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           Title: History of Dogma - Volume VI
      Creator(s): Harnack, Adolf (1851-1930)
   CCEL Subjects: All; History; Theology
      LC Call no: BT21.H33 V.6
   LC Subjects:

   Doctrinal theology

   Doctrine and dogma
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                               HISTORY OF DOGMA

    BY

DR. ADOLPH HARNACK

    ORDINARY PROF. OF CHURCH HISTORY IN THE UNIVERSITY, AND FELLOW OF THE ROYAL
    ACADEMY OF SCIENCE, BERLIN

   TRANSLATED FROM THE THIRD GERMAN
   EDITION

    BY

  NEIL BUCHANAN

  VOLUME VI
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TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.

   As at several places in this volume Latin quotations are largely introduced,
   so as to form portions of the text, these have in many cases been simply
   reproduced in English. Where the meaning is less obvious, and the reader
   might desire to be made acquainted with the original, the Latin has been
   inserted within brackets.

CONTENTS.

  PART II.

    DEVELOPMENT OF ECCLESIASTICAL DOGMA.

   BOOK II., Continued.

   Expansion and Remodelling of Dogma into a Doctrine of Sin, Grace, and Means
   of Grace on the basis of the Church.

   Page
   CHAPTER I [1] . — History of Dogma in the Period of Clugny, Anselm, and
   Bernard 1-83
     Introduction 1
   1. Fresh rise of piety 3-15
   Clugny. Renunciation of the world and rule over it. Monastic training of the
   clergy 3
   The Crusades and their consequences for piety 8
   The piety of St. Bernard 10
   Objectionable elements in his Mysticism 12
   2. Development of Ecclesiastical Law 16-23
   Development of the papacy into an autocracy. The Papal Decretals 16
   The new ecclesiastical law more definitely framed. Union of law and Dogma 19
   Jurisprudence as a dominant force 21
   3. Revival of science 23-44
   Essence of Scholasticism 23
   Scholasticism and Mysticism 25
   Preparation in history for mediæval science. Its relation to Greek science.
   The inherited capital 28
   The Carlovingian Era 30
   The period of transition 30
   The Eleventh Century. The prevailing influence of Realism. The question of
   the Universals. The Dialecticians 32
   “Aristotelianism” 36
   The negative and positive significance of the science of Abelard 37
   Disciples and opponents of Abelard. Reconciliation of Dogma with Aristotle
   42
   4. Elaboration of Dogma 45-83
   Introduction 45
   a. The Berengarian Controversy 46
     Doctrine of Transubstantiation as framed after the Controversy 51
   The importance of the Fourth Lateran Council for the doctrines of the
   Eucharist, Baptism, and Repentance 53
   b. Anselm’s doctrine of Satisfaction 54
     Criticism of this doctrine 67
   Its limited measure of influence 78
   Doctrine of the Merit of Christ. Abelard’s doctrine of Reconciliation 79
   Peter Lombard 81
   CHAPTER II.--History of Dogma in the Period of the Mendicant Monks, till the
   beginning of the Sixteenth Century 84-317
     Introduction 84
   1. On the history of piety 85-117
   St. Francis, the Apostolic life, the Franciscan piety (the Waldensians, and
   the “Poor” of Lombardy) 85
   St. Francis and the Church 91
   The doctrine of poverty, the different tendencies, the Fraticelli and the
   Spirituales 94
   Conservative influence of the religious awakening upon Dogma 96
   Mysticism and the Mendicant Orders 97
   Mysticism as Catholic piety 97
   Description of Mysticism, Pantheism, the rise of Individualism 101
   Thomist and Scotist Mysticism 105
   Quickened activity in practical life 108
   The awakening of the laity, free associations, and preachers of repentance
   110
   The stages in the development of piety 111
   Piety in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; its opposition to the
   Church 113
   Piety, Dogma (unassailed), and the Church; glance forward to the Reformation
   116
   Gothic architecture as the style of building corresponding with mediæval
   piety 117
   2. On the history of Ecclesiastical Law. The doctrine of the Church 118-149
   The supremacy of the papal system; jurisprudence as a commanding influence
   118
   The leading thoughts in the papal system with regard to the Church 119
   The doctrine of the Pope; the new forgeries; infallibility 121
   The Concordats; national churches 126
   The slight share of theology in fixing the hierarchical conception of the
   Church 127
   The negotiations with the Greeks; Thomas’s conception of the Church 130
   The opposition to the hierarchical and papal conception of the Church is to
   be traced to Augustinianism 132
   The conception of the Church held by the opposing parties has a common root
   with the hierarchical, and differs only in its conclusions 134
   Hence the ineffectiveness of its criticism 136
   The opposition of the Waldensians, Apocalyptists, Franciscans, Imperialists,
   and Episcopalists 138
   The conception of the Church held by Wyclif and Huss, and their opposition
   to the hierarchy 141
   Criticism of this movement; Dogma, as strictly understood, remains
   unassailed 146
   Positive significance of the Wyclifite and hierarchical conceptions of the
   Church 147
   3. 3. On the history of ecclesiastical science 149-173
   The causes of the revival of science at the beginning of the thirteenth
   century (Arabs, Jews) 150
   The victory of Aristotle and of the Mendicant Orders. “Qualified” Realism
   151
   Scholasticism at its zenith, its nature, and relation to the Church and to
   reason 153
   The science of St. Thomas 157
   The “Summa” of St. Thomas 157
   Transition to Duns Scotus 160
   New stress laid upon reason and authority, Nominalism 161
   Probabilism, Casuistry, and fides implicita 162
   Elimination of Augustinianism 166
   Augustinian reaction in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Bradwardine,
   Wyclif, Huss, Wesel, Wessel 169
   Decline of Nominalism, the re-discovered Plato, the Renaissance 170
   4. The Moulding of Dogma in Scholasticism 174-317
   The pre-suppositions of the thirteenth century Scholasticism 174
   The finis theologiæ (the idea of salvation) and its main elements 174
   The old articuli fidei and the doctrine of transubstantiation 176
   The threefold task which Scholasticism carried out with regard to Dogma;
   strained relation with piety 176
   a. Revision of the traditional articuli fidei 178
   (1) The doctrine of God 178
   (2) The doctrine of the Trinity 182
   (3) The doctrines of creation, preservation, and government 184
   (4) The doctrine of the person of Christ (of the Holy Ghost) 187
   The doctrine of the work of Christ (satisfaction and merit) 190
   The doctrine of Thomas 191
   Of Duns Scotus 196
   Disintegration and reaction 198
   b. The Scholastic doctrine of the Sacraments 200
   Significance and principle 200
   Number of the Sacraments 201
   Definition (Hugo and the Lombard) 204
   Their nature, relation of grace to Sacrament 206
   Questions in detail 209
   The Thomist doctrine of the Sacraments 201
   (The Sacraments in their operation, their character 210
   Definition, materia, forma, etc. 212
   Necessity 213
   Effect 214
   Cause) 217
   The administrator of the Sacrament (minister sacramenti) 217
   Conditions of saving reception, disposition 220
   Attritio 225
   Peculiarities of the Scotist doctrine of the Sacraments 226
   The Sacraments singly. Baptism 227
   Confirmation 230
   The Eucharist 232
   Sacrament of Penance 243
   (Sorrow 248
   Confession 251
   Absolution 255
   Satisfaction 257
   Indulgence 259
   Opposition to indulgences; Wyclif, Huss, Wesel, Wessel) 267
   Extreme unction 269
   Ordination to the priesthood 270
   Sacrament of Marriage 272
   Transition to the doctrine of grace 275
   c. Revision of Augustinianism in the direction of the doctrine of merit 275
   The Lombard on grace, freedom, and merit 276
   Thomas. Elements of principle in the Scholastic doctrine of grace, the
   conception of God, grace as participation in the divine nature, merit 279
   Thomas’s doctrine of grace (lumen superadditum naturæ, gratia operans et
   cooperans, præveniens et subsequens), essence of grace, disposition for
   grace, its effects, forgiveness of sins, love, merits de condigno et de
   congruo 281
   Historic estimate of the Thomist doctrine of grace, connection with
   Augustine (doctrine of predestination) and Aristotle 295
   Thomas on the primitive state, original righteousness (justitia originalis),
   the Fall, Sin 297
   Evangelical counsels (consilia evangelica) 298
   The Thomist doctrine of sin and grace faces in two directions 300
   The later Scotistic Scholasticism: its doctrines of sin and grace 301
   Its doctrines of justification and merit (Bradwardine’s reaction) 308
   Supplement: The doctrines of the immaculate conception of Mary, and of her
   co-operation in the work of redemption 312
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   [1] The two chapters which make up this volume answer to Chapters VII. and
   VIII. of Part II., Book II., in the Original German Edition.
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CHAPTER I.

  HISTORY OF DOGMA IN THE PERIOD OF CLUGNY, ANSELM, AND BERNARD, TILL THE CLOSE
  OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.

   A tenaciously maintained tradition relates that in the closing years of the
   tenth century the Christians of the West looked forward with fear and
   trembling to the destruction of the world in the year 1000, and that a kind
   of reformation, expressing itself in the keenest activity in all branches of
   religion, was the consequence of this expectation. This representation has
   long since been proved a legend; [2] but there lies at the basis of it, as
   is the case with so many legends, an accurate historic observation. From the
   end of the tenth century [3] we really discern the beginnings of a powerful
   rise of religious and ecclesiastical life. This revival grew in strength,
   suffering from no reaction of any consequence, till the beginning of the
   thirteenth century. During this period it released, and took command of all
   the forces of mediæval manhood. All institutions of the past, and all the
   new elements of culture that had been added were subjected to its influence,
   and even the most hostile powers were ultimately made to yield it service
   and support. In the thirteenth century the supremacy of the Church and the
   system of the mediæval view of the world appear in perfected form. [4]

   This perfecting is the conclusion, not only of Mediæval Church history, but
   also of that historical development of Christianity, the beginnings of which
   lie as far back as the history of the primitive Church. Certainly, if
   Christianity is regarded only as doctrine, the Middle Ages appear almost as
   a supplement to the history of the ancient Church; but if it is regarded as
   life, our judgment must be that it was only in the Western Church of the
   Middle Ages that the Christianity of the early Church came to its
   completion. In ancient times the Church was confronted with restrictions in
   the motives, standards, and ideas of ancient life. These restrictions it was
   never able to break through, and so it continued to be with the Church of
   the Eastern Empire: Monachism stood alongside the Church; the Church of the
   world was the old world itself with Christian manners. It was otherwise in
   the West. Here the Church was able to apply much more effectively its
   peculiar standards of monastic asceticism and domination of this world by
   the world beyond, [5] because it had not to subdue an ancient civilisation,
   but met with its restrictions simply in the most elementary forces of human
   life, in the desire to live, hunger, love and cupidity. It was thus able to
   propagate here through all circles, from the highest to the lowest, a view
   of the world which would inevitably have driven all into the cloisters, had
   not these elementary forces been stronger than even the fear of hell.

   It is not the task of the History of Dogma to show how the mediæval view of
   the world was fully constructed and applied from the end of the tenth (for
   here the beginnings lie) till the thirteenth century. Substantially not much
   that is new would be discovered, for it is still the old well-known body of
   thought; what is new is merely the application of the material to all
   provinces of life, the comprehensive control in the hands of the Pope, and
   the gradual progressive development in its prior stages of religious
   individualism. But before we describe the changes, partly really, and partly
   apparently slight, which dogma underwent down to the time of the Mendicant
   Orders, it is necessary to indicate in a few lines the conditions under
   which these changes came about. We must direct our attention to the fresh
   rise of piety, to the development of ecclesiastical law, and to the
   beginnings of mediæval science.
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   1. The Fresh Rise of Piety.

   The Monastery of Clugny, founded in the tenth century, became the centre of
   the great reform which the Church in the West passed through in the eleventh
   century. [6] Instituted by monks, it was at first supported against the
   secularised monachism, priesthood (Episcopate), [7] and papacy by pious and
   prudent princes and bishops, above all, by the Emperor, the representative
   of God on earth, until the great Hildebrand laid hold of it, and, as
   Cardinal and successor of Peter, set it in opposition to the princes, the
   secularised clergy, and the Emperor. What the West obtained in it was a
   monastic reform of the Church, that rested on the idea of a view of the
   world that made everything alike, and that consequently favoured the
   universal supremacy of Rome over the Church. What were the aims of this new
   movement which took hold of the entire Church in the second half of the
   eleventh century? In the first instance, and chiefly, the restoration in the
   monasteries themselves of the “old” discipline, of the true abnegation of
   the world, and piety; but then, also, first, the monastic training of the
   whole secular clergy, second, the supremacy of the monastically trained
   clergy over the lay world, over princes and nations; third, the reduction of
   national churches, with their pride and secularity, in favour of the uniform
   supremacy of Rome. [8]

   The attempt to control the life of the whole clergy by monastic rules had
   already begun in the Carlovingian period; but in part it had failed, in part
   the Chapters had only become thoroughly secularised. Now, however, it was
   undertaken anew and with greater efficiency. In the Cluniacensian reform
   Western monachism raised for the first time the decided claim to apply, and
   find recognition for, itself as the Christian order of life for all
   Christians of full age — the priests. This Western monachism could not
   withdraw from the. task of serving the Church and urging itself upon it,
   i.e., upon the clergy of the day, as Christianity. The Christian freedom
   which it strove for was for it, with all wavering, not only a freedom from
   the world, but the freedom of Christendom for unrestricted preparation for
   the life beyond, and for the service of God in this world. But no man can
   serve two masters.

   Herewith there was given also its relation to the laity, with the position
   of the latter. If the mature confessors of Christianity must be trained
   according to monastic rules, then the immature — and these are the laity —
   must leave an entirely free course to the former, and must at least pay
   respect to their majesty, that it may be possible to stand approved in the
   coming judgment. If Clugny and its great Popes required the strict
   observance of celibacy, the estrangement of the priests from secular life,
   and especially the extirpation of all “simony,” then this last demand of
   itself involved, under the then existing distribution of power and property,
   the subjection of the laity, inclusive of the civil power, to the Church.
   But what was the Church’s dominion over the world to mean, side by side with
   the renunciation of the world exacted of all priests? How does that power
   over the earth harmonise with exclusive concern for the soul’s salvation in
   the world beyond? How can the same man who exclaims to his brother who
   thinks of leaving him all the patrimonial property, “What an unjust
   division, — for thee, heaven, and for me, the earth,” and who then himself
   enters a monastery — how can this same man bring himself to contend from
   within the monastery for dominion over the world? Now in a certain sense
   this dominion is something substitutionary, so long as and because the true,
   universal Christianising has not been carried out. As long as all are not
   genuine Christians, the obstinate world and the half-developed Christendom
   must be governed and educated, for otherwise the gospel would be captured by
   the powers hostile to it, and would not be in the position to fulfil its
   mission. But the dominion is certainly not merely something substitutionary.
   Christianity is asceticism and the City of God. All earthly relations must
   be moulded by the transcendent and universal idea of God’s kingdom, and all
   national political forms of life must be brought under control in accordance
   therewith. But the kingdom of God has its existence on this side of things
   in the Church. The States, therefore, must become subject to the divine ends
   of the Church; they must merge themselves in the kingdom of righteousness
   and of the victorious Christ, which is a truly heavenly kingdom, because it
   has its source in heaven, and is ruled by Christ’s representative. Thus out
   of the programme of renunciation of the world and out of the supra-mundane
   world that was to permeate this world, out of the Augustinian idea of the
   city of God and out of the idea of the one Roman world-empire, an idea that
   had never disappeared, but that had reached its glorification in the papal
   supremacy, there developed itself the claim to world-dominion, though the
   ruin of many an individual monk might be involved in making it. With sullied
   consciences and broken courage many monks, whose only desire was to seek
   after God, yielded to the plans of the great monastic Popes, and became
   subservient to their aims. And those whom they summoned from the retirement
   of the cloisters were just those who wished to think least of the world.
   They knew very well that it was only the monk who fled from the world, and
   would be rid of it, that could give help in subduing the world. Abandonment
   of the world in the service of the world-ruling Church, dominion over the
   world in the service of renunciation of the world, — this was the problem,
   and the ideal of the Middle Ages! What an innocent simplicity, what a wealth
   of illusions, was involved in believing that this ideal could be realised,
   and in working for it! What a childlike reverence for the Church was
   necessary for developing that paradoxical flight from the world,” which at
   one and the same moment could join the fight and pray, utter cursing and
   blessing, exercise dominion and do penance! What a spirit of romance filled
   those souls, which at a single view could see in nature and all sensuous
   life an enchantment of the devil, and could behold in it at the same time,
   as illumined by the Church, the reflection of the world beyond What kind of
   men were they, who abandoned the world and gladsome life, and then took back
   from the hand of the Church the good things of earth, love-making, combat
   and victory, speculating and money-making, feasting, and the joys of sense!
   Of course, with a slight turn of the kaleidoscope, all these things were in
   ruins; there must be fasting and repentance; but again a slight turn, and
   everything was back again which the world could afford — but glorified with
   the light of the Church and of the world beyond.

   At the close of this period (about 1200) the Church was victorious. If ever
   ideals were carried out in the world and gained dominion over souls it
   happened then. “It was as if the world had cast aside its old garment and
   clothed itself in the white robe of the Church.” [9] Negation of the world
   and rule of the world by the Church appeared to men identical. That age bore
   in its culture “the pained look of world-renunciation on the one hand, and
   the look of strong character suggesting world-conquest on the other.” [10]
   But in the period we are reviewing the development, which had to cancel
   itself when it seemed to have come near its completion, was still in
   process. Much was still to be done in the way of excavating secularised
   Christendom from its rough surroundings. And the masses were really changed
   in temper and set on fire — set on fire to contend against

   the secularised clergy and against simonistic princes in the whole of
   Europe. A new enthusiasm of a religious kind stirred the nations of the
   West, especially the Romanic. The ardour of the Crusades was the direct
   fruit of the monastic papal reform movement of the eleventh century. In them
   most vividly the religious revival which had passed over the West revealed
   itself in its specific character. The supremacy of the Church must be given
   effect to on earth. It was the ideas of the world-ruling monk of Clugny that
   guided the Crusaders on their path. The Holy Land and Jerusalem were parts
   of heaven on earth. They must be conquered. The dreadful and affecting
   scenes at the taking of the sacred city illustrate the spirit of mediæval
   piety.

   Christianity is ascetism and the City of God — but the Church, which really
   fired souls for these ideas, lit also thereby the flame of religious
   individualism; it awakened the power which was ultimately strong enough to
   burst through the strict bonds of system and sever the chain. But it was
   long before things went so far as this. The Cluniacensian reform, if I see
   aright, produced as yet no religious individualism at all, in the sense of
   manifold expressions of piety. The enthusiastic religious spirit of the
   eleventh century was quite of the same kind in individual cases. Among the
   numerous founders of orders during this period, there still prevailed the
   greatest uniformity: spiritual need, flight from the world, contemplation
   — all of them are expressed in similar forms and by the same means. [11] An
   appeal must not be made to the Sectaries, already numerous in this century;
   they stood in scarcely any connection with the ecclesiastical revival, and
   had as yet no influence upon it. [12]

   Through the Crusades this became changed. The primitive Christian intuitions
   were restored. The sacred places stirred the imagination, and led it to the
   Christ of the Gospels. Piety was quickened by the most vivid view of the
   suffering and dying Redeemer; He must be followed through all the stages of
   His path of sorrow! Negative asceticism thus obtained a positive form, and a
   new and more certain aim. The notes of the Christ-Mysticism, which Augustine
   had struck only singly and with uncertainty, [13] became a ravishing melody.
   Beside the sacramental Christ the image of the historical took its place
   [14] — majesty in humility, innocence in penal suffering, life in death.
   That dialectic of piety without dialectic, that combined spectacle of
   suffering and of glory, that living picture of the true communicatio
   idiomatum (communication of attributes) developed itself, before which
   mankind stood worshipping, adoring with equal reverence the sublimity and
   the abasement. The sensuous and the spiritual, the earthly and the heavenly,
   shame and honour, renunciation and fulness of life were no longer
   tumultuously intermingled: they were united in serene majesty in the “Ecce
   homo.” And so this piety broke forth into the solemn hymn: “Salve caput
   cruentatum” (“O Lamb of God once wounded”). We cannot measure the effects
   which this newly-tempered piety produced, nor can we calculate the manifold
   types it assumed, and the multitude of images it drew within its range. We
   need only recall the picture — new, and certainly only derived from the
   cross — of the mother and child, the God in the cradle, omnipotence in
   weakness. Where this piety appears without dogmatic formule, without
   fancifulness, without subtlety, or studied calculation, it is the simple
   expression, now brought back again, of the Christian religion itself; for in
   reverence for the suffering Christ, and in the power which proceeds from His
   image, all the forces of religion are embraced. But even where it does not
   appear in its purity, where there is intermingled with it the trivial — down
   even to the heart-of-Jesus-worship [15] — the over-refined and studied, it
   can still be salutary and worthy of honour, more salutary and worthy of
   honour, at least, than the strivings of a purely negative asceticism
   governed by no living conception. Even, indeed, where it manifestly
   degenerates into paganism, there will still remain some remnant of that
   liberating message, that the divine is to be found in humility and in
   patient suffering, and that the innocent suffers that the guilty may have
   peace.

   In the period under review, this newly attuned piety, born of the Crusades,
   and nurtured on Augustine as now understood, was still in process of growth.
   But we have already alluded to the man who stood at the beginning, though he
   was himself no initiator, Saint Bernard. [16] Bernard is the religious
   genius of the twelfth century, and therefore also the leading spirit of the
   age. Above all, in him the Augustinian contemplation was revived. Too much
   is not asserted when it is said that he was Augustinus redivivus, that he
   moulded himself entirely on the pattern of the great African, [17] and that
   from him what lay at the foundation of his pious contemplations was derived.
   So far as Bernard furnishes a system of contemplation, and describes the
   development of love, [18] on to its fourth and highest stage, at which man,
   rising above self-love, is wholly absorbed in the love of God, and
   experiences that momentary ecstasy in which he becomes one with God — so far
   Bernard has simply experienced anew what Augustine experienced before him.
   Even his language indeed is to a very large extent dependent on the language
   of the Confessions. [19] But Bernard has also learned his relation to Jesus
   Christ from the great leader. Like the latter [20] he writes: “Dry is all
   food of the soul if it is not sprinkled with the oil of Christ. When thou
   writest, promise me nothing, unless I read Jesus in it. When thou conversest
   with me on religious themes, promise me nothing if I hear not Jesus’ voice.
   Jesus — honey to the taste, melody to the ear, gladness to the soul.” [21]
   But here Bernard has taken a step beyond Augustine. “Reverence for what is
   beneath us” dawned upon him, as it had never dawned upon any Christian of
   the older world (not even upon Augustine); for these earlier Christians,
   while revering asceticism as the means of escape from the body, still, as
   men of the ancient world, were unable to see in suffering and shame, in the
   cross and death, the form of the divine. The study of the Song of Songs
   (under the direction of Ambrose), and the spirit enkindled by the Crusades,
   led him before the image of the crucified Saviour as the bridegoom of the
   soul. In this picture he became absorbed. From the features of the suffering
   Christ there shone forth upon him truth and love. In a literal sense He
   hangs on His lips and gazes on His limbs: “My beloved, saith the Spouse, is
   white and ruddy: in this we see both the white light of truth and the ruddy
   glow of love” (in hoc nobis et candet veritas et rubet caritas), says
   Gilbert in the spirit of Bernard. [22] The basis for this
   Christ-contemplation — the wounds of Christ as the clearest token of His
   love — was laid by Ambrose and Augustine (Christ, mediator as man), and the
   image of the soul’s bridegroom goes back to Origen and Valentinus (cf. also
   Ignatius); but Bernard was the first to give to the pious spirit its
   historic Christian intuitions; he united the Neoplatonic self-discipline for
   rising to God with contemplation of the suffering and dying Redeemer, and
   released the subjectivity of the Christ-Mysticism and the Christ-Lyricism.
   [23]

   But in spite of all quickening of the imagination, and in spite of his most
   ardent devotion to the person of Christ, even Bernard was obliged to pay the
   heavy tribute that is exacted of every mystic, — the mood of abandonment
   after the blessed feeling of union, and the exchange of the historic Christ
   for the dissolving picture of the ideal. With him the latter is specially
   remarkable. It might have been expected that for one who became so absorbed
   in the picture of the suffering Christ, it would have been impossible to
   repeat the direction given by Origen and Augustine, that we must rise from
   the word of scripture, and from the Incarnate Word, to the “Spirit.” And yet
   this final and most questionable direction of mysticism, which nullifies
   historical Christianity and leads on to pantheism, was most distinctly
   repeated by Bernard. No doubt what he has written in ep. 106, on the
   uselessness of the study of Scripture, as compared with practical devotion
   to Christ, [24] may still be interpreted in the light of the thought, that
   Christianity must be experienced, not known. But there is no ambiguity in
   the ex-positions in the twentieth sermon on the Song of Songs. Here the love
   to Christ that is stirred by what Christ did or offered in the flesh is
   described as still to some extent fleshly. It is no doubt a valuable
   circumstance that Bernard does not regard the distress and anguish awakened
   by the picture of the man Jesus as the highest thing, that he rather sees in
   it a portion of the fleshly love. But he then goes on to say, that in true
   spiritual love we must rise altogether from the picture of the historic
   Christ to the Christ kata pneuma (after the spirit), and for this he appeals
   to John VI. and 2 Cor. V. 16. All the mysticism of after times retained this
   feature. It learned from Bernard the Christ-contemplation; [25] but, at the
   same time, it adopted the pantheistic tendency of the Neoplatonists and
   Augustine. [26] In the second half of the twelfth century the new piety was
   already a powerful force in the Church. [27] The subjectivity of pious
   feeling was unfettered in the monasteries. [28] But as the same man who, in
   the seclusion of his monastery, spoke a new language of adoration, preached
   flight from the world, and called to the Pope that he sat in Peter’s chair
   to serve and not to rule — as this man at the same time continued fettered
   by all the hierarchical prejudices of his age, and himself guided the policy
   of the world-ruling Church, even the pious in the Church in the twelfth
   century had not yet felt the contrast between Church and Christianity. The
   attachment of monachism to the Church was still of a naive kind; the
   contradiction between the actual form of the world-ruling Church and the
   gospel which it preached was felt, indeed, but always suppressed again. [29]
   That great mendicant monk had not yet come on the scene whose appearing was
   to work the crisis in the fluctuating struggle between renunciation of the
   world and lordship over it. But already the Church was beset all around by
   the wrathful curses of the “heretics,” who saw in the Church’s powerful
   exercise of her dominion and in the alienation of her gifts of grace the
   features of the ancient Babylon.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [6] The following partly corresponds with my Lecture on Monachism (3rd ed.
   1886, p. 43 ff.). Two sources appear in the tenth century from which the
   religious awakening proceeded, the Monastery of Clugny, and the Saxon
   dynasty. We cannot attach too much importance to the influence of Matilda
   (cf. in general the Essay by Lamprecht, Das deutsche Geistesleben unter den
   Ottonen in the deutsche Zeitschrift f. Geschichtswissensch. Vol. VII., part
   1, p. i. ff.). It extended to Henry II., and even, indeed, to the third
   Henry; v. Nitzsch, Gesch. des deutschen Volkes I., p. 318 f. For the history
   of the world the ecclesiastical sympathies of the dynasty, and the spirit of
   ascetic piety that emanated from the saintly devotee in the Quedlinburg
   Convent were of as great importance as the reformed monachism of Clugny. The
   history of mediæval Germanic piety may be said to have begun with Matilda.
   Charlemagne is still in many respects a Christian of the type of Constantius
   and Theodosius.

   [7] From Hauck (K.-Gesch. Deutschlands III., p. 342 ff.) and the work of
   Sackur, Die Cluniacenser in ihrer Kirchl. und allgemeingesch. Wirksamkeit
   bis zur Mitte des 11. Jahrh. (2 vols., 1892-1894) we learn that the reform
   of Clugny had for centuries to contend with the same difficulties against
   the secularised Church and the secularised, but also more independent
   monachism (see also Hauck, “Zur Erklärung von Ekkeh. Cas. s. Galli “ c. 87
   in the Festschrift f. Luthardt, p. 107 ff.) as had the old monachism
   formerly on its introduction about 400 into Gaul and Spain (and as had the
   Minorites at a later time). It is instructive to notice the attitude of the
   laity in connection with these three great reforms of the Church. Towards
   the first they were substantially indifferent, in the second they took a
   share from the outset (against the secularised clergy), the third (the
   Minorite) was simply carried out by them.

   [8] Sackur (II., p. 464 f.) characterises this French monastic reform thus:
   “The movement of Clugny did not start with announcing a programme: it was
   the product of a view of the world. It had no other aim than to oppose the
   coarse materialism of those days by reviving those institutions that
   admitted of an existence in sympathy with evangelical injunctions, even in
   the midst of a barbarised society. It was a formation of autonomous
   associations, such as usually arise in disorganised States under a weak
   central government, and serve to supplement by self-help the great social
   unions of, e.g., State and Church. From this there resulted the design of
   influencing from these institutions those around, and winning them for
   religion. The restored monasteries increased in number, the task became
   always greater; but it became in no way different. The winning of souls was,
   and continued to be, the real end. Connections became extended; we have seen
   how ready the princes were to support the efforts of the monks. Very soon
   every family of mark had its family monastery. . . . Monachism found its way
   to the courts . . . by means of a conspicuous social activity monachism
   gained hold of the masses. . . . Not a few bishops, especially in the South,
   were carried away by the current, friends of the movement came to occupy the
   Episcopal Sees. What followed was a spiritual transformation (but no
   transformation of any consequence of a literary and scientific kind. See
   what Sackur has stated, II., p. 327 ff.), giving pain to those who had
   previously built their house out of the ruins of the Carlovingian order of
   society, giving annoyance especially to a part of the Episcopate. . . . With
   this the opposition also was given. The ascetic Romanic movement issuing
   from the South mastered in the end the French North, captured the new
   Capetian dynasty, and here found itself confronted with an Episcopate which
   defended itself, in some cases, with desperation, against the assaults of a
   monachism that set out from the idea of a view of the world that made all
   things alike, from the thought of the universal Romanism, and that had no
   understanding for the independent pride of national churches. . . . The
   strict organisation of the German Imperial Church, its close union with the
   monarchy, the morality of the clergy (of a higher character as compared with
   the West-Frankian Church), still kept back the movement (at first) from the
   borders of Germany. It was only the process of ecclesiastical and civil
   dissolution, which began tinder Henry IV., that opened the breaches through
   which the monastic Romanic spirit could penetrate into the organism of the
   German State.” — On Clugny and Rome, see Sackur II., p. 441 ff.

   [9] The Cluniacensian monk, Rudolph Glaber, Hist. lib. III., 4.

   [10] v. Eicken, l.c., p. 155 f. If the early Church had had this latter
   characteristic expressed in its piety, it would inevitably have developed
   into Islam, or rather would have been crushed by the Roman world-empire. But
   the Mediæval Church from its origin (period of the migration of the nations)
   had absorbed into itself the Roman world-empire as an idea and as a force,
   and stood face to face with uncivilised nations; hence its aggressive
   character, which, moreover, it only developed after Charlemagne had shown it
   how the vicarius Christi on earth must rule. Nicolas I. learned from Charles
   I., the Gregorian popes from Otto I., Henry II., and Henry III., how the
   rector ecclesiæ must administer his office.

   [11] See Neander, K.-Gesch. V., 1, pp. 449-564.

   [12] Their doctrines were imported from the East — from Bulgaria; that old
   remnants of sects survived in the West itself (Priscillians) is not
   impossible. But spontaneous developments also must be recognised, such as
   have arisen in all ages of the Church’s history, from reading Scripture and
   the Fathers, and from old reminiscences. In the twelfth century, heresy
   became an organised power, frightfully dangerous to the Church, in some
   regions — indeed, superior to it; see Reuter I., p. 153 f., and Döllinger’s
   work, Beiträge zur Sectengesch. des Mittelalters, 2 Thl., München 1890, in
   which the Paulicians, Bogomili, Apostolic Brethren and Catharists are
   described.

   [13] See Vol. V., p. 124 f.

   [14] Bernh., Sermo LXII. 7, in cant. cantic: “quid enim tam efficax ad
   curanda conscientise vulnera nec non ad purgandam mentis aciem quam Christi
   vulnerum sedula meditatio?”

   [15] This certainly is also very old, and that, too, in had forms; it is not
   otherwise with the limb-worship of Mary. In the Vitt. Fratrum of Gerard de
   Frachet (about 1260), published in the Monum. Ord. Fratr. Prædic. Hist. I.
   (Louvain, 1896) the following is related of a brother: “Consueverat venerari
   beatam virginem, cor ejus, quo in Christum credidit et ipsum amavit, uterum,
   quo eum portavit, ubera, quibus eum lactavit, manus ejus tornatiles, quibus
   ei servivit, et pectus ejus, in quo recubuit, virtutum omnium apothecam
   specialiter venerans, ad singula faciens frequenter singulas venias cum
   totidem Ave Maria, adaptando illi virtutes, quibus meruit fled mater dei,”
   etc.

   [16] See the Monograph by Neander, new edit. (edited by Deutsch, 1889);
   Hüffer, Der hl. Bernard von Clairvaux, vol. I., 1886.

   [17] This is true to a much greater extent than Neander has shown.

   [18] Caritas and humilitas are the fundamental conceptions in Bernard’s
   Ethics.

   [19] v. the Treatise De diligendo deo.

   [20] v. the numerous passages in the Confessions.

   [21] Jesus mel in ore, in aure melos, in corde jubilus. In cantic. cantic.
   XV. 6.

   [22] How the cross of Christ is for Bernard the sum and substance of all
   reflection and all wisdom, see Sermo XLIII.; on loftiness in abasement see
   XXVIII. and XLII.; de osculo pedis, manus et oris domini III.; de triplici
   profectu animæ, qui fit per osculum pedis, manus et oris domini IV.; de
   spiritu, qui est deus, et quomodo misericordia et judicium dicantur pedes
   domini VI.; de uberibus sponsi, i.e., Christi IX.; de duplice humilitate,
   una vid. quam parit veritas et altera quam inflammat caritas XLII., etc.
   etc.

   [23] See the Poems of Bernard and the 86 Sermons on the Song of Songs, which
   determined the character of the piety of the following generations. These
   sermons became the source of the Catholic Christ-mysticism. Ritschl,
   however, (Lesefrüchte aus dem hl. Bernhard, Stud. u. Krit. 1879, pp.
   317-335) has noted (see Neander, 1.c. p. 116), that in these sermons true
   evangelical thoughts also find expression. “The cause of that I was
   constrained to see in this, that the preacher did not handle his doctrinal
   material in the historical order which dogmatic theology adheres to among
   both Catholics and Evangelicals — an order according to which the doctrines
   treated first are dealt with without regard to those that follow. We can see
   rather, without difficulty, that the preacher uses the points of doctrine as
   they present themselves in the practical circle of vision.” Ritschl points
   to the following passages (see also Wolff, Die Entw. d. einen christl. K.
   1889, p. 165 ff.): Sermo LXIX. 3 (the gravity of original sin: the degree of
   injury is determined by regeneration); Sermo LXXII. 8 (significance of
   death: among the redeemed “propter quos omnia fiunt,” it must be regarded as
   an expression, not of God’s wrath, but of His mercy, as the act of
   redemption from the conflict between the law in the members and the
   sanctified will); Sermo XXII. 7-11 (righteousness by faith; it is not
   equivalent to power given for good works, but “unde vera justitia nisi de
   Christi misericordia? . . .soli justi qui de ejus misericordia veniam
   peccatorum consecuti sunt . . .quia non modo justus sed et beatus, cui non
   imputabit deus peccatum”); Sermo XX. 2; XI. 3; VI. 3 (redemptive work of
   Christ: the work of love [“non in omni mundi fabrica tantum fatigationis
   auctor assumpsit”], of which the modus is the exinanitio of God, its fruit
   nostri de illo repletio, and which is divine, because Christ here kept in
   view the way of acting which is God’s way, who makes His sun to rise on the
   evil and the good. The communicatio idiomatum is not understood here in the
   Greek sense, but is exhibited in the motives of Christ; VI. 3: “dum in carne
   et per carnem facit opera, non carnis sed dei . . .manifeste ipsum se esse
   judicat, per quem eadem et ante fiebant, quando fiebant. In carne, inquam,
   et per carnem potenter et patienter operatus mira, locutus salubria, passus
   indigna evidentur ostendit, quia ipse sit, qui potenter sed invisibiliter
   sæcula condidisset, sapienter regeret, benigne protegeret. Denique dum
   evangelizat ingratis, signa præbet infidelibus, pro suis crucifixoribus
   orat, nonne liquido ipsum se esse declarat, qui cum patre suo quotidie oriri
   facit solem super bonos et malos, pluit super justos et injustos?” ): Sermo
   XXI. 6, 7; LXXXV. 5 (the restored image of God in man); Sermo LXVIII. 4;
   LXXI. 11 (the founding of the Church as the aim of redemption); LXXVIII. 3
   (Church and predestination); Sermo VIII. 2, XII. 11, XLVI. 4, LI. 5
   (conception and marks of the historic Church, where the rigidly juristic
   view is quite absent: in XII. 11, it is said that no individual may declare
   himself the bride of Christ; the members of the Church only share in the
   honour which belongs to the Church as bride). Cf. also Ritschl, Gesch. des
   Pietismus I., p. 46 ff., and Rechtfert. u. Versöhn, I.2 p. 109 ff., where it
   is shown how for Bernard the thought of grace controls everything.

   [24] “Why dost thou seek in the Word for the Word that already stands before
   thine eyes as Incarnate? Iie that hath ears to hear, let him hear Him crying
   in the temple, If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink. . . . O,
   if thou only once tastedst of the rich marrow of the grain with which the
   heavenly Jerusalem is satisfied, how willingly wouldst thou leave the Jewish
   scribes to gnaw at their bread-crusts. . . . Experto crede, aliquid amplius
   invenies in silvis, quam in libris. Ligna et lapides docebunt, quod a
   magistris audire non possis.”

   [25] Bernard was reverenced as an apostle and prophet “among all nations of
   Gaul and Germany.” The lament of Odo of Morimond (see Hüffer, l.c. p. 21
   ff.) is very touching, and proves at the same time the incomparable
   influence of his personality. Since Augustine, no such man had been given to
   the Church. “Vivit Bernardus et nardus ejus dedit odorem suum etiam in
   morte.” “His life is hid with Christ in God,” with this the disciple
   comforted himself at the grave. “Verba ejus spiritus et vita erant.” The
   recollection of the days when Bernard wandered as a preacher of the cross
   through the districts of Germany long survived; for the Germans had never
   heard such a preacher. See the Historia miraculorum in itinere Germanico
   patratorum in Migne CLXXXV.; Hüffer, p. 70 ff. (who certainly is remarkably
   credulous). The correspondence of Bernard stands alone in the twelfth
   century as regards importance and extent. Almost 500 letters by himself are
   extant.

   [26] The “excedere et cum Christo esse” (S. LXXXV.) was understood even by
   Bernard as meaning, that the soul loses itself, and in the embraces of the
   bridegroom ceases to be a proper ego. But where the soul is merged in the
   Godhead, the Godhead becomes resolved into the All-One.

   [27] Follow Christ became the watchword; it broke through the restrictions
   which dogmatic had drawn, and turned to the Lord Himself. For all relations
   of life, the suffering, humble, and patient Saviour was presented as an
   example. What a quickening was the result! But from this point it was
   possible that a familiarity of feeling should develop itself, which
   conflicts with reverence for the Redeemer, and because the value of Christ
   was seen, in a one-sided way, in His example, other sides necessarily
   suffered neglect. With Bernard that was not yet the case; but already in him
   it is astonishing how the Greek dogmatic scheme of Christology had to give
   place in praxi to a scheme quite different. After he has shown in the 16th
   sermon that the rapid spread of Christianity was due simply to the preaching
   of the person of Jesus, that the image of Jesus had assuaged wrath, humbled
   pride, healed the wounds of envy, checked luxury, quenched lust, bridled
   avarice, and, in short, had driven out all the lower passions of men, he
   continues: Siquidem cum nomino Jesum, hominem mihi propono mitem et humilem
   corde, benignum, sobrium, castum, misericordem et omni denique honestate et
   sanctitate conspicuum eundemque ipsum deum omnipotentem, qui suo me et
   exemplo sanet et roboret adjutorio. Hæc omnia simul mihi sonant, cum
   insonuerit Jesus. Sumo itaque mihi exempla de homine et auxilium de
   potente.” Thus did one write, while in theory rejecting Adoptianism! This
   Bemardine Christology, of which the roots lie in Augustine, requires no
   two-nature doctrine; it excludes it. It is fully represented by the formula
   that Jesus is the sinless man, approved by suffering, to whom the divine
   grace by which He lives has lent such power that His image takes shape in
   other men, i.e., incites to counter love and imparts humility. Caritas and
   humilitas were practical Christianity, till St. Francis gave as much
   vividness of form to the latter in his demand for poverty as was to be
   exhibited by love in imitation of Christ in His course of suffering. All the
   ascetic treatises of the period speak of humility; see Petrus Comestor,
   Hist. evang. c. 133: “est debita humilitas subdere se majori propter deum,
   abundans (humilitas) subdere se pari, superabundans subdere se minori.” Note
   the distinction also, so important subsequently in the doctrine of the merit
   of Christ, between debita, abundans, and superabundans.

