving of my arm … is far less free … than the pronouncing of the marriage vow, since there is very little determination of the self, that is, reception of a form that is other than myself, in this trivial gesticulation” (209).
Schindler’s book is not an easy read; in fact, it takes philosophical stamina to follow the author through his detailed discussions, and one hopes that he will consider an abridged version for a popular audience. Nevertheless, it is a brilliant analysis of the ills of our time that deserves a wide discussion.
I want to note in passing that it was impossible for me to read Schindler without being reminded on every page on the main point of Gallus Manser’s (1866–1950) book The Nature of Thomism: Manser, one of the last century’s most important Thomists, articulated in this book that the core of Aquinas lies in the understanding of act and potency, and that, by misunderstanding this teaching, all kinds of intellectual and moral abysses open up. It is in my humble opinion of the most powerful defense of Thomistic metaphysics and needs desperately an English translation (a Spanish translation already exists).
Susan Broomhall (ed.), Early Modern Emotions: An Introduction (Routledge: 2017), 386 pp.
The hottest topic in early modern history now is probably the field of emotions. Susan Karant-Nunn’s important The Reformation of Feeling (2012) has reminded us to take this field of research seriously in our interpretation of early modern Germany and is but one of countless books on this topic. Consequently, it has become hard to enter this field without a good guide. Broomhall’s collection is such a “Virgil,” not only because it covers every imaginable topic from pain and suffering to colonialism, theories of empire, and ghost stories, but also because each entry of this encyclopedia is no longer than 2.5 pages and offers a short, annotated bibliography. This way the reader is not overwhelmed, can search for her topics of choice, and will find help wading the waters (and swamps) of the history of emotions.
Historical theologians have hitherto not paid enough attention to this topic, in particular Catholic ones. In fact, early modern Catholic sources, by far the most understudied body of literature, provide a vast richness of sources in homilies, meditations, treatises on ethics and the passions, and finally, of course, in unprinted diaries, chronicles, and manuscripts. What emotions can we detect in the nuns writing their meticulous monastic histories? How does space influence their emotions and how is space changed accordingly? What can be learned from mystical theology (which lays largely unmined in libraries — I only point to the Carmelite writers Philippus a Trinitate or Miguel de la Fuente!)?
Broomhall’s collection is a must-have for every theological and historical library and highly recommended for all those who desire a good introduction to the field. If one criticism is allowed: The research presented here is heavily geared towards English history and Protestant sources.
Peter Erhart (ed.), Die letzte Grand Tour. Die Italienreise der Patres Alois Stubhahn und Albert Nagnzaun von St. Peter in Salzburg 1804-1806(Vienna and Cologne: Boehlau, 2017), 1034 pp.
As the author of a book (Enlightened Monks, Oxford: 2011), which investigated the cultural history of eighteenth-century monasticism and pointed to the grand tours of monks as an element of Enlightenment culture the orders participated in, I am delighted by this massive edition. The two monks of the old and reverend abbey of St. Peter in Salzburg, Austria, have left us not only a diary of their grand tour but also 300 pages of correspondence about it; a number of historians situate the texts in their time and context (book acquisitions, music, numismatics, and mineralogy).
Grand tours were the coming-of-age ritual of European aristocracy: before one had to accept political or social responsibility one could tour the world, gain insight, and—let’s face it—have a little fun. They were what the gap years are in today’s culture. Monks who imitated such tours were of course already professed members of their community, and their trips were more like research journeys. Finally, they could see the antiquities of Italy and dialogue with famous thinkers, and of course one could connect the tour to a pilgrimage to Rome. The diaries show us not only what the sehnsucht of these monks was, but also how their emotions changed when they encountered Italian culture, or—in the ports—people from other continents. They allow us to feel strangeness, attraction, and desire along with them. The reports sharpen the historian’s eye: who of us would think about measuring the size of an altar or a baptismal font, yet, for the monks, this was obviously worth noting. Indeed, we get precious information about Benedictine hospitality: When the monks stay at St. Callisto in Rome, they are given some shabby quarters and not even paper and ink for writing letters. Likewise, they detested the dishes on meatless days and wished themselves home for some good Mehlspeise (like good apple strudel!). Documents such as these are not just something for the cultural historian, but also for the theologian: They teach us in what context faith was lived, what was emphasized, such as the search for God’s in the beauty of art and nature, and the perceived differences between Catholicisms. The editor and the monks of St. Peter are to congratulated for their painstaikingly detailed work, which will profit historians and theologians for many generations.