   [28] It counterbalanced the legal righteousness and “meritoriousness” that
   lay close at hand from other sides. Ritschl remarks very correctly (Rechtf.
   und Versöhn. I.2, p. 117): “It is an erroneous view that the Latin
   Catholicism of the Middle Ages was summed up in the cultivation of legal
   righteousness and meritoriousness.” It has as its correlate the mysticism
   that sacrifices the personal ego, to which at one time a
   theologico-acosmistic, at another time a christologico-lyrical character is
   given. But the simple trust in God, who reveals His grace in Christ, with
   the confession: “Sufficit mihi ad omnem justitiam solum habere propitium,
   cui soli peccavi” (Bernh. serm. in cant. xxiii. 15), was certainly not
   wanting in individual cases. Here and there, but above all in view of death,
   it triumphed, both over the calculations of legal righteousness and over the
   vagueness of mysticism. Flacius and Chemnitz were right in seeking and
   collecting testimonies for the evangelical doctrine of justification from
   the Middle Ages, and as Augustine in his day could justly assert that his
   doctrine of grace had its tradition in the prayers of the Church, so
   Chemnitz also was entitled to affirm that the cardinal evangelical doctrine
   could produce evidence for itself from earlier times, “Non in declamatoriis
   rhetoricationibus nec in otiosis disputationibus, sed in seriis exercitiis
   pænitentiæ et fidei, quando conscientia in tentationibus cum sua indignitate
   vel coram ipso judicio dei vel in agone mortis luctatur. Hoc enim solo modo
   rectissime intelligi potest doctrina de justificatione, sicut in scriptura
   traditur.”

   [29] The “eternal gospel” of Joachim of Fiore belongs to the close of our
   period, and for a time remained latent; see Reuter, l.c. II., p. 198 ff.
     _________________________________________________________________

   2. The Development of Ecclesiastical Law. [30]

   Let us notice at least in a few words the increased activity in
   ecclesiastical law in the period under review, which was not without its
   influence on the mode of conceiving of dogma, and on the history of dogma.

   First, it is a fact of importance that from the middle of the second half of
   the ninth century, Church law was framed more and more on a Pseudoisidorian
   basis. Second, the preponderating attention given to law in general, and the
   growing subjection of all ecclesiastical questions to legal conceptions are
   characteristics of the period. As to the first point, it is well known that
   the Popes always continued to take more to do with the administration of the
   dioceses, [31] that the old metropolitan constitution lost its importance,
   and that the old constitutional state of things in general — during the
   first half of our period — fell into decay and ceased to exist. The
   Episcopal power, it is true, strengthened itself in many places by assuming
   a civil character, and on the other hand, the Emperors, from Otto I. to
   Henry III. after having reformed the enfeebled papacy, brought it for a time
   into dependence on the imperial crown. But as they also deprived all laymen,
   who were not princes, of all share in the direction of ecclesiastical
   affairs, and as they suppressed the independence of the local ecclesiastical
   bodies (the congregations), in the interests of imperialism and of
   “piety,” only the Emperor (who called himself rector ecclesiæ and vicarius
   Christi), the Pope, and the bishops remained as independent powers. It was
   about the property of the bishops, and on the question as to who was the
   true ruler of the divine state and the vicar of Christ, that the great
   battle was really waged between the empire and the reformed papacy. In this
   struggle the latter, acting on the impulse given by Gregory VII., developed
   itself into the autocratic power in the Church, and accordingly after having
   freed itself in Rome from the last remnants of older constitutional
   conditions, framed its legislation by means of numerous decretals. At the
   “œcumenical” Lateran Synods of 1123 and 1139, the papacy left no doubt as to
   this new position which it meant to assert. [32] The Popes afterwards, till
   the time of Innocent III., defended and strengthened their autocratic
   position in the Church amid severe but victorious struggles. No doubt, they
   had to hear many an anxious word from their most faithful sons; but the rise
   of the papacy to despotic power in the Church, and thereby to dominion over
   the world, was promoted by the piety and by all the ideal forces of the
   period. Not in opposition to the spirit of the times — how would that have
   been possible? — but in union with it, the papacy ascended the throne of the
   world’s history in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Its opponents, so far
   as they possessed religion, were its secret allies, or contended with
   doubtful consciences, or, at least, were unable to show that the benefits
   for which they fought (national churchism, etc.) were the highest and the
   holiest. Under such circumstances the papal decretals obtained an
   ever-increasing authority. [33] They took their place beside the old canons,
   [34] nay even beside the decrees of the œcumenical Councils. Yet, strictly
   speaking, the measure of their authority remained still quite uncertain, and
   prior to Innocent III. dogmatic questions were not treated in them, or
   treated only very seldom, while the Popes in general, in the period of 150
   years from the Synod of Sutri till 1198, had their hands fully occupied with
   establishing the Roman autocratic and monastic Church order. [35]

   In developing itself as the supreme court of jurisdiction, the papacy could
   never have obtained in the Church, which assuredly is fellowship in faith
   and worship, monarchical rule as regards faith and morals, had not the
   amalgamation of dogma and law become perfect in this period. It was not the
   Popes who brought about this fusion; they merely turned to account a mode of
   view which prevailed everywhere, and from which scarcely an individual
   dissented. In what has been represented from the beginning of Book II. of
   our Second Part, it has been shown that the legal view of religion was an
   old inheritance of the Latin Church; religion is lex dei, lex Christi. In
   principle, it is true, this view had been radically corrected by
   Augustinianism; but Augustine himself allowed the legal schemes to remain in
   many important particulars. Then there followed the mission of the Western
   Church among the foreign nations, pagan and Arian. With these it came into
   contact, not merely as an institution for religious worship, but as the
   Roman Christian system of civilisation and law. Not simply as a system of
   faith did it wish and venture to assert itself; it could assert itself at
   all, rather, only by placing its entire equipment, and all its principles,
   some of which had an extremely profane origin, under the protection of the
   divine law. Thus the Germanic and Romanic nations came to regard all legal
   ordinances of the Church as ordinances of faith, and vice versâ. Boniface
   and Charlemagne then set themselves to secure that the two would harmonise.
   The “must” became identical in the three sentences: “He who will be saved
   must believe as follows”; “the Christian must pay tithes”; “adultery must be
   atoned for by this particular penalty.” How busily the framing, or the
   codification, of Church law was carried on from the time when Dionysius
   Exiguus made his collection till the time of Pseudoisidore, is shown by the
   numerous collections which were everywhere produced — even in Rome still —
   by the rich synodical life of the provincial Churches, and which were meant
   to guard the independence, the rights, and the distinctive life of the
   Church in the new world of Germanic manners. Everywhere (prior to the ninth
   century) dogma fell quite into the background; but just on that account the
   feeling became habitual, of regarding all deliverances of the Church as
   legal ordinances. The Cluniacensian-Gregorian reform of the eleventh century
   put an end to numerous traditional ordinances pertaining to constitution and
   law, and replaced them with new ones, in which the independence of the
   Church in relation to the State, and of Roman universalism in relation to
   the national Churches, found ever stronger expression. As the result of
   this, there developed itself in the eleventh century an imposing
   legislation, which was gathered up and completed in Gratian’s collection —
   though this collection was in so far out of date and behind the facts, as in
   it the legislation was not yet determined throughout by the thought of the
   concentration of ecclesiastical power in the hands of the Pope. [36] But
   besides their adoption of the Gregorian doctrines, this collection, and some
   older ones that preceded it, show quite a new turn of things, for they are
   the product of a study of law. Here also Gregory VII. was epoch-making. He
   was the great jurist in the papal chair, and from his time onward, the
   treatment of all functions of the Church in accordance with juristic science
   began to be the main problem. The study of law, carried on chiefly in
   Bologna, [37] exercised an immeasurable influence on the intellectual vision
   of the Church throughout its whole extent; the study of law, indeed, moulded
   thought in general. Hellenism also at that time exerted an incalculable
   influence in the way of fostering this study. The Romo-Grecian legislation
   came into the West, and although, at the first, it began by modifying what
   was still a “barbarian” form of secular legal life there, and by building up
   a sovereign State with its laws and officials, it yet gradually exercised
   also a furthering influence on the construction of the strict monarchical
   Church system; for what is legal for the Emperor is allowable for the Pope;
   or rather — he is in truth the Emperor. It cannot be doubted that here also
   Rome knew how to gather grapes of thorns and figs of thistles. The new
   rights of its adversary, the Emperor, it applied to itself.

   What had formerly developed itself under the force of circumstances — the
   Church as a legal institution — was now strengthened and built up by
   thought. [38] Juristic thought laid its arrest on everything. And yet even
   here need controlled the situation. For when the impulse to reflect is once
   awakened, what else can those at first become, who still live in a world of
   abstractions and are blind to nature and history, but jurists and
   dialecticians? Thus there settled down upon the whole Church, even upon its
   faith, the spirit of jurisprudence, now grown conscious of itself.
   Everything was laid hold of by it. It was a strong force in what is styled
   “Scholasticism”; it governed the most powerful Popes (Alexander III. as
   Magister Rolandus), and it began to bring within its sweep the form in which
   the traditional dogmas were presented. Certainly this was an easy matter for
   it; for in their practical conclusions these dogmas had already been made to
   serve quite as legal means in a legal process. What still remained was to
   submit to juristic exposition even the central tenets of faith themselves,
   and so to justify and defend them “scientifically.” Here too, indeed, the
   material was not entirely in a raw state; to some extent, rather, the
   foundation stones had received a juristic shaping from the Latin fathers of
   dogma themselves (cf. Tertullian); but there was still an immense task
   presenting itself, to the full accomplishment of which an approach even had
   never been made; it was to re-think the whole dogmatic tradition in the
   spirit of jurisprudence, to represent every-thing under the categories of
   judge (God), accused, advocate, legal measures, satisfactions, penalties,
   indulgences, to make out of dogmas as many distinctions as obtain in secular
   legal order between universally valid, relatively valid, probable,
   consuetudinary law, positive law, etc., and to convert dogmatics into a
   chamber of justice, out of which there was afterwards to develop the
   merchant’s hall and the den of thieves.

   But in the period we are considering, the Church was certainly the basis and
   sum of the highest ideals of the mediæval man, and the enormous
   contradiction on which one proceeded — had proceeded indeed, from the time
   of Augustine — of regarding the Church as at once the society of the
   faithful (societas fidelium), and as the hierarchically organised assemblage
   (coetus), of recognising the secular power in its divine right and yet
   suppressing its authority, was by many scarcely felt [39] . Only at the end
   of the epoch did the inner antagonism become apparent; but the hierarchy had
   then already become the Church. Just at that time, therefore, the claim of
   the hierarchy, and specially of the papacy, was proclaimed as dogma, and the
   struggle of the civil powers against the despotism of the Pope was declared
   to be as really rebellion against Christ as was the assertion of the sects
   that the true Church is the opposite of the hierarchy. This will have to be
   dealt with in the following chapter.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [30] For the earliest period see Maassen, Gesch. der Quellen und Litt. des
   Kanonischen Rechts I. vol. (till Pseudoisidore) 1870. For the later period
   see v. Schulte, Gesch. der Quellen und Lit. des Kanonischen Rechts von
   Gratian bis auf Gregor IX., 1875. See the introductions to von Friedberg’s
   edition of the corp. jur. can.

   [31] Nicholas I., Leo IX., Alexander II., Alexander III. represent the
   stages prior to Innocent III. But Gregory VII. was the soul of the great
   movement in the eleventh century.

   [32] The numbering of the œcumenical Councils, which has now become a
   sententia communis among the curialist theologians, has been established on
   the authority of Bellarmin (see Döllinger and Reusch, Die Selbstbiographie
   des Cardinals Bellarmin, 1887, p. 226 ff. That previous to him Antonius
   Augustinus [ob. 1586] counted them in the same way, has been pointed out by
   Buschball: “Die Professiones fidei der Päpste,” separately printed from the
   Röm. Quartalschr. 10 Bd., 1896, p. 62). In the sixteenth century there still
   prevailed the greatest diversity in the enumeration: indeed the majority did
   not regard those Councils in which the Greek Church did not take part as
   œcumenical at all. There was likewise conflict of opinion as to whether the
   Councils of Bâsle, Florence (and Constance), were to be reckoned in.
   Antonius Augustinus and Bellarmin (in the Roman edition of the Concilia
   generalia of 1608 f.), included the Lateran Councils of 1123 and 1139 (and
   left out the Council of Bâsle). “The question, it is true, was of
   subordinate importance for Bellarmin, in as much as he places on the same
   level with the decrees of the General Councils those of the ‘Particular’
   Councils held under the presidency of the Pope, or sanctioned by him; but
   having in view those who held, not that the Pope, but that the General
   Council was infallible, it was certainly necessary for him to discuss the
   question as to what Councils are to be regarded as general.” But in thus
   determining the question, he naturally allowed himself to be influenced by
   his strong curialistic standpoint, that is, he set aside the Council of
   Constance and Bâsle, and placed among the œcumenical Councils that of
   Florence, the fourth and fifth Lateran Councils, the first of Lyons, and
   that of Vienna, on the ground that these favoured the papacy. He thus
   arrived at the number of eighteen approved General Councils (eight from the
   first ten centuries, the Lateran Councils of 1123, 1139, 1179, 1215, those
   of Lyons in 1245 and 1274, that of Vienna in 1311, that of Florence, the
   fifth Lateran Council, and that of Trent). But here also, as everywhere in
   Catholic dogmatics, there are “half” authorities, and half genuine coin, in
   spite of the Holy Ghost who guides into all truth. That is to say, several
   Councils are “partly ratified, partly rejected,” those of Constance and
   Bâsle being among them, and the Council of Pisa in 1409 is “neither
   manifestly ratified nor manifestly rejected.” Since the year 1870, the
   question about the number of the Councils has completely lost all real
   interest for Catholics. But reactionary Protestantism has every reason to
   feel interested in it. Buschball (l.c. pp. 60, 74, 79), holds that in the
   Middle Ages a distinction in principle was not made between the view taken
   of the Councils of the first thousand years and that taken of those that
   were later. But he adduces no proof that prior to the Council of Constance
   the later Councils were placed quite on a level with the earlier, and even
   by what he adduces for the time subsequent uncertainty is suggested. How
   could the Mediæval Councils be regarded even before the Council of Trent as
   quite of equal standing with those of the first ten centuries, when, up to
   the time of this Council, the general opinion was certainly to the effect
   that dogma was contained in fundamental and final form in the twelve
   articles, and in the interpretation relating to them which they had received
   from the older Councils! The process of equalising was probably begun by the
   Councils of Florence and Basle, with their high degree of self-consciousnes.
   That Councils at all could be pointed to in the long period between the
   ninth and the fifteenth centuries, was necessarily of more importance than
   the taking account of what was decided at these Councils, of how they were
   constituted, and of the authority that guided them. We may very well venture
   to say therefore: in the fifteenth century the equalising had begun with
   some hesitation, the Council of Trent favoured it by its weight, and it then
   became established.

   [33] On the development of the primacy in the eleventh and twelfth
   centuries, see Döllinger, Janus, p. 107 ff. (Schwane, Dogmengesch. des
   Mittelalters, p. 530 ff.). How much stronger was the Gregorian party in the
   eleventh century than the Pseudoisidorian in the ninth, and how much more
   revolutionary and aware of his aim was Gregory VII. than Nicolas I.! “He was
   the first who, with full, clear consciousness, was determined to introduce a
   new condition of things into the Church by new means. He regarded himself
   not merely as the reformer of the Church, but as the divinely chosen founder
   of an order of things such as had never before existed.” His chief means
   were Synods held by the Pope (this was begun by Leo IX.) and new
   ecclesiastical law-books. The nephew of Pope Alexander II., Anselm of Lucca,
   became the founder of the new Gregorian Church law, this being effected by
   him partly by making apt use of that of Pseudoisidore, and partly by a new
   set of fictions (e.g., that the episcopacy everywhere originated from Peter)
   and forgeries. He was followed by Deusdedit, Bonizo, and Cardinal Gregorius.
   Deusdedit formulated the new principle, that contradictions in the
   traditional Church law must always be harmonised by letting, not the older,
   but the greater authority, that is, the dictum of the Pope cancel the
   opposite view. In this way the autocracy of the Popes was established. On
   the series of new fictions and falsifications of the old tradition, see
   Janus, p.:12 ff. Specially important is the way in which history was induced
   to furnish testimony in proof of the infallibility of the papal decretals,
   and in which even Augustine was pronounced an authority for this new
   doctrine (p. 119 ff. ). A sentence of his was so manipulated that it came to
   mean that the papal letters stood on a level with canonical Scripture. Since
   then the defenders of the infallibility of the Pope, to which Gregory VII.
   already made a distinct claim, and, indeed, treated it as concessum (p. 124
   ff.), have always appealed to Augustine. Indeed, Gregory VII., following an
   earlier precedent, ciaimed for the Popes a complete personal holiness — for
   they have all that Peter had — and the Pope’s holiness, in addition to his
   infallibility, was so boldly taught by the Gregorians (imputation of the
   merit of Peter) that anything stronger in the way of claim became
   impossible.

   [34] Alexander II. wrote to King Philip of France, requesting him to rank
   the papal decrees along with the canons; see Jaffé, Regesta, 2 Edit., Nr.
   4525.

   [35] The Lateran Synods of 1123, 1139, 1179, contain nothing whatever of a
   dogmatic character (excepting the twenty-seventh canon of the Council of
   1179, which urges the extermination of the Cathari, but says nothing of
   their doctrine); see Mansi XXI., XXII., Hefele V.2, pp. 378 ff., 438 ff.,
   710 ff.

   [36] See v. Schulte, Lehrbuch des Kathol. und evang. Kirchenrechts 4 Aufl.,
   p. 20.

   [37] See Denifle, Die Univ. des Mittelalters I. 1885. Kaufmann, Gesch. der
   deutschen Univers. I., p. 157 ff.

   [38] See v. Schulte, Gesch. der Quellen, etc., I., p. 92 ff.; II., p. 512 f.
   As Gregory VII. held still more strongly than any of his predecessors that
   the Church is the kingdom founded upon Peter, and that everything is to be
   traced back to the power given to it, the legal organism was placed in the
   foreground; see Kahl, Die Verschiedenheit Kathol. und Evang. Anschauung über
   das Verhältniss von Staat und Kirche (1886), p. 7 f.: “The character of the
   Catholic Church as a legal organism is already involved in the doctrine of
   its founding, and in the conception of it.” The fullest and most reliable
   historic proofs in Hinschius, Kath. Kirchenrecht.

   [39] In the valuable inquiry of Mirbt, Die Stellung Augustin’s in der
   Publicistik des gregorianischen Kirchenstreits (1888) — cf. the same
   author’s work “Die Publicistik im Zeitalter Gregor’s VII.,” 1894 — the
   significance of Augustine for the struggles in Church politics in the
   eleventh century has for the first time been methodically and thoroughly
   described. It amounted directly to less than one would have expected, and it
   is noteworthy that the Antigregorians can show a larger heritage of
   Augustinian thoughts than their opponents (see Theol. Lit. Ztg., 1889, Col.
   599).
     _________________________________________________________________

   3. The Revival of Science. [40]

   Theologians and philosophers have vied with one another in endeavouring to
   find a specific definition of Scholasticism, and to differentiate what this
   term is meant to denote, from the theology and philosophy of the old (Greek)
   Church on the one hand, and from modern science on the other. These efforts
   have led to no accepted result; nor could they lead to any such, for
   Scholasticism is simply nothing but scientific thought. That this thought
   was governed by prejudices, [41] and that from these it in some respects did
   not free itself at all, and in some respects freed itself only slowly, is
   shared by the science of the Middle Ages with the science of every age.
   Neither dependence on authorities, nor the preponderance of the deductive
   method, was specially characteristic of Scholasticism; for science in
   fetters has existed in every period — our descendants will find that
   present-day science is in many respects not controlled merely by pure
   experience — and the dialectico-deductive method is the means that must be
   used by all science that has the courage to emphasise strongly the
   conviction of the unity of all that is. But it is not even correct to say
   that within mediæval science that method prevailed alone, or chiefly. The
   realism that was represented by Albert and Thomas, acting upon impulses
   received from Augustine, made excellent use of experience, and Scotism and
   Nominalism in particular are partly based on the empiric method, though as
   compared with the deductive, Duns may have found fault with this method as
   confused. What is of importance here is only this, that the observation of
   the external world was extremely imperfect, that, in a word, natural
   science, and the science of history did not exist, the reason being that men
   knew how to observe spirit, but not how to observe things of sense. [42] But
   least of all must Scholasticism be reproached with treating “artificial,”
   “fabricated” problems. On its premises they were not artificial, and if they
   were boldly wrought out, it was only a proof of scientific energy.

   The Scholasticism of the Middle Ages, then, was simply science, and it is
   merely perpetuating an unwarranted mistrust when it is thought that this
   part of the general history of science may be designated by a special name.
   [43] As if science in general had not its stages, as if the mediæval stage
   was distinguished from the rest by its unparalleled and culpable obscurity!
   On the contrary, it may rather be said that Scholasticism furnishes a unique
   and luminous example of the fact that thought finds its way even under the
   most adverse conditions, and that even the gravest prejudices that weigh it
   down are not heavy enough to quench its life. The science of the Middle Ages
   gives practical proof of eagerness in thinking, and exhibits an energy in
   subjecting all that is real and valuable to thought, to which we can find,
   perhaps, no parallel in any other age. [44]

   Hence it is useless to direct one’s ingenuity to answering the question as
   to what kind of science presents itself in Scholasticism; we have simply
   rather to inquire into the conditions under which scientific thought was
   placed at that time. Not equally useless, but vaguely treated, is the
   academic question, much discussed and marked by confusion and wearisomeness,
   with regard to the relation of Scholasticism to Mysticism. [45] If by
   Scholasticism there is understood (though this is arbitrary) “the hand-maid
   of hierarchism,” or, with sudden change of front, the “construction of
   systems without concern for the needs of the inner life,” or the
   “rationalistic craving for proof,” and if Mysticism is then placed alongside
   as the free pectoral theology, then the most beautiful contrasts can be
   drawn — Hagar and Sarah, Martha and Mary. But with little trouble
   Scholasticism and Mysticism can, on the other hand, be resolved into each
   other, and a daring dialectic performance can be carried on with these
   terms, which does honour to the acuteness of the author, but which has only
   the disadvantage that one is as wise after, as before, the definitions have
   been given. The thing to be dealt with here is simple. Scholasticism is
   science, applied to religion, and — at least, till the time when it
   underwent self-disintegration — science setting out from the axiom, that all
   things are to be understood from theology, that all things therefore must be
   traced back to theology. This axiom regularly presupposes that the thinker
   feels himself to be in entire dependence on God, that he seeks to know this
   dependence ever more deeply, and that he uses every means for the
   strengthening of his own religious life; for only in the measure in which he
   finds, and knows himself to be, under and in God, is he made capable of
   understanding all else, since, of course, to understand things means nothing
   else than to know their relation to the One and All, or to the Author (i.e.,
   in both cases, to God). From this it follows at once that personal piety is
   the presupposition of science. But in so far as personal piety at that time
   was always thought of as contemplation of the relation of the ego to God
   accompanied by asceticism, [46] Mysticism is the presupposition of
   Scholasticism; in other words, mediæval science bases itself on piety, and
   on piety, too, which is itself contemplation, which lives therefore in an
   intellectual element. From this it follows, that this piety itself prompts
   to thought; for the strong impulse to become acquainted with the relation of
   one’s own ego to God necessarily leads to the determination of the relation
   of the creation, of which one knows himself to be a part, to God. Now, where
   this knowledge is so pursued that insight into the relation of the world to
   God is sought for solely or chiefly with the view of understanding the
   position of one’s own soul to God, and of inwardly growing through such
   understanding, we speak of Mystic theology. [47] But where this reflex aim
   of the process of knowledge does not present itself so distinctly, where,
   rather, the knowledge of the world in its relation to God acquires a more
   independent objective interest, [48] the term Scholastic theology is
   employed. From this it appears that we have not before us two magnitudes
   that run parallel, or that, forsooth, collide with each other, but that
   Mystic theology and Scholastic theology are one and the same phenomenon,
   which only present themselves in manifold gradations, according as the
   subjective or objective interest prevails. [49] The former interest was so
   little lacking even to the most distinguished Schoolmen that their whole
   theology can be unhesitatingly described as also Mystic theology — for
   Thomas, Mysticism is the starting-point and practical application of
   Scholasticism — and, on the other hand, there are theologians who are
   described as Mystics, but who, in the strength of their desire to know the
   world, and to understand in a systematic way the Church doctrine, are not a
   whit behind the so-called Schoolmen. But in saying this the further position
   is already stated, that a specific difference between the scientific means
   had likewise no existence. Here also it is simply a question of shade
   (nuance). The view of the God in whom, and from whom, all things must be
   understood, was given by the Church tradition. But in this view also
   subjective piety was trained. The formal shaping elements were likewise
   everywhere the same. Inasmuch as the scientific means were derived entirely
   from the same three sources, the authoritative dogma, inner experience, and
   the traditional philosophy, any differences that would be more than
   varieties cannot be made out (a greater or less passing into the background
   of logical formalism, a preference for inner observation over authoritative
   tradition [50] ).

   Yet it is said that great inner antagonisms entered into mediæval science.
   Anselm and his opponents are pointed to, Bernard and Abelard, the German
   theologians of the fourteenth century and the Churchmen who pronounced them
   heretics, and from the contrasted positions in these cases the formula is
   framed, that here Mysticism is in conflict with Scholasticism. Differences
   certainly there are here; but that stock controversial term throws a very
   uncertain light on them. Above all, the phenomena here gathered together can
   by no means be united in one group. But before we deal with them, it will be
   well to answer the main question stated above, under what conditions the
   scientific thought of the Middle Ages was placed, or, let us say, how it
   developed itself, and what were the concrete factors which determined it (in
   the way of advancing or retarding), and thereby gave it its peculiar stamp.
   From this inquiry the proper light will naturally be thrown upon these
   “antagonisms” which are erroneously represented when they are described as a
   struggle of two opposing principles.

   The Middle Ages received from the ancient Church not only the substantially
   completed dogma, but also — as a living force — the philosophy, or say, the
   theology which had been employed in the shaping of dogma, and together with
   this also a treasury of classical literature, which had little or no
   connection with the philosophy and the dogma, but which answered to an
   element in the antique view of life in Italy and Byzantium that had never
   quite disappeared. These three things constituted the legacy of the old
   world to the new. But they already contained in them all the contrasts that
   came to view in the inner life of the Middle Ages, when consciousness of
   that inheritance had been awakened. These “antagonisms” were as actively at
   work in the Greek Church from the days of Origen and Jerome as they
   afterwards were in the Mediæval Church. In this sense all scientific
   developments of the West in the Middle Ages were simply a continuation of
   what the Greek Church had already partly passed through, and was partly
   still continuing to pass through in feeble movements. The difference
   consisted only in this, that in the West everything gradually developed
   itself to a higher degree of energy; that the Church, as the visible
   commonwealth of God on earth, impressed its stamp on all secular life,
   taking even science into closer connection with itself, giving it a higher
   flight, and at the same time requiring it by its authority to adopt juristic
   thought; and finally in this, that from Greek science Augustinianism was
   absent.

   We have remarked above that along with the substantially completed dogma the
   Middle Ages received from antiquity the related philosophy or theology. But
   this very circumstance introduced strain: for while this theology was
   certainly “related,” yet as certainly also did it contain, as a living
   force, elements that were hostile to dogma, whether we think of Neoplatonism
   or Aristotelianism. It is well known that in the Greek Church, from the
   fifth and sixth centuries, both schools worked upon dogma, and that
   “heresies” to the right and left were the result (pantheism and tritheism,
   spiritualistic Mysticism and rationalistic Criticism), and that then, from
   the Justinian age, the Scholasticism evolved itself which found the via
   media between the Areopagite and John Philoponus. [51]

   In the theological science of John of Damascus there presents itself the
   reconciliation of dogma with Neoplatonism and Aristotelianism. [52] Here the
   former plays the principal part in the principles, the latter in the working
   out; for with the help of dialectic distinction one can remove all
   difficulties and contradictions that emerge. But the independent force of
   the Neoplatonic and Aristotelian philosophies was not broken by the
   harmonising. The books in which they were contained continued to be read,
   and thus in Byzantium the strain did not cease. Mystic theology was further
   cultivated, Aristotle was studied, and although the acts of aggression
   always grew feebler, both of them threatened the Church with its dogma, the
   Church that was meanwhile growing more powerless in the embraces of the
   State. There were the further circumstances that memories of the
   theologically unconcerned age of antiquity had never died out, that a
   certain worldly culture, indifferent to religion, and often indeed
   degenerating into barbarism, still survived, which was strong enough to
   hinder the Eastern Church from ever making even an approach to the carrying
   out of its ideals and aims in secular life and secular culture. From the
   days of the Alexandrian Theophilus monks and pious laymen might lament over
   the godlessness of the ancient literature and wish it in hell, but no one
   was able either to banish it, or to purify it, and bring it entirely into
   the service of ecclesiastical science.

   If we pass now to the Carlovingian period, i.e., to the first epoch of
   scientific advance in the West, we find exactly the same elements side by
   side, only with one important addition (Augustinianism). There is an eager
   endeavour to become acquainted with the traditional dogma and to think it
   out, and, as the Adoptian controversy shows, there is at the same time a
   surrender to entire dependence on the Greeks. In the writings of Boethius
   and Isidore there is possessed a source, rich enough for that period, from
   which the dialectic science of method may be learned. As the work of John
   Scotus shows, the Neoplatonic Mysticism had already become known to the West
   from the writings of Dionysius and Maximus; besides this, however, it was
   represented in a theistic setting, and with incomparable attractiveness, by
   Augustine. Finally, the ancient literature (poets and historians) was sought
   out, and through contact with Italy there arose the seductive pictures of a
   blithesome life that had never altogether vanished.

   But the forces which the West had at its command at that time were still too
   weak to admit of working independently with the capital that had been
   inherited. To become familiar with Augustine and Gregory I., to understand
   the christological speculations of the Greeks, and to master the simplest
   rules of logic and method — that was the real task of the period. What was
   attempted beyond this, Scotus excepted, was a feeble renaissance: indeed the
   union of the antique with the theological at the court of Charles the Great
   has something childish. This union therefore was soon dissolved again. Not
   for the first time under Louis the Pious, but as early as the last years of
   Charles I. himself, the ascetic thought of the ancient Church asserted its
   influence even in science. And so it continued to be afterwards; we can
   observe indeed, on till the thirteenth century, a steady increase of
   aversion to the antique, while, no doubt, some bold spirits sought more than
   before to learn from it. In theory secular studies were discarded. Ancient
   literature was regarded as a source of temptations. All science which did
   not place itself under theology, i.e., which did not refer everything to the
   knowledge of God, was held to be pernicious, nay, to be a seduction of the
   devil. But as what is characteristic, in all fields, of the mediæval view of
   the world consists in this, that it aims at uniting the ununitable, and
   requires that negation of the world shall be attained in the form of
   dominion over it, so we observe here also that what is rejected is again
   adopted. Ancient literature and philosophy were certainly employed as a
   formal means of culture, and with a view also to the refutation of pagans,
   Jews, and heretics, and to a fathoming of the divine mysteries. It was to
   some extent the same persons who rejected them in the end, who on their
   slow, toilsome journey to the summit made use of them. And where they were
   different persons, yet there was at bottom between the two an elective
   affinity; for all thinkers who came to be influential, though some of them
   may appear to us “illuminists” (Aufklärer) and others traditionalists, were
   dominated by the same fundamental thought of tracing back all things to God
   and understanding them from Him. And when in the end the Church released
   Aristotle and allowed full use to be made of him, that was not done by way
   of yielding to outward constraint, but because the Church theology was now
   strong enough to master this master, and because he could furnish it with
   the most effectual help against the dangers of a bold idealism which
   threatened dogma. Though the schools, the universities, might not be
   ecclesiastical institutions in the strict sense of the term, science was
   ecclesiastical, theological. There was no lay science. The thought of such
   science was for that age equivalent to paganism and nihilism.

   From the Carlovingian period a chain of scientific tradition and schools of
   learning extends into the eleventh century; [53] but a continuous increase
   of scientific activity cannot be ascertained, and even the greatest masters
   (Gerbert of Rheims) did not produce effects that were epoch-making. Not till
   the middle of the century was the advancement begun that was followed by no
   further declension, and the thread formed that was not again to break. The
   inner rise of the Church was unquestionably the determining cause of this
   upward movement of science, although we are surprised at meeting quite at
   the beginning with a trained skill in dialectic for which we had not been
   prepared, and which must have gone on developing in the dark ages (saculum
   obscurum) in spite of their darkness. But how could the inner revival of the
   Church have continued without results for science? The Church conceived
   itself at that time as spiritual power, as the power of the supersensuous
   life over the sensuous; the subject of science was the supersensuous;
   science, therefore, was challenged by this revival! But even the science
   which revels in the transcendental, and which readily attaches itself to
   revelations, cannot deny its character as science. Even where it is, and
   wishes to be, the handmaid of revelation, it will always embrace an element
   by which it offends the faith which desires rest; it will exhibit a
   freshness and joy which to devoutness appears as insolence; nay, even when
   it knows itself to be one with the Church in its starting-point and aims, it
   will never be able to deny a negative tendency, for it will always be
   justified in finding that the principles of the Church suffer deterioration
   in the concrete expressions of life, and are disfigured by superstition.

   In the dazzling light in which Reuter, the marvellous master of that
   literature, has presented the conflicts between young mediæval science and
   the men of the Church (Berengar and Lanfranc, Anselm and his opponents,
   Abelard and Bernard), the persons engaged appear like spectral caricatures.
   Because this scholar tries to find “negative illuminism” everywhere in the
   movements, things are deprived of their proportion, and the common ground on
   which the combatants stand almost entirely disappears. With wonder and
   astonishment we see one Herostratus after another cross the stage,
   surrounded by troops of like-minded disciples; the “primacy of infallible
   reason” is set up by them, after they have destroyed authority; the
   antitheses become as abrupt as cliffs, and frightful chasms open up. But the
   biographer of these heroes, so far as he does not charge them with
   hypocrisy, must himself regularly acknowledge in some stray turn of thought,
   that they stood in closest connection with their age and with their
   opponents, that their enormously magnified performances were of a much more
   modest kind, and that the great illuminists were obedient sons of the
   Church. In opposition to this representation we follow out the hints given
   above, in order to elucidate and understand these struggles.

   In the higher rise of science three things were involved: the penetrating
   more deeply into the Neoplatonic-Augustinian principles of all theology, the
   dialectic art of analysis, and, united with both, a certain knowledge of the
   ancient classics and of the Church Fathers. As regards those principles, it
   was the spirit of the so-called Platonic Realism that prevailed. By means of
   it, as it had been derived from Augustine and from dogma itself, and from a
   hundred little sources also, dogma — but the world, too, as well — came to
   be understood, and all things came to be known from and in God. Till the
   beginning of the twelfth century this Platonic Realism, with its
   spiritualistic sublimating tendency and its allegorical method, reigned
   pretty much unbroken. It reigned all the more securely, the less a
   conception of it had as yet been consciously formed (as a theory of
   knowledge). [54] It was peculiar to it that it set out from faith, and then
   made itself master of dogma in the way in which dogma had formerly arisen
   (“credo ut intelligam” — this position of Augustine was not merely
   reasserted by Anselm, but was willingly assented to by all Church thinkers
   of the period). But it was, further, peculiar to it that it took a flight
   beyond dogma. This had occurred in Greek Mysticism as well as with
   Augustine, and it repeated itself, without the danger being observed, from
   the eleventh century (and just, too, among the “most pious” philosophers).
   Here lay the first antagonism. As one got to understand dogma by the help of
   the same means by which it had arisen, that idea of the immanence of God, of
   all things existing in God, asserted itself, before which the historical,
   and dogma itself, threatened to vanish, i.e., were viewed as the final stage
   needing sublimation. So Origen thought, so also had Augustine felt, and had
   expressed it at the outskirts of his speculation, [55] so was it taught by
   the Greek Mystics. [56] From this point, as by a circuit, a complete
   rehabilitation of reason could take place. After getting its dismissal at
   the beginning — revelation decides and authority — reason was now the means
   for removing out of the way whatever hindered the thought of the
   absoluteness, the immutability and immanence of God. It neutralised miracle,
   in order to give expression to the strict uniformity of the operation of the
   All-One; it neutralised even the history of salvation, and history in
   general, or transformed it into the circulating course

   of the operative Being that is, was, and shall be; it neutralised, finally,
   the creature. The “illuminist” of the eleventh and twelfth centuries would
   still have to be found who did not play his “illuminist” part under the
   influence of this mysticism, who did not likewise take the “credo ut
   intelligam” as his starting-point. Though, like Berengar, he might compare
   the literally understood Jewish law with the laws of the Romans, Athenians,
   and Spartans in order to give the palm to the latter, though like Abelard,
   he might unite into one the history of salvation and general history in the
   “philosophy of religion on a historic basis” — this was still done on the
   understanding that there was to be absolute validity obtained for all that
   the Church offered of material content, by means of sublimating (allegory);
   it was done in the name of the conception of God and of the theology which
   prevailed also among the opponents, so far as they thought at all, and these
   latter started back before conclusions which Justin, Origen, and the great
   group of Greek and Latin Fathers had long before drawn. [57] So it was not
   that principle stood opposed to principle, but the amount of application was
   disputed [58] — unless we should have to regard as the real principle of
   mediæval ecclesiastical theology, lack of thought, or blind surrender. But
   that was not what the Church Fathers taught, nor was it what the Church
   itself wished when it again conceived of itself as spiritual power in the
   eleventh century. How slight really is the distinction between Berengar and
   Anselm as theologians! It often entirely disappears; for how far were those
   represented as wild destroyers from drawing the conclusions in their
   totality, and from repeating, say, the thoughts of Erigena! They were not
   innovators, but restorers; not a trace is to be found in them of negative
   illuminism.

   In the Greek Church Aristotelianism had made its appearance when dogma and
   speculation could no longer be reconciled, and it rendered the Church
   invaluable service as the Horos which kept the Sophia of the Mystics from
   plunging into the abyss of the primeval Father. But along with these
   services it had at the same time brought at first unpleasant gifts in
   addition. While it checked unrestrained idealism, and at the same time set
   to work to make paradoxical and burdensome formulæ tolerable by means of
   distinctions, it also subjected to revision formulæ that collapsed as soon
   as their basis of Platonic Realism was taken from them. This
   Aristotelianism, which was so necessary, but of which there had been such
   bad experiences, as it appeared in John Philoponus and other Greeks, not to
   speak of the old Antiochian School, was known also to those in the West,
   through Boethius, and from other sources (in a poor enough form, no doubt,
   more directly as logical method), and long before had concluded (in the case
   of Boethius himself, e.g.), an irregular marriage with the Neoplatonic
   doctrine of principles. To the spirit of the West, which had more of
   understanding than of reason, and, as juristic also, constantly strove after
   distinctions, this Aristotelianism was congenial. From it there developed
   “dialectic,” at first, too, as scientific art. And as this scientific art
   always encourages insolence and pride where it is held to be the sum of all
   wisdom, so was it at the beginning of the Middle Ages. The schooled “
   dialecticians” of the eleventh century looked proudly down on the
   obscurantists who did not understand art, while these again became concerned
   about the traditional Church doctrine, although the operations of the
   youthful science only seldom touched the kernel of things, unless it was
   that one here and there ventured too far with his art in regard to dogmas
   that stood in the centre of vision (doctrines of the Trinity, of the two
   natures, of the Eucharist), and, anticipating the later Nominalism, or
   recalling unpleasant facts in the history of tradition, served up a
   questionable attempt at solving the trinitarian problem (tritheistic,
   Sabellian), or approached too near the old Adoptianism, or threw doubt on
   the current opinion about the external miracle in the Eucharist. In this way
   the first conflicts arose, which were lacking in real sharpness, however,
   because the dialectic itself stood in league with Platonic Realism, and at
   bottom did not know very often what it really wanted. At the same time it
   must not be denied, that wherever the understanding is brought in, it will
   assert its own rights and will overleap the limits of a purely formal
   activity. But it is shown, e.g., by the science of Anselm, how peacefully,
   under certain conditions, dogma, Platonic Realism, and dialectic harmonised.

   Yet in the twelfth century that came to be otherwise. In Abelard [59] both
   the critical tendency of Platonic Realism (cf. his view of history) and the
   critical tendency of dialectic grew stronger, without his abandoning,
   however, in the fundamental theses, his relation of dependence on the Church
   doctrine. Abelard was the boldest theologian of his time, because he
   understood how to derive the critical side from all elements of tradition,
   and was really persuaded of the defectiveness just of what was held valid.
   His opponents of his day thought that the dangers of his science arose quite
   essentially from his dialectic, and, accordingly, discredited this above
   everything else. In point of fact, boldness in submitting particulars to the
   treatment of the understanding was an outstanding feature in Abelard; the
   understanding, too, when once released, asserted its own rights, frequently
   overleapt the boundaries theoretically recognised, scorned authority, and
   proclaimed, with the support of a certain knowledge of ancient history, the
   eternal right of reasonable thought as the highest court of appeal. But that
   the most dangerous theses of the restless scholar sprang from Platonic
   (Augustinian) Realism, i.e., from the fundamental view that was adhered to
   by one’s self, was not observed. In principle Abelard certainly moderated
   this view by means of his critico-dialectic reflections. He was no more a
   representative of thorough-going Realism. He was rather the first to
   introduce into epistemology a kind of conceptualism, [60] to break through
   the strict doctrine of immanence, and, by beginning to restore independence
   to the creature, to begin also to emancipate the conception of God itself
   from pantheism. For Abelard, the dialectic art ceases to be mere art; it
   begins to become a material principle, and to correct the traditional
   (Neoplatonic-Augustinian) doctrines of the first and last things. The
   paradox in Abelard’s position consists in this, that on the one hand in
   contemplating history he drew certain conclusions from the Mystic doctrine
   of God (cf. Justin, Origen, but also Augustine himself) more confidently
   than his contemporaries, while, on the other hand, he allowed sober thought
   to have a material influence on the view taken of ground principles. His
   opponents saw in him only the negative theologian. This negative theologian
   really laid the foundation for the classical structure of mediæval
   conservative theology. [61] For the Church dogma could not be held by the
   thinking mind under the entire domination of the Mystic Neoplatonic
   theology. Although it was by this theology that it had been chiefly
   elaborated, yet the Church had always reserved to itself the supra-mundane
   God and the independence of the creature, and had formed a set of dogmas
   which Platonism could only sublimate, but could not justify as the final
   expression of the matter itself. The Church needed, therefore, the help of
   dialectics (of sober intelligence, and of juristic acuteness directed to the
   given formulæ ) and of a lowering of the lofty flight of speculation, and
   this help Aristotelianism alone could afford it, i.e., the Aristotelianism,
   which was then understood as such, and which was then exercising its
   influence, as the view of things according to which it is held — not that
   the phenomenal and creaturely are the form transitorily expressing the
   divine — but that the supernatural God, as Creator in the proper sense of
   the word, has created the creature and endowed it with independence. It
   needed the help of Aristotelianism to defend a set of dogmas in the form in
   which they were already established. [62] But still more was the
   “Aristotelianism” to do for it. Reason will never ultimately make a compact
   with authority, but the understanding will. Whoever has entered into the
   spirit of the All-One and embraces the doctrine of immanence, will feel
   himself to be as “God,” and will therefore reject all authority, of whatever
   kind it be. Whoever, on the other hand, feels his independence, side by side
   with other forms of independence, will become certain of his dependence
   also. He will no longer take part in the dialectic performance of exchanging
   his estimate of himself as the perfect nothing (as an individual) for an
   estimate of himself as the perfect being (as spirit); but while within
   certain limits, and perhaps with great tenacity, he will embrace a rational
   mode of view, he will, in that which lies beyond these limits, be ready to
   recognise authorities.

   Yet for the great inaugurator of Mediæval Scholasticism (for Anselm
   everything is still naive) — for Abelard, the elements were still vaguely
   intermingled. He set down already as force all that, in the time following,
   the period when Scholasticism flourished, was conceived of as mutually
   limiting potencies, or that then became differentiated as distinct
   tendencies. His contemporaries had as yet no presentiment, that an element
   in him which they specially censured would yet become the means of saving
   the Church doctrine. Orthodoxy and the Platonic Realism were still in
   closest union. The French Mystics declared the efforts of the
   “dialecticians” heretical; Aristotle was hated. When the great disciple of
   Abelard, Petrus Lombardus, published his Sentences, and in them fittingly
   placed the learning of his master at the service of the Church theology — as
   yet the Middle Ages had not possessed a compendium for the study of theology
   [63] — much would not have been required for even this book to be set aside
   on suspicion. No doubt, this work, because, from the patristic tradition
   being uncertain, it still frequently adds opinion to opinion, bears the
   stamp of a freedom which was afterwards lost. But the mere fact that it
   became the authoritative compendium of the thirteenth century is a proof
   that on the part of the Church free inquiry, dialectic investigation, and
   Aristotelian philosophy were now tolerated, not because inward freedom had
   increased, but because the faculty had grown for making friends with these
   forces, and because there began to be observed what the Aristotelian method
   and mode of thought could do for dogma. In the second half of the twelfth
   century the turn round of things was already preparing itself. The “pious”
   theologians (the Mystics), so far as they gave themselves up to the work of
   expounding and establishing dogma, were forced to see that by means of
   thoroughgoing Realism contemplation might be enriched, but the objective
   doctrine could not be defended. The coalition of naive faith on authority
   with a Mysticism that, in its ultimate ground, was not without danger, came
   to an end. Church faith, Mysticism, and Aristotelian science formed a close
   alliance. On the other hand, the dialecticians, in the degree in which they
   passed from the Aristotelian formalism to Aristotle’s doctrine of principles
   (perhaps the increasing knowledge of this philosophy contributed most to
   this), lost that audacity which had once given so much offence, and which,
   certainly, had often been only a sign of playing with empty forms. No doubt
   in connection with this many a fresh piece of knowledge came to be lost.
   [64] One who has much to carry gets more anxious, and moves more slowly,
   than one who marches under an easy burden. To this there came to be added,
   that from decade to decade the authority of the Church grew stronger. Though
   there was a growth also of opposition, which forced to anxious reflection
   (Mohammedans, Jews, heretics, knowledge of the ancient classics), [65] at
   the end of the twelfth century the Church outshone all else with its lustre.
   Its rights in respect of life and doctrine became the worthiest subject of
   investigation and exposition. Into this task blended the other, of referring
   all things to God and construing the knowledge of the world as theology. The
   theology of the ecclesiastical facts pressed itself on the theology of
   speculation. Under what other auspices could this great structure be erected
   than under those of that Aristotelian Realism, which was at bottom a
   dialectic between the Platonic Realism and Nominalism, and which was
   represented as capable of uniting immanence and transcendence, history and
   miracle, the immutability of God and mutability, Idealism and Realism,
   reason and authority? Thus it was only in the thirteenth century that there
   made its appearance the theology adequate to the Church and its dogma, and
   no longer viewed with suspicion, [66] after a new wave of piety (the
   Mendicant Orders) had imparted to it the highest measure of power of which
   the Catholic religion is at all capable. The fear of the Lord was also the
   beginning of this new wisdom. In form and contents, in its systematic
   method, and in the exhaustive fulness of its material, it is related to the
   theology of the twelfth century as, we might say, Origen was related to
   Clement of Alexandria. This is more than a comparison, for the course of
   events really repeated itself. Clement, the inaugurator, the bolder spirit,
   the less “enlightened,” who does not yet know that the full authority of the
   Catholic Church is against him; Origen, the man of system, more
   comprehensive, but at the same time more closely tied to the Church and its
   doctrine. The same relation obtained between the theologians of the twelfth
   and thirteenth centuries. (Compare, e.g., the “aggregating” character of the
   Sentences of Robert Pulleyn [Deutsch, p. 6 f.] with the Stromateis of
   Clement, and the great “Sums” of the thirteenth century with Origen’s De
   principiis.) In the following chapter we shall take up the thread here
   again. If we direct no further attention here to the Lombard, and especially
   to Hugo, the somewhat earlier, and, in respect of matter, the most
   influential theologian of the twelfth century (“a second Augustine”), the
   fact may serve as an excuse that the importance which the two obtained for
   the history of dogma appeared only at the great Lateran Council, and in the
   theologians of the thirteenth century. On Hugo’s Sentences see Denifle in
   the Archiv f. L-u. K.-Gesch. des Mittelalters III., p. 634 ff.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [40] See the histories of philosophy by Ueberweg, Erdmann and Stöckl;
   Prantl, Gesch. der Logik Bd. II.-IV.; Bach, l.c., I. and II.; Reuter, Gesch.
   der Aufkl. I. and II.: Löwe, Der Kampf zwischen dem Nominalismus und
   Realismus, 1876; Nitzsch, Art. Scholastische Theologie in der R.-E., XIII.2,
   p. 650 ff., where in p. 674 ff., the literature is noted. Dilthey, Einl. in
   die Geisteswissensch. I. Denifle, 1.c.; Kaufmann, l.c., p. 1 ff.; Denifle in
   the Archiv f. Litt.-u. Kirchengesch. des Mittelalters, I. and II.; v.
   Eicken, l.c., p. 589 ff.

   [41] The fundamental prejudice, which, however, Scholasticism shared with
   the theology of antiquity, and unfortunately also of modern times, was that
   theology is cognition of the world, or that it has to verify and complete
   cognition of the world. If it is said to-day that it has to supplement it,
   seeing that it steps in where knowledge fails, modesty has extorted the
   expression, but the same thing is still meant.

   [42] Yet even this does not apply to the whole of Scholasticism. Especially
   in its later period, it pointed also to the book of nature.

   [43] Kaufmann remarks correctly, p. 5: “There still attaches to the term
   Scholasticism something of the hatred and contempt which the Humanists
   poured upon it.” This hostile spirit is, no doubt, intelligible, inasmuch as
   Scholasticism still threatens our present-day science. Yet in more recent
   years a complete change of judgment has appeared, which comes to the help of
   the Pope in his renewed recommendations of St. Thomas. Indeed, in the effort
   to be just, the once disparaged Scholasticism is beginning to be
   extravagantly belauded, as is shown by the pronouncement of a very
   celebrated jurist. With this praise the circumstance may also have some
   connection, that the Schoolmen are now being read again, and readers find to
   their surprise that they are not so irrational as had been believed. The
   strongest contribution to the glorification of Thomas has been furnished by
   Otto Willmann in the second volume of his “Gesch. des Idealismus” (1896).
   Here Idealism and Thomism (of the strictest type) are simply placed on a
   level. Nominalism is the corrupt tree, which can hear no good fruit, and is
   to be regarded, moreover, merely as an episode, as a nubicula; for since its
   rising, the sun of the Thomist Realism has been always in the heavens, and
   has given warmth to every century. The real enemy of Thomas and of Idealism
   is Kantianism, which has slowly prepared itself, that, on its assuming its
   perfect form, it may forthwith be assailed and overthrown by the true
   Idealism. Protestantism is viewed as the continuation of monistic Mysticism
   (!), because it (v. the strict determinism) does not take account of the
   causes secundh. So Thomism alone, sans phrase, is the saviour of the holy
   things of humanity! Augustinianism at the same time still finds recognition
   here, but yet it is still no completed system; it only represents the way to
   the right one.

   [44] We may say, indeed, with the poet about that age: “Everything now aims
   at fathoming man from within and from without; truth, where hast thou an
   escape from the wild chase?”

   [45] On Mysticism, see the works which Karl Müller has cited in his krit.
   Uebersicht (Zeitschr. f. K.-Gesch. VII., p. 102 ff.). Above all the numerous
   works of Denifle and Preger (Gesch. der deutschen Mystik I., II.) have to be
   consulted; as also Greith, Die deutsche Mystik im Predigerorden, 1861. For
   the earlier Mysticism, cf. the monographs on Anselm, Bernard, and the
   Victorinians.

   [46] Piety is, above all, not the hidden temper of feeling and will, from
   which spring love to one’s neighbour, humility and patience, but it is
   growing cognition, begotten of steadfast reflection on the relation of the
   soul to God.

   [47] How largely dependent on Scholasticism the later Mystic theology in
   particular was; or, more correctly, how identical the two were, has been
   shown especially by the works of Denifle (against Preger in the histor.
   polit. Blattern, 1875, p. 679 ff., and on Master Eckhart in the Archiv f.
   Litt.-u. K.-Gesch. des Mittelalters II. Bd.).

   [48] It is only a question of difference of degree; very correctly Karl
   Müller says (Zeitschr. f. K.-Gesch. VII., p. 118): “The character of
   mediæval piety always expresses itself, more or less, even in the theoretic
   discussions of Scholasticism, because among the representatives of the
   latter the entire half of the way of salvation is dominated throughout by
   the interests and points of view of Mysticism, this circumstance having a
   connection with their monastic training and education. As soon as these men
   come to deal in their theoretical discussions with the appropriation of
   salvation, they bring along with them the presuppositions of their practical
   Mysticism.”

   [49] Even in Nitzsch’s determination of the relationship (l.c., pp. 651 ff.,
   655) I cannot find a clearing up, while in Thomasius-Seeberg the distinct
   vision of the matter is completely obscured by a mass of details. Nitzsch
   first accentuates strongly the formalistic character of Scholasticism, then,
   with a view to understanding Mystic theology, points to its origin, the
   Pseudo-Dionysian doctrine, and now concludes: “It is obvious that this
   theology of the soul, of feeling, and of direct intuition is fundamentally
   distinct from the Scholastico-dialectic theology.” But the assertion that
   the Scholastic theology is formalistic is scarcely cum grano salis correct,
   as will appear more clearly below. How can one call a mode of thought
   formalistic which takes the greatest interest in relating everything to a
   living unity? And if the means employed cannot secure the proposed end (as
   we think), have we therefore a right to reproach these scholars with a
   merely formalistic interest in things? But, further, the Pseudo-Dionysian
   theology is as much the presupposition of Scholasticism as of Mysticism, and
   that which Nitzsch calls “theology of the soul, of feeling, and of direct
   intuition” plays in both the same part, as alpha and omega, while the Mystic
   theology certainly keeps manifestly to its point of departure throughout the
   whole alphabet, the Scholastic, on the other hand, apparently forsakes it,
   but in the end (doctrine of the way of salvation) always returns to it,
   thereby showing that it has never really lost sight of it.

   [50] Scholasticism shares with Mysticism the “finis,” and Mysticism uses
   essentially the same means as Scholasticism.

   [51] v. Vol. IV. p. 232 f. of this work.

   [52] Vol. IV. p. 264 f.; see also p. 331 ff.

   [53] Berengar was a disciple of Fulbert of Chartres (ob. 1028); the latter
   had studied under Gerhert.

   [54] Till far on in the twelfth century the scholars were not first
   philosophers and then theologians; they possessed as yet no philosophic
   system at all; their philosophy rather was quite essentially dialectic art;
   see Deutsch, Abælard, p. 96: “The relation of philosophy to theology in the
   initial period of Scholasticism was essentially different from what it was
   at its maturity. In the earlier period a proper philosophic system, a view
   of the world developed on different sides, had as yet no existence. Only
   logic was known with some completeness . . .but, as a distinct discipline,
   metaphysic did not yet exist for the philosophers of that period. What they
   had of it consisted in single propositions, partly Platonic, partly
   Aristotelian. . . . Only when the Aristotelian writings became known in the
   second half of the twelfth century did the West learn to know a real
   philosophic system.”

   [55] See Vol. V., p. 125 ff.

   [56] Hence even in the question about the universals, which was already
   dealt with at that time on the basis of passages from Porphyry and Boethius,
   the treatment was almost entirely realistic: general notions exist in and of
   themselves, or they exist in things as their real essence (though very
   different turns of thought were possible here in matters of detail; see
   Prantl, Gesch. der Logik, II., p. 118 ff.). Certainly there were already to
   be found also in this period representatives of Nominalism, according to
   which general notions are intellectus, or, say, only voces; indeed, it
   probably always existed side by side with Realism; but theology still
   treated it with indifference. When the Nominalist Roscellin, the teacher of
   Ahelard, applied the Nominalist view to the doctrine of the Trinity, he was
   resisted by Anselm (v. Deutsch, p. 100 f.). The latter had no doubt that
   those who held the universales substantiæ to be mere votes, must err from
   the Christian faith, and were heretics. But how did it stand with those who
   logically applied the substantiality of general notions?

   [57] The inquiry would be interesting and important that would lead us to
   determine whether, and through what channels, the older Pre-Jeromic Church
   literature influenced Scholasticism; e.g., are the agreements of Abelard
   with Justin and Origen accidental, or only indirect, or direct? That the
   Shepherd of Hermas and the Didache continued to have influence admits of
   proof. Contradictions within tradition, between the older and the later, and
   again between tradition (the sacred canons) and Scripture had already been
   discovered in the Gregorian period, and up to a certain point had been
   admitted (see Mirbt, Augustine, p. 3 f.); but Abelard was the first to
   emphasise the importance of these contradictions, while on the other hand,
   certainly, he began to have an inkling of what his contemporaries were far
   from thinking of, namely, that errors promote the progress of truth.

   [58] It surely does not require to be specially noted, that no teacher of
   importance in this period drew all the conclusions of Platonic Realism (as
   little as Augustine did). They lay only on the horizon of their view, and
   were touched on in passages here and there. Till Abelard taught him better,
   William of Champeaux, it is true, seems to have asserted the full immanence
   of the generic notion, conceived of substantially, in every individual, a
   view which must necessarily have led to the doctrine of the one latent
   substance, and of the negating of all that is individual as mere semblance
   or mere contingency. This doctrine certainly lay on the outskirts of the
   view then taken of the world, and made its appearance in Mysticism as the
   expression of pious contemplation, afterwards even as a theoretic
   conviction. On Abelard’s having the credit of discarding it see below.

   [59] See the excellent monograph of Deutsch upon him (1883), the best book
   we possess on the history of the theological science of that period,
   distinguished pre-eminently by calmness and caution of judgment, as compared
   with the overstrained biographies to the right and left. In the
   introduction, p. 11 f., it is denied on good grounds that there was a widely
   prevailing negative illuminism in this period. What widely prevailed was not
   negative but ecclesiastical, and what was negative (frivolity of course
   there has been in every age; “the frivolity and avarice of the jeunesse
   dorée that vaunted itself in the apostolic chair up to the middle of the
   eleventh century”: Sackur) or expressly heretical had no widespread
   influence (to what extent at the time of the establishment of Clugny
   practical and theoretical atheism, frivolous criticism of the Bible, etc.,
   prevailed among the West-Frankian lay circles is shown by Sackur). That to
   Abelard there belongs a unique position in his time, Deutsch has grounds for
   asserting, but he is far from characterising him simply as an illuminist. If
   it were necessary to describe him as such, then it would be peculiar to
   Catholic religion to be purely acquiescent faith — but at that time at least
   it certainly had not yet made that claim; then Justin, Origen, and Augustine
   would be “creedless free-thinkers”; then Abelard himself would be a
   double-tongued hypocrite, for his wish was to be a Church theologian,
   believing in revelation, and yet at the same time one who could give account
   of his faith and was capable of showing it to be plain truth. That while
   this was his aim he became entangled in contradictions, that in undertaking
   to commend religion to the understanding he frequently had more regard to
   the judge than to the client, was certainly not peculiar to him as a
   theologian! For ascertaining the theology of Abelard the sentences of his
   disciple, Magister Roland Alexander III. (see the edition by Gietl, 1891,
   and Denifle in Archiv, Vol. I., pp. 434 ff. 603 ff.) may be consulted.

   [60] How his theory of knowledge is to be understood is a disputed point
   among scholars (v. Deutsch, p. 104 ff.). It is certain that he held a
   sceptical attitude towards Platonic Realism, that he rejected it indeed,
   without however passing over to Nominalism.

   [61] This seems paradoxical, and certainly other things come more
   prominently to view in Abelard at first: his genuine, unquenchable
   scientific ardour, his sense for the natural (sound human understanding),
   his ambitious striving, not devoid of vanity, his dialectic acuteness, his
   critical spirit, finally, the conviction animating him that the ratio has
   its own field of play, and that there are many questions on which it first,
   and it alone, must be heard (on his learning, which has often been
   over-rated, see Deutsch, p. 53 ff.). But on the other hand the following
   factors in his mode of teaching are to be noted, which obtained quite a
   positive importance for the time that followed (while we pass over what is
   an understood matter, viz., that even by him all knowledge was ultimately
   traced up to the revelation of God): (1) The man charged with
   “rationalism” has no great confidence in the capabilities of the human power
   of knowledge, and openly expressed this, in opposition to the self-assurance
   of the dialecticians and mystics; he did not possess it, but pointed to
   revelation, because he (2) did not regard thought and being as identical,
   but took up a critico-sceptical attitude towards the reigning Realism, such
   as was just required for the defence of the Church doctrine — as was taught
   by the time that followed. With this there is connected (3) that, while
   keeping very much on Augustine’s lines in the conception of God, he avoided
   those conclusions from his conception which led at one time to the
   assumption of a rigid, unchangeable divine working (a rigid order of
   nature), at another time to an unlimited arbitrariness on God’s part. This
   he effected by bringing in again (with Origen, partly against Augustine)
   very strongly though not at every point, the thought of the ethically
   determined character of the divine action, and of the limitation of the
   divine power by the notion of purpose (and so by what actually happens).
   With this he also drew a sharp distinction between God and the creature, and
   asserted the independence of the latter, corrected thereby the questionable
   Mystic conception of God, and prepared the way for the conception of God
   held by the great Schoolmen. His opponents, on the other hand, such as Hugo
   (and afterwards also the Lombard) adhered to that conception of God which
   afterwards proved more convenient in defending any kind of Church doctrine;
   but there is no question that Abelard was really the more positive. If he
   has nevertheless been classed with Spinoza, that only proves that there has
   been ignorance of the notion of God which elsewhere prevailed in his time
   among Church theologians, and that just that side in Abelard’s notion of God
   has been emphasised which was not peculiar to him, for he sought to unite
   the standpoints of immanence and transcendence, while his opponents assailed
   him from the standpoint of the “Spinozist” notion of God. (4) As with the
   doctrine of God so is it with all the other doctrines of the faith: here
   Abelard always set out from Augustine (see Deutsch’s account), keeps
   essentially to his formulations, but, with more courage and confidence than
   the great master, fettered by his Neoplatonism, strives to free theology and
   the objects of faith from the embraces of a Mysticism which is ultimately
   philosophy of nature. The ethical interest, the assurance that what answers
   to the moral law is also the holy and good before and for God, dominates
   Abelard (hence also his special interest in moral philosophy), and so far as
   this interest corrected the Mystical scheme of Christian doctrine in the
   thirteenth century, Abelard must be thought of as the pioneer. But if in
   this sense it may be said that Abelard laid the foundation for the great
   structures of Scholasticism in the thirteenth century — not only because he
   was the teacher of the Lombard, nor only because he was the acutest thinker
   of the period, but because he was the first to attempt that amalgamation of
   the immanence and transcendence doctrines, and taught that lower estimation
   of the principles of knowledge, which became the presuppositions of
   ecclesiastical systems — yet it cannot be denied that the following age did
   not attach itself directly to him. What he found independently the following
   age learned from Aristotle, who became more and more known to it from the
   second half of the twelfth century; it learned it only indirectly, or not at
   all, from Abelard. But that cannot diminish his fame. He was the first to
   show how all Church doctrines can and must be so treated that the principles
   of morality (the moral law) shall have as much justice done to them in the
   system as the fundamental thoughts of theological speculation on nature.
   That he did not solve this problem no one will make the ground of a
   reproach, for it is insoluble. But that it must be set down as the task of
   all ecclesiastical science — so long as this science at all declares that
   its ideal is that of knowing the world — is quite obvious. The
   contemporaries of Abelard were not willing to learn enough from him, and
   that, as a rule, determines the amount of influence that belongs to a
   teacher. They felt repelled (1) by the still novel form of the science in
   general; (2) by many propositions of Abelard, which were afterwards found to
   be tolerable — indeed to be the only correct ones; (3) by many individual
   negative, or critical judgments, both in regard to history and the validity
   of opinion prevailing at the time, and in regard to particular
   ecclesiastical doctrines, of which his defensive presentation was felt to be
   questionable (Sabellianism in the doctrine of the Trinity, yet see
   Augustine; strong inner variance in the Christology, which thus approached
   Nestorianism, yet see likewise Augustine). (4) It must not be denied that
   Abelard himself injured the influence of his doctrines by many
   contradictions and by the immaturity of his systematising. But how much
   could have been learned from him; compare only his admirable discussions of
   love, reconciliation, and the Church! The Church had no genius between
   Augustine and Luther; but among the men of second rank, Abelard deserves to
   be named. Karl Müller (Abhandl. f. Weizsäcker 1892, pp. 308 f., 319 f.) has
   strongly emphasised the importance of Abelard for the ways of stating
   problems and for the positive views of the following period.

   [62] Very correctly v. Eicken l.c. p. 602: “The importance which Plato and
   Aristotle acquired in mediæval philosophy was really in the inverse relation
   to the position which the two had taken up in the history of the development
   of Greek philosophy. The Platonic philosophy had placed the substance of
   things in the general ideas, and had deduced from this assumption the
   transcendence of the latter, and especially of the highest idea, that is,
   the idea of God. But the extreme Realism of the Middle Ages adopted the
   Platonic doctrine of ideas, not to derive from it the transcendence of the
   supreme idea, but to derive rather the harmonious co-existence of all things
   in the supreme idea, and just with this aim before it it arrived at that
   doctrine of God which bore a pantheistic character, as compared with the
   strict transcendence of the Church doctrine. On the other hand the
   Aristotelian philosophy had asserted the reality of the general ideas in the
   individuals, with the view of refuting Plato’s transcendent doctrine of
   ideas. The Aristotelian Realism, however, attached itself to the
   Aristotelian doctrine, in order that, by guarding the substantial character
   of the individuals, it might prove their extra-divine subsistence, and
   accordingly also the divine transcendence that harmonised with the Church
   doctrine. This view, which quite inverted the historical and logical
   relation of the Platonic and Aristotelian philosophies, was maintained till
   the close of the Middle Ages.”

   [63] Only since Abelard’s times were there somewhat more comprehensive
   statements of Christian doctrine, which, besides, were still in many
   respects different. He himself and Hugo of St. Victor took the lead in
   producing them; see Abelard’s “Introductio”; faith, love, the sacraments as
   subjects of dogmatic.

   [64] In the writings of the earlier Schoolmen, i.e., of Abelard chiefly,
   there are not a few thoughts that were directly fitted either to enrich or
   to modify dogma. But at that time the Church accepted nothing from the
   Schoolmen, and when it was prepared to have the doctrine interpreted to it
   by them, these men had no longer the freedom and boldness to say anything
   new to the Church.

   [65] What importance for Abelard the discussion with the Jew and the
   philosopher had may be learned from the “Dialogue” (v. Deutsch, p. 433 ff.,
   against Reuter I., pp. 198-221.)

   [66] The diminishing distrust of theology in contra-distinction to the
   former period is also to be explained from the circumstance that the general
   average of culture among the higher clergy became higher. The theologians of
   the thirteenth century were no longer confronted with so much unreason as
   the “dialecticians” of the eleventh century had to contend with in the wide
   development of the Church.
     _________________________________________________________________

   4. Elaboration of Dogma.

   The theological conflicts of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, as they
   were fought out between the dialecticians and their opponents, do not belong
   to the history of dogma. This science has to confine itself to showing what
   position dogma asserted in connection with the revival and the crises of
   theology, what enrichments it received, and how far the Scholastic activity
   (or the theological systematising) already influenced it. As to the first of
   these questions, the statement may be quite brief: dogma, as it was fixed by
   the Councils, as it had been described by Augustine and Gregory I., [67] was
   the presupposition of all theological thought, and was held inviolate.
   Isolated exceptions were without any importance. The dialectic experiments
   on dogma were always based on the traditional view of it. As regards the
   third question, an influence on dogma of Scholastic activity and systematic
   theology can already be pointed to in the twelfth century; but the influence
   was still so much in its beginnings that it is better to treat it first in
   connection with the thirteenth century. [68] And so there remains only the
   question as to the “enrichments.” Strictly speaking, this question also
   would have to be answered in the negative, [69] were it not that in the
   Berengarian controversy a movement presents itself, in which a dogma that
   had still always been the subject of dispute, attained a relatively complete
   form, and had not Anselm set up a doctrine of satisfaction, which, indeed,
   was a product of purely private work, and found few adherents, too, in the
   period that followed, but which brought before the Church a dogmatic problem
   that was hitherto unsolved, nay, had scarcely ever been touched as yet, but
   which was not again to pass out of view. In what follows, therefore, we have
   to treat of these two movements.

   A. The Berengarian Controversy.

   Besides its dogmatic, this controversy [70] has a philosophic [71] interest,
   and an interest also in connection with Church politics. [72] The last of
   these interests may be left quite out of view here; the second is closely
   connected with the first. From the place which the dogma of the Eucharist
   held in the theory and practice of the Church, the criticism of it was a
   criticism of the reigning Church doctrine as a whole. When the youthful
   science, represented and led by Berengar of Tours, began at this point,
   charged the accepted view with error, and applied the scientific doctrine of
   method to the dogma of the Eucharist, expression was given to the thought,
   that there may not be a resting satisfied with mere Church tradition, with
   what is held as valid to-day. But this thought was not expressed in the name
   of a negative “illuminism,” [73] but, on the contrary rather, that the true
   tradition of the Church might be delivered from the embraces of a bad
   routine, that the spirit of the doctrine might be protected against a coarse
   and superstitious realism, that the logikē latreia (reasonable service)
   might be maintained against a barbarian craving for mysteries, and that the
   mystery of faith might not be profaned. But combined with this interest,
   which was by no means merely pretended, there was the pleasure in thinking,
   and the daring reliance on dialectics as on “reason” in general. As
   theologians, Berengar and his followers were Augustinians, but, at the same
   time, Berengar had an enjoyment in criticism as such, and a confidence in
   “science,” that were not Augustinian.

   Berengar, Director of the Cathedral School in Tours, from about 1040
   Archdeacon in Angers (ob. 1088), had instituted studies on the doctrine of
   the Eucharist, searched through the Church Fathers, occupied himself with
   the first Eucharist controversy, and rejected [74] the doctrine of
   Paschasius, long before a controversy developed itself. In the doctrine as
   it prevailed at the time he saw apostacy from the Church Fathers and
   unreason; for he saw in it only the view, that after the consecration bread
   and wine have disappeared, and in place of them there exist the real flesh
   and blood of Christ in so sensibly palpable a form that they are present as
   pieces (portions) of His bloody body. He was right; so the widely prevailing
   superstition taught; [75] yet Paschasius had certainly taken also a more
   spiritual view of the change, and among the authoritative churchmen of that
   period such a “conversion” was not taught by all the more prominent. [76] By
   means of a letter to Lanfranc, Berengar himself opened the controversy. [77]
   We have his doctrine fully stated for us for the first time in his work de
   sacra cœna. adv. Lanfrancum (ab. 1073; anything earlier is almost entirely
   lost). His leading idea was to introduce reason into the Church doctrine,
   or, more correctly, to bring to light by means of reason the reason that
   lies in the divine doctrines of the Church. Dialectics, the science which
   had always differentiated, is nowhere more in its proper place than where
   there is a question about two objects, which, in one respect, are one, and
   in another respect are different. Thus the two-nature doctrine is very
   peculiarly its province; and so also is the doctrine of the Eucharist, with
   its earthly elements and its heavenly gift. [78] Berengar showed that the
   doctrine of the bodily transmutation was absurd (“ineptia”), and went
   directly in the face of the old traditions, as well as of reason, which we
   must make use of as reasonable beings created in the image of God. [79] He
   accordingly adopted the standpoint of Scotus (Ratramnus), as he understood
   it. He taught that the words are to be understood tropically; but he held
   this interpretation with much greater firmness than his predecessor, and
   gave it an exclusiveness of which his predecessor had not thought; Christ is
   spoken of under many symbols, hence the bread is also a symbol; [80]
   Scripture teaches that, till His return, Christ remains in heaven; [81] a
   piece of bread is not capable of taking into itself the body born of the
   Virgin, and yet it is a question about the whole Christ; [82] a destruction
   of the subject (the elements) involves the destruction of all essential
   attributes of the elements, for concretely (in concreto) these cannot be
   distinguished from the subject itself (Nominalist tendency). [83] Yet the
   tropical view, as he did not stand by it, was not equivalent for Berengar to
   the symbolical. This latter view rather he explicitly rejected, in so far as
   he followed the old tradition, and recognised two things in the Eucharist,
   sign and sacrament. The elements become sacrament through consecration, and
   this implies that they now include something objectively holy. A
   “conversio” takes place; but for Berengar this expression has certainly an
   unusual sense. [84] It is meant to suggest that the elements remain what
   they are, but at the same time become the body of Christ. They become in a
   certain respect something different, i.e., there is now added to the visible
   a second element, which is real, but invisible. The consecrated elements
   remain in one respect what they are, but in another respect they become the
   sacraments, i.e., as the visible, temporal, and mutable subjects, they
   become the guarantees (pignora, figuræ, signa) of the reception of the whole
   heavenly Christ by the believer. While the mouth therefore receives the
   “sacrament,” the truly genuine Christian receives by discernment (“in
   cognitione”), and into his heart that which the sacramental elements
   represent, namely, Christ as food, the power of the heavenly Christ. Hence
   the enjoyment and the effect of the Eucharist are spiritual: the inner man
   (so it depends on faith, in addition to the consecration) receives the true
   body of Christ, and appropriates the death of the crucified Christ through
   believing remembrance). [85]

   Augustine would have had nothing to object to this doctrine of the
   Eucharist, even though some dialectic arguments and devices in it had
   surprised him. But the men of the period were shocked, both at the result,
   and partly also at the course of thought that led to this result. At Rome
   and Vercelli (1050), in Berengar’s absence, the doctrine was condemned, on
   the ground of the letter to Lanfranc. Nine years later, after it had become
   artificially mixed up in France with ecclesiastico-political questions, but
   had thereby become for the time more tolerable for Rome, and after its
   author had suffered much from slander and imprisonment, Berengar was
   compelled to subscribe at Rome, under Nicolas II., a formula of faith, which
   made it clear that his worst fears with regard to the tyranny of
   superstition in the Church were not exaggerated. [86] Having returned to
   France, he kept in retirement at first; but subsequently he could have no
   rest. He came to the front again with his doctrine, for which he had
   influential supporters in Rome itself, and a new, heated literary
   controversy was the result. During its course the most important writings on
   both sides were produced. Gregory VII. treated the controversy in a dilatory
   way, and with much indulgence towards Berengar, who was personally known to
   him: in all ages Rome has been clever enough not to be hasty in making
   heretics, and a Pope who, in ruling the world, must so often wink at things,
   knows also how to exercise patience and forbearance, especially when
   personal sympathy is not wanting. [87] But in the end Gregory was compelled,
   in order not to shake his own authority, to force Berengar, at the Synod of
   1079, to recognise the transmutation doctrine. [88] For a second time
   Berengar outwardly submitted; the Pope was satisfied with the form; but with
   this the cause which the broken scholar represented became lost.

   The transmutation theory of Paschasius — the term transubstantiation was
   apparently first used casually by Hildebert of Tours (beginning of twelfth
   century) in his 93rd Sermon (Migne CLXXI., p. 776), and therefore already
   existed [89] — was further developed by the opponents of Berengar. [90]
   First, the mystery was conceived of still more sensuously, at least by some
   (manducatio infidelium); [91] secondly, there was a beginning, though with
   caution, to apply to dogma the “science” that was discredited in the
   opponent. The crude conceptions (which embraced the total conversion) were
   put aside, and an attempt was made to unite the older deliverances of
   tradition with the new transmutation doctrine, as also to adapt the
   Augustinian terminology, by means of dialectic distinctions, to the still
   coarsely realistic view of the object. [92] The struggle of Berengar,
   therefore, did not continue altogether without fruit; but the fruit
   consisted essentially in this, that science was left quite free, because it
   was gradually seen that in face of the gravity of the problems the
   simplicity of faith was powerless. At the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) the
   mediæval doctrine of the Supper was solemnly framed as dogma in the famous
   confession of faith, which, previous to the Tridentine confession, was the
   most influential symbol (after the Niceno-Constantinopolitan; see Mansi
   XXII., p. 982; Hefele V.^2, p. 878 ff.; and the Corpus juris canonici, where
   the topic finds a place under X. I: de summa trinitate [I. 1]). What is
   important here is (1) that the doctrine of the Eucharist is immediately
   attached to the confession of the Trinity and Incarnation. In this way it is
   represented even in the symbol as having a most intimate relation to these
   doctrines, as, indeed, forming with them a unity; i.e., the state of things
   was now created that was disastrous even for the history of the Reformation:
   the real presence obtained the same value as the Trinity and the two-nature
   doctrine, so that every one was regarded as an ecclesiastical anarchist who
   called it in question. This valuation certainly corresponds with the
   development of the doctrine of the Eucharist, inasmuch as the Eucharist
   appears as the continuously present, earthly incorporation of the mysteries
   of the Trinity and Incarnation, but it robs the Gospel of its spiritual
   character. (2) Transubstantiation was now expressly taught; the words run:
   “moreover there is one universal Church of the faithful, outside of which no
   one whatever can be saved, in which Jesus Christ is at once priest and
   sacrifice, whose body and blood are truly (veraciter) contained in the
   sacrifice of the altar under the appearances of bread and wine, the bread
   being transubstantiated into the body, and the wine into the blood by divine
   power, so that for the effecting of the mystery of unity (ad perficiendum
   mysterium unitatis) we receive of His what He received of ours (here the
   conjunction with the Christology is manifest). And this sacrament especially
   (hoc utique sacramentum) no one can administer but the priest who has been
   duly ordained according to the Church authority (secundum claves ecclesiæ)
   which Jesus Christ Himself gave to the Apostles and their successors.” The
   symbol then immediately continues: “But the sacrament of baptism, which is
   consecrated in water on invoking the undivided Trinity, avails for salvation
   both to infants and adults, by whomsoever it is duly administered in the
   forms of the Church (in forma ecclesiæ). And if after receiving baptism any
   one shall have fallen into sin, he can always be restored (reparari) through
   true penitence.” Thus this line of development also is completed, and at the
   same time the related one (see Vol. V., p. 325), according to which every
   Christian must make confession of his sins before the parish priest
   (parochus). It is laid down in the twenty-first chapter: “Every believer, of
   either sex, after arriving at the years of discretion, must by himself
   (solus) faithfully confess all his sins, at least once a year, to his own
   priest, and must study to carry out to the best of his ability the
   repentance enjoined upon him, receiving reverently, at least at Easter, the
   sacrament of the Eucharist.” The novelty in the symbol — the direct
   attachment of the Eucharist dogma to the Trinity and Christology — is the
   most distinctive and boldest act of the Middle Ages. Compared with this
   immense innovation, the addition of the “filioque” weighs very lightly. But
   on the other hand, the symbol certainly shows also very plainly how the old
   dogmatic tradition still dominated everything, for it contains nothing of
   the specific Augustinian-Western propositions about sin, original sin,
   grace, and justification. “Dogma,” in the strict sense of the word, consists
   of the Trinity, Christology, the doctrine of the Eucharist, the doctrine of
   Baptism, and of the Sacrament of Penance. All else is at the most dogma of
   the second order. This state of things also was of the greatest weight for
   the history of the Reformation; the doctrines of the Trinity, of Christ and
   of the Sacraments (i.e., the doctrine of the three Sacraments, Baptism,
   Penance, Eucharist) constitute Catholic Christianity — nothing else.

   B. Anselm’s Doctrine of Satisfaction, and the Doctrines of Atonement of the
   Theologians of the Twelfth Century. [93]

   Ever since the days when an attempt was made to punish, without decimating
   the Church, the great apostasy occasioned by the Decian persecution, the
   positions were held as valid, that God’s mercy is unlimited, even as regards
   the baptised, but that only a satisfactio, consisting of legitimate penance
   (pœnitentia legitima), can move the offended God to regard the sinner again
   with favour. Since that time these ideas had obtained the widest
   circulation, [94] united themselves at a later period with Germanic ideas,
   and dominated the whole penitential system of the Church. [95] Connected
   with this system stood the conception of “merits,” i.e., of such
   supererogatory acts as establish a claim to reward, when no guilt exists to
   be expiated. Through this idea a calculation of the value of particular
   deeds was introduced, and of these calculations the whole ethical system was
   full. Whether an act was obligatory, or abundans, or superabundans, whether,
   under given circumstances, it was compensatory (satisfactory), or
   meritorious, had to be established in each particular case, so that each one
   might know how his account stood with heaven. The Augustinian conception of
   prevenient grace freely bestowed (gratia gratis data præveniens), which had
   been generally accepted, wrought no change on this view, but only made it
   more complicated.

   Yet neither by Gregory the Great, nor by any theologian of the Carlovingian
   period, was this view applied to the work of Christ. Frequent reference, it
   is true, was already made to the “copiousness of the value of the mystery of
   the passion” (pretü copiositas mysterii passionis; see the fourth chapter of
   the Synod of Chiersey); but a theory had not been framed, because there was
   no reflection at all on the nature, the specific worth, and the effect of
   the redemption contained in the suffering and death of Christ. The Fathers,
   Augustine included, had handed down nothing certain on this. The only view
   taken by the Greeks was that the reign of death was broken by the cross and
   resurrection of Christ, or that mankind were thereby bought off, or
   cunningly wrested, from the devil. All that they said of the sacrifice in
   the suffering was quite vague. Only Athanasius spoke with noteworthy
   clearness of the penal suffering which Christ took from us and laid upon
   Himself. But, from the days of Paul, all of them testified that Christ died
   for us, and delivered us from the power of the devil. That was felt and
   proclaimed as the great act of redemption. Ambrose and Augustine had then
   emphasised the position that Christ is Mediator as man, and had given many
   instructions about particular points; but the question why that Man, who was
   at the same time God, was obliged to suffer and die, was dealt with by
   pointing to His example, or by reciting biblical texts about ransom,
   sacrifice, and such like, without the necessity of the death here coming
   clearly to view. [96] But Augustine certainly had laid the foundation for a
   new and vigorous apprehension of the significance of Christ’s work, by
   emphasising so strongly the gravity of sin, and by representing the relation
   between God and man under the scheme of sin and grace.

   At this point Anselm came in. The importance of his doctrine of
   satisfaction, as developed in Book H. of his “Cur deus homo,” [97] composed
   as a dialogue, lies in this, that he made use of all the factors of the
   Augustinian theology, so far as they came into consideration here, but that
   at the same time he was the first of all to frame a theory, both of the
   necessity of the appearing of the God-man, and of the necessity of His
   death. This he did by making the principles of the practice of penance the
   fundamental scheme of religion in general. [98] The “necessity” was
   understood by Anselm in the sense of the strictest reasonableness, i.e., his
   aim is to show that even if we knew nothing of Christ, and such an One had
   never existed, reason would have to confess that men can only be saved if a
   God-man appears and dies for them. [100] Jews and pagans must be constrained
   to acknowledge this necessity. They, and unbelieving Christians, must see
   that it is unreason to assert that God could also have redeemed us by
   another person (whether man or angel), or that He could have redeemed us by
   a mere determination of His will; [101] they must perceive that the mercy of
   God does not suffer wrong through the death on the cross, and that it is not
   unworthy of God that Christ should have stooped to abasement and taken upon
   Himself the uttermost suffering. No doubt it holds good that we first
   believe and then see. [102] But though the attempt may fail — faith, of
   course, would remain unshaken — we must advance to the knowledge of what we
   believe, and in this case a perfect reasonable knowledge is possible.

   At the outset Anselm rejects three ideas, one as insufficient, the others as
   erroneous. It is not sufficient to justify redemption through the death on
   the cross by emphasising the “conveniens,” i.e., the correspondence of the
   person and work of Christ with the person and fall of Adam; that is an
   asthetic view, which is correct, but which proves nothing until the
   “necessarium” is established. [103] It is erroneous to think that a man
   could have redeemed us; for we should then become the servants of him who
   should have delivered us from eternal death. But in that way our original
   dignity would not be restored, in virtue of which we were like the angels
   and servants of God alone. [104] It is erroneous, finally, to think that by
   redemption legal claims of the devil upon us had to be wiped out; for
   although by reason of our sins we have justly come under the devil’s power,
   yet the devil does not rule justly, but rather unjustly. He has obtained no
   claim upon us, and over against God he has absolutely no right. [105] Before
   Anselm begins his process of proof, he further endeavours — the arrangement
   is extremely unskilful — to refute the objection that the suffering and
   death of a God-man, just because he is man, are without effect, because
   every man is bound to be obedient unto death. He rejects this view, which is
   only apparently supported by passages of Scripture that teach that the death
   of Christ was obligatory, because it was fulfilment of the divine will; a
   sinless man, rather — and the God-man was such — was only under obligation
   to observe justitia and veritas (righteousness and truth), but not to die,
   for death follows only upon sin. [106] Having now cleared the path for
   himself, he goes on to put the question thus: Assuming that we knew nothing
   whatever of the God‑man man and His action, what must take place, if men,
   who are created for blessedness in the world beyond, but who can attain to
   this blessedness only as sinless, have all become sinners? The most natural
   answer is (for it has already been said in I. 4, that it would not become
   God not to carry out His plan): sins must be forgiven. But how must that be
   done? What is foriveness of sin? What range has it? In order to answer this
   question, we must first ask, What is sin? With this the development begins.
   [107]

   Every rational creature owes to God entire subjection to His will. That is
   the only honour which God demands. He who pays it is righteous; he who pays
   it not, sins; sin, indeed, is nothing else than the dishonouring of God by
   withholding from Him His own. [108] This robbery God cannot tolerate; He
   must defend His honour. He must therefore demand that man restore it to Him,
   and, indeed, “for the insult inflicted, that he restore more than he took
   away”; otherwise he continues “in culpa” (under guilt). [109] Every sinner,
   therefore, must furnish a satisfaction. [110] God cannot dispense with this;
   for that would be equivalent to the impunity of sin, and would violate the
   divine honour. But the impunity of sin would be equivalent to God’s ceasing
   to be the controller of sin (ordinator peccatorum); He would let something
   disorderly pass in His kingdom (“aliquid inordinatum in suo regno
   dimittere.”) Right and wrong also would then become the same; the latter,
   indeed, would have the advantage, because, as unrepented of and unpunished,
   it would be subject to no law. No doubt we men are enjoined simply to
   forgive those who sin against us. But that is said to us, that we may not
   encroach upon the prerogative of God: “for it belongs to no one but Him to
   take vengeance.” Nor may we appeal against this to the omnipotence and
   goodness of God, and say that all that God does is good, even when He simply
   forgives sin therefore; for God’s power and goodness are determined by His
   will (“it is not to be so understood that if God wills something improper
   [inconveniens], it is right because He wills it; for it does not follow that
   if God wills to lie, it is right to lie”); hence, as God wills to do nothing
   wrong or disorderly (inordinate), the absolving without penalty of a sinner
   who does not restore to Him what he has robbed Him of, is not within the
   scope of the freedom or the goodness or the will of God. [111] The supreme
   righteousness, therefore, which is nothing else than God Himself, requires
   restitution or — this turn of thought appears first here — penalty. [112]
   Even the latter, that is to say, as deprivation of salvation (damnation),
   restores the divine honour, in as much as by it “man unwillingly pays back
   of his own what he took away .. . as man by sinning seized what is God’s, so
   God by punishing takes away what is man’s.” [113] Even by penalty the beauty
   and order of the universe are maintained, which must never be shaken (of the
   honour of God in itself it holds good that it cannot be shaken; “for to
   Himself He is the incorruptible and in no way mutable honour. . . . No one
   can honour or dishonour God so far as He is in Himself.”) [114] But it is
   “extremely alien to God “that He should abandon His costliest work, the
   rational creature (creatura rationabilis), to complete ruin. [115] But as,
   on the other hand, He cannot associate sinful men with the holy angels,
   satisfaction must come in (“hold this most firmly, because without
   satisfaction, i.e., without spontaneous payment of the debt, God cannot
   allow sin to pass with impunity”). [116] The objection that we are directed
   to pray to God for forgiveness, which would surely be unmeaning if only
   satisfaction were of any avail, is met by saying that the prayer for
   forgiveness is itself a part of the satisfaction. [117] Now the satisfaction
   is subject to the twofold rule, that it must be, first, restitution, and
   secondly, smart-money (Schmerzensgeld). [118] But what can man give to God
   which he was not already required to give Him in any case, since entire
   surrender is included in obligatory obedience? “If I owe Him myself and all
   I can do — even when I sin not, that I do not sin (so there is no thought
   here of supererogatory deeds), I have nothing that I can render back
   (reddam) for my sin.” The objection: “if I consider reasons (rationes), I do
   not see how I can be saved, but if I fall back upon my faith, then in
   Christian faith which worketh by love [hope that my salvation is
   possible,” is repelled; for here it is just a question of reason. [119] Man
   can therefore do nothing. And how much he would have to do! “Thou hast not
   yet considered of what gravity thy sin is.” Even the smallest disobedience
   entails an infinite guilt (even to gain the whole world one may not commit
   the smallest sin) for the guilt is to be measured by the God who is
   despised. [120] Man has therefore to furnish an infinitely great
   satisfaction, since it is already an established rule, that God’s honour
   does not permit of man’s receiving salvation, “if he does not restore to God
   all he has taken from Rim, so that as God has lost by him, He may also
   recover by him.” [121] The incapacity of human nature to furnish
   satisfaction can make no change on this law, which follows from the honour
   of God [122] So therefore there remains only one solution, if the
   “convenientia” (the befitting) requires redemption [123] — namely, the
   God-man. There must be someone “who shall pay to God for the sin of man
   something greater than all that is, apart from God . . .it is necessary,
   therefore, that he who shall be able to give of his own to God something
   that shall surpass all that is under God, shall be greater than all that is
   not God . . .but there is nothing above all that is not God, save God. . .No
   one, therefore, is able to make this satisfaction save God.” Again, “nor
   must that satisfaction be made by anyone save man, otherwise man does not
   satisfy.” Conclusion: “If, therefore, as is certain (sicut constat), it is
   necessary that that heavenly State be made perfect from men, and this cannot
   be unless there is made the aforesaid satisfaction, which no one can make
   save God, and no one owes save man, it is necessary that the God-man shall
   make it.” [124]

   This God-man must possess the two natures unchanged (otherwise he would be
   either only God or only man), unmingled, too (otherwise he would be neither
   God nor man), but also unseparated (otherwise no work having unity is
   effected); therefore he must possess them “entire in one person” (integras
   in una persona). [125] The God must have derived the human nature from Adam
   and Eve, but from a virgin, [126] and he must as man have surrendered this
   nature to death voluntarily. His dying was really free, for he was sinless.
   [127] If the supposed God-man now surrenders his life voluntarily to God,
   the satisfaction sought for is obtained. It must be his life; for only this
   he is not under obligation to offer to God; all that he could give of his
   own, it behoved him in some way or other to offer to God. “Let us see if,
   perhaps, this giving of his life, or parting with his soul, or surrender of
   himself to death, is for the honour of God. For God will not require it from
   him as a debt, because, as there shall be no sin in him, he shall not owe it
   to die . . .if man has had a sweet experience in sinning, is it not fitting
   that he should have a hard experience in satisfying? And if he has been so
   easily prevailed upon by the devil to dishonour God by sinning that nothing
   could be easier, is it not just that, in satisfying for sin, he should
   overcome the devil to the honour of God with a measure of difficulty that
   could not be exceeded? Is it not becoming (dignum) that as he who by sinning
   so denied himself to God that he could not deny himself in a greater degree,
   should by satisfying so give himself to God that he could not give himself
   in a greater degree? . . .But there is nothing harder or more difficult that
   a man can suffer for the honour of God spontaneously and not of debt than
   death, and in no way can man give himself more fully to God than when he
   surrenders himself to death for His honour.” Hence the man sought for must
   be one who does not die “of necessity,” because he is almighty, nor “of
   debt,” because he is sinless, who therefore can die “of free choice because
   it will be necessary” (ex libera voluntate quia necessarium erit.) [128] The
   worth of such a life as a satisfaction is infinite. Because the smallest
   violation of this life has an infinitely negative worth, the voluntary
   surrender of it has an infinitely positive worth. Because sins are as
   hate-worthy as they are bad, so that life also is as love-worthy as it is
   good. Hence the acceptance of the death (acceptio mortis) of such a God-man
   is an infinite good for God (!), which far surpasses the loss by sin. [129]
   But the giving of life (datio vitæ) can only have taken place “to the honour
   of God;” for another spirit and purpose cannot be discovered. To this there
   is to be added, no doubt, the further design of setting us an example, so
   that by no sufferings we might let ourselves be drawn aside from the
   righteousness which is due to God. Others, it is true, have given us such an
   example; but his is the most powerful, for he suffered without being obliged
   to suffer. [130] Once again it is asked, by way of objection, whether he was
   not really obliged, because the creature “owes all to God, what he is, and
   what he knows, and what he can do.” As the answer, there suddenly appears
   the doctrine of surplus merit. When God leaves us free to offer Him
   something smaller or greater, a reward is the result if we give the greater,
   “because we give spontaneously what is our own.” When this is applied to the
   God-man, the conclusion follows that his dying was necessary, because he
   willed it, but at the same time was not necessary, because God did not
   demand it. His death therefore is voluntary. [131] Now at length can the
   long-looked-for solution be given. [132] It follows in a surprising form,
   and, above all, with strange brevity: the God-man acts for himself, by no
   means as the representative of mankind. But the Father must recompense him
   for that. [133] But nothing, again, can be given to the Son, since he has
   all. Yet it would be outrageous to assume that the whole action of the Son
   should remain without effect. Hence it is necessary that it should be for
   the advantage of another, and if that is willed by the Son, the Father
   cannot object, otherwise He would be unjust. “But to whom more fittingly
   (convenientius) shall he impart the fruit and recompence of his death than
   to those for whose salvation, as true reason (ratio veritatis) has taught
   us, he made himself man, and to whom, as we have said, he gave in dying the
   example of dying for righteousness’ sake? In vain surely shall they be
   imitators of him, if they are not to be partakers of his merit. Or whom
   shall he more justly make heirs of that which is due to him, but which he
   does not need, and of the superabundance of his plenitude (exundatiæ suæ
   plenitudinis) than his own parents and brethren, whom he looks on, burdened
   in their poverty with so many and so great debts, and languishing in the
   depths of misery, that what they owe for their sin may be remitted to them,
   and what, by reason of their sin, they lack, may be given to them?” [134]
   God accordingly now rejects no one who comes to Him in the name of this
   God-man, on condition that he comes as it befits him, i.e., that he so
   approaches Him, and so lives, as Holy Scripture directs. [135] The divine
   mercy, therefore, has not been made void by the death on the cross — so it
   would seem when sin and the divine righteousness are contemplated — but it
   appears rather as inconceivably great, and at the same time as in perfect
   harmony with righteousness. God’s word, indeed, to the sinner is: “Take mine
   only-begotten Son and give him for thyself,” and the Son’s word is: “Take me
   and redeem thyself.” [136] Only the wicked angels cannot be redeemed. Not as
   if the “price of His death would not be availing through its magnitude for
   all sins of men and angels”; but the condition of the angels (they are not
   descended from one angel, and fell without a tempter) excludes redemption.
   [137] Anselm concludes with the lofty consciousness that “by the solution of
   one question” he has shown to be reasonable “all that is contained in the
   New and Old Testaments.” [138]

   Because it really is what Anselm, in the last sentence, has asserted,
   namely, a (new) construction of the whole of dogma from the point of view of
   sin and redemption, and because in this construction the disjecta membra of
   the Augustinian Mediæval view of Christianity were for the first time knit
   together into a unity, this representation deserves a searching criticism.
   Standing on the shoulders of Augustine, but eliminating the “patristic,”
   i.e., the Greek elements of his mode of thought, Anselm has, by his book,
   “Cur deus homo,” placed himself, as distinctively a dogmatic theologian,
   side by side with the Fathers of Greek dogma (Irenæus, Athanasius, and
   Origen). With the outline which John of Damascus had furnished another
   outline is now associated, which certainly, and not to its advantage, is
   still dependent on the old, but yet is evidently dominated by another
   principle. Anselm’s representation, however, also deserves special
   consideration because it has given the impulse to permanent treatment of the
   subject, and because it is still regarded in our own day — and by
   evangelical theologians, too — as essentially a model.

   First of all, as against misunderstandings, it must be stated what Anselm’s
   theory is not, and is not meant to be. It is (1) no doctrine of
   reconciliation in the sense of showing how the opposition of will between
   God and sinful humanity is removed; it is (2) no theory of penal suffering,
   for Christ does not suffer penalty; the point rather at which penalty is
   inflicted is never reached, for God declares Himself satisfied with
   Christ’s spontaneous acceptio mortis; just for this reason it is (3) no
   theory of vicarious representation in the strict sense of the term, for
   Christ does not suffer penalty in our stead, but rather provides a benefit,
   the value of which is not measured by the greatness of sin and sin’s
   penalty, but by the value of His life, and which God accepts, as it weighs
   more for Him than the loss which He has suffered through sin (between sin,
   therefore, and the value of the life of Christ there exists only an external
   relation; both are infinite, but the latter is more infinite; hence it more
   than satisfies God); [139] it is, finally (4), not a theory which guarantees
   to the individual that he really becomes saved; it aims rather at only
   showing for all the possibility of their being saved; whether they shall be
   saved depends “on the measure in which men come to partake of so great
   grace, and on the degree in which they live under it,” i.e., on how they
   fulfil the commandments of holy scripture (II. 19, p. 94).

   From this consideration of what the Anselmic theory is not and does not
   offer, it already appears how inadequate it is. Above all, its unevangelical
   character shows itself in the 4th point. The entire ancient world, indeed,
   and, as Anselm shows, the mediæval world as well, rested satisfied with the
   doctrine of redemption, as demonstrating the possibility of the redemption
   of the individual from sin; but as this “possibility” can afford no comfort
   whatever to any distressed conscience, as it only satisfies the
   understanding, it is a worthless substitute for a real doctrine of
   redemption — Luther would say it is of the devil. If it cannot be shown from
   the person of Christ that we really are redeemed, if the certainty of
   salvation (certitudo salutis) is not derived therefrom, nothing is gained;
   all, rather, is lost, when we rest satisfied with such a doctrine, and
   append to it, as Anselm does, the conclusion, “If thou fulfillest the
   commands of Scripture, then the great provision of the God-man has an effect
   for thee.” For Anselm, the question of personal certitude of salvation, the
   fundamental question of religion, is simply not yet raised at all. He is an
   old-world, a mediæval, in a word, a Catholic Christian, inasmuch as he is
   satisfied with having made out that in virtue of Christ’s provision some
   certainly from the “mass of perdition” can be saved, and in fact shall be
   saved, because they live piously. But a second point is to be noted here.
   With every effort to express it as strongly as possible, the gravity of sin
   (pondus peccati) is not treated with sufficient earnestness if the thought
   of penalty, and therefore also of vicarious penal suffering, is entirely
   eliminated. In the idea that sin can be compensated for by something else
   than penalty there lies an underestimate of its gravity that is extremely
   objectionable. A recognition of the deep proposition that the innocent
   suffers for the guilty, that the penalty lies upon him, that we might have
   peace, is not to be found in the Anselmic theory. It does not appear even in
   the statement, prompted by warm feeling, II. 20: “Accept mine only-begotten
   and give Him for thyself.” “Take Me and redeem thyself,” for nothing is said
   of a penal suffering (just as little in the equally warm line of exposition
   II. 16, pp. 77 sq.).

   But before entering upon the objections to the theory, let us indicate its
   excellences. These are not small: (1) It must be held as greatly to the
   credit of Anselm that he laid hold of the problem at all, and made it the
   centre for a survey of faith; (2) that he so apprehended it that redemption
   from guilt is the question dealt with (the Greeks had always thought
   primarily of redemption from the consequences of sin, liability to death);
   (3) it is to be specially noted that he conceived of guilt exclusively as
   guilt before God (disobedience), and entirely set aside the traditional
   doctrine (see even Augustine) that in redemption (by means of the
   crucifixion of the God-man) the question is about satisfying the devil;
   [140] (4) that he discarded a merely esthetic, or an externally historical,
   grounding of the death on the Cross (Christ did not die because it was
   prophesied, nor because the accomplishment of redemption had to correspond
   in its particulars with the history of Adam and the fall); (5) it is a point
   of much importance that Anselm made earnest efforts to prove the moral
   necessity of this precise mode of redemption. [141] That which he calls
   “reason” (ratio) is, at least in many lines of proof, nothing but the strict
   moral imperative, and is accordingly entirely admissible here, and he
   expressly refuses to lay at the basis of his investigation the conception of
   an unrestricted divine arbitrariness; with deeper insight and more courage
   than Augustine, he rather assumes everywhere that God’s omnipotence is in
   inner subjection to His holy will. What, in his judgment, makes it possible
   to reflect rightly on God’s arrangements is just our title to feel assured
   that the supreme righteousness and the supreme mercy, which He is Himself,
   can be understood by us as righteousness and mercy. Finally (6), according
   to Anselm, Jesus Christ, in His historic person and through His death, is
   for us the redemption. The grace of God is nothing but the redeeming work of
   Christ, i.e., the thought of grace is now for the first time entirely
   dissociated from that of nature and located in history, i.e., is connected
   solely with the person of Christ.

   But contrasted with these excellences there are so many defects that this
   theory is entirely untenable. To a great extent these defects lie so much on
   the surface, and do such violence, equally to reason and to morality (not to
   speak of the attack on the gospel), that if the present-day theology stood
   under normal conditions not a word would have to be lost upon them. But as
   the current theology stands under the dominating influence of traditional
   faith and Romanticism, and discards all the criteria of gospel, morality,
   logic, and culture, when it sees the “necessity of the possibility” of the
   traditional objects of its faith in some way justified, some discussion will
   here be in its right place. Besides what has been already noted above, the
   following things fall to be observed:

   First, the theory contains a series of imperfections, or, say
   contradictions; for (1) the necessarium is to be strictly carried through,
   yet at important points Anselm does not get beyond the conveniens, above all
   at the most important point, that it is just to men that the merit of Christ
   is imparted (II. 19, pp. 93 fin.). Moreover, that God accepts the death of
   the God-man for the wrong done to Him is not based on strict necessity, for
   the sin of men, and the nature of the satisfaction of Christ, have nothing
   inwardly in common; [142] (2) the satisfaction theory must be brought to a
   point in a way that is foreign to it, that it may be proved to have any
   effect at all. That is to say, the theory itself, strictly taken, only goes
   so far as to show that God’s injured honour is vindicated and men take an
   example from the death of Christ to adhere steadfastly to righteousness,
   even under the severest sufferings. But how can they take an example? Will
   the example, then, have the power to incite to earnest imitation? Will they
   not rather go on sinning? Yet the whole provision, according to Anselm,
   avails only for those who regulate their life according to Holy Scripture.
   So the provision will be a failure! Anselm certainly felt this, and
   therefore passed quite beyond his theory by asserting that God sees occasion
   for His rewarding the voluntary action of the God-man, and for His
   conferring this reward on men, by reckoning to them as the kinsmen of Christ
   the merit of Christ, without which they shall be quite unable to become
   imitators of Christ. This turn of thought does all honour to Anselm’s piety;
   but it destroys his doctrine of satisfaction; for if Christ’s suffering
   establishes merit, it does not contain strict reparation; but if it contains
   satisfaction, it establishes no merit. Nor does Anselm speak here of a
   surplus merit, but he suddenly regards the whole work of Christ as merit;
   but then it is not satisfaction. Further, when men suddenly come to be
   considered as kinsmen of Jesus, the question arises as to why this
   standpoint — that Christ is to be regarded as the head of elect humanity —
   was not asserted at the beginning of the inquiry. (3) The way in which the
   conceptions of the righteousness and honour of God are treated is full of
   contradictions. On the one hand righteousness, it is maintained, finds
   expression in penalty as much as in the positive attainment of salvation as
   an end; on the other hand righteousness requires that this end be reached.
   In keeping with this is the way the conception of honour is dealt with;
   indeed, three conceptions are here presupposed. First of all, it must be
   held entirely impossible for God to receive personal wrong; His honour can
   suffer absolutely no injury (I., 15: “By nothing can the honour of God, so
   far as it is concerned, be increased or diminished; since for itself it is
   the same incorruptible and absolutely immutable honour”). Then it is
   asserted that His honour, certainly, can be injured, but that it can
   likewise be restored, either by penalty (damnation of the human race) or by
   satisfaction. Lastly, it is asserted that the honour of God cannot tolerate
   the destruction of His world-plan, which culminates in the salvation of the
   reasonable creature, that, accordingly, God must forego penalty, bring about
   the salvation of the creature, and therefore choose satisfaction. (4) While
   in general the idea is always carried through, that on account of His honour
   God cannot simply pardon men, the turn of thought occurs in c. 19, p. 41,
   that God cannot do so on man’s account, because a man polluted by sin, even
   though he were restored to paradise, would not be as he was before the fall.
   Yet this important turn of thought is not wrought out to a further issue.
   (5) It is asserted of God that He stands above all change of human
   conditions, and supports all things by His holy omnipotence; hence the rule
   holds good (l.c.): “it is not for man to transact with God as an equal with
   an equal.” Yet this rule is contravened by the whole exposition, which
   proceeds on the principle (I. 23, p. 47): “Man never should, and never can,
   receive from God what God has proposed to give him, unless he restores to
   God all that he took from Him, so that as God has lost by him, He shall also
   recover by him.” This principle places God and man entirely on the same
   footing as injured and injurer. God is wronged as a man is wronged. But if
   it is said, that in point of fact, as moral beings, they would stand on the
   same footing, yet this correct observation must not alter the fundamental
   relationship, that God is the Lord and man His creature. (6) The assumption
   that Christ’s death was voluntary, in the sense that He could also have
   declined death, cannot be carried through without contradiction, and yet, as
   Anselm knew very well, everything in his theory depends on this point. First
   of all, Anselm can only set aside by clumsy sophisms the Bible passages that
   assert that death was included in the obedience of Christ, and that He drank
   the cup in trembling fulfilment of the will of the Father. Secondly, when
   the subject itself is dealt with, it cannot be proved that the obedience of
   Christ did not extend to the suffering of death, for as it was — according
   to Anselm — the man Christ that suffered, death is also included in what He
   owed to God, since man, even apart from sin, owes himself entirely to God.
   The action, moreover, which Christ offered up when He died “to the honour of
   God” was not objective; it was personal. But — again according to Anselm —
   man is under obligation to direct all personal action “to the honour of
   God.” [143]

   Second, the old ecclesiastical material with which Anselm works is not
   adapted to the new purposes for which he employs it. From the time of
   Athanasius, and even earlier, the doctrine of the two natures was so
   understood as to imply that the God-Logos is the subject, and that He takes
   human nature into the unity of His divine being. This idea alone suits the
   purpose which the Greeks had in view, namely, to explain the reality of the
   conquest of death, and the deification of our nature. From this as a
   starting-point, Athanasius developed in detail a multitude of points of
   view, this among the rest, that by His dying — which was possible to Him
   through the human nature — the God-Logos bore the penalty, and expelled
   death from human nature. But Anselm wished to trace back everything to
   satisfaction, and he adhered strictly to the correct theory of Ambrose and
   Augustine, that it was the man Jesus who died, and that it is He therefore
   who is our mediator. At the same time, however, the impossibility of
   reconciling this view with the doctrine of the two natures now at last found
   definite expression in him; for where the subject of the redeeming
   personality is regarded, not as the God-Logos, but as, with Anselm, the man,
   there is a cancelling, not, indeed, of the Godhead of Christ, but certainly
   of the two-nature doctrine. The term, “the Godhead of Christ,” occurs in
   Anselm, within the lines of the strict theory, only as a determination of
   the value of the human person in his action. [144] Christ appears as the
   man, whose life has an infinite value. That that is something quite
   different from the second person of the Godhead is obvious. [145] When
   Anselm now continues to use the two-nature doctrine as a hallowed tradition,
   a quite Nestorian diremption of the person is the result (see I. 9, 10),
   such as had regularly occurred in the West from the time of Augustine, when
   there was an attempt to work out one’s own Christology as a doctrine of
   redemption, and yet a refusal to relinquish that doctrine of natures. But
   further, the two-nature doctrine still appears welcome on this ground also,
   namely, that by means of it every difficulty whatever which the theory of
   redemption offers can be got quit of; for as everything conceivable can be
   distributed between the predicates, “human and divine natures,” one finds
   himself herewith equal to any difficulty, and can suppress every doubt, and
   excuse all indolence of thought. Anselm confessed that himself in a naïve
   way (c. 17, p. 85): “What does not answer to the man in Christ must be
   transferred to the God, what does not suit the God must be applied to the
   man.” In this way the earnest Greek speculation, which always stood for the
   unity of the God-man, was discarded; and thus it continued to be in the
   West. Among those who to-day interject in discussion the “Godhead” of
   Christ, how many reflect that the term obliges them to prove the
   divine-human unity, and that, if they imagine they may disregard this
   obligation, an Athanasius and the Fathers of dogma would despise them as
   empty talkers or as heretics? These men knew full well that the mere term,
   “the divinity of Christ,” affirms simply nothing, is heretical, indeed,
   because the God-manhood must be proved. But to those in the West that no
   longer occurs; for they neither can, nor will, prove it, by employing the
   means of the Greeks; nay, they follow quite a different scheme in the
   doctrine of redemption: Christ is the man whose action has an infinite
   value. If, then, the term, “doctrine of two-natures,” continues in use, then
   among those who really reflect on Christ as Redeemer it is deprived of its
   meaning through the Western conception of it. Hence it is only used still in
   the service of “conservative interests,” or to secure an authorised
   exemption from all energetic reflection on Christ as Redeemer by means of
   the convenient formula; this He did as God, and that as man.

   Third, besides what has been set forth up to this point, there is still a
   series of the gravest objections to be urged against the whole character of
   the Anselmic doctrine. Let us only briefly indicate them: (1) In many
   passages, and these, too, the most important, Anselm proceeds according to a
   logic by which already everything can be proved. The gravest malpractices of
   Scholasticism already betray themselves in him; the self-restraint of the
   ancient thinkers, modest as was the expression given to it by the Fathers,
   is wanting to him. (2) Everything is conceived of quite abstractly, very
   much in the way in which a clever child thinks and speaks of such things,
   This theory manages to describe the work of redemption by Jesus Christ
   without adducing a single saying of His (what is brought forward does not
   serve to elucidate, but consists in the explaining away of important
   passages of Scripture). Anselm holds it as superfluous to accentuate any one
   personal feature in the picture of Christ; the sinless man with the
   infinitely valuable life is enough. The death of Christ is entirely severed
   from His life-work on earth, and isolated. This God-man need not have
   preached, and founded a kingdom, and gathered disciples; he only required to
   die. (3) There is no reference to the eternal election of the Christian
   community, or the reference is only feeble (see I. 16, and in connection
   with Mary). As the Kingdom of God is not spoken of, so neither is the
   Church, and its eternal existence in the view of God. The category of the
   inner moral necessity of the good and holy even for God is consistently
   confounded with that of reason (ratio), by means of which, it is
   represented, one can constrain even a heathen to believe in the God-man, the
   result being that the mystery of faith is profaned. (4) Sin is conceived of
   certainly as guilt before God; but this guilt is not the want of trust
   (faith) in Him, but is conceived of as a personal injury. How any one
   pleases to deal with personal injuries is a matter for himself; on the other
   hand, the guilt which is want of child-like fear and love, and which
   destroys God’s world, must be wiped out, whether it be in wrath or in love.
   Anselm fails to see that. (5) And this brings us to the worst thing in
   Anselm’s theory: the mythological conception of God as the mighty private
   man, who is incensed at the injury done to His honour and does not forego
   His wrath till He has received an at least adequately great equivalent; the
   quite Gnostic antagonism between justice and goodness, the Father being the
   just one, and the Son the good; the frightful idea (as compared with which
   the views of the lathers and the Gnostics are far to be preferred) that
   mankind are delivered from the wrathful God; [146] the illusory performance
   between Father and Son, while the Son is one with the Father; the illusory
   performance of the Son with Himself, for according to Anselm the Son offers
   Him-self to Himself (II. 18: “filius ad honorem suum seipsum sibi obtulit”);
   [147] the blasphemous idea that the Son’s giving of life (datio vitæ) is for
   God, as acceptance of death (acceptio mortis), a benefit; the dreadful
   thought that God is superior to man, as having the prerogative of not being
   able to forgive from love, a payment always being needed by Him (I. 12); the
   vitiated conception of our prayer to God for forgiveness, that it is a part
   of our satisfaction, but can never in itself have the effect of forgiveness
   (I. 19: “qui non solvit, frustra dicit: dimitte”). If it is now added that,
   as has been shown above, there is proved by all this only the possibility of
   our being saved, that the thought of the penalty of sin is eliminated (and
   therefore the righteousness of God too laxly conceived of), that here no
   innocent one suffers penalty for the guilty, and that, in the effect upon
   us, only the feeble thought of example comes clearly to view, then we must
   say, that in spite of Anselm’s good intentions, and in spite of some correct
   perceptions, no theory so bad had ever before his day been given out as
   ecclesiastical. But perhaps no one can frame a better, who isolates the
   death of Christ from His life, and wishes to see in this death something
   else than the consummation of the “service” which He rendered throughout His
   life. [148]

   In its complete form Anselm’s theory exercised little influence. The
   conception, which he only touched on, of the “meritoriousness” of the work
   of Christ, very rapidly came to the front, and made his satisfaction theory
   — which, moreover, conflicted with the Augustinian tradition — without
   effect. Added to this was the fact that interest in the proof of our
   reconciliation to God was not satisfied by Him. At this point Abelard
   intervened, without giving, certainly, a connected and exact development of
   the doctrine. [149] After rejecting still more decidedly than Anselm the
   relation of the death on the Cross to the devil, he sets out from the
   fundamental thought of the love of God, and at the same time makes it clear
   to himself that sin has separated men from God, that it is a question
   therefore of bringing them back to God, and of again imparting to them trust
   in God. Further, he keeps it before him that the fruit of redemption relates
   to the chosen, with regard to whom God’s disposition did not first need to
   be changed. Accordingly, the incarnation and death of the Son of God can be
   conceived of only as an act of love, and even the righteousness of God must
   be so defined that it is subordinated to love, or, say, is identical with
   it. It was not required then that Christ should first assuage the wrath of
   God. It is as easy for God to forgive sin as it was for Him to bring into
   existence a sinless man, who united himself to Christ. But in order really
   to win us for Himself, Christ has given us the highest proof of love, which
   kindles our cold hearts and leads us back to the trust and love of God.
   Further (the reflections do not stand in a strict order) in this deed of
   Christ in dying on the Cross God beholds us, that is, He forgives us our
   sins, in so far as He reckons to us the merit of Christ, because Christ
   stands before God as the head of humanity; He likewise lets the merit of the
   perfect righteousness of Christ fall to our advantage; for in the obedience
   of Christ God is satisfied. Finally, Christ goes on working continuously for
   us, for inasmuch as He prays for us unceasingly to the Father, it is in
   keeping with the righteousness of God to reckon to us this merit. But by
   Christ’s “merit” Abelard never understands “a sum of distinct actions; the
   fulness of love to God dwelling in Christ is His merit.” “Thus it is in
   will, not in works, which are common to the good and evil, that all merit
   consists. [150] There is therefore here nothing objective and nothing
   magical. Even the death on the Cross is not estimated as an objective deed,
   but belongs entirely — as a chief part — to the evidences of the love of
   Christ which He exhibited from the beginning. Christ’s merit is His service
   of love; but love calls forth responsive love, and he who loves (because
   Christ has first loved him) has forgiveness of sins granted him, nay, in the
   interchange of love which springs from Christ there lies the forgiveness of
   sins itself. [151]

   Abelard has furnished no strict proof for the necessity of the death on the
   Cross; his propositions, moreover, are inadequate, because he has not
   clearly perceived that that love is the highest, is indeed alone effectual,
   which, by taking the penalty upon itself, reveals at the same time the
   greatness of the absolution and the greatness of the cancelled guilt. He did
   not perceive that the sinner cannot be otherwise delivered from guilt than
   by experiencing and seeing the penalty of guilt. But he had too keen a sense
   of the love of his God, and of the oneness of God and Christ, to entertain
   the Gnostic thought that God needs a sacrifice or an equivalent, or that for
   Him Christ’s death is a benefit. And he knew himself so intimately united to
   Christ in living fellowship that it was he who first introduced again into
   the doctrine of redemption the apostolic thought of the perpetual
   intercession of Christ for us, and on the other hand saw also in the earthly
   life of Christ, not one proof of love — the death — but a continuous stream
   of love, in which the “work” of Christ also, namely His “ merit,” i.e., the
   operation of His loving will, is included. [152]

   The polemic against Abelard directed itself also against his theory of
   redemption; but it was contested essentially from the basis of the
   Augustinian theory of redemption (vanquishment of the claim of the devil),
   while there was no following of Anselm. [153] At the same time all were
   increasingly at one in this, that the point of view of merit must be
   applied, and that Christ must be contemplated as Redeemer in the light of
   His human quality. With this understanding also the Lombard drew up his
   connected account of the opinions of the Fathers in his doctrinal
   compendium. As in the case of Augustine, the “man” (homo) in Christ takes
   the prominent place, as the moral personality chosen and sustained by God,
   and the whole life of Christ is understood from this point of view. [154] At
   the same time, in order to understand the peculiar nature of redemption, all
   points of view were combined that were furnished by the past: obedience,
   redemption from the devil, death and penalty, but, above all, the merit of
   death, then also sacrifice. With Augustine, the strict necessity of this
   precise means (death on the Cross) is rejected; with him and the other
   Fathers, the buying off of the devil (including deception) is asserted. With
   Abelard, the death is viewed as a proof of love, which awakens counter love;
   with him Christ is regarded as the representative of humanity before God;
   with Augustine, the necessity for a reconciliation of God through the death
   of Christ is rejected (God loves even His enemies; He has loved us
   beforehand from eternity, and we are reconciled, not with the wrathful, but
   with the loving God); finally, a penal value in the death of Christ is
   asserted, in the sense that by it the eternal penalty is remitted (see
   Athanasius), the temporal penalty in future (after death) falls away. On the
   other hand the Anselmic theory is not mentioned at all. [155] The Lombard
   shows therefore that the patristic tradition still continued to be the only
   subject of doctrine, and that it was only with an effort that what was new
   asserted itself against it. Yet the whole undertaking to give a combined and
   connected view was itself new (on which account the Lombard was regarded
   with much distrust as an Abelardian) [156]

   Not till the thirteenth century did the new dogmatic impulses of the
   eleventh and twelfth centuries take their place with equal rights,
   materially, though not formally, alongside the mass of traditional patristic
   tenets. By the latter, which were represented partly by a voluminous
   exegetical tradition, and partly by theological positions no longer
   understood in their original connection, the trivial spirit of mediæval
   theology was fostered, which mingled in a marvellous way with its energy and
   with its juristic acuteness. The statement of the thesis in scholastic
   science was invariably lofty and great; “but by its love for details even
   heaven was dragged down.” From the scientific standpoint, and from the
   standpoint of “juristic thinking,” we cannot find fault, certainly, with
   this spirit; for does not science require that the problems be thought out
   to their ultimate consequences? The error lay simply in the premises, and in
   the idea that that thinking was thinking about religion. But even that idea
   it was necessary then to entertain, for religion was of course
   contemplation!
     _________________________________________________________________

   [67] So far as there was at all a single authoritative book here, it was
   Augustine’s Enchiridion. But it is characteristic that Abelard, in his
   systematic work, already added the Sacraments to faith and love.

   [68] The doctrine of the sacraments is chiefly thought of here.

   [69] Almost everything that Bach has set forth in the second volume of his
   work on the history of dogma in the Middle Ages, including the “history of
   Adoptianism in the twelfth century” and the “systematic polemic against the
   dialecticians” (p. 390 ff.; Gerhoch against the German Adoptians, p. 475
   ff.), belongs simply to the history of theology, and has no significance for
   the history of dogma.

   [70] Besides Lessing’s well-known work and Vischer, De sacra cœna adv.
   Lanfrancum lib. posterior, 1834; also the Acts of the Roman Council (Mansi
   XIX., p. 761 ff.), see Sudendorf, Berengarius, 1850; Schnitzer, Berengar v.
   Tours, sein Leben u. s. Lehre, 1890; Bach I., pp. 364-451; Reuter I., p. 91
   ff., Dieckhoff, Die Abendmahlslehre im Reform.-Zeitalter I., p. 44 ff.

   [71] Here, for the first time, the categories “subjectum,” “quod in
   subjecto,” “de subjecto,” the distinction of “esse” from “secundum quod
   esse,” in short, the dialectic manipulations of the notion of substance
   (according to Porphyry, Boethius, etc.) were applied to a dogma in the West.

   [72] The outward political side of the controversy has been thoroughly
   treated by Schwane (Studien zur Gesch. des 2. Abendmahlsstreits, 1887, see
   Loofs, Gött. Gel.-Anz., 1888, No. 15), who follows Sudendorf. On the
   antagonism to Berengar, see the accounts of Schnitzer, l.c. p. 246 ff.

   [73] Reuter’s judgment is, I., p. 97: “Thus the second controversy on the
   Eucharist became what the first was not, a struggle as to the supreme
   criteria of religious truth, a conflict of the tendency of negative
   ‘illuminism,’ directly with the authoritative ecclesiasticism of the time,
   indirectly with the Christianity of positive revelation.” This is to me
   utterly unintelligible. Even the most deeply convinced Romish theologian
   will hesitate to endorse this opinion.

   [74] See on this Reuter I., p. 95, “Paschasius ineptus ille monachus
   Corbeiensis.” Berengar is correct in seeing contradictions in Paschasius.
   The book of Ratramnus was then regarded as a work of John Scotus, and was
   condemned as such at Vercelli in 1050.

   [75] The confession of faith which was forced upon him in 1059 (composed by
   Cardinal Humbert), also contained the coarse view. Even Bach I., p. 366, n.
   4, declares the confession “at least objectionable.” In Lanfranc de corp. et
   sang. dom. 2 (Migne CL.) the words occur: “panem et vinum quæ in altari
   ponuntur post consecrationem non solum sacramentum sed etiam verum corpus et
   sanguinem J. Christi esse et sensualiter, non solum in sacramento sed et in
   veritate, manibus sacerdotum tractari et frangi et fidelium dentibus
   atteri.” The most characteristic thing is that those who were quite logical
   declared even the word “sacrament” to be unsatisfactory: “The Eucharist is
   the mystery (sacramentum) in which there is no mystery, but all takes place
   vere et sensualiter.” That is the fundamental thought of Berengar’s
   opponents. That this was a falling away from tradition stands beyond doubt.
   But the traditional theologians, as is well known, are most fanatical, when
   to the old beaten track which they call tradition, or to their fancies,
   which, from their lack of understanding, they surround with the halo of the
   venerable, there is opposed the truth that has the protection of the true
   tradition.

   [76] The controversy is also so uninspiring, because, as usual, the
   opponents exaggerated. Berengar proceeded as if he had only the view against
   him that parts of the bloody body of Christ are chewed by the teeth, while
   his adversaries asserted that according to him the elements were empty
   symbols. He had at any rate more right on his side in his description; yet
   not only Fulbert (Bach I., p. 365), but some also who were later, did not
   think of a spatial extension of the body of Christ in the converted
   elements.

   [77] See Mansi T. XIX., p. 768.

   [78] Of course the chief arguments of Berengar are derived from Scripture
   and tradition. To them he attaches decisive weight. The distinction that
   already prejudges everything, between the sensible, the visible, and the
   sacrament, the invisible — Berengar had made it the basis of his doctrine
   and the starting-point of his dialectic, as long as he could think —
   originates with Augustine. With the dialectic there mingle the beginnings of
   a more independent, a critical view of history. Yet Berengar meddles with no
   decree of any Council. Only, the decrees connected with his subject are
   ridiculed by him.

   [79] See Vischer, p. 600: “maximi plane cordis est, per omnia ad dialecticam
   confugere, quia confugere ad eam ad rationem est confugere, quo qui non
   confugit, cum secundum rationem sit factus ad imaginem dei, suum honorem
   reliquit nec potest renovari de die in diem ad imaginem dei.”

   [80] 1Berengar compares the description of Christ as a lion, lamb,
   corner-stone.

   [81] P. 199: “constabit, eum qui opinetur, Christi corpus cœlo devocatum
   adesse sensualiter in altari, ipsum se dejicere, quod vecordium est, dum
   confirmat se manu frangere, dente atterere Christi corpus, quod tamen ipsum
   negare non possit impossibile esse et incorruptibile.”

   [82] The last point was for Berengar of the greatest weight. He always
   regards his opponents as assuming that there are “portiunculæ” of the body
   of Christ on the altar, and objects to this, (1) that it is a question of
   the whole body (see pp. 148, 199 f.); (2) that the body of Christ is not
   something “corruptible,” which can be touched, broken, and bitten. Then,
   again, the bread is not capable of affording room for such a body, and then
   the “sensualiter” is above all objected to. The incorruptibility and
   uniqueness of the body of Christ are the presuppositions of his dialectic. A
   body so constituted cannot become sensible, and it cannot be at the same
   time in a thousand places. The expedient also of supposing a creating-anew
   of the body of Christ is effectively refuted by him; this would involve us
   in the thought of two bodies.

   [83] Here Berengar emphasised the correct logical reflection, “quod in
   subjecto erat superesse quacunque ratione non potest corrupto subjecto” (p.
   93), i.e., when the substance is destroyed, the essential attributes (taste,
   colour, form) cannot remain behind; or p. 59: “non potest res ulla aliquid
   esse, si desinat ipsum esse.” Even Protestant historians will take no
   account of such reasons.

   [84] It most be assumed that it rests on accommodation; for although there
   answers to the sacrament a res sacramenti, which is created by the
   consecration, yet it is certainly not a question of transmutation. Nor did
   the old tradition furnish this term. In substance Berengar is a correct
   Augustinian; hence it is unnecessary to quote further passages. The proper
   expression for what Berengar means would be a divine “auctio” in the
   elements, and so also he has expressed himself, p. 98. On the other hand, it
   is said, p. 125: “per consecrationem altaris fiunt panis et vinum sacramenta
   religionis, non ut desinat esse quæ fuerant, sed ut sint quæ erant et in
   aliud commutentur.”

   [85] “Christi corpus totum constat accipi ab interiore homine, fidelium
   corde, non ore” (p. 148). At the same time also a memorial feast:
   “spiritualis comestio, quæ fit in mente.”

   [86] v. above p. 47, note 2.

   [87] On the interesting relation of Berengar to the Curia and Gregory VII.,
   see Reuter I., p. 116 ff., 120 ff.

   [88] The formula (in Lanfranc, c. 2) was milder than that of 1059, but yet
   sufficiently plain: “Ego Berengarius corde credo et ore confiteor panem et
   vinum quæ ponuntur in altari per mysterium sacræ orationis et verba nostri
   redemptoris substantialiter converta in veram et propriam et vivicatricem
   carnem et sanguinem J. Christi et post consecrationem esse verum corpus
   Christi, quod natum est de virgine . . .et quod sedet ad dexteram patris
   . . .non tantum per signum et virtutem sacramenti sed in proprietate naturæ
   et veritate substantiæ.”

   [89] In his two treatises (of date 1157) against the followers of
   Soterichos, in whose opinion the mass was not offered to the Son, but only
   to the Father and Spirit, Nicolas of Methone used the expression
   metastoicheiōsis, see Hefele V.2, p. 568. These treatises were published by
   Dimitracopulos in the year 1865 (see Reusch, Theol. Lit.-Blatt, 1866, No.
   11).

   [90] Yet everything acquired settled form only in the thirteenth century:
   the questions resulting from the new doctrine are innumerable.

   [91] Lanfranc, 1.c. c. 20: even sinners and the unworthy receive the true
   body of Christ. Only in this respect did Lanfranc develop the doctrine
   beyond Paschasius.

   [92] There was an aiming above all at recognising the whole Christ as
   present in the host, at reconciling the Augustinian, as well as the older
   rich and manifold conception of the Eucharist as a whole, with the
   transmutation doctrine, at rationalising the relation of element to verum
   corpus Christi by dialectic distinctions of accident and substance, at
   reconciling the presence of Christ in heaven with the sacramental presence,
   and at not forgetting, too, in these speculations the Church as corpus
   Christi. Note here as specially important the treatise de corp. et sang.
   Christi veritate in eucharistia, by Guitmund of Aversa (Migne CXLIX.), who
   certainly learned from Berengar. For the theories of other opponents of
   Berengar (Lanfranc, Adelmann of Brixen, Hugo of Langres, Durandus of
   Troaune, Alger of Lüttich, Abelard [he taught differently from Berengar, see
   Deutsch, l.c. pp. 401 f., 405 ff.], Walter of St. Victor, Honorius of Autun,
   etc.), see in Bach p. 382 ff. On the German theologians who occupied
   themselves with the doctrine of the Eucharist, see ibid., p. 399 ff. (the
   Reichersberg theologians, Gerhoch, Rupert of Deutz; in the last named there
   is a peculiar, spiritualistic consubstantiation doctrine). Guitmund
   attributed the whole Christ to every particle, and thereby led on to the new
   view, first expressed by Anselm, that the whole Christ is container) in one
   form (ep. IV., 107); “in acceptione sanguinis totum Christum deum et hominem
   et in acceptione corporis similiter totem accipimus.” In this the dogmatic
   basis was laid for withholding the cup, which afterwards became the rule.
   There is interest connected with the timid attempts that were made to teach
   also a “certain” incorruptibility of the accidents of the converted
   substances (these terms are now used even by the orthodox). Yet appearance
   witnessed against this assumption, and there was not yet resolution enough
   to adopt the doctrine that even here the empirical misleads. That Lutheran
   theologians take sides with Berengar’s opponents (Thomasius-Seeberg, p. 48:
   “really religious position as opposed to the rationalising misinterpretation
   of this man,” cf. Reuter), although their final argument was the omnipotence
   of God, belongs to the peculiarities of the Romantic theology of the
   nineteenth century. Thomasius (p. 49) is specially delighted with the timid
   anticipations of the doctrine of the ubiquity of the substance of the body
   of the heavenly Christ in Alger (de sacram. corp. et sang. domini I.,
   11-16), whereby the difficulties which attach to the idea of the creatio of
   the Eucharistic body are to be set aside (Bach. I., p. 389 ff.): “Christ can
   be corporeally present wherever he wills.” For the rest (see Lanfranc),
   there was as yet no more declared than that with the body exalted to the
   right hand of God the Eucharistic body is identical, and yet not identical.
   How necessary here, therefore, was the so much despised dialectic of
   Berengar!

   [93] See Baur, Lehre von der Versöhnung; Hasse, Anselm, 1853; Ritschl,
   Rechtfertigung und Versöhnung 2 Aufl. I., p. 31 ff.

   [94] See the confidence in the unlimited mercy of God on the part of the
   Carlovingian theologians, especially Alcuin (Hauck, K.-Deutschlands II., p.
   136 f.).

   [95] See Vol. V., p. 323 ff.

   [96] The necessity resulted, no doubt, when the right of the devil over
   mankind was thought of. Beyond this, it may be said that we have in one
   respect an anticipation of the Anselmic representation in the sermon
   composed about 500 by a contemporary of Faustus of Reji: Why Christ redeemed
   mankind from the power of the devil, not through the use of His divine
   might, but by becoming man, fulfilling the law, suffering and dying.
   (Caspari, Briefe, Abhandlungen und Predigten, 1890, pp. 202 ff. 411 ff.).
   The whole view of redemption, it is true, is still given here under the
   scheme of redemption from the devil, but the mode of redemption is dominated
   by the thought that “deus est rationis atque justitiæ et auctor et
   exactor.” Something similar is also to be found in some homilies of Faustus
   (see Caspari, 1.c. p. 418 ff.).

   [97] Edit. II., by Fritzsche, 1886.

   [98] Cremer (die Wurzeln des Anselm’schen Satisfactionsbegriff, in den Stud.
   und Krit. 1880, p. 7 ff.) has endeavoured to show that the fundamental
   thesis of Anselm’s satisfaction theory (I. 13: “necesse est, ut aut ablatus
   honor solvatur aut pœna sequatur.Edit. II., by Fritzsche, 1886. I. 15:
   “necesse est, ut omne peccatum satisfactio aut pœna sequatur”) is of
   Germanic origin. The correspondence is no doubt easily proved, but the Roman
   law also knows of this alternative in the case of private offences, and
   there can be no doubt that the Church, in its ordinances of penance, had
   acted on the principle, “aut pœnitentia legitima (satisfactio congrua) aut
   mors acterna,” long ere it learned to know Germanic law. In Tertullian,
   certainly, there still prevails another idea, when (de pudic. 2) he says:
   “omne delictum aut venia dispungit aut pœna”; but the fatal turn of thought
   is already anticipated, when he forthwith adds: “venia ex castigatione, pœna
   ex damnatione.” — Thus I had written in the first edition; since then,
   Cremer has again described his standpoint in the Stud. u. Krit., 1893 (pp.
   316-345). I must adhere to the position that it is not necessary for
   understanding Anselm to have recourse to the Germanic notion of
   satisfaction, since the material in hand, of which we have to take account,
   is quite sufficiently given in the prevailing practice and theory of
   penance. These go back in the West to the time of Cyprian, or say of
   Tertullian (see Wirth, Der Verdienstbegriff bei Tertullian, 1892; see also
   Tertullian’s notion of “compensatio,” cf. Apolog. 50: “veniam dei
   compensatione sanguinis expedire”), and developed themselves everywhere in
   the same way. It may be enough to point to Sulpitius Severus (Dial. II. 10),
   who was certainly not affected by Germanic influence: “fornicatio deputatur
   ad pœnam, nisi satisfactione purgatur.” That is surely clearly enough the
   Anselmic scheme. (See other passages in Karl Müller, Abhandl. f. Weizsäcker,
   1892, p. 290 f.: God is satisfied with a lesser performance; this appears
   sometimes as mutatio of, sometimes as compensatio for, the eternal penalty.)
   Nor is it advisable here, or in Tertullian, to speak of “compensating
   penalty” (“Ersatzstrafe”) as distinct from “compensation for injury”
   (“Schadenersatz”), for these notions cannot at all be strictly kept apart
   everywhere. “The sacrifices that are well-pleasing to God are a broken
   spirit, a broken and contrite heart.” From this passage and similar ones,
   from the consensus gentium also, which may very well be appealed to here,
   and finally from the rule, well-known even to the Romans, as to every other
   nation, that private injuries are cancelled by indemnifications which
   restore to the injured party his honour, it is quite sufficiently explained,
   how in the gemitus, lamentationes, humiliationes, etc., there should both be
   recognised mortificationes temporales, and also something seen which changes
   the feeling of the angry God and makes Him again gracious. That is
   compensation for injury as regards the honour of God (because voluntary
   self-humiliation), for in the normal relationship one is not obliged in such
   a way to testify his subjection (therefore it is also a “merit” — i.e.,
   something which God gladly sees and prizes — when in this condition one
   nevertheless offers those performances, and under certain circumstances a
   saint can also offer them for a sinner). But it can also be described as
   compensating penalty, for the satisfaction, it is true, and even the
   Anselmic is no exception, is in no sense endurance of deserved penalty, but
   it is a performance, which to the performer is painful and arduous. In Roman
   public law the pœna is certainly the satisfactio — that has not been
   disputed — but, so far as I know, in the penitential discipline of the
   ancient Church the satisfactio was never thought of purely in the forms of
   Roman law (against Cremer, p. 316), but was always the evasion of penalty by
   acts which were at once (as castigatio) compensating penalties and (as
   surplus exercise of lowly submission to God) compensations for injury. It
   may be that to the man of the ancient world the compensating penalty was
   more distinctly present than the compensation for injury, although all
   public penal procedure has developed itself from compensating performances,
   and the consciousness of this has never disappeared (even “pœna” is
   originally “ransom”). But when Cremer asserts: “The term and conception
   ‘penance’ (Busse), in the penal law and current language of the Romish
   Church, springs from the satisfactio of German law,” that is an error which
   prejudices all his further exposition (see also Loots, Dogmengesch.3, p. 273
   f.). At the same time it may be held by way of reservation that the
   transfusion of the penance discipline of the Church with Germanic ideas
   strengthened the theory, and gave a casuistic tinge and externality to the
   practice (Weregild, instead of, and in addition to, cor humiliatum and
   lamentationes). So also the peculiar expression Anselm gives to the notion
   “honour” of God is perhaps due to Germanic influence, although one must look
   very closely to discover a shade of difference on this point between
   Anselm’s God and the injured and wrathful God of Tertullian. Why then
   (according to Tertullian) is God injured by sins? Because the obedience is
   withheld which is due to His commands. When Cremer asserts (p. 329) that in
   the ancient penance discipline, the satisfactio congrua (“congrua” — that
   is, determined by the penance regulations; the expression can be pointed out
   already in the fourth century) was as much penalty as the mors æterna, that
   is certainly a wonderful statement. When, finally (p. 326), he throws on me
   the burden of proving that the Roman law, in the case of private injuries,
   recognises the alternative: “aut pœna aut satisfactio,” I grant that I
   expressed myself too strongly, and in a way not incapable of being
   misunderstood. The law, so far as it was publicly administered and codified,
   may no longer recognise this principle; but a jurist like Tertullian shows
   that the scheme must have been a familiar one, and how can we think of the
   settlement of private wrongs at all otherwise than by supposing that a
   satisfactio is rendered to the injured?

   [100] Augustine already propounded the question of the absolute necessity of
   redemption by means of the incarnation and death of the Logos, but answered
   it in the negative. He saw in this means not the only, though certainly the
   worthiest, way.

   [101] I. 1.

   [102] “I. 2: Sicut rectus ordo exigit, ut profunda christianæ fidei prius
   credamus, quam ea præsumamus ratione discutere.”

   [103] I. 3, 4: “. . .Multa alia, quæ studiose considerata inenarrabilem
   quandam nostræ redemptionis hoc modo procuratæ pulchritudinem (see
   Augustine) ostendunt . . .sed si non est aliquid solidum super quod sedeant,
   non videntur infidelibus sufficere.”

   [104] I. 5,

   [105] I. 6, 7.

   [106] I. 8-10. In the 2nd Book this decisive point is repeatedly treated
   very fully in c. 10, 11 and 16, 18.

   [107] In the course of it (I. 16-18) the Augustinian theologoumenon, that
   the men destined to salvation take the place of the fallen angels, fills a
   large space. But it is in no way connected with the doctrine of
   satisfaction. Anselm differs from Augustine in this, that he thinks that the
   number of saved men is greater than that of the fallen angels; from the
   beginning God had in view the numerus beatorum as consisting of angels and
   men. Otherwise the creation of men would be simply a consequence of the fall
   among the angels, and there would result the inconveniens that we men should
   have to rejoice over this fall. This correction of the Augustinian doctrine
   does all honour to Anselm’s heart; but as the doctrine has its point in the
   equally great number of the fallen angels and saved men, it is really
   cancelled by Anselm. Yet he was himself not quite sure of his case. See I.
   18, p. 37.

   [108] I. 11: “non est aliud peccare quam non reddere deo debitum . . .
   debitum est subjectum esse voluntate deo . . .hæc est justitia sive
   rectitudo voluntatis, quæ justos facit sive rectos corde, i.e., voluntate,
   hic est solus et totus honor quem debemus deo . . .hunc honorem debitum qui
   deo non reddit, aufert deo quod suum est et deum exhonorat, et hoc est
   peccare.”

   [109] I. II: “non sufficit solummodo reddere quod ablatum est, sed pro
   contumelia illata plus debet reddere, quam abstulit, sicut enim qui lædit
   salutem alterius, non sufficit si salutem restituit, nisi pro illata doloris
   injuria recompenset aliquid, ita qui honorem alicujus violat, non sufficit
   honorem reddere, si non secundum exhonorationis factam molestiam aliquid,
   quod placeat illi quem exhonoravit, restituit. Hoc quoque attendendum, quod
   cum aliquis quod injuste abstulit solvit, hoc debet dare, quod ab illo non
   posset exigi, si alienum non rapuisset.”

   [110] I. 11 fin.

   [111] I. 12.

   [112] I. 13, see above, p. 56, note 3.

   [113] I. 14: “deum impossibile est honorem suum perdere: aut enim peccator
   sponte solvit quod debet aut deus ab invito accipit.”

   [114] I. 15.

   [115] In II. 4, it is said indeed (cf. I. 4): “Si nihil pretiosius agnoscimr
   deus fecisse quam rationalem naturam ad gaudendum de se, valde alienum est
   ab eo, ut ullam rationalem naturam penitus perire sinat.” I. 25, p. 52.

   [116] I. 19.

   [117] I. 19: The Interlocutor says: “Quid est, quod dicimus deo: dimitte
   nobis debita nostra, et omnis gens orat deum quem credit, ut dimittat sibi
   peccata? Si enim solvimus quod debemus, cur oramus ut dimittat? Numquid deus
   injustus est, ut iterum exigat quod solutum est? Si autem non solvimus, cur
   frustra oramus, ut faciat quod, quia non convenit, facere non potest?” To
   this Anselm replies: “Qui non solvit, frustra dicit: dimitte; qui autem
   solvit, supplicat, quoniam hoc ipsum pertinet ad solutionem ut supplicet;
   nam deus nulli quicquam debet, sed omnis creatura illi debet; et ideo non
   expedit homini, ut agat cum deo, quemadmodum par cum pari.” Unfortunately
   Anselm has forgotten this last thought in his exposition elsewhere.

   [118] See above, p. 60, note 3.

   [119] I. 20.

   [120] See the exposition in I. 21. Because every sin is committed contra
   voluntatem dei, it is greater than the value of the world — infinitely
   great. Further (I. 22), because man in paradise preferred the devil to God,
   it is “contra honorem dei, ut homo reconcilietur illi cum calumnia hujus
   contumeliæ deo irrogatæ, nisi prius honoraverit deum vincendo diabolum,
   sicut inhonoravit ilium victus a diabolo.” But how can he do that?

   [121] I. 23.

   [122] I. 24.

   [123] I. 4, and the strongest passage, I. 25: “Si deo inconveniens est,
   hominem cum aliqua macula perducere ad hoc, ad quod ilium sine omni macula
   facit, ne aut boni incepti pænitere aut propositum implere non posse
   videatur: multo magis propter eandem inconvenientiam impossibile est nullum
   hominem ad hoc provehi, ad quo factus est.” In II. 4, 5, it is said, indeed,
   that while God “nihil facit necessitate, quia nullo modo cogitur aut
   prohibetur facere aliquid,” yet an inner self-willed necessity exists for
   God’s carrying out His work: “necesse est, ut bonitas dei propter
   immutabilitatem suam perficiat de homine quod incepit, quamvis totum sit
   gratia bonum quod facit.”

   [124] II. 6.

   [125] II. 7.

   [126] II. 8: The former, because the descendants of Adam must make
   satisfaction; the latter, because of the four ways in which God can create
   man (from man and woman [the rule], neither from man nor woman [Adam], from
   man alone [Eve], from woman alone), the fourth had not yet occurred. But
   that it must he a virgin, if it was to be a woman, “non opus est
   disputare.” Here is a piece of Schoiasticsm in the strictest sense of the
   term, and this kind of proof is continued in the following chapter, where it
   is shown that it had to be the second person of the Trinity who became man,
   because otherwise the predicates in the Trinity would have been destroyed,
   and for other equally cogent reasons (“duo nepotes essent in trinitate,
   quia, si pater incarnatus esset, esset nepos parentum virginis per hominem
   assumptum, et verbum cum nihil habeat de homine, nepos tamen esset virginis,
   quia filii ejus erit filius” II. 9). Here, besides, there is a working
   everywhere with “mundius,” “honestius,” in short, with relative notions.

   [127] The prolix demonstration here in II. 10, 11 and 16 ff. shows that
   Anselm did not understand how to make this point quite “rational.”

   [128] II. 11. In II. 12, 13 further allied questions are discussed. The
   God-man was not “miser,” although he took the incommoda on himself; he was
   omniscient, because otherwise he would not have been perfectly good (!).

   [129] II. 14: “Si omne bonum tam bonum est, quam mala est ejus destructio
   (!), plus est bonum incomparabiliter quam sint ea peccata mala, quæ sine
   æstimatione superat ejus interremptio . . .tantum bonum tam amabile potest
   sufficere ad solvendum quod debetur pro peccatis totius mundi, immo plus
   potest in infinitum (II. 17 fin.: plus in infinitum. II. 20: “pretium majus
   omni debito”) . . .si ergo dare vitam est mortem accipere (!), sicut datio
   hujus vitæ prævalet omnibus hominum peccatis, ita et acceptio mortis.” The
   question is next discussed, whether the death of Christ can be of advantage
   even to His enemies who crucified Him (II. 15: the question is answered
   affirmatively; for they acted in ignorance), then how Christ could be
   sinless (II. 16), for although He was conceived “absque carnalis
   delectationis peccato” — the sexual appetite is, after Augustine, original
   sin — yet Mary was not sinless. This question is discussed with much
   prolixity. Anselm was apparently at a loss for a rational solution. In the
   end, though with uncertainty, he offers the explanation, that in prospect of
   the future effect of the work of Christ, Mary was purified from her sins
   before her birth, i.e., God purified her. After this the question of the
   voluntariness of the death of Christ is again discussed; for if Mary was
   only purified in view of His death, while He needed a purified mother, it
   was necessary that He should die. This question again occupies a very large
   space, and is only solved by a subtle dialectic, which in the end cannot do
   without the support of the proposition, “ad hoc valuit in Christo diversitas
   naturarum . . .ut quod opus erat fieri ad hominum restaurationem si humana
   non posset natura, faceret divina, et si divinæ minime conveniret, exhiberet
   humana” (II. 17, p. 85).

   [130] This thought is dropped into the course of the discussion, II. 18.

   [131] II. 18.

   [132] II. 19: “intueamur nunc prout possumus, quanta inde ratione sequatur
   humana salvatio.” The Interlocutor: “ad hoc tendit cor meum.”

   [133] II. 19: “eum autem qui tantum donum sponte dat deo, sine retributione
   debere esse non judicabis . . .alioquin aut injustus (!) videretur esse si
   nollet, aut impotens si non posset.”

   [134] II. 19, p. 93 sq.

   [135] II. 19.

   [136] II. 20.

   [137] II. 21.

   [138] II. 22.

   [139] The theory of a vicarious penal suffering is to he found, along with
   the theory of ransom of men from the devil, in Athanasius, see Vol. III. p.
   308 of this work.

   [140] Whether indeed what Anselm offered as a substitute was in every
   respect better, or was not rather worse, will appear below.

   [141] A noteworthy passage already in Tertullian (de jejun. 3): “homo per
   eandem materiam causæ deo satisfacere debet, per quam offenderat.”

   [142] The keen criticism which the present-day Catholics apply to Anselm’s
   theory (see Schwane, pp. 296 ff.) rests, on the contrary, on the strong
   Scotist antipathy to unconditional necessity.

   [143] See Ritschl 1.c. I., pp, 44 f.

   [144] See Ritschl I., pp. 43 f.

   [145] Hence also the feeling in relation to Christ is quite different among
   the Latins from what it is among the Greeks. The latter look for the most
   part to the God in Christ, the former to the man. Ritschl has (p. 47)
   pointed out the remarkable, though by no means solitary, passage in
   Anselm’s Meditations (12): “Certe nescio, quia non plene comprehendere
   valeo, unde hoc est, quod longe dulcior es in corde diligentis te in eo quad
   caro es, quam in eo quod verbum: dulcior in eo, quod humilis, quam in eo
   quod sublimis . . . Hæc omnia (the human) formant et adaugent magis ac magis
   exsultationem, fiduciam et consolationem, amorem ac desiderium.”

   [146] Very correct statement by Bigg, The Christian Platonists of Alex., p.
   290: “It was reserved for Anselm, centuries afterwards, to array the justice
   against the goodness of God, and thus to complete the resemblance of
   Christianity to its ancient deadly foe” (namely, Gnosticism). Only,
   Gnosticism distinguished between the just God (the demiurge) and the good
   God as two hostile deities. But the old patristic theory was that by His
   death Christ has redeemed men from the devil. If we isolate the death from
   the life of Christ, this is in fact the best theory, for it brings no
   discord into the deity. It was no doubt a step of progress on Anselm’s part
   that he wished to carry through the thought that God is at the same time
   holy and merciful. But this thought cannot be carried through by means of
   the death of Christ as isolated, and thought of as satisfaction, if this is
   held as satisfaction to God Himself. So it is always better to let the
   satisfaction be paid to the devil, because even on that assumption the idea
   of righteousness is satisfied — in a mythological way, no doubt (the right
   view would be, that justice must he done to evil, namely by penalty) —
   without Christ the merciful and God the wrathful being brought into
   conflict, while Christ is nevertheless regarded as Himself God. That the
   latter is an impracticable thought was clearly seen, moreover, by Augustine,
   after he had weighed its possibility. Bigg points to de trinit. XIII. 11:
   “Sed quid est justificati in sanguine ipsius? Quæ vis est sanguinis hujus,
   obsecro, ut in eo justificentur credentes? Et quid est reconciliati per
   mortem filii ejus? Itane vero, cum irasceretur nobis deus pater, vidit
   mortem filii sui pro nobis et placatus est nobis?” This cannot be; “for
   omnia simul et pater et filius et amborum spiritus pariter et concorditer
   operantur.” He therefore rejects the Anselmic theory in anticipation. This
   theory can only be explained from the fact that the thought of God as the
   Father who is nigh to us had fallen into the background in the Middle Ages,
   and the old view of the Trinity as unity was no longer held. Here too,
   therefore, the ancient traditional dogma was discarded, the term Trinity
   retained.

   [147] In Constantinople the Synods from the year 1156 f. decided, that the
   mass is offered also to the Son, as He is at the same time the offerer and
   the offered, and the Trinity admits of no diremption. See Hefele V.2, p.
   567.

   [148] That Anselm himself, however, has, in other writings, carried through
   other thoughts with regard to redemption has been shown by Ritschl, l.c. I.,
   pp. 46 f., 109. He surrendered himself to the certainty of grace even
   without such calculations, on the other hand emphasised more strongly the
   conception of merit.

   [149] See Ritschl, l.c. I., pp. 48 ff.; Schwane, pp. 304 ff.; Deutsch,
   Abälard, pp. 336 ff.; Seeberg in the “Mittheil. u. Nachricht. f. die ev. K.
   in Russland,” 1888, March-April. Also Reuter in his 1st, and especially Bach
   in his 2nd, vol., pp. 68 f., 77 f., 88 ff.

   [150] So a disciple of Abelard, who hit upon his meaning; see Seeberg, p. 7,
   and Deutsch, p. 378 ff.

   [151] I do not transcribe here the passages, for in their isolation they do
   not give a true view. There fall to he considered more particularly several
   passages from the Exposit. ep. Rom. (especially on chap. III. 22 ff., V. 12
   ff.), from the Sermons V., X., XII., theolog. christ. IV., and the Dialogue.
   How much Abelard’s whole Christology and doctrine of redemption are
   dominated by the thought of love and counter love, how entirely love is
   “merit,” could not be ascertained from separate quotations.

   [152] Deutsch says very correctly, p. 382: “Accordingly the ultimate and
   deepest thought of Abelard is this, that reconciliation rests on personal
   fellowship with Christ. It is He who, by perfectly fulfilling the will of
   God as man, realised the divine destination of humanity, in this sense
   satisfied God, and thereby opened again to mankind the closed gates of
   paradise. He who belongs to Him has through Him the forgiveness of sins, and
   with Him access to God, but at the same time also the power of the new life,
   in which he fulfils the commands of God from love; and so far as this
   fulfilment is still imperfect the righteousness of God comes in to complete
   it.” On the other hand Reuter (I., p. 243) has given this perverted view of
   Abelard’s doctrine: “For one who wrought reconciliation, there was
   substituted one who proclaimed that God was already reconciled [but
   according to Abelard Christ is no “proclaimer,” and God is not reconciled,
   if we are not]; instead of a passion of the Son, who alone opens again the
   way to the Father [but that is just Abelard’s meaning], a martyrdom with
   psychological efficacy was held up to view [the word “psychological” is here
   meant to create an impression of the profane, but we have surely only the
   choice between this and physico-chemical]; instead of change of disposition
   on God’s part, change of disposition on man’s was spoken of.” [Is God love
   or is He of alienated mood? Is it not the penalty for man that as a sinner
   he must think of a God of terror, and can anything greater take place in
   heaven or earth than when a man’s feelings are revolutionised, i.e., when
   his fear of a God of terror is transformed into trust and love? If it were
   possible to bring home to the sinner the thought of the loving God, in whom
   he can have confidence, while he feels himself guilty, then certainly Christ
   would have died in vain; but that is a contradictio in adjecto.] Even
   Seeberg, in spite of all his efforts to be impartial, has made a
   nationalistic caricature of Abelard’s doctrine, and in keeping with this has
   much bepraised sayings of Bernard, some of which are to he found also in
   Abelard, some of which Abelard has happily set aside (the justa potestas
   diaboli). That which we really miss in Abelard — that Christ bore our
   penalty — is also wanting in Bernard, and the “example” of Christ is much
   more incautiously emphasised by the latter than by the former, who always
   thinks of the power of love that proceeds from Christ. But Bernard, it is
   alleged, stands much higher than Abelard, because he can give a more lyrical
   expression to the impassioned love to Christ, while Abelard thinks only of
   the doctrine and the example (!), and because, it is asserted, something
   “objective” is to be found in him which is supposed to be wanting in
   Abelard. Even according to Seeberg, indeed, this “objective” is quite
   falsely defined by Bernard, but that is of no consequence, if only there is
   “something” there. When will there be a getting rid in Protestantism of this
   “something,” which at best only establishes the possibility of redemption;
   and when will there be a distinguishing between a vicarious penal suffering
   and a satisfaction demanded by God?

   [153] See Bach II., pp. 88-122. Besides Bernard, William of St. Thierry
   specially comes into view here.

   [154] Sentent. lib. III., dist. 18, 19.

   [155] Ritschl I., p. 56 f.

   [156] This was not without ground; for apart from the objective redemption
   which consists in deliverance from the fetters of the devil (yet even to
   this a subjective turn is given, see Sentent. III. Dist. 19 A: “si ergo
   recte fidei intuitu in ilium respicimus qui pro nobis pependit in ligno, a
   vinculis diaboli solvimur, i.e., a peccatis, et ita a diabolo liberamur, ut
   nec post hanc vitam in nobis inveniat quod puniat. Morte quippe sua, uno
   verissimo sacrificio, quidquid culparum erat, unde nos diabolus ad luenda
   supplicia detinebat, Christus exstinxit, ut in hac vita tentando nobis non
   prævaleat”) the Lombard knows only of a subjective redemption; l.c. “quo
   modo a peccatis per Christi mortem soluti sumus? Quia per ejus mortem, ut
   ait apostolus, commendatur nobis caritas dei, i.e., apparet eximia et
   commendabilis caritas dei erga nos in hoc, quod filium suum tradidit in
   mortem pro nobis peccatoribus. Exhibita autem tantæ erga nos dilectionis
   arrha, et nos movemur accendimurque ad diligendum deum, qui pro nobis tanta
   fecit, et per hoc justificamur, i.e., soluti a peccatis justi efficimur.
   Mors ergo Christi nos justificat, dum per eam caritas excitatur in cordibus
   nostris.” Yet along with this the other turn of thought is found: “dicimur
   quoque et aliter per mortem Christi justificati, quia per fidem mortis ejus
   a peccatis mundamur.” But his thought is not further followed out; on the
   contrary, it is said again Dist. 19 F: “reconciliati sumus deo, ut ait
   apostolus, per mortem christi. Quod non sic intelligendum est quasi nos sic
   reconciliaverit Christus, ut inciperet amare quos oderat, sicut
   reconciliatur inimicus inimico, ut deinde sint amici qui ante se oderant,
   sed jam nos diligenti deo reconciliati sumus; non enim ex quo ei
   reconciliati sumus per sanguinem filii nos coepit diligere, sed ante mundum,
   priusquam nos aliquid essemus. Quomodo ergo nos diligenti deo sumus
   reconciliati? Propter peccatum cum eo habebamus inimicitias, qui habebat
   erga nos caritatem, etiam cum inimicitias exercebamus adversus eum operando
   iniquitatem. Ita ergo inimici eramus deo, sicut justitiæ sunt inimica
   peccata et ideo dimissis peccatis tales inimicitiæ finiuntur, et
   reconciliamur justo quos ipse justificat. Christus ergo dicitur mediator, eo
   quod medius inter deum et homines ipsos reconciliat deo.” But here again
   another thought comes in, when the Lombard immediately continues:
   “reconciliat autem dum offendicula hominum tollit ab oculis dei, id est dum
   peccata delet quibus deus offendebatur et nos inimici ejus eramus.” The
   prevading thought of the awakening of counter love, which the Lombard took
   over from Abelard, is already to be found in Augustine; see e.g., de catech.
   rud. 4: “Nulla est major ad amorem invitatio, quam prævenire amando, et
   nimis durus est animus, qui dilectionem si nolebat impendere, nolit
   rependere.”
     _________________________________________________________________

   [2] The eschatological ideas were always strong and vigorous in the Middle
   Ages, but for a time they certainly asserted themselves with special
   intensity; see Wadstein, Die Eschat. Ideengruppe (Antichrist, world-Sabbath,
   world-end and world-judgment) in den Hauptmomenten ihrer
   christlich-mittelalterlichen Gesammtentwickelung, 1896. But Wadstein again
   thinks that the year moo was contemplated with special suspense (p. 16 f.).

   [3] On the tenth century, see Reuter, l.c. I., p. 67 ff.

   [4] See v. Eicken, Gesch. und System der mittelalterlichen Weltanschauung,
   1887.

   [5] From this there resulted a new kind of dominion over the world, which
   certainly became very like the old, for there is only one way of exercising
   dominion.
     _________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER II.

  HISTORY OF DOGMA IN THE PERIOD OF THE MENDICANT ORDERS, TILL THE BEGINNING OF
  THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

   If in this chapter we again direct our attention in the first instance to
   the history of ecclesiastical piety, of ecclesiastical law and of
   ecclesiastical science, it is less with the view of understanding the
   changes which dogma passed through in this period, than in order to show how
   the conditions under which it stood served to make it ever more stable and
   to protect it from all attack. It must, above all, be shown how it was
   possible that the enormous revolution of the sixteenth century — keeping out
   of view the Anabaptist movements — stayed its course before the old dogma.
   This can only be understood, however, when we consider what confirmations
   dogma received from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century. These
   confirmations were a consequence of the peculiar history of piety, of
   ecclesiastical law and of science in this period. All of these sought, not
   for an “unmoved mover” in the background — for dogma was simply no longer a
   “mover” — but for an immovable basis. Mysticism, the development of
   ecclesiastical law, Nominalist theology — all of them could only develop
   themselves on the basis of an authoritative dogma, or, say, could only
   protect themselves on that basis against dangerous consequences.

   It is only in the second place that there fall to be considered how far the
   general conditions produced also certain changes in dogma, then how far an
   individual piety developed itself, how from this piety the need for
   individual certainty of salvation arose, and how this need gathered itself
   into a mighty force. Of itself the force was strong enough to demand, and to
   carry out, a revision of the entire ecclesiastical tradition. But it will
   appear in the last Book (see below) that it was impeded in its unfolding by
   the still greater power of a fifteen century long development.
     _________________________________________________________________

   1. On the History of Piety.

   What was germinating in the twelfth century, the century of the Crusades —
   namely, the piety of which Bernard was the subject and delineator, which
   derives its power from humility before God and from love to the sorely
   suffering Redeemer — opened into blossom in the holy beggar of Assisi, and
   “its fragrance filled the world.” In Francis mediæval piety attained its
   clearest and most forcible expression. In him it uttered itself most simply,
   and therefore most powerfully and most impressively, because its chord —
   “humility, love and obedience” — was here struck with the greatest purity,
   while the quality of tone which Francis lent to it was the most melting.
   [157]

   Humility — that is entire poverty. The reverence for that which is beneath
   us, which Bernard and his followers proclaimed, admits of no other robe than
   that of perfect poverty and humility. Long ago no doubt, nay, on from the
   beginning, Greek monks had striven after this ideal; but in their hands it
   became a torch, which consumed, along with the body, the imagination also,
   the powers of perception, and the wealth of the inner life. It was to be the
   means of emancipation from the body; but often enough it made a wilderness
   of the spirit. Here, on the other hand, it is the imitation of the poor life
   of Jesus, and while it thus acquired a personal ideal, it also developed out
   of itself, in the inexhaustibly fresh imagination of St. Francis, a wealth
   of intuitions from which all provinces of the outer and inner life derived
   profit. A spirited investigator has shown us what effects were produced by
   St. Francis in the field of art. [158] But in all spheres of human life,
   even including that of strict science, the new impulse took effect — the
   godly fear which gives honour to God alone, the living view of Christ, which
   brought the personal into the foreground, the holy simplicity which shed its
   light into the heart and over the world. In the sunny soul of the sacred
   singer of Assisi, the troubadour of God (“joculator domini”) and of poverty,
   the world mirrored itself, not as merely the struggle for existence, or the
   realm of the devil, but as the paradise of God with our brothers and
   sisters, the sun, the moon and the stars, the wind and the water, the
   flowers and the living creatures. In poverty, which is nothing else but
   sister of the humility by which the soul becomes like the eye, which sees
   everything save only itself, a new organ was obtained for contemplating God
   and the world. But poverty is not only imitation of the poor life of Jesus,
   it is also, nay pre-eminently, imitation of the apostolic life, the life
   without care, of “the pilgrim preacher and herald of love.” The oldest rule
   of St. Francis presented this ideal with the utmost clearness, and created
   the joyous, devout Franciscan “family.” [159]

   With the spirit of which poverty and humility are the evidence, love must
   unite itself. Going forth in pairs, the new Apostles must serve in lowly
   love; there is no work for which they must hold themselves too feeble; “for
   the love of Jesus Christ” they must “expose themselves to enemies, both
   visible and invisible”; according to the Sermon on the Mount, they must
   willingly suffer wrong; above all, wherever they come, in house and hall,
   they must render to men the loving service of preaching repentance, must
   deliver the message: “fear ye and honour, praise and bless, thank and adore,
   the Lord God omnipotent in trinity and unity . . .be of penitent heart,
   bring forth fruits meet for repentance, for know ye that we shall soon die.
   Give and it shall be given you, forgive and ye shall be forgiven, and if ye
   forgive not, the Lord will not forgive you your trespasses. Blessed are they
   who die in penitence, for they shall be in the Kingdom of Heaven,” etc.
   [160] But the power of this love had its source in the example of Christ and
   of His devoted disciple, St. Francis, who reproduced ever more deeply in his
   experience the life and suffering of his Master. More and more his feelings
   became merged in one alone — in love. This feeling, which in him was so
   strong that it often overpowered him, so that he was forced to retire to
   lonely churches and forests to give it full vent, was love to Christ; but it
   wedded itself ever more closely to unlimited devotion to his neighbour, to
   concern for his spiritual and bodily well-being, to warm compassion and
   self-abasement in the service of his brethren. So out of humility and love
   he made of his life a poem — he, the greatest poet who then lived; for,
   after fiery conflicts, the sensuous element in his ardent nature appeared
   — not destroyed, but subdued and glorified, nay, transformed into the purest
   organ of the soul’s life. [161]

   A great work of home missions was not contemplated by St. Francis, but
   begun; he was not the first to undertake it, but he was the first through
   whom the whole Church derived benefit from it: Christendom has certainly the
   right faith; but it is not what it ought to be. It is subject to priests and
   sacraments; but now the individual must be dealt with. He must be laid hold
   of, and guided to repentance. The gospel must be brought home to every man:
   the world must be again shaken, and rescued from its old ways, by a mighty
   call to repentance: he who has tasted the sweetness of the love of Christ
   will turn with gladness to repentance and poverty. Yet it is not for the
   monks and priests alone that there must be concern, but for individual
   Christians, for the laity; they, likewise, must be won for a penitent and
   holy life. The “Brothers of Penitence,” of whom St. Francis formed visions,
   and whom he brought into existence, were, in spite of their continuing in
   family life, really ascetics, who were required to maintain strict
   separation from the world and from civic life, and, above all, to take no
   part in military service. The great saint had not yet made terms with the
   world; the later Tertiaries were as little his creation as the later
   Franciscans. [162]

   From the monks to the secular priests, from the secular priests to the laity
   — this was the course by which Christianity was to be delivered from
   secularity; it is at the same time the history of the awakening of religious
   individualism in the West. And in the measure in which religion became,
   extensively and intensively, more world-renouncing, it acquired
   (paradoxical, it may seem, but intelligible enough) a higher social and
   political importance, penetrated more deeply into the life of the people,
   and developed itself out of the aristocratic form (in which, as Roman, it
   had come to the barbarian nations) into a form that was popularly social.
   [163] The further the monachising proceeded, the more did the virtuosi in
   religion see themselves compelled to engage in practical tasks. When the new
   factor of apostolic life was introduced into the ideal of poverty and
   ascetic self-denial, the ideal acquired an enormous immanent power for
   propagandism, a power such as monachism had never before possessed, and
   which does not belong — either formerly or now — to its distinctive nature.
   Where “apostolic life” becomes the watchword, there monachism is at once
   seen to apply itself to positive work among the people. In the eleventh and
   twelfth centuries what engaged attention was the great political problem of
   releasing Church from State; the question was, how to break down the great
   forces, the power of the Princes, the power of purely secular national
   bishops, in short, the title to exist of all unpliant political factors. At
   the close of the twelfth, and in the thirteenth centuries, there followed
   immediately upon this undertaking the positive evangelising of; and giving
   ecclesiastical character to, all relationships, to the whole of civilisation
   and the individual life, this being done under the dominating idea of the
   apostolical. Monachism, as apostolic life, entered upon this new work as
   formerly in the days of Clugny it entered upon the work of freeing Church
   from State. And how powerfully did religious individualism assert itself in
   Francis, when he ventured to place before himself and his disciples the
   example of the Apostles, and did not hesitate to say to the brothers that
   they could, and should, be what the Apostles once were, and that to them
   everything that Christ had said to the Apostles applied!

   He was not the first who awakened this “apostolic life.” We know of powerful
   phenomena in the twelfth century in which the new impulse had already found
   expression. [164] But these older movements, tenaciously as they survived
   (and to some extent survived as Catholic, in spite of being condemned), came
   too early; the clergy were not yet strong and matured enough to tolerate
   them, and, besides, there was lacking to them the element of unconditional
   submission to the Church, or more exactly, to the secular clergy, and of
   renunciation on principle of criticism of the Church. [165]

   For this is the third element in the piety of St. Francis — childlike
   confidence in the Church and unconditional obedience to the secular clergy.
   “Let all the Brethren,” so it runs in the Rule of 1209, “be Catholics, live
   and speak as Catholics . . . and let us regard the clergy and all religious
   persons as masters in those things which relate to the salvation of the
   soul, and do not deflect from our religion, let us reverence in the Lord
   both their rank (ordinem) and their office and their administration.” (See
   the Rule of 1221, c. 19). [166] That a nature like St Francis felt oppressed
   by nothing external, if only free scope was given him for his ideal, [167]
   that he could maintain his inner freedom and pure cheerfulness of soul, even
   under quite other burdens than the Church then imposed, that he must have
   emptied himself of his very essence if he had undertaken to “abolish”
   anything, are things that are manifest. For him, obedience to all existing
   ordinances was as much a need as humility, and never assuredly did the
   shadow of a sceptical reflection as to whether the hierarchy was as it
   should be, or as to whether it should exist at all, fall upon the soul of
   this pure fool. But how could it fail to come about that the ideal of
   poverty and the ideal of obedience should come into conflict? We cannot here
   unfold the history of St. Francis and of the Minorite Order. It is well
   known against what mistrust he had to contend on the part of the secular
   clergy (even the curia), especially in France (but even on the part of the
   older Orders), and how the conditions reproduced themselves here which we
   have observed at the establishment of monachism in the end of the fourth,
   and beginning of the fifth, centuries, as well as in connection with the
   Cluniacensian reform in the West. It is well known also that “poverty” was
   the great theme in the history of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries;
   that there was as much stubborn and passionate controversy over it as in the
   fourth and fifth centuries over the natures of Christ, and that in this
   controversy as artful and clever formula made their appearance as at
   Chalcedon and Constantinople. For thousands, the controversy about poverty
   was a controversy about the gospel itself. By this conflict the formulæ of
   the old dogmatic were little or in no way touched; but they, so to speak,
   sank into the ground. The question about the nature of the gospel was
   narrowed down to a practical question about life-conduct. Even when we keep
   out of view the pedantic mode of treatment, the way of stating the question
   appears to us strangely inadequate. Yet “poverty,” certainly, was only the
   final expression for the whole sum of the virtues involved in imitating
   Christ. What the watchword “poverty” denoted was an immense step of advance
   from dead faith, and from a barren service of ceremonies and works to
   spiritual freedom in religion, and to an earnest personal Christianity. The
   new Order soon broke up into different sections. In the one principal
   section, the last to submit, it certainly wrought invaluable results in the
   first generations of its existence. Its preaching kindled an earnest
   Christian life, indeed in many regions it was the first thing that produced
   an individual Christianity at all among the laity — so was it in Germany.
   Yet as everything was brought by it into closest connection with the
   confessional, the sacraments and the Pope, as all greater freedom was
   repressed as sectarianism, or crushed out — just by the Mendicant Orders —
   only an inferior kind of existence was allowed to this individual piety of
   the laity. For what the Minorites were obliged to sacrifice to the hierarchy
   — it was nothing less than the chief part of their original ideal, only the
   shadow remaining — they, so to speak, indemnified their conscience by the
   unparalleled energy with which they served the Church in its plans for
   ruling the world, and won for it the interest and allegiance of the laity.
   Here, at this final stage, therefore, the enemy the Church had in her own
   midst was once more vanquished; the enormous force of world-forsaking
   Christianity, which threatened the political supremacy of the Church, became
   visibly her servant; the “exempted” Order became, along with the Order of
   Preachers, her surest support.

   But in other sections the obedience was not powerful enough to control that
   force. [168] “Poverty” turned itself against the rich and worldly Church,
   and when there was to be threatening and forced silence, it threw off
   restraint. It called upon the Church to serve; it united itself with the old
   apocalyptic ideas, that had already been long exercising their power in
   secret; it adopted the critical attitude of the “Lombard Poor”; it joined
   hands readily with the new social, and even the new territorial, ideas, the
   conceptions that were taking shape of the inherent rights of nations and
   individuals, of States and Princes. [169] While it declared the Church to be
   Babylon, and hierarchy Anti-Christ, it was not fastidious about its
   partnership. It left the dogmatic of the Church unassailed; but against the
   Church itself it declared war, an undertaking so full of contradiction that
   it was only possible in the Middle Ages, the period of contradictions and
   illusions; for did not this Church possess in its system of dogma the surest
   and most definite title for its existence? Only in one branch (the
   Fraticelli) did the contradiction become so radical that the fences dividing
   from the heretical sects (Apostolic Brethren, Beghards) became frail.

   From these last-mentioned sections nothing permanent developed itself. [170]
   . The importance for universal history of the vast movement of the Mendicant
   Orders is not to be seen at all in new doctrines or institutions, though
   these were not entirely wanting, but lies rather in the religious awakening
   that was produced by them during a period of 150 or — if a time of slackened
   effort on the part of the Orders is overlooked — of 300 years. “The
   individual began to reflect on the saving truths of the Christian religion,
   to enter himself into a personal relation to them.” That is the highest
   significance of the Mendicant Order movement. In this sense the Orders were
   a prior stage of the Reformation. But when religion passed into the circles
   of the laity, and independent religious life was awakened there, it was a
   natural result that redoubled vigilance should be exercised lest the old
   dogma should be injured. So long as dogma is in the hands of priests and
   theologians, it can maintain a certain freedom; this is here natural to it,
   indeed. But as soon as the laity become thoughtfully interested in
   ecclesiastical Christianity, dogma becomes extraordinarily sensitive. Those
   who are entrusted with the care of the religio publica must—as the Mendicant
   Orders did — guard it with jealousy, if the result of the general interest
   is not to be a general running wild of religious speculation. The criterion
   of what is firmly fixed ecclesiastically must everywhere be applied without
   hesitation, especially if the Church practice of the present is to be
   corrected. On the other hand, the ecclesiastically pious laymen themselves
   demand that the dogma shall continue as a rocher de bronze, and they feel
   every movement or alteration of it to be an injury to their personal
   Christianity. This was the situation that was always becoming more firmly
   established in the three centuries before the Reformation. The larger the
   number grew of those who sought to become really familiar with religion, the
   larger became also the number of sectaries of all kinds; but the more
   inviolable also did dogma appear to the ecclesiastically faithful, and the
   greater were the efforts of the hierarchy to put down all “heresy.” Besides,
   dogma had come from the beginning, and indeed chiefly, to the mediæval
   nations, as a series of legal ordinances. This character it must retain, all
   the more if the spiritual life had a more vigorous and manifold development;
   otherwise the unity of the Church was lost. There must at least be an
   imperative demand for fides implicita, i.e., for respectful obedience. Thus
   the awakening, which in Germany seems to have gone on continually increasing
   from the middle of the thirteenth century, contributed to maintain the
   unalterable character of dogma. Ideally dogma had always been immutable; but
   now to the reality of this unchangeable thing there attached itself a
   profoundly practical interest.

   The history of piety in the centuries immediately preceding the Reformation
   consists of a series of sermons on repentance and of revivals, of reforms
   with a view to a deepening of spiritual life that was to extend through the
   whole of Christendom. Only in its leading points have we to take a survey of
   it. What comes first under our notice here is the alliance of the Mendicant
   Orders with Mysticism.

   By Mysticism, as has been explained above, there is to be understood nothing
   but theological piety (contemplation), having a reflex aim, modelled on
   Augustine and the Areopagite, and fertilised (though not thoroughly) by
   Bernardine devotion to Christ. That this theology should have been found
   congenial to the temper of the Mendicant Monks, as soon as they at all took
   to do with theology, is easily understood. Bonaventura, Albertus, and Thomas
   Aquinas were the greatest Mystics, not although, but because, they were
   theologians and Mendicant Monks. [171] . The same is true of David of
   Augsburg and Theodoric of Freiburg. Widely-extended investigations have been
   instituted with the view of classifying the Mystics, and it has been thought
   possible to distinguish between a Scholastic, a Romanic, and a German, a
   Catholic, an Evangelical, and a Pantheistic Mysticism. But at bottom the
   distinctions are without importance. Mysticism is always the same; above all
   there are no national or confessional distinctions in it. The differences
   never have to do with its essence, but only either with the degree, the way
   and the energy with which it is applied, or with its being predominantly
   directed upon the intellect or upon the will. Even as regards this last
   point it is only a question of difference of degree, and, at the same time,
   this last-mentioned distinction shows again very plainly the complete
   alliance of Mysticism with objective theology; for it is from this alliance
   that distinction springs. Mysticism is Catholic piety in general, so far as
   this piety is not merely ecclesiastical obedience, that is, fides implicita
   Just for that reason Mysticism is not one form among others of
   pre-reformation piety — perhaps the latent evangelical — but is the Catholic
   expression of individual piety in general. The Reformation element that is
   ascribed to it lies here simply in this, that Mysticism, i.e., Catholic
   piety, when developed in a particular direction, is led to the discernment
   of the inherent responsibility of the soul, of which no authority can again
   deprive it; and that it is thereby, at the same time, brought face to face
   with the question of the certitudo salutis (assurance of salvation), a
   question which can never again pass out of its view till it is solved in the
   act of faith. But where that question is determined, Mysticism points beyond
   itself; for the entire scheme of thought in which it moves always admits
   only of a perpetually increasing approach to the Deity, and never allows the
   constant feeling of a sure possession to arise. That, as a Christian, one
   must always be growing, was rightly discerned by the Catholic piety; but it
   never arrived at a clear and peaceful vision of the truth, that this growth
   can, and must, have its sure and inalienable basis in firm confidence in the
   God of grace, that is, in salvation. As for Catholic Christianity to-day,
   the Evangelical faith, described as “trust-faith” (“Fiduzglaube”), is a
   stumbling-block and foolishness, so also before the tribunal of Mediæval
   Mysticism it was a thing of which there was no understanding. For these
   Mystics, who framed and saw through so many sacred paradoxes, there was one
   paradox that remained hidden, namely, that in the spiritual life one can
   only become what he already is in faith. Only where they arrived at the
   discernment of this can they be described as precursors of the Reformation.

   If Mysticism is withdrawn from the Catholic Church and set down as
   “Protestant,” then Catholicism is emptied of its character, and evangelical
   faith becomes deteriorated. Is there then to be no living and individual
   Catholic piety? But where should we have to seek it, if not in Mysticism? In
   the three centuries before the Reformation, where can we find even a single
   manifestation of truly religious life that had not its source in
   “Mysticism”? Or is Mysticism to be denied to Catholicism, because the latter
   requires, above everything else, devotion to the Church and the Sacraments,
   and because the history of Mysticism is the history of continual conflicts
   between it and sacramental and authoritative ecclesiasticism? But when did
   it become permissible to regard such conflicts as showing that one of the
   two factors is illegitimate? Is there not a conflict also between the
   unquestionably Catholic ideal of asceticism, and the equally unquestionable
   Catholic ideal of world supremacy? Are the great Mystics not the great
   Saints of the Church? Or shall it be held, against all that appears, that
   this Church cannot produce and tolerate independent piety within its own
   lines? Now, no Evangelical Christian, certainly, would ever think of
   confounding his delight in the warm spiritual life which Catholic
   Christianity exhibits in the centuries before the Reformation [172] with
   full approval of it, if — one must, unfortunately, add it — he had made
   clear to himself what evangelical faith is. The inability to fight one’s way
   to such faith produces the craving for Mysticism which is then, as one is of
   course a Protestant, claimed for Protestantism. The fondness, it is true,
   for “German” Mysticism has received a severe check from records that have
   shown that if one is enthusiastic about Master Eckhart, etc., and derives
   edification from him, one must be still more enthusiastic about St. Thomas,
   or about the Areopagite and Augustine. But still more powerful checks will
   be needed if a view of history is to be got quit of, which seems the proper
   one to all fragmentary natures that deal in a dilettante way with religion,
   theology and philosophy — a Mystic that does not become a Catholic is a
   dilettante. For one, what is of value in the Mystics is their
   “individualism,” as if everything were already implied under this form; for
   another, it is their feeling, no matter what the “feeling” is for; for a
   third, it is the pantheistic metaphysic, which, without much trouble, can be
   abstracted from Mysticism; for a fourth, it is their ascetic views and their
   resolution of Christology into the Ecce Homo, or into the endless series of
   men travailing in birth with the Christ; for a fifth, it is the light of
   “illuminism” (Aufklärung) which broke forth from Mysticism. What historian,
   with clear vision, will be able to pass by these fruits of Mysticism without
   sympathy, or with amused indifference? What Christian will not draw with
   heart-felt delight from the spring of fresh intuitions which flows forth
   here? Who, as an investigator of history, will not readily acknowledge that
   an Evangelical Reformation was as impossible about the year 1200 as it was
   prepared for about the year 1500? But if Protestantism is not at some time
   yet, so far as it means anything at all, to become entirely Mystical, it
   will never be possible to make Mysticism Protestant without flying in the
   face of history and Catholicism. [173]

   In the three pre-Reformation centuries, the individual Catholic piety, which
   we call Mysticism, had in it only the difference represented by varieties.
   It was rooted in the Neoplatonic-Augustinian view of the first and last
   things, as this has been described above, Vol. V. p. 106 f.: God and the
   soul, the soul and its God , the one and the many, God and the creature. The
   soul that has departed from God must return to Him by purification,
   illumination, and essential unification; it must be “unformed,” “formed,”
   and “transfigured” (“entbildet,” “bildet,” “überbildet”). With their more
   definite and richer vision of the inwardly experienced, Mediæval Saints
   spoke of the retirement of the soul within itself, of the contemplation of
   the outer world as a work of God, of the poverty and humility to which the
   soul must dispose itself, of conversion and return to God, and the school of
   suffering. But they also described the whole process in the most exact way.
   It begins with longing; there follows the renunciation of the creaturely,
   but also of al self-righteousness and all self-conceit. That is the
   purification of the soul for true Christian poverty. What the Church offers
   in the shape of means — the Sacraments — must be used; but all things must
   be taken up into the inner life. It is as signs of the love of God that they
   must be contemplated. And as formerly in Neoplatonism (cf. also Origen, and
   again the Areopagite) everything sensible on which the lustre of a sacred
   tradition rested, was highly esteemed as a sign of the eternal, and,
   therefore, as a means of spiritual exaltation, so by this piety also, sacred
   signs were not discarded, but were multiplied and increased. As the more
   recent investigations have shown us, [174] in the centuries before the
   Reformation a growing value was attached, not only to the Sacraments, but to
   crosses, amulets, relics, holy places, helpers of the needy, saints, etc. As
   long as what the soul seeks is not the rock of assurance, but means for
   inciting to piety, it will create for itself a thousand holy things. It is,
   therefore, an extremely superficial view that regards the most inward
   Mysticism and the service of idols as contradictory. The opposite view,
   rather, is correct; such piety seeks for holy signs, and clings to them. It
   can at the same time hold redemption by Christ as the supreme, all-embracing
   proof of the love of God; [175] but the sovereignty of Christ has not dawned
   upon it, because it really regards the supreme proof of love as the means by
   which the possibility of individual salvation is given, that is, the impulse
   towards imitation is strengthened. Just as little does the inward
   purification conflict with the sacramental, as mediated by the sacrament of
   penance. The Mystics rather, with dwindling exceptions, always directed
   attention, not to contrition merely, but to the whole confessional, and to
   perfect repentance, that is, to the sacrament of penance. After
   purification, there follows illumination. Here the Bernardine direction now
   comes in: there must be a being formed in Christ, and after Christ’s image.
   In one’s own experience, Christ’s life of poverty and His suffering humanity
   must be reproduced, with a view to attaining to his Deity. It is well known
   how, in this direction, the tenderest training of the soul is combined with
   a distressingly sensuous presentation of the sufferings of the “man” Jesus.
   The following of Christ that is prompted by compassion, the imitation of Him
   that has its spring in love — these are required to a degree that can be
   reached only by long practice, and by the most anxious straining of every
   thought. Not unfrequently, this imitation then becomes changed into the idea
   that one must become a Christ one’s self, must travail anew in birth with
   Christ. There were nuns, indeed, who fancied that they bore Christ in their
   womb. The highly-trained imagination, and theory, had equal parts in the
   production of this idea. The former — inasmuch as it actually experienced
   what it passionately contemplated; the latter — inasmuch as in the
   Neoplatonic-Augustinian tradition there was contained that idea of God and
   the spiritual creature, according to which the appearance of the Logos in
   Christ was only a special case in a long series; with Him the indwelling of
   God in man took its beginning; and, besides this, all love of God is
   something so sovereign that it does not admit of the intermingling of a
   third in the relation to which it gives life. But, on the other hand, this
   view of Christ as the first in a series stood in agreement again with the
   view of His death as an extraordinary event that is the basis of
   reconciliation with God; for, as this piety sacrifices no outward visible
   sign, so it surrenders also no part of the sacred history; only, it allows
   no weight to it at the highest stage. Yet, at countless times in the case of
   the most distinguished Mystics, as already in the case of St. Bernard, it is
   just at the highest stages of religious feeling that confidence in Christ
   asserts itself; for, as they derived everything from divine grace —
   especially where the theology of St. Thomas exercised its influence — so
   this grace is discerned in the Christ who is our righteousness. Further,
   there was added here the trinitarian speculation, as it was developed from
   the thought of love. Thus the piety shown by Richard of St. Victor in the
   earlier period, by Bonaventura and others in the later, was able to attach
   itself most intimately to this intractable dogma of the Trinity, and also to
   the other dogma of the Incarnation. The infinite love must be contemplated
   in the Mystery of the Trinity, and the highest point of the spirit’s
   enlightenment is reached when in prayer, in knowledge, and in vision, man
   becomes absorbed in the great mystery of the union of deity and humanity,
   and contemplates the indifference of opposites (indifferentia oppositorum),
   seeing how the Creator and the creature, the lofty and the lowly, the being
   and the not-being coalesce in one. From all these speculations, in which the
   old formulas are placed in the light of omnipotent love, in which the
   boldest and most complex theology is finally led back to the All-One, and
   converted into feeling, there resulted an intense deepening of inner life.
   This inner life was again discovered, and there was given to it the place of
   central command. But it found much richer expression still than in the days
   of Neoplatonism; for, in those centuries before the Reformation, in
   conjunction with the most frightful self-torturing, nay in the midst of them
   (think of St. Elizabeth), and in conjunction with whimsical or insane ideas,
   the elevating power of suffering, and the purifying influence of pain, were
   proved by experience and preached. What an ennobling of feeling, and what a
   deepening of the life of the soul issued from this — a Renaissance before
   and alongside of the Renaissance — cannot be described. One must read the
   writings in poetry and prose, for example the verses of Jacopone, [176] or
   the treatises and sermons of the German Mystics, to see how even the
   language here underwent a regeneration. A lyric poetry that awakens a
   response in us exists only from the thirteenth century, and what force the
   Latin and German tongues are capable of developing in describing the inner
   life we have been taught by the Mendicant Monks. From the discernment that
   lowliness and poverty, scorn and contempt, shame and misery, suffering and
   death, are aids to the saint’s progress, from the contemplation of the Man
   Jesus, from compassion, and pain, and humility, there sprang for Western
   Christianity, in the age of the Mendicant Monks, that inner elevation and
   that enrichment of feeling and of moral sensibility which was the condition
   for all that was to grow up in the time that followed. One speaks of the
   Renaissance and the Reformation, and comprehends in these words, taken
   together, the basis of our present-day culture; but both have a strong
   common root in the elevation of religious and æsthetic feeling in the period
   of the Mendicant Monks.

   But the Catholic character of this elevation shows itself most plainly in
   this, that with repentance, faith, and love to Christ, the process is not
   concluded: man must become entirely nothing; he must pass out of himself, in
   order, finally, to be merged into the Godhead. There is meant by this,
   certainly, the highest spiritual freedom also (see, e.g, the “Deutsche
   Theologie”); but as the freedom is enfolded in the metaphysical thought that
   God is all and the individual nothing, freedom can only be conceived of as
   absorption into the deity. He alone can experience this union with God who
   has followed the way of the Church, and has been an imitator of Christ. But
   how can the command be given to adhere to the historical, when all the
   powers of the imagination have been let loose, and it has been declared the
   organ for coalescing with the Godhead. The Church Mystics made earnest
   attempts to check the pantheistic, “extravagant,” wild-growing piety; but
   they themselves frequently were at least incautious with their final
   directions, nay, to these the ardent application was wanting, so long as
   they had still respect to something that lay outside of God and the soul
   (even the Trinity here was felt to be something disturbing; the God with
   whom the soul has to do at this supreme height of exaltation is the solitary
   One). Thomas himself, “the normal dogmatic theologian,” gave the strongest
   impulse to this restoration of the most extravagant Mysticism. He was
   followed by Eckhart and others. [177] According to Thomas, the soul can
   already here on earth so receive God into itself that it enjoys in the
   fullest sense the vision (visio) of His essence. It itself already dwells in
   heaven. The earthly, that still clings to it, is, as it were, as
   unsubstantial as the earthly in the consecrated elements. But if the soul is
   capable, through rapture (per raptum), of such a flight from its nothingness
   to God, if God can enter into its innermost depth, then — here is the
   necessary inversion of view — the soul itself includes, in its innermost
   being, a deeply hidden divine element. Pantheism is transformed into
   self-deification. The divine is at bottom the capacity of the soul to
   abstract and emancipate itself from all that is phenomenal; it is the pure
   feeling of spiritual freedom and exaltedness above all that is and can be
   thought. In this feeling, which arises as an act of grace, and is only
   guarded by this co-efficient in its mood from the pride of self-assertion,
   the soul has the sense of being one with the divine Being, who, in the
   Catholic view, is Himself best described by negative definitions. In these
   negative definitions the Mediæval Mystics went much further than Augustine
   and the Areopagite. [178] We must go back to Valentinus and Basilides, to
   the Búthos (abyss), to the Sigḗ (silence) and the Ouk ōn theós (the God
   that is not), to find the fitting parallels to the “Abysmal Substance”
   (“Abgründlichen Substanz”), the “Waste Deity” (“Wüsten Gottheit”), the
   “Silent Silence” (“Stillen Stillheit”). In this hot forcing-house of
   thought, religion was not really matured, but the Mediæval man had his sense
   of self-importance awakened. In the Thomist Mysticism, which, of course,
   always insists on principle that the essential distinction between God and
   man must be recognised, both the whole process and the supreme attainment
   are intellectually conditioned. Knowledge is the means of reaching spiritual
   freedom, and the highest state attained is nothing but the natural result of
   the absolute knowledge given in vision. Here Thomas and his disciples adhere
   strictly to Augustine, who also admitted no progress in religious life
   without advancing knowledge, and for whom the highest fellowship with God
   had also no other content than that of the visio dei, i.e., of essential
   knowledge. The contemplation that rises to intuition suffers thereby no
   qualitative change; for intuition is simply that form of knowledge in which
   every medium has fallen away, in which the subject, having become wholly
   intellect, apprehends the purely spiritual object, and so, also, as there is
   no longer any hindering restriction, coalesces with it. Yet in this
   conception of the contemplated end there was presupposed the Anselmic
   conviction, that all objects of faith here below can be made rational, so
   that the whole ascent to the Supreme end can take place through the
   intellect. Where this conviction, however, became uncertain, then, if the
   final end of union to God was to be held as attainable in this world, it
   could no longer be contemplated as enjoyment of God and eternal life through
   the intellect. But this latter idea was unsatisfactory also for this reason,
   that the Thomists had to admit that the end thus described could always be
   reached only per raptum, i.e., intermittently and seldom. Hence we see how,
   after the appearance of Duns Scotus, and after the development of
   Nominalism, the end is otherwise described. The confidence in the
   rationality of the objects of faith threatens to disappear, on the other
   hand the religious impulse towards constant supreme fellowship with God
   grows stronger — therefore the enjoyment of God and eternal life came to be
   placed in the will, which, in general, indeed, had increased attention
   directed to it in Nominalist science. [179] Salvation consists in union of
   will with God, in the rest which the creaturely will finds in the will of
   God, that is, in surrender and repose. That this way of viewing things
   likewise found an eccentric expression was unavoidable from the monastic
   character of all Catholic piety. Yet a very marked advance was certainly
   made here, which directly prepared the way for the Reformation; for, first,
   piety was now delivered from intermixture with those speculative
   monstrosities, which really served only to stupefy simple devout feeling (of
   course the speculative philosophers will always prefer Thomas to Duns);
   second, a way was indicated by which the soul might attain to the feeling of
   constant fellowship with God. This “Nominalist” Mysticism tended more and
   more to supplant the Thornist in the 15th century. [180] One must give up
   his own will to the will of God. The Nominalists themselves, certainly,
   failed to see clearly where the divine will is to be sought for, and what it
   is, and just on that account much wild growth still developed itself even
   here. But only within Nominalist piety could the question about assurance of
   salvation (certitudo salutis) arise, because there was no longer a building
   upon the intellect, because the pointing to bare authority was bound, in the
   course of time, to be felt unsatisfactory, and because the problem was
   correctly stated, as being the question, namely, about the power that is
   capable of breaking self-will and leading the will to God. [181]

   This revival of piety from the thirteenth century to the fifteenth would not
   be perfectly described were not a fact, at the same time, strongly
   emphasised, which, on first view, seems very paradoxical, namely, the
   revival of a life of practical activity in the service of one’s neighbour.
   We should think that where Catholic piety, i.e., Mysticism, flourished,
   monastic contemplation and asceticism would repress everything else. [182]
   In point of fact, there was a weighty problem for that piety here. Yet the
   way in which it was solved shows again most distinctly that in the Mendicant
   Order movement we have to do with a reformation of the Church. This movement
   strengthened, theoretically, the old Catholic position, that the
   contemplative life is higher than the practical. But as it presents itself
   in St. Francis as a movement born of love, so also from the first, as
   “imitation of the poor life of Jesus,” and as “Apostolic life,” it
   recognised in loving activity the highest sphere for its exercise. In this
   way the old Monasticism was superseded, which rendered services of love only
   to the hierarchy, the princes and the papal policy, but otherwise retired
   within itself, and felt service to a poor brother to be a work of
   supererogation. It was the Mendicant Orders and their theologians who first
   gave a conspicuous place again to the command, “Love thy neighbour as
   thyself.” They praised the contemplative life; they still continued always
   to maintain the distinction between it and the practical; but they drew this
   distinction in such a way that one living in contemplation (that is, the
   monk) was, nevertheless, required to serve his neighbour with all his
   powers, while the Christian occupied with the affairs of life, was never
   justified in leaving out of account concern for his brother. Thus there came
   to exist between the contemplative and active lives a wide neutral province,
   so to speak, which belonged to both, to the former as well as to the latter
   — the province of self-denying love. The love of God on the part of monk and
   layman could prove its existence only in the love of one’s neighbour. Hence
   it is to be understood how enthusiastic Mystics used expressions that sound
   like an exaltation of the active life above the contemplative; what they had
   in their mind was unfeigned brotherly love, mercy, gentleness, the spirit
   that returns good for evil, and active ministration to need. Neither their
   “intellectualism” nor their “quietism” hindered them in their powerful
   preaching of mercy, but rather strengthened them in it; for they would no
   longer recognise any monachism, or any service of God, that disregarded the
   service of one’s neighbour. The obligation to make one’s self every man’s
   servant in love was first plainly asserted again by Francis, and after him
   it was repeatedly enforced as the highest attainment of Christian life by
   Thomas and Bonaventura, by Eckhart, Suso, Tauler, Thomas à Kempis, and all
   the hundred active witnesses to Christian piety in the centuries before the
   Reformation. [183] The simple relation of man to man, sanctified by the
   Christian command of love and by the peace of God, issued forth from all the
   traditional corporations and castes of the Middle Ages, and set itself to
   break them up. Here, also, the advent of a new age, in which, certainly,
   only a few blossoms developed into fruit, was brought about by the history
   of piety. But this piety, although it always continued to call more loudly
   for reform in the affairs of the Church, still remained under the ban of the
   idea that God gives grace in the measure in which a man progresses in love.
   How this state of things was to be remedied, no one had any inkling.

   In what precedes it has already been indicated several times that, while
   maintaining the line of distinction, the Mendicant Orders brought about
   inwardly (to some extent even outwardly) a mutual approximation of monks and
   laity. The activity of the former among the people on the one hand, and the
   awakening of a strong religious life among the laity on the other, brought
   them together. But it was in general the characteristic of the period under
   review, that the laity always came more to the front, and in the fifteenth
   century they took their place in their free religious associations alongside
   the monks in theirs, though, no doubt, as a rule, there was dependence on
   the monastic unions. The period from 1046 to 1200 was the period of the
   monachising of the priests; that from 1200 to 1500 brought the monachising
   of the laity (notice, also, the participation of women in the Mystic and
   charitable movements); but the latter process was not carried out without a
   deeply penetrating alteration of Monachism, and it is to be observed that
   the charitable element was here determinative. When, in spite of earnest
   reforms, the Mendicant Orders were now, nevertheless, unable (from the end
   of the fourteenth century) fully to recover the position and confidence they
   had once enjoyed, the free Christian associations came quite into the
   foreground. But they secured, if I see aright, a large measure of influence
   only on German soil. What they did for the German was done for the Romanic
   peoples, naturally more mobile, but less susceptible of abiding impressions,
   by the great Preachers of Repentance, of whom there was no lack among them
   at any period, from the time of Francis to that of Savonarola, and who,
   along with their preaching of repentance, knew also how to stir national and
   political feeling. But it was only the Anglo-Saxons and the Czechs, hitherto
   kept in subjection and poverty by other nations, who understood, at this
   period, how to derive from the Franciscan doctrine of poverty a
   politico-national and an ecclesiastical programme, and among whom a great
   movement took place, in which the rise to independent piety united itself
   with a national rise and emancipation. In both countries the result,
   certainly, did not correspond with the first steps. In England, the movement
   ran its course comparatively quickly, and in Bohemia deeper religious
   motives were unable to hold their ground alongside the national and
   political aims imperiously asserting themselves, and at first, at least,
   were overborne by motives of an ecclesiastical, a social revolutionary, and
   an anti-hierarchical character, though afterwards the religious element
   wrought its way to the front again.

   Any one, therefore, wishing to describe the stages in the history of piety
   during this period, must begin, by way of introduction, with a view of the
   Lyonnese, Lombard and Catholic “Poor.” Then follows the establishment of the
   Mendicant Orders, who, by developing the principle of poverty, the apostolic
   life and repentance, as well as by preaching love (caritas) raise monachism
   to its highest point, and free it from its restrictions, but at the same
   time impart to it a most powerful influence upon the lay world. The Church
   succeeds in taking this movement into its service, in creating by means of
   it an interest in Church institutions among the aspiring lay Christianity,
   and in placing a check upon heresy. The Mendicant Orders made themselves
   masters of all the forces of the Church; above all, they developed more
   deeply the individual Mystic piety, by grasping more firmly its old
   fundamental elements, poverty and obedience, adding to these love, and gave
   it a powerful force of attraction, which united itself to the aspiring
   individualism and trained it. By urgent preaching of repentance, which
   pointed to future judgment, even the widest circles were stirred, and the
   new movement settled down, in part, into monk-like associations (the third
   Order). But the principle of “poverty” embraced not only an ascetically
   religious, but also a social and anti-hierarchical, nay, even a political
   ideal, for the neutral state could be regarded as the power that had to
   deprive the Church of her property, or, in the event of her being
   recalcitrant, to execute judgment upon her. The new movement united itself
   therefore with the apocalyptic ideas, which, in spite of Augustine, had
   never died out in the West, and which had received a new development from
   Joachim and his following. [184] Partly within the Order, and partly beyond
   it, an apocalyptic socio-political excitement grew up, asserting itself in a
   hundred different ways. Its relative justification over against the rich
   worldly hierarchy was furnished by the wide hold which it everywhere secured
   for itself: it made its appearance in all lands, and it continued to exist,
   always again gathering new strength, till far on in the period of the
   Reformation. In the second half of the thirteenth century the Mendicant
   Orders reached, at least in the Romanic lands, their highest point of
   influence. From that time they began to decline: after the close of the
   century the movement as a whole was broken up and distributed among the
   efforts of individual men. The great struggle about poverty in the age of
   John XXII. had, so far as it was religious, only a limited importance. In
   Germany, on the other hand, there began, from the end of the thirteenth
   century, the “German” Mystic movement, i.e., the introduction of the
   impassioned individual piety of the monastic theologians into the circles of
   the laity. For a century and more, the work of bringing about an inward
   conversion of the laity in Germany was carried on, and it was quite
   specially by Mendicant monks, chiefly Dominican, that this service was
   rendered. (David of Augsburg, Theodoric of Freiburg, Master Eckhart, Tauler,
   Merswin, the “Friends of God,” Suso, Henry of Nördlingen, Margaret Ebner,
   Ruysbroek, etc.)

   While in the Romanic lands the Mendicant Orders grew weaker, and in Germany
   the religious life, still through their influence partly, slowly advanced,
   the world-ruling Church pursued a course of complete self-abandonment at
   Avignon, and seemed to have the deliberate wish to subject the
   ecclesiastical fidelity of the already imperilled piety to the severest
   test. Nay, how firmly the papacy and the Church as an institution still held
   together souls and the world is shown by the confusions and complaints
   which, when the great schism ensued, became still more numerous. Under the
   impression produced by frightful elemental calamities, the apocalyptic,
   anti-hierarchical ideas became the real danger, especially as even Mendicant
   monks were regarded as enemies of the papacy. But only in England did a
   great movement at that time result. The law of God, poverty, the Augustinian
   theology — these were the dominant ideas under which Wyclif undertook his
   Catholic reform and preached to the reigning Church judgment and repentance
   — a second Francis, of more understanding but less resolute, more cautious
   but less free. Beyond England at first no similar movement was anywhere to
   be traced; but it was everywhere apparent that the world had entered upon a
   religious age, in which the multiplicity of aspirations testified that the
   dissolution of what existed at the time was felt to be the signal for a new
   construction — the ridicule and frivolity of some Italian poets and
   novelists of an inferior order have no claim whatever to be considered. In
   its greatest representatives, the Renaissance, especially the German, which
   was much more important in the realm of thought than the Italian, felt that
   it had outgrown neither the Catholic Church nor the Christian religion. What
   was really breaking up was mediæval society, mediæval institutions, the
   mediæval world. [185] So far as the Church was interwoven with this last,
   nay, constituted the chief part of it, and in this form had hitherto been
   held as holy — a state of things on which the Mendicant Orders had been able
   to work no change — the crisis was already prepared. But there was no
   proclaiming of separation from the Church; there was a seeking for means for
   politically reforming it (this almost alone was the question at the Reform
   Councils), and monachism also took itself seriously to task. [186] From the
   end of the fourteenth century till the time of the Reformation there was a
   continuous succession of efficient reforms in the older Orders and in the
   younger, of course on the basis already laid. If the signs do not mislead,
   the Mendicant Orders in particular rose higher again in the course of the
   fifteenth century and gained an always increasing influence on popular
   circles, in the Romanic lands through the occasional appearing of preachers
   of repentance, in Germany through earnest, steady work. But it is certainly
   unmistakable that all this did not yet give satisfaction and rest. The proof
   of this lies — apart from other sectarian agitations — in the fact that the
   Wyclifite movement, which in literary form had crept in among the Czechs,
   who were already deeply infected with apocalyptic excitement and Franciscan
   fanaticism, could strike its roots so deeply in Bohemia under Huss, and
   could occasion so terrible a revolution, a revolution that shook the half of
   Germany. From the confused intermingling of “religious, social, national,
   Joachim-apocalyptic, chiliastic, specifically Wyclifite and Waldensian
   tendencies, thoughts, hopes and dreams,” individuals gathered out what
   appealed to them. All shades were represented, from the wild warriors of
   God, who inflicted judgment with fire and sword on the Church and on all
   despisers of divine law, to the quiet brothers, who really judged the Church
   as hardly, and clung to as utopian hopes regarding the adjustment of human
   relationships, but who were willing to wait in patience and quietness. In
   the fifteenth century the currents of all foregoing attempts at reform
   flowed together; they could converge into one channel; for all of them
   sprang originally from one source — the doctrine of poverty, wedded to
   apocalyptic and to certain Augustinian thoughts, that is, Catholicism.
   “Silent and soft is poverty’s step,” Jacopone had once sung in his wonderful
   hymn. That was truly no prophecy of the future.

   Even after the papacy, by an unparalleled diplomacy, had released itself
   from the oppressive requirements of the Reform Councils, when the nations
   were defrauded of the sure prospect of a reform of the Church, when the
   Popes, with their great undertaking of securing a sovereign state, descended
   to the lowest depths of degradation and spoke of reform with scorn, piety as
   a rule did not lose faith in the Church, but only in her representation at
   the time, and in her corrupt order. It is a mistake to conclude from the
   contempt for priests and for lazy monks to the existence of an evangelical
   spirit. There can express itself in such contempt the purest and most
   obedient Catholic piety. This piety displayed in the second half of the
   fifteenth century a strength of vigorous impulse, in some measure even a
   power, greater than ever before. And it remained immovably the old piety. It
   attracted the laity more powerfully; it became richer in good works and in
   the spirit of love; it united clergy and laity in common religious
   undertakings; it wrought for the deepening and strengthening of the inner
   life. But just on these grounds it attached higher value to outward signs,
   sought for them, increased their number, and gave itself up to them. One may
   detect in this something of unrest, of dissatisfaction; but we must not
   forget that this is just what belongs to Catholic piety. This piety seeks,
   not for a basis of rock, but for means of help, and even where it is most
   inward, and seems to have bidden farewell to everything external, it must
   confess that, openly or secretly, it still uses the narcotics and
   stimulants.

   An enormous revolution, ever again retarded, was preparing in the fifteenth
   century. But this revolution threatened institutions, political and
   ecclesiastical; threatened the Church, not its gospel, the new dogma-like
   doctrines, not the old dogma. That a reformation of piety in the sense of
   faith was preparing, is suggested by nothing whatever that is historically
   apprehensible; for the most radical opponents, and the most faithful
   supporters, of the dominant Church, were at one in this, that the forces for
   a reform of the ecclesiastical life were bound up in Augustine and Francis.
   The Church doctrines that became the subject of controversy were really no
   Church doctrines as yet; [187] and then again — even the most radical Church
   programme had its strong roots, and its justifying title, in elements of the
   vulgar Church doctrine. Thus dogma remained substantially unassailed. How
   could anyone imagine, in the age of Nominalism, that the salvation by reform
   must come from doctrine, so long as the authority of the dogmatic tradition
   remained untouched? And yet, certainly, it would be a very childish view
   that would regard the Reformation as something absolutely new, because no
   direct preparatory stages of it can be pointed out. Individualism, the force
   of personal life, the irresistible demands for a reconstruction of civil
   life and social order, the needs of a piety always growing more restless,
   the distrust of the hierarchy, the rising consciousness of personal
   responsibility and craving for personal certainty, the conviction that
   Christ is in His Church, and yet that He is not in ecclesiasticism — all
   these things could not have reached the ends contemplated by them without a
   Reformation, which, to outward view, appeared less radical than the
   programme of the devastating and burning Hussites, but in reality left that
   programme far behind it. And the piety, i.e., the ecclesiastical faith
   itself, had, among the manifold elements it included, the new element
   implanted within it, in the shape of words of Christ and doctrines of Paul,
   in the life displayed by every Christian who, through trust in the grace of
   God in Christ, had found inward deliverance from the law of
   grace-dispensations and merit, and from the law of the letter.

   Under a theology that had degenerated into a tangled brake, from the
   hundreds of new religious-ecclesiastical institutions, societies, and
   brotherhoods, from the countless forms in which the sacred was embodied and
   sought after, from the sermons and the devotional literature of all kinds,
   there was to be heard one call, distinct and ever more distinct — the call
   to vigorous religious life, to practical Christianity, to the religion that
   is really religion. “ Say unto my soul, I am thy salvation” — this prayer of
   Augustine was the hidden force of the unrest among the nations, especially
   the Germanic, in the fifteenth century. Dogmatically expressed: there was a
   seeking for a sure doctrine of salvation; but one knew not himself what he
   sought for. The uncertain and hesitating questions got only uncertain and
   hesitating answers. Even at the present day we cannot escape the charm that
   clings just to such questions and answers; for they let us see into the
   living movement of the heart; but he for whom religion has become so serious
   a matter that he seeks, not for charms, but for nourishment, will not be
   inclined to exchange Luther’s Smaller Catechism and his hymns for all the
   wealth, beauty, and freshness of the German devotional literature of the
   fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. [188]
     _________________________________________________________________

   [157] Müller, Die Anfänge des Minoritenordens und der Bussbruderschaften,
   1885 Sabatier, Leben des h. Franz v. Assisi, German by M. L., 1895 R.
   Mariano, Francesco d’Assisi e alcuni dei suoi più recenti biografi. Napoli,
   1896. Mariano brings a sharp, and in many respects well-deserved, criticism
   to hear on the work of Sabatier, which is captivatingly written and
   instructive, but, after the style of Renan, mingles confusedly past and
   present, religion and poetry. Mariano has made a substantial contribution to
   the estimation of St. Francis, by correcting the partly rhetorical, partly
   material, exaggerations of Sabatier. An excellent lecture, taking a survey
   of all the principal points, has been published recently by Hegler
   “Franciskus von Assisi und die Gründung des Franciskanerordens” (Zeitschr.
   f. Theol. u. K. 6 Bd. p. 395 ff.

   [158] Thode, Franciskus v. Assisi und die Anfänge der Kunst der Renaissance
   1885.

   [159] See Müller, l.c. pp. 19. ff., 185 ff.

   [160] The Rule of 1209. See Müller, p. 187.

   [161] See the beautiful characterisation in Thode, l.c. p. 59 ff.

   [162] See Müller, pp. 117-144. An excellent description of the aim of St.
   Francis in Werner (Duns Scotus, p. 2): “The original designs of the order
   founded by St. Francis were the restoring of the original Christian
   Apostolate, with its poverty and renunciation of the world, that through the
   force of this restoration there might be restored to the Church itself the
   apostolic spirit; the awakening in Christian souls everywhere of a striving
   after holiness and perfection; the keeping the example of a direct following
   of Christ before the eyes of the world as a continuous living spectacle; the
   comforting of all the suffering and wretched with the consolation of
   Christian mercy; and, by self-sacrificing devotion, the becoming all things
   to those spiritually abandoned and physically destitute.”

   [163] Cf. Thode, l.c. p. 521 f.: “The beggar of Assisi is the representative
   of the third estate, the great lower mass of the people, in their combined
   upward striving towards a position self-sustained and independent; but at
   the same time also the representative of each individual out of this mass,
   as he becomes conscious of himself, and of his rights in relation to God and
   to the world. With him, and in him, mediæval humanity experiences the full
   power of the emotional force that dwells in each individual, and this inner
   experience brings with it a first knowledge of one’s own being which
   emancipates itself from dogmatic general conceptions.”

   [164] See the history of sects in the twelfth century, especially the
   Waldensian, cf. Müller, Die Waldenser und ihre einzelnen Gruppen bis zum
   Anfang des 14. Jahrhunderts (1886), and the older fundamental work of
   Dieckhoff. The ground-thought of the Waldensian movement is unquestionably
   “to imitate the apostles, and therefore to observe literally the
   instructions which the Lord gave to his wandering disciples in the
   missionary address, Matth. to. The undertaking, therefore, displays
   everywhere the same features as, thirty years later, the similar attempt of
   Francis in its initial stages: distribution of all property among the poor
   and renunciation of all further possessions, according to Matth. 19, 21, 29;
   then, the apostolic preaching, in constant itineracy, and the particulars as
   to apostolic garb and methods of travelling. They go two and two, without
   shoes, only sandals of wood on their feet, in simple woollen garments,
   without money. They move from place to place, seek shelter and support among
   those to whom they preach the gospel — for the workman is worthy of his hire
   — and despise all settled life and private householding, in imitation of the
   Son of man, who had not where to lay His head.” The Waldensians seem to have
   exercised an influence on St. Francis; but as to how, and by what means,
   nothing is known. On this account it will always be possible to believe in
   an entire independence, in a resemblance merely in fact; but this is not
   probable, especially as relations have been ascertained between St. Francis
   and Southern France.

   [165] The “Poor” were already excommunicated by Lucius III. (1184). On their
   spread in Northern Italy, where they had precursors in the Order of the
   Humiliates, but were only brought into existence by Waldes, on the relation
   of the Lyonnese Poor to those of Lombardy, and on the breach between the
   latter and Waldes, see Muller, 1.c. pp. 11-65. The view that the efficacy of
   the Sacraments depends on the worthiness of the celebrator — a revolutionary
   principle under then existing conditions — appeared again among the Poor of
   Lombardy before 1211 Of itself the view was fitted to sever entirely the
   connection with the ancient Church, and was perhaps one of the causes of the
   ultimate breach between the Lyonnese and Lombard poor. The former were not
   so sharply opposed to the Roman Church as the latter. They did not regard it
   as Antichrist, but included it rather in the great community of the
   baptised, and recognised its administration of the Sacraments. But they made
   it a grave reproach against the Roman Church that its hierarchy exercised
   apostolic powers without adopting the apostolic life of poverty and
   homelessness (see the demand of the Didache regarding the qualities of
   apostles and prophets). They did not contest the full authority of the duly
   ordained bishops, who derived their dignity from the apostles; but they
   looked upon it as a deadly sin that they refused to live as did the
   apostles. A certain wavering in their attitude towards the Roman Church was
   the result. The judicial and legislative authority of the hierarchy was
   certainly disputed, or at least held as needing restriction. But as the
   “Brothers” did not organise into communities the “Friends” (the
   “believers”) won over by them, but rather left them in the old
   relationships, the position of the reigning Church towards the Brothers and
   their adherents was much more definite and decided than was their position
   towards it. The French kinsmen of the Waldensians were not a new evangelical
   community, based on the idea of the universal priesthood, but “the sect
   itself is nothing but a hierarchy, which, founded on the thought of the
   apostolic life and the demand for a special ethical perfection, places
   itself alongside the Roman hierarchy, that, in an organisation which
   partakes at least of the fundamental forms of the latter, it may carry on
   preaching, dispense sacramental penance, and in its own innermost seclusion
   celebrate the Eucharist. So little is there the idea of the universal
   priesthood that the laity do not belong at all to the sect, membership being
   conferred rather only by consecration to one of the three hierarchical
   grades.” (See Müller, p. 93 ff. and cf., as a parallel, the way in which the
   Irvingites now carry on their propaganda, and relate themselves to the
   communitas baptizatorum). Nor was the old traditional Church doctrine
   assailed by the Waldensians. They diverged only in respect of certain
   doctrines which bore upon practice, and which, besides, had not yet been
   formulated. Thus they rejected purgatory, and disapproved therefore of the
   Church practice that was connected with the idea of it (i.e., of all
   institutions that were meant to extend their influence into the world
   beyond). The rejection of oaths, of service in war, of civil jurisdiction,
   of all shedding of blood, seemed to them, as to so many mediæval sects,
   simply to follow from the Sermon on the Mount. On the other hand, the branch
   in Lombardy (which carried on a propaganda in Germany) took up a much more
   radical attitude towards the Roman Church (see Müller, p. 100 ff.) Although
   in what was cardinal it adhered to the standpoint of the French group of the
   stock (close communion, but only of men and women living apostolically;
   administration of the sacrament of penance; instruction of the “Friends” by
   preaching), it nevertheless saw in the Roman Church only apostasy, which at
   a subsequent time it traced to the benefactions of Constantine (cf. the
   Spirituales). This Church appeared to them accordingly as the synagogue of
   evil-doers and as the whore, its priests and monks as Scribes and Pharisees,
   its members as the lost. And so all regulations, orders, sacraments, and
   acts of this Church were to be rejected. Everything without exception, above
   all, the Pope and the mass, then also all legal regulations for worship fell
   under the adverse judgment. We can therefore gather testimonies here to the
   full for the “evangelical” character of these Lombards, who rejected all
   ecclesiastical differences of rank within the Christian community, all pomp,
   riches, lights, incense, holy water, processions, pilgrimages, vestments,
   ceremonies, etc., and in place of these required support of the poor, who
   would have nothing to do with the worship of Mary and the saints, who
   disbelieved as much in miracles of saints as in relics, who — at least
   originally — rejected the entire sacramental system of the Church, and both
   limited the number of sacraments and only recognised their validity on
   condition that the priest was free from mortal sin. But from the beginning
   onwards this attitude towards the reigning Church was really in many
   respects only “academic,” for the great mass of the “Friends,” i.e., of
   adherents, by no means actually so judged the Roman Church, but remained
   within the sacramental bonds. Further, the extremely defective vindication
   of this radical opposition on the part of the Brethren themselves shows that
   it was more the result of the breach forced upon them from without, or, say,
   of the doctrine of poverty, than the product of a religious criticism
   dealing with what was essential. Finally, this view is confirmed by the
   circumstance that from the beginning the Brethren left themselves, as can be
   proved, a convenient alternative, by means of which they might be able to
   recognise the celebration of the sacraments by one guilty of mortal sin
   (they said that in that case the worthy Christian receives directly from the
   lord in the dispensation of sacramental grace). Moreover, in the time
   following they approached always more closely to the Church and its
   sacramental celebration, partly on practical grounds (to avoid detection),
   partly because confidence in their own “apostolic” powers always became
   feebler, and the Catholic orders were viewed with longing and with greater
   trust. The whole movement, therefore, was at bottom not dogmatic. It was on
   the one hand — if we would draw the conclusions without hesitation — too
   radical to play a part in the history of dogma (Christianity is the
   apostolic life), on the other hand too conservative, as it set aside
   absolutely nothing that was Catholic with good conscience and clear insight.
   It is a phenomenon in the history of Catholic piety, though it may be worth
   considering in connection with the history of dogma that the whole
   hierarchico-sacramental apparatus of the Church was called in question. Had
   the movement come a generation later, the Church would no doubt have found
   means for incorporating it into itself, as it did the Franciscan. Such an
   attempt was even made with the “Catholic Poor” of the converted Durandus of
   Huesca, formerly a French Waldensian (acknowledged by Innocent III. a year
   before St. Francis stood before him), and of the converted Lombard, Bernhard
   Primus, also one of the “Poor”; but there was no more success in leading the
   whole movement back to the channel of the Church by means of such approved
   Poor ones (Müller, p. 16 ff.) Only in the Mendicant Orders did the powerful
   counter-movement become organised and permanent (cf. Miller’s excellent
   directions for finding the connection between the approvals of the Societies
   of Durandus, Dominic, and Francis (Waldenser, p. 65 ff.); also the same
   author’s Anfänge des Minoritenordens (pp. 43, 69 f.), and the perhaps
   anti-Waldensian passage on the Rule of 1209 (p. 187): “Nulla penitus mulier
   ab aliquo fratre recipiatur ad obedientiam”). The Mendicant Orders
   naturally, particularly that of Dominic, set themselves in opposition, not
   only to the unsanctioned “Poor,” but to sectarianism as a whole. On this
   latter there is no reason to enter in the history of dogma, for however high
   its importance may have to be estimated in connection with Church politics
   and social life, and however clearly it indicates that piety felt itself
   straightened within the tyrannical structure of the Roman Church and among
   its priests and ceremonies, it is equally certain that the mediæval sects
   continued entirely without influence as regards the development of dogma. It
   cannot even be said that they prepared the way for the Reformation; for the
   loosening which, to some extent, they brought about, was no prior condition
   of that movement. In the controversies rather which prevailed between the
   Roman Church and the dualistic (or pantheistic) sects, the Reformation
   placed itself entirely on the side of the former. What prepared the way for
   the Reformation in the domain of theology (keeping out of view the
   development of the ideas of the State and of natural rights) was always only
   the revived Augustinianism and the subjectivity of mysticism allied with it.
   As long, therefore, as it is regarded as expedient that the history of dogma
   should not be treated as history of culture, or as universal history,
   attention must be withdrawn from such phenomena as the Cathari, Albigenses,
   etc.

   [166] But in the year 1210, and later, Francis would not be induced to
   connect himself with an already existing Order, or to conform to the older
   Monachism, and in this obstinacy towards the Pope and the cardinals he
   showed that he knew the greatness of his cause.

   [167] This was not done indeed, and it led to sore distress on Francis’
   part; yet Sabatier seems to me to have exaggerated this strain in
   relationship (see Mariano, and especially Hegler); the Cardinal to whom the
   movement was chiefly due also did the most to make it political. The
   relation of St. Francis to the Curia and to the Church politicians, or
   rather the relation of these to him, still needs a thorough investigation.
   Excellent discussions in Hegler, l.c. 436 ff.

   [168] Of course many personal elements entered also, such as we can study in
   the most interesting of the earlier Franciscans, Elias of Cortona.

   [169] See the writings of Joh. de Oliva and Ubertino de Casale (both were
   under the influence of the writings of Joachim of Fiore). The view of
   history friendly to the State as against the Secularised Church appears
   already in the middle of the thirteenth century (and even among the
   Dominicans): see Voelter in the Ztschr. f. K.-Gesch. IV., H. 3. On the
   “Spirituales,” and the “Fraticelli” (the latter are not to be identified
   with the former), as well as on the conflicts in the time of John XXII. and
   Louis of Bavaria, see Ehrle in the Archiv. f. Litt.-u. K.-Gesch. des
   Mittelalters, Vol. I. and II., Müller, Kampf Ludwig’s des Bayern 1879 f.,
   the same author in the Ztschr. f. K.-Gesch. VI., part 1, Gudenatz, Michael
   von Cesena, 1876.

   [170] At a later time Hussism incorporated and wrought over a great part of
   the Fianciscan and Joachimic-Franciscan elements (see Müller, Bericht uber
   den gegenwärtigen Stand der Forschung auf dem Gebiet der vorreformatorischen
   Zeit, in den Vorträgen der theol. Conferenz zu Giessen 1887 S. 44), and as
   it spread widely, even beyond Bohemia, among the lower orders it prepared
   the way for the great Baptist movement and the social revolutions of the
   sixteenth century. Yet creations of a lasting kind appeared here as little
   as permanent influences on the Church generally. But from the point of view
   of Church history and the history of culture, the study of the powerful
   movement, essentially one throughout, which began with Joachimism and
   culminated with the Hussites and Baptists, is of the deepest interest. Like
   the “Illuminism” (Aufklärung) in the eighteenth century, and the Romantic
   ideas in the nineteenth, Joachimism spread over Europe in the thirteenth
   century, not as a new system of dogma, but as a new mode of viewing history
   and the highest problems, comforting to the seriously disposed, because it
   flattered them; cf., e.g., the Chronicle of Salimbene (Michael, Salimbene
   und seine Chronik., Innsbruck 1889). Strange that this movement should have
   begun in the hills of Calabria, the most out-of-the-way district of Southern
   Europe! It is still too little studied, while it certainly belongs to a
   period more open to our inspection than any in which prophetism played a
   part. Where prophets appear and are welcomed, fabrications are the immediate
   sequel. But the history of Joachimism is the typical history of all
   prophetism. Of the way in which it succeeds in adjusting itself in the
   world, Salimbene also furnishes some beautiful examples.

   [171] Herrmann remarks very correctly (Verkehr des Christen mit Gott I.
   Aufl., p. 100): “The (present day) lovers of Mysticism present on a
   diminished scale the same spectacle as the great Schoolmen; they seek repose
   from the work of their faith in Mystic piety.”

   [172] Herrmann (Verkehr des Christen mit Gott 3 Aufl., p. 21) justly
   emphasises the following also: “We must confess to ourselves that if we
   Evangelicals think we have another kind of religion, we are in any case
   still far from having reached the thoroughness of culture which Catholicism
   possesses in that Mysticism . . .it is a wonderfully perfect expression of a
   particular kind of religion. The speculations of Catholic Mysticism are of
   ancient date. Apart from Neoplatonism, it has little peculiar to it in this
   respect. But in the capacity to make personal life the subject of
   observation and delineation, it represents a height of attainment which
   Protestantism has not yet reached.”

   [173] The right conception of Mysticism as Catholic piety has been taught
   — in opposition to Ullmann’s “Reformers before the Reformation” — by Ritschl
   (Rechtfert. und Versöhn. vol. I., Geschichte des Pietismus, vols. I.-III.
   Theologie und Metaphysik) who has also given hints for further investigation
   (connection of the Mystics with the Anabaptists, Hussites, etc.). He has
   been followed by a large number of more recent investigators. Besides the
   works named above, p. 25, among which those of Denifle are epoch-making, as
   having shown that Master Eckhart is, in his Latin writings, entirely
   dependent on Thomas, and even in other respects owes his best to him (Archiv
   f. Litt.-und K.-Gesch. des Mittelalters II., pp. 417-640; preparatory work
   had already been done here by Bach in his monograph on Eckhart), see Lasson,
   Meister Eckhart, 1866, also the more recent works on Tauler and the Friends
   of God (Denifle), Pfeiffer’s edition of the German Mystics (2 vols.,
   1845-57), Suso’s Works, edited by Denifle (1877), still further, Ritschl in
   the Zeitschr. f. K.-Gesch. IV., p. 337 ff., Strauch, Marg. Ebner und
   Heinrich v. Nördlingen, 1882. On the earliest German Mystics see Preger,
   Vorarbeiten z. einer Gesch. der deutschen Mystik (Ztschr, f. die hist.
   Theol. 1869, and several essays in the Abhandl. der hist. Klasse d. bayer.
   Akad. d. Wissensch., which, along with his comprehensive history of
   Mysticism, are rich sources of material). On Ruysbroek cf. Engelhardt, Rich.
   v. St. Victor und R. 1838; on Thomas à Kempis “de imitatione Christi” the
   literature is voluminous, cf. Hirsche, Prolegomena z. einer neuen Ausg. 2
   vols. 1873-83, the same author on the Brothers of the Common Life in the
   R.-E 2. In general: Denifle, Das geistliche Leben. Blumenlese aus den
   deutschen Mystikern und Gottesfreunden. 3. Aufl. 1880, A very full
   delineation of Mysticism is also given in Thomasius-Seeberg, D.-Gesch. 2
   Aufl. II. 1 pp. 261 ff., cf. also Seeberg, Ein Kampf um jenseitiges Leben.
   Lebensbild eines mittelalterlichen Frommen., 1889. I give no extracts from
   the writings of the German Mediæval Mystics, because I should like to avoid
   even seeming to countenance the error that they expressed anything one
   cannot read in Origen, Plotinus, the Areopagite, Augustine, Erigena, Bernard
   and Thomas, or that they represented religious progress, while in respect of
   intrinsic Christian worth, their tractates really stand for the most part
   lower than the writings of Augustine and Bernard. The importance of those
   works rests in this, that they were written in German, and that they were
   intended for the laity. They are therefore of inestimable value within the
   history of the German church and dogma. But in general history we may, and
   must, content ourselves with a characterisation. Whether, perhaps, they
   represent a considerable advance in the history of epistemology and
   metaphysic, is a question I do not trust myself to answer, nor does it fall
   to he considered here. As to the idea of regeneration, which is strongly
   emphasised in many Mystic writings, we must take in connection with it the
   silence on forgiveness of sins, that we may see how even this idea stood
   under the ban of intellectualism. The “clarification.” which the Mysticism
   of the fourteenth century underwent in the fifteenth certainly related very
   specially to that aggressive intellectualism, so that the piety which
   expresses itself, for example, in the famous book de imitatione Christi
   (Thomas à Kempis) may he described as essentially Bernardine without
   Neoplatonic admixture, but yet only as Bernardine. A new, powerful element
   of joy in God, who forgives sin, and bestows faith, is sought for in vain.

   [174] See the works of Gothein, Kolde, Kawerau, Haupt, and above all v.
   Bezold (Gesch. der deutschen Reformation) on the inner state of Catholicism
   at the close of the fifteenth century. Succinct accounts in Lenz, Martin
   Luther, 1883 (introduction) and Karl Müller, Bericht uber den gegenwärtigen
   Stand, etc., 1887.

   [175] There are several Mystics of the fourteenth century who, in many
   passages of their devotional writings, find their sole ground of comfort, as
   definitely as St. Bernard, in the sufferings of Christ.

   [176] See Schlüter u. Storck, Ausgewählte Gedichte Jacopone’s, 1864. Thode,
   l.c. pp. 398 ff.

   [177] Although, shortly before his death, Eckhart had retracted everything
   unecclesiastical in his writings, two years after his death a process was
   instituted against him, i.e., twenty-eight of his propositions were
   condemned, partly as heretical, and partly as open to suspicion (Bull of
   John XXII., 1329). On this condemnation, and on the relation of Suso to
   Eckhart, see Denifle in the Archiv. f. L.-u. K.-G. des Mittelalters II. and
   Seeberg, Ein Kampf um jenseitiges Leben. 1889, p. 137 ff. Even Suso could
   not quite escape the reproach of polluting the land with heretical filth. It
   was always the Ultra’s, who, by making an appeal to them, brought discredit
   upon the “Church” Mystics.

   [178] Cf. especially Eckhart and Suso.

   [179] To this distinction between the Thomist and the Quietist (Nominalist)
   Mysticism Ritschl was the first to point, see Gesch. des Pietismus I., p.
   467 ff., and Zeitschr. f. K.-Gesch. IV., p. 337 ff.; also already in the
   first vol. of Rechtfertig. u. Versöhn.-Lehre.

   [180] About 1500 it seems to have gained the ascendency; cf. the attitude of
   Staupitz and Thomas Münzer. Even the “German Theology,” of which Luther was
   so fond, is quietistic.

   [181] In the section on the history of theology the characteristics and
   significance of Nominalism will receive a still further illustration.
   Meanwhile, however, let it be noted here, that by its “positiveness,” based
   on mere authority, Nominalism purchased its truer insight into the nature of
   religion at a heavy cost. Here Anselm and Thomas undoubtedly hold a higher
   position; but these men were hindered by their intellectualism from doing
   justice to the Christian religion as a historic magnitude and force. What I
   have set forth in these pages (p. 97 ff.) has been keenly assailed by Lasson
   and Raffaele Mariano. Plainly enough they put before me the alternative of
   irreligious criticism or blind faith (Köhlerglauben), when on their side
   they claim for the Thomist Mysticism that it is the only form of religion in
   which faith and thought, history and religious independence, are reconciled.
   It must be the endeavour of each of us to find something in his own way.
   What we have ultimately to do with here is the great problem as to what
   history and the person of Christ are in religion, and then there is the
   other problem also as to whether religion is contemplation or something more
   serious. That the end to which our striving is directed is the same — the
   seeking, finding, and keeping hold of God — may be confidently granted on
   both sides. But my opponents have an easier position than I have: they can
   prove — and I recognise this proof — that the piety that culminates in
   Mysticism and the old ecclesiastical dogma hang together, and they can at
   the same time let the question rest as to what reality of fact answers to
   the dogma. That is to say, the dogma renders them the best services, just
   when they are at liberty to contemplate it as a mobile and elastic
   magnitude, which hovers between the poles of an inferior actuality and that
   “highest,” which can never have been actual as earthly: out of the darkness
   there is a pressing forward to the light; luminous clouds show the path! But
   I seek in the dogma itself of the Christian Church for something concrete,
   namely the Gospel of Jesus Christ as the Lord. The tradition which the dogma
   represents is treated with more respect when it is criticised and sifted,
   than when one takes it as it is, in order ultimately to bid it a secret
   farewell, i.e., to substitute for it something quite different — namely the
   idea.

   [182] On the relation of Metaphysic to Asceticism, or, say, of Mysticism to
   Asceticism, see the dissertation of Bender in the Archiv. f. Gesch. der
   Philos. vol. 6, pp. 1 ff., 208 ff., 301 ff.

   [183] With Eckhart the direction originated to let even ecstacy go, though
   it should be as great as that of Paul, if one can help a poor man even with
   a sop.

   [184] See Wadstein, Die eschatologische Ideengruppe in den Hauptmomenten
   ihrer christlich-mittelalterlichen Gesammtentwickelung, 1896. The details of
   these ideas scarcely belong to the history of theology, not to speak of the
   history of dogma; but as was the case with the ideas about the devil, they
   exercised a very strong influence.

   [185] See Lamprecht, Zum Verständniss der wirthschaftlichen und Socialen
   Wandlungen in Deutschland vom 14. zum 16. Jahrh., in the Ztschr. f.
   Social-und Wirthschaftgesch. I., 2. 3, pp. 191-263. The significance of the
   state of the towns is specially to be observed (see the works by Schmoller).

   [186] Höffer, Die Romanische Welt und ihr Verhältniss zu den Reformideen des
   Mittelalters, 1878. Maurenbrecher, Gesch. d. Kathol. Reformation I., 1880.
   Kolde. Die deutsche Augustiner-Congregation, 1879. Dittrich, Beiträge z.
   Gesch. der Kathol. Reform im 1. Drittel des 16. Jahrh. I. u. II.
   (Görres-gesellsch.-Jahrbuch V. 1884, p. 319 ff., VII. 1886, p. 1 ff.).

   [187] The doctrines of indulgence, of the hierarchy, of free will, etc.
   Certainly there was opposition also to some old traditional doctrines
   (eternal damnation, purgatory, etc.), but it was not thorough-going.

   [188] What is here said applies also to Gothic architecture. It is certainly
   the greatest, most perfect, and most harmonious product of architectural art
   since the time of the Greek temple; indeed, it is the only style that is
   all-pervasive, and that embraces all in unity, as the Greek temple style
   does. In itself it proves that the mediæval period at its highest point of
   attainment possessed a harmonious culture which of its kind was perfect. But
   just on that account the Gothic is the style of mediæval Catholic
   Christianity, the style of Mysticism and Scholasticism. It awakens exactly
   the feelings, emotions, and sensations of awe which the Catholic piety, of
   which it is born, seeks to produce; just on that account also it is of
   Romanic origin, and the history of its spread is simply a parallel to the
   history of the spread of Romanic piety. Perhaps the deepest thing that can
   be said about the Gothic, about its ineffable charm and its æsthetic
   impressiveness — though at the same time it suggests the inevitable reaction
   of Protestant piety against it — has been put into words by Goethe in his
   Wahlverwandschaften (Hempel’s edition, XV., pp. 143, 137, 173): “ . . .She
   sat down in one of the seats (in a Gothic chapel), and it seemed to her, as
   she looked up and around, as if she was, and yet was not, as if she realised
   her identity and yet realised it not, as if all this that was before her was
   to vanish from her and she from herself, and only when the sun passed from
   the hitherto very brightly illumined (stained glass) window did she
   awake.” “From all figures there looks forth only the purest existence; all
   must be pronounced, if not noble, at least good. Cheerful collectedness,
   ready recognition of something above us to be reverenced, quiet
   self-devotion in love and expectant waiting, are expressed in all faces, in
   all attitudes. The aged man with the bald head, the boy with the curly
   locks, the sprightly youth, the grave-minded man, the glorified saint, the
   hovering angel, all seem to know the bliss of an innocent satisfaction, of a
   devout expectancy. The commonest thing that happens has a touch of heavenly
   life about it, and an act of divine service seems perfectly adapted to every
   nature. For such a religion most men look as for a vanished golden age, a
   lost paradise.” But on the other hand: “As for myself, this mutual
   approximation and intermingling of the sacred and the sensuous is certainly
   not to my liking; I am not pleased when people set apart and consecrate and
   adorn certain special places, that thereby alone they may foster and
   maintain the feeling of piety. No surroundings, not even the commonest,
   should disturb the feeling in us of the divine, which can accompany us
   everywhere, and make every place a consecrated temple. I would like to see
   an important religious service held in the saloon, where people usually take
   food, gather for social intercourse, and enjoy themselves with games and
   dancing. The highest, the most excellent thing, in man is formless, and we
   must guard against giving it shape in anything save noble deeds.”
     _________________________________________________________________

   2. On the History of Ecclesiastical Law. — The Doctrine of the Church.

   “In the fifty years that elapsed between the appearing of the Gratian book
   of laws (which contains, besides the Isodorian, numerous forgeries of the
   Gregorian Deusdedit, Anselm and Cardinal Gregorius) and the pontificate of
   Innocent III., the papal system achieved for itself complete supremacy. In
   the Roman Courts justice was dispensed according to Gratian’s law, in
   Bologna the teaching was regulated thereby, even the Emperor Frederick I.
   already had his son, Henry VI., instructed in the Decretum and in Roman law.
   The whole decretal legislation from 1159 to 1320 was framed on the basis of
   Gratian, and presupposes him. The same holds good of the dogmatic of Thomas
   in the relative material, while the scholastic dogmatic in general was made
   entirely dependent in questions of Church constitution on the favourite
   science of the clergy at the time, namely, jurisprudence, as it had been
   drawn up by Gratian, Raymund, and the other collectors of decretals. The
   theory, as well as the texts and proofs relating thereto, were derived by
   the theologians from these collections of laws.” [189] With regard to the
   nature of the Church, while the Augustinian definition was firmly retained,
   that the Church is the community of believers or of the predestinated, the
   idea was always gaining a fuller acceptance that the hierarchy is the
   Church, and that the Pope, as successor of Peter, and episcopus universalis,
   unites in himself all the powers of the Church. The German Kings themselves
   were in great part to blame for this development, for while they, and, above
   all, the Hohenstaufens, led the struggle for the rights of the State against
   the papacy, they left the latter to its own irresponsible action in the
   ecclesiastical domain. Only when it was now too late did Frederick II. point
   out in his address to the Kings of the Franks and Angles (ad reges Francorum
   et Anglorum) that the hierarchy must be restored by an inner reform to its
   original poverty and humility. [190] In its development to autocratic
   supremacy within the Church and the Churches, a check was put upon the
   papacy from the beginning of the fourteenth century only from France. [191]

   We cannot be required to show here what particular conclusions were drawn by
   the Popes and their friends from the idea of the Church as a civil organism
   of law in the thirteenth century and in the first half of the fourteenth,
   and in what measure these conclusions were practically carried out. The
   leading thoughts were the following: (1) The hierarchical organisation is
   essential to the Church, and in all respects the Christianity of the laity
   is dependent on the mediation of the priests (“properly ordained”), who
   alone can perform ecclesiastical acts. When we pass from Cyprian to Gregory
   I., from the latter to Pseudoisidore and Gregory VII., we might conclude on
   superficial consideration that the principle just stated had long been
   determinative. But when we enter into detail, and take into account the
   ecclesiastical legislation from the time of Innocent III., we observe how
   much was still wanting to a strict application of it in theory and practice
   till the end of the twelfth century. Only from the time of the fourth
   Lateran Council was full effect given to it, expressly in opposition to the
   Catharist and Waldensian parties. [192] (2) The sacramental and judicial
   powers of the priests are independent of their personal worthiness. This
   also was an old principle; but after having been long latent, it was now
   strongly emphasised, asserted in opposition to all “heretical” parties, and
   so turned to account that by it the hierarchy protected themselves against
   all demand for reform, and, above all, evaded the appeal to resume the
   apostolic life. Whoever returned from the “heretical” parties to the bosom
   of the Church was required to declare that he recognised the celebration of
   Sacraments by sinful priests. [193] (3) The Church is a visible community
   with a constitution given to it by Christ (even as such it is the body of
   Christ [corpus Christi]); as a visible, constituted community it has a
   double power, namely, the potestas spiritualis and the potestas temporalis
   (spiritual and temporal power). Through both is it, as it shall endure till
   the end of the world, superior to the transitory states, which are
   subordinate to it. To it, therefore, must all states and all individuals be
   obedient de necessitate salutis (as a necessary condition of salvation);
   nay, the power of the Church extends itself even to heretics [194] and
   heathen. [195] Even these principles [196] have their root in the
   Augustinian doctrine of the Church; [197] but from the logical expression
   and thorough-going application which they received between 1050 and 1300,
   they present the appearance of an unheard-of innovation. They obtained their
   complete formulation from Boniface VIII.; [198] but long before him the
   Popes acted according to these principles. The worst consequence was not the
   undervaluing, [199] repression and serious deterioration of civic life
   (here, on the contrary, there can be discerned also many salutary effects in
   the interests of popular freedom), but the inevitable profanation of
   religion, inasmuch as all its aims and benefits were perverted and falsified
   through the light being foreign to them in which they presented themselves
   from the standpoint of Church law; and obedience to an external human
   institution, that was subject to all errors of human passion and sin, was
   raised to the first condition of Christian life. “It was this Church on
   which there fell that heaviest responsibility that has ever been incurred in
   history: by all violent means it applied as pure truth a doctrine that was
   vitiated and distorted to serve its omnipotence, and under the feeling of
   its inviolability abandoned itself to the gravest immorality; in order to
   maintain itself in such a position, it struck deadly blows at the spirit and
   conscience of the nations, and drove many of the more highly gifted, who had
   secretly withdrawn from it, into the arms of unbelief and embitterment.”
   [200]

   (4) To the Church has been given, by Christ, a strictly monarchical
   constitution in His representative, the successor of Peter, the Roman
   Bishop. Not only is all that is valid with regard to the hierarchy valid in
   the first instance of the Pope, but to him all powers are committed, and the
   other members of the hierarchy are only chosen in partem solicitudinis (for
   purposes of oversight). He is the episcopus universalis (universal bishop);
   to him belong, therefore, both swords, and as every Christian can attain
   salvation only in the Church, as the Church, however, is the hierarchy, and
   the hierarchy the Pope, it follows that de necessitate salutis all the world
   must be subject to the Pope. In numerous letters these principles had
   already been maintained by Gregory VII. in a way that could not be out-vied
   (cf. also the so-called dictatus Gregorii). Yet in his case everything
   appears as the outflow of a powerful dominating personality, which, in a
   terrible conflict, grasps at the extremest measures. In the period that
   followed, however, his principles were not only expressed, but were
   effectively applied, and, at the same time, as the result of a marvellous
   series of forgeries, were believingly accepted even by those who felt
   obliged to combat the papacy. At the time when the papacy saw itself
   confronted with a weak imperial power in the West, and with a still weaker
   Latin Empire in the East, this view of things established itself (from the
   time of Innocent III. onward) in the souls and minds of men. So far as I
   know, Thomas was the first to state the position roundly in the formula:
   “(ostenditur etiam), quod subesse Romano pontifici sit de necessitate
   salutis” (it is also shown that to be subject to the Roman pontiff is
   essential to salvation). [201] Then the whole theory was summed up in a form
   not to be surpassed in the Bull “Unam sanctam” of Boniface (1302), after the
   Popes for a whole century had strictly followed it in hundreds of small and
   great questions (questions of Church policy, of civil policy, of diocesan
   administration, etc.), and were in a position for daring to disregard all
   protests. [202] The setting up of strict monarchical power and the
   destruction of the old Church constitution is represented in three stages by
   Pseudo Isidore, Gratian, and the Mendicant Orders; for the latter, through
   the special rights which they received, completely broke up the local powers
   (bishops, presbyteries, parish priests), and were subject entirely to papal
   direction. [203] All the premises from which there necessarily followed the
   infallibility of the Pope had been brought together; they were strictly
   developed, too, by Thomas, after new forgeries had been added. [204]
   Nevertheless, though the doctrine had long been recognised, that through a
   special divine protection the Roman Church could not entirely fall from
   faith, and was the divinely appointed refuge for doctrinal purity and
   doctrinal unity, beyond the groups that stood under the influence of the
   Dominican Order, the doctrine of infallibility did not command acceptance.
   The history of the Popes was still too well known; even in the canonical
   law-book there were contradictory elements, and [205] Popes as great as
   Innocent III. admitted the possibility of a Pope falling into sin in matters
   of faith, and, in that case, acknowledged the competency of the judgment of
   the entire Church. [206] It was thus possible that at the University of
   Paris a decided opposition should establish itself, which led, e.g., to the
   Pope being charged with heresy in connection with a doctrine of John XXII.
   The indefiniteness in which many Church doctrines (and theories of practice,
   e.g., in regard to ordination) still stood, and the hesitating attitude
   which the Popes assumed towards them, also prevented the dogmatic authority
   of the papacy from being taken as absolute. [207] Although the falsification
   of history, by the publication of historic accounts that painted over in an
   incredible way the great conflict between the papacy and the Empire, reached
   its climax about 1300, [208] and the principles of the Thomist policy [209]
   always received a fuller adoption, the decisive question of the
   infallibility remained unsolved. From about the year 1340, indeed, the
   literature in which the papal system was delineated in the most extravagant
   way, [210] ceased entirely to be produced. Only after 120 years did it
   reappear, when it was a question of rescuing and asserting the old claims of
   the papacy against the Council of Bâsle. It was then that Cardinal
   Torquemada wrote that defence of the papal system, [211] which, resting on a
   strict Thomistic foundation, was still regarded at the period of the
   Reformation as the most important achievement of the papal party. But from
   the middle of the fifteenth century the papal system, as a whole, was again
   gathering power, after the storm of the Councils had been happily exorcised
   by the brilliant but crafty policy of Eugene IV. Only the French nation
   maintained what ground of freedom was already won in opposition to the Pope
   (Bourges 1438). The other nations returned, through the Concordats, to their
   old dependence on the Autocrat in Rome; [212] indeed, they were, to some
   extent, betrayed just by their own local rulers, inasmuch as these men saw
   it to be of advantage in hastening their attainment to full princely power
   to take shares with the Pope in the Church of the country. [213] This fate
   overtook, in the end, even the French national Church (through the concordat
   of Dec. 1516), and yet in such a way that the king obtained the chief share
   of the power over it. While, as the fifteenth century passed into the
   sixteenth, the Popes were indulging wildly in war, luxury, and the grossest
   simony, Cajetan and Jacobazzi wrought out the strictest papal theory, the
   former including in it the doctrine of infallibility. [214] The hopes of the
   nations in the Council were quenched, the old tyranny was again set up; it
   was complained, indeed, that the ecclesiastical despotism was worse than
   that of the Turks, but, nevertheless, men submitted to the inevitable. About
   the year 1500 the complaints were perhaps more bitter than at any other
   time; but the falling away was slight, the taking of steps less frequent.
   Heresy seemed to have become rarer and tamer than in the thirteenth and
   fourteenth centuries, especially after the Hussite movement had exhausted
   itself. The “heretics” — so it appeared — had really become the “silent in
   the land,” who shunned an open breach with the Church; their piety appeared
   less aggressive. “It was pretty generally felt that it had happened to the
   Church with the Reformation, as formerly it had happened to the King of Rome
   with the Sibylline books; after the seed of corruption sown by the Curia
   had, for fifty years, borne a much larger harvest, and the Church itself
   made no more effort to save it, the Reformation had to be purchased at a
   much heavier price and with still smaller prospect of success.” [215] The
   Lateran Council at the beginning of the sixteenth century, which treated
   with scorn all wishes of the nations and promulgated the papal theory in the
   strictest sense, [216] as if there had never been councils at Constance and
   Basle, was tacitly recognised. But it was the lull before the storm — a
   storm which the Pope had yet to experience, who had entered upon his office
   with the words: “Volo, ut pontificatu isto quam maxime perfruamur.” (It is
   my wish that we may enjoy the pontificate in the largest measure possible.)
   [217]

   Before the time of Thomas theology took no part in this imposing development
   of the papal theory; even after him the share taken by it was small. The
   development was directed by jurisprudence, which founded simply on external,
   mostly forged, historic testimonies, and drew its conclusions with dialectic
   art. The meagre share of theology is to be explained on two grounds. First,
   Rome alone had a real interest in the whole theory; but in Rome theology
   never flourished, either in antiquity or in the Middle Ages. There was
   practical concern in Rome neither with Scripture exposition nor with the
   dogmatic works of the Fathers. Whoever wished to study theology went to
   France. For the Curia, only the student of law was of any account; from the
   time of Innocent IV. a school of law existed in Rome; the great majority of
   the Cardinals were well-equipped jurists, not theologians, and the greatest
   Popes of the Middle Ages, Alexander III., Innocents III. and IV., Boniface
   VIII., etc., came to the papal chair as highly-esteemed legal scholars.
   [218] When it was now much too late, men with clear vision, like Roger
   Bacon, or pious patriots, like Dante, saw that the ruin of the Church was
   due to the decretals, which were studied in place of the Church Fathers and
   Scripture. The former, in particular, demanded very loudly that the Church
   should be delivered from the secularised Church law which was poisoning it.
   In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries there were complaints constantly
   made about the papacy, and about the corrupted Church law (“Jurists bad
   Christians”) as being the real source of all evil. It was the spirit of
   ancient Rome that had settled down on the Mediæval spirit, that Roman spirit
   of jurisprudence, which had now, however, degenerated into a spirit of
   tyranny, and used as its means audacious forgeries. But the slight share of
   theology in the development of the hierarchical conception of the Church is
   to be explained not merely from the lack of theology, but, second, from the
   fortunate incapacity of theology (till past the middle of the thirteenth
   century) to lower itself to this notion of the Church. Anyone who reflected
   as a theologian on the Church, instituted researches into the works of the
   Church fathers, especially Augustine. But here the spiritual conception of
   the Church (i.e., the Church as corpus Christi [body of Christ], as
   multitudo fidelium [multitude of the faithful], as universitas Christianorum
   [entire mass of Christians]) came so clearly to view that for the time it
   riveted reflection, and there was failure to force one’s way with any
   confidence to the hierarchical, not to speak of the papal, conception, or it
   was only touched on. This explains how all the great theologians before
   Thomas, from Anselm onwards, even those of Gregorian tendency, achieved as
   theologians very little in promoting the development of the hierarchical
   conception of the Church. They taught and wrote like Augustine, indeed they
   still remained behind him in precise definition of the Church as an external
   society. [219] Theology did nothing for the development and establishment of
   the papal system till far on in the thirteenth century, and it may here be
   said at once in its honour, that with a single, and that even not a perfect,
   exception (Thomas), it did only half work in the time that followed, leaving
   the most to be done by the Post-Tridentine theology. [220] So far as I know,
   there is nothing to be found in the theological writings of the Schoolmen in
   the shape of rounded off formulæ for, nothing of strictly systematic
   exposition of, the conception of the Church (as in the case of the doctrine
   of the Sacraments). On the other hand, both in Hugo St. Victor, and in the
   later Schoolmen also, not a few fundamental lines of proof with regard to
   the notion of the Church can be pointed to which were directly and without
   change taken over by the “heretical” parties, and by men like Wyclif. [221]
   What most simply explains this is that the patristic, and especially the
   Augustinian, expositions still determined theology. Yet it is not to be
   denied, that from the middle of the thirteenth century theology took a
   certain share in developing the conception of the Church. It was just the
   Mendicant Monks — to the shame of St. Francis — who, even as theologians,
   began to be enthusiastic for the papal theory, after there had been
   conferred upon them such excessive privileges as could only be held legal if
   the Pope was really the Lord of the Church. There was added to this, that in
   the thirteenth century, in the course of the negotiations with the Greeks,
   theology saw that it had to face the task of ingratiating them into the
   papal system also. It was in connection with this task that there was
   awakened the interest theology took in the hierarchical conception of the
   Church which formed the presupposition of the papal system, [222] and the
   great thinker, Thomas Aquinas, now developed at once the hierarchical and
   papal theory, together with a bold theory of the state. [223] But he was far
   from surrendering, at the same time, the spiritual conception of the Church,
   or — as was done in the Post-Tridentine period — from correcting it
   throughout by means of the hierarchical. With all his logical consistency in
   the development of the papal system, he certainly did not derive the powers
   of the bishops and priests entirely from the papal; in his “Summa” he still
   works to a great extent with the notion of the “Ecclesia” as having the
   force of a central conception, and in doing so has no thought of monarchy.
   For him it is no figure of speech that the individual bishop “is called
   specially the bridegroom of the Church as also Christ” (specialiter sponsus
   ecclesiæ dicitur sicut et Christus). [224] But, so far as the influence of
   Thomas extended, the result was unquestionably a mingling of jurisprudence
   and theology in this department and the acclimatising of the
   hierarchico-papal notion of the Church. [225] Yet his influence must not be
   over-rated. The Franciscan (Nominalist) dogmatic took little to do, so far
   as I know, with this development of the conception of the Church. Even at
   the beginning of the Reformation, the whole hierarchical and papal theory
   had no sure position in dogmatic — it was Romish decretal law. But it had
   attained more than a place in dogmatic. From about 1450 it was again
   energetically acted upon from rome, and the opposition to it appeared no
   longer so powerful as a century before. [226]

   This opposition we have still to review. Here it is to be observed, above
   everything else, that the imperfect public development of the conception of
   the Church was a matter of little importance, because in the doctrine of the
   Sacraments all was already acquired as a sure possession which could be
   expected from a formulation of the conception of the Church in hierarchical
   interests. From this, again, it followed still further, that the opposition
   to the hierarchical papal notion of the Church necessarily continued — in
   spite of all fostering — without danger, so long as the doctrine of the
   Sacraments was not objected to. But the latter again rested on the peculiar
   view of salvation, as the sanctification that leads to the visio dei, as
   active holiness (measured by the standard of the law of God). Here we must
   go back to an earlier point. [227] .

   Augustine combined the old Catholic notion of salvation, as the visio et
   fruitio dei (vision and enjoyment of God), with the doctrine of
   predestination on the one hand and with the doctrine of the regnum Christi
   (kingdom of Christ) and the process of justification on the other. As
   contrasted with the Greek view, both combinations were new; but the union of
   the idea of salvation with the process of justification and sanctification
   was easily effected, because this process was taken as regulated entirely by
   the Sacraments, while the Sacraments, as the Greek development shows, formed
   the necessary correlate to the idea of salvation. If in salvation, that is
   to say, the supramundane condition in which one is to find himself is mainly
   emphasised, then there answer to the production of this condition, means
   that operate as holy natural forces. When Augustine conceived of these
   natural forces as forces of love working for righteousness, a very great
   step of progress was taken; but no difference was made thereby in the
   general scheme, since love was regarded as infused. But certainly he made it
   possible that there should also be given to the whole process a very decided
   tendency towards morality — which had dropped out of the Greek view as held
   within the lines of dogma. The forces of love, that is to say, bring it
   about that here on earth the law of Christ, which is summed up in the
   commandment to love, can be fulfilled. In this way there arises from the
   forces of love, which are transmitted through the Sacraments as channels,
   the kingdom of Christ, in which righteousness reigns according to the
   example and law of Christ. The Sacraments have therefore the double effect,
   that of preparing for, and conducting gradually to the visio et fruitio dei,
   and that of producing on earth the Church in which the law of Christ reigns
   and by which the “bene vivere” (right-living) is produced. By the latter of
   these two views the position of the State is determined — as the bene vivere
   is its end, it must submit itself to the sacramental institution. But by the
   whole idea the priesthood as the teaching and sanctifying corporation is
   legitimised; for the administration of the Sacraments is tied to a
   particular order, whom Christ has appointed, and this order, at the same
   time, is alone empowered to interpret the law of Christ with binding
   authority. To them, therefore, there must be subjection.

   This whole view, which, certainly, had not received a clear and precise
   expression from Augustine, obtained clearness and precision in the period
   that followed — less through the labours of the theologians than by the
   force of the resolute Roman policy. Because this policy aimed, above all, at
   monarchy in the Church, it had, as the result of its victorious exercise,
   brought out clearly for the first time, and at the same time created, the
   general hierarchical conditions requisite for the existence of such a
   monarchy. Yet, in spite of many forgeries, it could not bring it about that
   the factor of hierarchical gradation, comparatively insignificant from a
   dogmatic point of view, but extremely important from the point of view of
   practice, should obtain the support of an imposing tradition; for from
   Augustine and the Fathers in general it was as good as absent. But still
   further, Augustine, as we have noted above, combined with the dogma of
   salvation as the visio dei the doctrine of predestination, and developed
   from the latter a doctrine of the Church that held a neutral relation to
   hierarchy and sacrament. No doubt it can easily be shown that the
   predestinarian and the sacramental hierarchical notions of the Church are
   not necessarily mutually exclusive, nay, that in a certain sense they
   require each other, inasmuch as the individual’s uncertainty of his own
   election, affirmed by Augustine, necessarily forces him to make a diligent
   use of all the means furnished by the Church, and the explanation very
   naturally occurs that God effectuates the fulfilment of the predestinating
   decree only through the empirical Church with its Sacraments. But Augustine
   himself did not assert that; and although in the time that came after, this
   mode of adjusting things came to be very much in favour, yet, as there was
   no allowing the doctrine of predestination to drop out, there was involved
   in this doctrine an element that threatened, like an overhanging mass of
   rock, to destroy the existence of the structure beneath. Finally, Augustine
   had no doubt carried on a victorious conflict with Donatism; but there was
   still one point at which it was not easy to deny entirely the correctness of
   the Donatist thesis, and that was the sacrament of penance. It could
   certainly be made credible that baptism, the Lord’s supper, confirmation,
   ordination were valid, even when an unworthy priest dispensed them; but how
   was such a man to be able to sit in judgment upon the holy and the unholy,
   to apply the law of Christ, to bind and loose, if the load rested on himself
   of ignorance of sin? It was surely more than paradoxical, it was an
   inconceivable thought, that the blind should be able to judge aright as to
   light and darkness. Was excommunication by such a man to be held valid
   before God? Was his absolution to have force? There was no doubt an escape
   sought for here, also, by saying that it is Christ who binds and looses, not
   the priest, who is only a minister; but when flagrant unrighteousness was
   practised by the priest, when such cases increased in number, what was then
   to be done? [228]

   In a way indicating the greatest acuteness, Thomas combined the
   predestinarian (spiritual) and the hierarchical conceptions of the Church,
   and tried to eliminate the points from which a “heretical” conception could
   develop itself; but it is apparent from what has been stated that one could
   accept substantially the Augustinian-Thomist notion of the Church with its
   premises (doctrines of salvation and the Sacraments), and yet, when tested
   by the claims which the Mediæval Church set up at the time of its greatest
   power, could become “heretical,” in the event, namely, of his either (1)
   contesting the hierarchical gradation of the priestly order; or (2) giving
   to the religious idea of the Church implied in the thought of predestination
   a place superior to the conception of the empirical Church; or (3) applying
   to the priests, and thereby to the authorities of the Church, the test of
   the law of God, before admitting their right to exercise, as holding the
   keys, the power of binding and loosing.

   Certainly during the whole of the Middle Ages there were sects who attacked
   the Catholic notion of the Church at the root; but however important they
   may be for the history of culture, they play no part in the history of
   dogma; for as their opposition, as a rule, developed itself from dualistic
   or pantheistic premises (surviving effects of old Gnostic or Manichæan
   views), they stood outside of ordinary Christendom, and, while no doubt
   affecting many individual members within it, had no influence on Church
   doctrine. [229] On the other hand, it may be asserted that all the movements
   which are described as “reformations anticipating the Reformation,” and
   which for a time resisted not unsuccessfully the introduction of the Romish
   conception of the Church, set out from the Augustinian conception of the
   Church, but took exception to the development of this conception, from the
   three points that have been defined above. Now whether we look at the
   Waldensian, the Lombard, the Apocalyptico-Joachimic, the Franciscan
   opposition to the new conception of the Church, whether at that of the
   Empire or the Councils, of Wyclif or Huss, or even, indeed, at the humanist,
   we have always the same spectacle. On the first view the opposition seems
   radical, nay, expressly antagonistic. Angry curses — Anti-Christ, Babylon,
   Church of the devil, priests of the devil, etc. — catch the ear everywhere.
   But if we look a little more closely, the opposition is really much tamer.
   That fundamental Catholic conception of the Church, as a sacramental
   institution, is not objected to, because the fundamental conception of
   salvation and of blessedness remains unassailed. Although all hierarchical
   gradation may be rejected, the conception of the hierarchical priesthood is
   allowed to stand; although the Church may be conceived of as the community
   of the predestinated, every Christian must place himself under the influence
   of the Sacraments dispensed by the Church, and must use them most
   diligently, for by means of these his election is effected; although the
   sacramental acts of unworthy priests may be invalid, still priests are
   needed, but they must live according to the law of Christ; although the
   Church as the community of the predestinated may be known only to God, yet
   the empirical Church is the true Church, if the apostolic life prevails in
   it, and a true empirical Church of the kind is absolutely necessary, and can
   be restored by reforms; although, finally, all secular rights may have to be
   denied to the Pope and the priesthood, yet secular right in general is
   something that has gradually to disappear. The criticism of the Romish
   conception of the Church is therefore entirely a criticism from within.

   The criticism must not on that account be under-estimated; it certainly
   accomplished great things; in it the spiritual and moral gained supremacy
   over the legal and empirical, and Luther was fortunate when he came to know
   Huss’s doctrine of the Church. Yet we must not be deceived by this as to the
   fact that the conception of the Church held by all the opposing parties was
   only a form of the Augustinian conception of the Church, modified by the
   Waldensian-Franciscan ideal of the apostolic life (according to the law of
   Christ). The ways in which the elements were mingled in the programmes of
   the opposition parties were very different; at one time the predestinarian
   element preponderated, at another time an apocalyptic-legal, at another the
   Franciscan, at another the biblical (the lex Christi), at another they were
   all present in equipoise. Especially on the ground that these opposition
   parties, starting from the doctrine of predestination, enforced the
   conception of the “invisible Church,” and applied the standard of Scripture
   to everything, they are praised as evangelical. But attention has very
   rightly been drawn of late to the fact [230] that they by no means renounced
   the conception of an empirical, true Church, a conception to which they were
   driven by individual uncertainty about election, and that their stand-point
   on the ground of Scripture is the Catholic-legal, as it had been adopted by
   Augustine, Bernard, and Francis.

   Under such circumstances it is enough to delineate in a few of their
   features the conceptions of the Church held by the several parties. The
   Waldensians contested neither the Catholic cultus nor the Sacraments and the
   hierarchical constitution in themselves, but they protested (1) as against a
   mortal sin, against the Catholic clergy exercising the rights of the
   successors of the Apostles without adopting the apostolic life; and (2)
   against the comprehensive power of government on the part of the Pope and
   the bishops, hence against the Romish hierarchy with its graded ranks. But
   the French Waldensians did not, nevertheless, contest the validity of the
   Sacraments dispensed by unworthy priests, though this certainly was done by
   those of Lombardy. [231] Among the Waldensians, then, the conception of the
   law of Christ, as set forth in Scripture and as prescribing to the priests
   the apostolic life, rises above all other marks of the Church (among those
   in Italy the Donatist element developed itself from this). The same applies
   to a part of the Franciscans, who passed over to the opposition. In the
   sharp polemic against Rome on the part of the Joachimites, the apocalyptic
   element takes its place side by side with the legal: clergy and hierarchy
   are judged from the standpoint of emancipated monachism and of the
   approaching end of time. [232] No wonder that just this view gained favour
   with not a few Franciscans, that it extended itself to far in the North
   among all sections of the people, [233] and that it came to take up a
   friendly (Ghibelline) attitude towards the State. As thus modified it freed
   itself up to a certain point from the wild apocalyptic elements, and passed
   over to be merged in the imperialist opposition. Here also they were again
   Franciscans who passed over also, and to some extent, indeed, conducted the
   resistance to the papal power (Occam). In this opposition the dispute was by
   no means about the Church as a sacramental institution and as a priesthood,
   but simply about the legitimacy of the hierarchical gradation of rank
   (including the Pope, whose divine appointment Occam contested), and about
   the governing powers of the hierarchy, which were denied. But these powers
   were denied on the ground of the Franciscan view, that the Church admits of
   no secular constitution, and that the hierarchy must be poor and without
   rights. The assigning of the entire legal sphere to the State was at bottom
   an expression of contempt for that sphere, not indeed on the part of all
   literary opponents of the papacy in the fourteenth century, but yet on the
   part of not a few of them. [234] The imperialist opposition was dissolved by
   that of the Councils. Reform of the Church in its head and members was the
   watchword — but the professors of Paris, who, like the German professors in
   the fifth and sixth decades of the present century, gave themselves up to
   the illusion that they sat at the loom of history, understood by this reform
   merely a national-liberal reform of the ecclesiastical constitution (after
   the pattern of the constitution of the University of Paris), the restriction
   of the tyrannical and speculative papal rights, the giving to the Council
   supremacy over the papacy, [235] and the liberating of the national Churches
   from papal oppression, with a view to their possessing independence, either
   perfect or relative. The importance of these ideas from the point of view of
   ecclesiastical policy, and the sympathy we must extend to the idealism of
   these professors, must not lead to our being deceived as to the futility of
   their efforts for reform, which were supported by the approval of peoples
   and princes. They attacked at the root the Gregorian (Pseudo-Isidorian)
   development of the ecclesiastical constitution and of the papacy; but they
   did not say to themselves, that this development must always again repeat
   itself if the root, the doctrines of the Sacraments and of the priesthood,
   be left untouched. But how could these doctrines be assailed when there was
   agreement with the Curialists in the view taken of salvation and of the law
   of Christ? In face of the actual condition of things, which had developed
   throughout many centuries in the Church, the idea that the Church’s
   disorders could be healed by paralysing the papal system of finance, and
   declaring the Council the divinely instituted court of appeal in the Church,
   was a Utopia, the realisation of which during a few decades was only
   apparent. It is somewhat touching to observe with what tenacity in the
   fifteenth, and beginning of the sixteenth, centuries, men clung to the hope
   that a Council could heal the hurt of Israel, and deliver the Church from
   the tyranny of the Pope. The healing indeed came, but in a way in which it
   was not expected, while it was certainly the only healing which a Council
   could permanently bestow — it came at the Councils of Trent and the Vatican.
   [236]

   Even before the beginning of the great opposition movement of the Councils
   against the papal system, the most important mediæval effort towards reform
   had been initiated — the Wyclifite, which continued itself in the Hussite.
   In spite of wild extravagances, the movement under Wyclif and Huss, in which
   many of the earlier lines of effort converged, must be regarded as the
   ripest development of mediæval reform-agitation. Yet it will appear, that
   while doing much in the way of loosening and preparing, it gave expression
   to no Reformation thought; it, too, confined itself to the ground that was
   Augustinian-Franciscan, with which there was associated only a powerful
   national element. Yet to Wyclif’s theory, which Huss simply transcribed,
   [237] a high value is to be attached, as being the only coherent theological
   theory which the Middle Ages opposed to the Thomist. All the other mediæval
   opponents of the Romish Church system work with mere measuring-lines or with
   fragments.

   When we look at what Wyclif and Huss challenged or rejected, we might
   suppose that here a radical criticism of the Catholic conception of the
   Church was carried through, and a new idea of the Church presented.
   Everything must be determined by Holy Scripture; the practice in regard to
   worship and the Sacraments is everywhere represented as perverted and as
   encumbered by the traditions of men; the doctrine of indulgence, the
   practice of auricular confession, the doctrine of transubstantiation
   (Wyclif), the manducatio infidelium (communicating of unbelievers), the
   priests’ absolute power of the keys, are as zealously opposed as the worship
   of saints, images, and relics, private masses, and the many sacramentalia.
   For the worship of God there are demanded plainness, simplicity, and
   intelligibility; the people must receive what will be inwardly and
   spiritually edifying (hence the preference for the vernacular). [238] With
   the thorough reform of worship and of sacrament celebration there must be a
   corresponding reform of the hierarchy. Here also there must be a reverting
   to the original simplicity. The papacy, as it existed, was regarded as a
   part of Anti-Christ, and this was not less true of the secularised Mendicant
   Monk system (as Lechler has shown, it was only towards the end of his life
   that Wyclif entered upon a vigorous conflict with both; his original
   attitude towards the Mendicant Monks was more friendly). The Pope, who
   contravenes the law of Christ, is the Anti-Christ, and in the controversial
   treatise “de Christo et suo adversario Anti-Christo,” it is proved that in
   twelve matters the Pope has apostatised from the law and doctrine of Christ.
   The head of the Church is Christ, not the Pope; only through Constantine has
   the latter, as the bishop of Rome, become great. Therefore the Roman bishop
   must return to a life of apostolic service. He is not the direct and
   proximate vicar of Christ, but is a servant of Christ, as are the other
   bishops as well. The entire priestly order exists to serve in humility and
   love; the State alone has to rule. The indispensable condition of priestly
   service is imitation of the suffering man Jesus. If a priest disregards this
   and serves sin, he is no priest, and all his sacred acts are in vain.

   But behind all these positions, which were for the most part already made
   familiar by older reform parties, there lies a distinctly defined conception
   of the Church, which is not new, however, but is rather only a variety of
   the Thomist. Wyclif’s conception of the Church can be wholly derived from
   the Augustinian (influence on Wyclif of Thomas of Bradwardine, the
   Augustinian), when the peculiar national and political conditions are kept
   in view under which he stood, [239] and also the impression which the
   Franciscan ideal — even to the length of communism indeed — made upon him.
   Huss stood under quite similar conditions, and could therefore simply adopt
   Wyclifism.

   Wyclif sets out from the Augustinian definition of the Church as the entire
   sum of the predestinated in heaven and on earth. To this Church the merely
   præsciti (foreknown) do not belong; they do not belong to it even at the
   time when they are righteous; while, on the other hand, every predestinated
   one is a member of it, even if at the time he is still not under grace, or,
   say, is a heathen or Jew. No one can say of himself without special
   revelation (revelatio specialis) that he belongs to this Church. This
   momentous proposition, which dominates the whole of the further discussion,
   is a clear proof that Wyclif and Huss stood on Catholic ground, i.e., that
   the significance of faith was entirely ignored. As a fact, the definition of
   the Church as congregatio fidelium was a mere title; for, as we shall
   immediately see, faith was not what is decisive; it comes to view rather
   within the conception of the Church as merely an empirical mark (equivalent
   to community of the baptized). Further, as it is an established fact that no
   one can be certain of his election — for how can one surrender himself here
   on earth to the constant feeling of felicity which springs from the vision
   and enjoyment of God after all other feelings have been quenched? how is it
   possible to attain to this state of heart even now? — then there is either
   no mark at all by which the existence of the Church may be determined, or we
   may rest assured that the Church of Christ exists where the legacy of Christ
   is in force — the Sacraments and the law of Christ. The latter, not the
   former, is the opinion of Wyclif and Huss. The true Church of Christ is
   where the law of Christ reigns, [240] i.e., the law of love, humility, and
   poverty, which means the apostolic life in imitation of Christ, and where,
   accordingly, the Sacraments also, which prepare for the life beyond, are
   administered in the Spirit of Christ. The predestination doctrine is not
   brought into service therefore with the view of making room for faith over
   against the Sacraments, or in order to construct a purely invisible Church
   — what interest would Wyclif and Huss have then had in the reform of the
   empirical Church? [241] — but it is brought into service that it may be
   possible to oppose the claims of the hierarchy as godless pretensions and to
   set up the law of Christ as the true nota ecclesiæ catholica. For from what
   has been shown it follows that there can be no rights in the Church which do
   not Originate from the acknowledged supremacy of the law of Christ. The
   question is entirely one of establishing this law. A leap is taken over
   faith. The important matter is fides caritate formata (faith deriving form
   from love), i.e., caritas, i.e., the law of the Sermon on the Mount
   (consilia). [242] What is contested is not only the hierarchical gradation,
   but the alleged independent right of the clergy to represent the Church and
   administer the means of grace without observing the law of Christ. [243] How
   can such a right exist, if the Church is nothing but the community of the
   predestinated, and as such can have no other mark save the law of Christ?
   How, again, can acts of priests be valid, when the presupposition of all
   action in the Church, and for the Church, is lacking to them — obedience to
   the law of Christ? But this law has its quintessence in the Sermon on the
   Mount and in the example of the poor life of Jesus; nevertheless (this
   feature is genuinely Augustinian) the whole of Scripture is at the same time
   the law of Christ. This standard then must be applied to all ecclesiastical
   practice. And yet in its application, which of course must become entirely
   arbitrary as soon as the attempt is really made to follow the thousand
   directions literally, everything is to be subordinated to the law of love
   that ministers in poverty and — to the reigning dogma. With the exception of
   the transubstantiation doctrine, which Wyclif alone objected to, both
   Reformers left dogma entirely untouched, nay, they strengthened it. What
   they aimed at reforming, and did reform, were the ordinances relating to
   worship and Sacraments, which had originated in the immediately preceding
   centuries, and were justly felt by them to be restrictions on the full and
   direct efficacy of word and Sacrament. At the same time they did not
   renounce the view that the numerus predestinatorum (number of the
   predestinated) may find its earthly embodiment in a true, empirical Church.
   It certainly could not but come about, that in the Hussite movement, when
   once the watchword had again been emphatically given forth that everything
   must be reformed according to the law of holy Scripture, there should be
   introduced into the Church the disorder and terror connected with Old
   Testament socialist and apocalyptic ideas; but such things seldom last
   beyond the third generation, nor did they last longer then. There was a
   falling back upon patience, and the once aggressive enthusiasm became
   changed into silent mistrust and reserve.

   How this Wyclifite conception of the Church, which really came into conflict
   with the Romish only about the Pope and the sacrament of penance, and arose
   from an over-straining of the good Catholic principle of the lex Christi
   (law of Christ), can be called evangelical, is difficult to understand.
   Equally with Thomas’s conception of the Church it leaves faith aside, as
   Luther understood it; and it has as its presuppositions, in addition to the
   predestinarian doctrine, the Catholic conception of salvation, the Catholic
   conception of the Sacraments, and the Catholic ideal of poverty. It puts an
   end to the priests who govern the world; but it does not put an end to the
   priests who dispense the Sacraments, who expound the law of God, and who
   alone — by the apostolic life — perfectly fulfil it. Will these world-ruling
   priests not return, if it must really be the highest interest of man to
   prepare himself for the life beyond by means of the Sacraments, seeing that
   that life is not attainable by faith alone, and a clear, certain and perfect
   faith does not fall to the lot of every man? [244] But however certain it is
   that this question can only be answered in the affirmative (as long as the
   Sacraments play the chief part in the Church, the priest will be a man of
   power on earth, and as long as the letter of scripture is regarded as the
   law of Christ, the official interpreters will be the ruling authorities in
   the Church) it is equally certain that the Wyclifite conception of the
   Church represented a great advance. The attempt was here made to separate
   the religious from the secular; moreover, the value of the law of Christ, as
   something spiritual, was placed on a level with the value of the Sacraments,
   nay, the efficacy of all ecclesiastical acts was derived from inward
   Christian disposition; the whole “objective” right of a hierarchy in the
   Church was shaken; [245] Christians were most urgently reminded that the
   gospel has to do with life. And this did not take place outside theology, as
   if these were personally-formed notions, but on the ground and in the name
   of the truly ecclesiastical theology.

   About the year 1500 Hussitism, as a great movement, had run its course. But
   it exerted an incalculable influence: it loosened the hold of the
   hierarchical papal conception of the Church on the hearts and minds of men,
   and helped to prepare the way for the great revolution. No doubt at the
   beginning of the Reformation the greatest vagueness of view prevailed among
   the really pious in the land: there was no wish to part with the Pope, but
   episcopalist (conciliar) and Waldensian-Hussite ideas were widely
   disseminated. [246] A distinct settlement was necessary: either the
   establishment of the papal system, or a new view of the Church that should
   be able to furnish a firm basis for the numerous and heavy assaults upon
   that system. The empirico-monarchical conception of the Church was
   challenged by the Episcopalists, the juristic by Wyclif and Huss — in this
   lies the chief importance of these men. But for the juristic conception they
   substituted a moralistic. From the latter the former will always develop
   itself again. What was lacking was the conception of a Church to which one
   belongs through living faith. The mere criticising of the hierarchy, however
   much courage that might imply, was not all that was needed. Nor was it
   enough that the legal ordinances of the Church should be traced back to
   their moral conditions. For having done this Wyclif and Huss cannot be too
   highly praised. But it must not be forgotten that the Church of Christ has
   to take the criteria for judging what she is from Romans V.-VIII. One thing,
   however, and for our purposes the most important, will be made apparent from
   this whole review, namely, that the manifold development of the conception
   of the Church in this period, so far from threatening the old dogma, gave it
   an always firmer lodgment — not, indeed, as a living authority, but as a
   basis and boundary line. Where would the Waldensians and the Hussites, with
   their appeals to the lex Christi, to Scripture and the Apocalypse, have
   arrived at, if they had not been held fast by the quiet but powerful force
   of the ancient dogma?

   But at this point we may extend our observations still a step further. Is it
   the case, then, that the so-called “Reformers before the Reformation” were
   the only reformers before the Reformation, or is it not apparent rather that
   this designation has only a proper meaning when it is applied, not to any
   one phenomenon in the Medieval Church, but to the Mediæval Church as a
   whole? For the highest level of observation, there lies between the
   Christianity of the Ancient Church and the Christianity of the Reformation,
   the Christianity of the Middle Ages as the intermediate stage, i.e., as the
   Pre-Reformation. None of its leading tendencies can be dispensed with in the
   picture, not even the hierarchical. The very conception of the Church shows
   that. For those opposing the “Pre-Reformers” represented with their Church
   ideal the certainty that Christ has left behind Him on earth a kingdom, in
   which He, as the exalted One, is present, and the holiness of which does not
   depend on the moral goodness of its members, but on the grace which God
   gives them. This thought they no doubt disfigured and secularised, yet it
   must not be said that it had value for them only in its disfigured form. No,
   even it was for many really an expression of Christian piety. They thought
   of the living and reigning Christ when they thought of the Pope and his
   power, of the bishops and the Church, who reduced the whole world to their
   rule. In this form their faith was a necessary complement to the
   individualistic Christianity of the Mystics, and the Reformation with its
   thesis of the holy community and the kingdom of God, which have Christ in
   their midst, connected itself directly with the Catholic thoughts of
   Augustine and the Middle Ages, after it had learned from Paul and Augustine
   to judge spiritual things spiritually.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [189] See Janus, p. 162 f.

   [190] See the passage in Gieseler II., 2, 4 ed. p. 153.

   [191] The “pragmatic sanction” of Louis the Holy is a forgery of the year
   1438 (or about this time), as Scheffer-Boichorst has shown in the Kleinere
   Forsch. z. Gesch. des Mittelalters (Mitth. des Instituts f. österreich.
   Geschichtsforschung VIII., Bd. 3 part; published separately, 1887). In the
   first edition of this work I had still treated this sanction as genuine, but
   my attention was immediately directed to the mistake.

   [192] See especially the first and third decrees of the Synod; Mansi XXII.,
   p. 982 sq., Hefele V., p. 879 ff. It was not, however, carried out to its
   full logical issue, as is shown by the admission of the right of the laity
   to baptise in case of emergency, by the recognition of absolution by a
   layman in casu mortis, and by the treatment of the sacrament of marriage.

   [193] See e.g. the confession of Durandus, Innocent III., ep. XI. 196.

   [194] On the Inquisition, see Janus, p. 254 ff., and Thomas, Summa Sec. Sec.
   quæst. 11 art. 3 conclusio: “Hæresis est peccatum, per quod meruerunt per
   mortem a mundo excludi”; art. 4 concl.

   [195] Augustinus Triumphus (ob. 1328), Summa de potest. eccl. ad Johannem
   XXII., Quæst. 23 art. 1: “Pagani jure sunt sub papæ obedientia.” Yet this
   continued a controverted question in spite of the Bull “Unam sanctam.”

   [196] The hierarchy together with the monks are held as properly the Church.

   [197] There were certainly also passages to be found in Augustine that could
   be employed against the Gregorian claims of the Church, v. Mirbt. Die
   Stellung Augustin’s in der Publicistik des Gregor. Kirchenstreits, 1888.

   [198] See note 2 on p. 122.

   [199] Gregory VII. carried to the furthest extreme the opposition to the
   evangelical doctrine that the powers that be are ordained of God; see epp.
   VIII. 21: “Quis nesciat, reges et duces ab iis habuisse principium, qui deum
   ignorantes, superbia, rapinis, perfidia, homicidiis, postremo universis pæne
   sceleribus, mundi principe diabolo videlicet agitante, dominari cæca
   cupiditate et intolerabili præsumptione affectaverunt.” But even according
   to Innocent III., the State arose “per extorsionem humanam.” On the other
   hand, even the strictest papalists, indeed Gregory VII. himself, were not
   clear as to the limits between civil and ecclesiastical power.

   [200] Burckhardt, Kultur der Renaissance, 3. ed. 2. vol., p. 228.

   [201] Opusc. c. err. Græc. fol. 9. The Roman law was in general paraded in
   an extravagant way before the weak Greeks in the thirteenth century, and
   that had a reflex influence on the West.

   [202] The most important sentences of the Bull ran thus: “Unam sanctam
   ecclesiam Catholicam et ipsam apostolicam urgente fide credere cogimur et
   tenere. Nosque hanc firmiter credimus et simpliciter confitemur, extra quam
   nec salus est nec remissio peccatorum (the Church is now spiritually
   described with its head, Christ). Igitur ecclesiæ unius et uniæ a unum
   corpus, unum caput, non duo capita, quasi monstrum, Christus videlicet et
   Christi vicarius Petrus Petrique successor (there follows John XXI., 16;
   here the oves universæ were entrusted to Peter). In hac ejusque potestate
   duos esse gladios, spiritualem videlicet et temporalem, evangelicis dictis
   instruimur. Nan dicentibus apostolis: ecce gladii duo hic (Luke XXII. 38) in
   ecclesia scilicet, cum apostoli loquerentur, non respondit dominus nimis
   esse, sed satis. Certe qui in potestate Petri temporalem gladium esse negat,
   male verbum attendit domini proferentis; converte gladium tuum in vaginam
   (Matt. XXVI. 52). Uterque ergo est in potestate ecclesiæ, spiritualis
   scilicet gladius et materialis. Sed is quidem pro ecclesia, ille vero ab
   ecclesia exercendus. Ille sacerdotis, ille manu regum et militum, sed ad
   nutum et patientiam sacerdotis. Oportet autem gladium esse sub gladio et
   temporalem potestatem spirituali subici potestati, nam cum dicat apostolus
   (there follows Rom. XIII. 1) . . .non ordinatæ essent, nisi gladius esset
   sub gladio (the spiritual power trancends in dignity and nobility all
   earthly power as much as the spiritual the earthly). Nam veritate testante
   spiritualis potestas terrenam potestatem instituere” (is it literally
   institute? or institute in the sense of religious consecration ? or
   instruct? In view of the immediately following “judicare,” and of the
   sentence of Hugo St. Victor, which is here the source, the first meaning is
   the most probable; Finke [Rom. Quartalschrift 4. Supplementheft, 1896, p.
   40] is inclined to adopt the second) “habet et judicare, si bona non fuerit
   (there follows Jerem. I. 10). Ergo si deviat terrena potestas, judicabitur a
   potestate spirituali, sed si deviat spiritualis minor, a suo superiori, si
   vero suprema, a solo deo, non ab homine poterit judicari, testante apostolo
   (1 Cor. II. 25). Est autem hæc auctoritas, etsi data sit homini et
   exerceatur per hominem, non humana sed potius divina, ore divino Petro data
   sibique suisque successoribus in ipso quem confessus fuit petra firmata,
   dicente domino ipsi Petro (Matt. XVI. 19). Quicunque igitur huic potestati a
   deo sic ordinatæ resistit, dei ordinationi resistit, nisi duo sicut
   Manichæus fingat esse principia, quod falsum et hæreticum judicamus, quia
   testante Mose non in principiis sed in principio coelum deus creavit et
   terram. Porro subesse Romano pontifici omni humanæ creaturæ declaramus,
   dicimus, definimus [et pronuntiamus] omnino esse de necessitate salutis.” As
   can be understood, the Bull at the present day gives trouble to not a few
   Catholics, and the attempt is made to strip it to some extent of its
   dogmatic authoritative character, or to find help in interpretation. A
   collection of the more important papal pronouncements from the time between
   Gregory VII. and Alexander VI. is given by Mirbt, Quellen z. Gesch. des
   Papstthums, 1895, p. 47 f.

   [203] Janus, p. 166: “Ready everywhere to interpose and take action as
   agents of the papacy, entirely independent of the bishops, and of higher
   authority than the secular priests and the local clergy, they really formed
   churches within the Church, laboured for the honour and aggrandisement of
   their orders, and for the power of the Pope, on which their privileged
   position rested.”

   [204] There are specially to be considered here the Pseudocyrillian
   passages; see the valuable inquiry by Reusch, Die Fälschungen in dem.
   Tractat des Thomas v. Aquin gegen die Griechen, Abhandl. d. k. bay. Akad.
   der Wissensch. III., Cl. 18, Bd. 3 Abth., 1889. On Thomas as the normal
   theologian for the doctrine of infallibility, see Langen, Das Vatic. Dogma,
   3 Thl., p. 99 ff.; Leitner, Der hl. Thomas über das unfehlbare Lehramt des
   Papstes, 1872, Delitzsch, Lehrsystem der römischen K., I., p. 194 ff.
   Thomas, Summa Sec. Sec. qu. 11 art. 2: “Sic ergo aliqui doctores videntur
   dissensisse vel circa ea quorum nihil interest ad fidem utrum sic vel aliter
   teneatur, vel etiam in quibusdam ad fidem pertinentibus, quæ nondum erant
   per ecclesiam determinata. Postquam autem essent auctoritate universalis
   ecclesiæ determinata, si quis tali ordinationi pertinaciter repugnaret,
   hæreticus censeretur. Quæ quidem auctoritas principaliter residet in summa
   pontifce.” Sec. Sec. qu. 1 art. 10 (“utrum ad summum pontificem pertineat
   fidei symbolum ordinare?”). Here, as usual, the thesis is first denied, then
   follows: “editio symboli facta est in synodo generali, sed hujusmodi synodus
   auctoritate solius summi pontificis potest congregari. Ergo editio symboli
   ad auctoritatem summi pontificis pertinet.” Further: “Nova editio symboli
   necessaria est ad vitandum insurgentes errores. Ad illius ergo auctoritatem
   pertinet editio symboli, ad cujus auctoritatem pertinet finaliter
   determinare ea quæ sunt fidei, ut ab omnibus inconcussa fide teneantur. Hoc
   autem pertinet ad auctoritatem summi pontificis, ad quem majores et
   difficiliores ecclesiæ quæstiones referuntur (there follows a passage from
   the decretals). Unde et dominus (Luke XXII. 32) Petro dixit, quem summum
   pontificem constituit: ego pro te rogavi, etc. Et hujus ratio est: quia una
   fides debet esse totius ecclesiæ secundum illud I Cor. I. 10: Id ipsum
   dicatis omnes, et non sint in vobis schismata. Quod servari non posset nisi
   quæstio exorta determinetur per eum, qui toti ecclesiæ præest, ut sic ejus
   sententia a tota ecclesia firmiter teneatur, et ideo ad solam auctoritatem
   summi pontificis pertinet nova editio symboli, sicut et omnia alia quæ
   pertinent ad totam ecclesiam, ut congregare synodum generalem et alia
   hujusmodi.” The tenet, that to every Pope there belongs personal holiness
   (Gregory VII.), was no longer reasserted, because, as Döllinger (Janus, p.
   168) supposes, the danger existed of arguing from the defective holiness of
   a Pope to the illegality of his decisions.

   [205] See the canon in Gratian ascribed to Boniface “Si Papa,” dist. 40, 6.
   On the whole question see Mirbt, Publicistik im Zeitalter Gregors VII., p.
   566 ff.

   [206] See the admission in Eymerici Director. Inquis., p. 295 (cited in
   Janus, p. 295).

   [207] See the question of reordination in connection with “Simonists.”

   [208] Martin of Troppau and Tolomeo of Lucca.

   [209] Thomas, de regimine principum, continued by Tolomeo.

   [210] The most extreme works are those of Augustinus Triumphus, Summa de
   ecclesiast. potest. (ob. 1328) and of the Franciscan Alvarus Pelagius, De
   planctu ecclesiæ (ob. 1352). From the Summa de potestate eccl. of the
   former, and from the work de planctu ecclesia of the latter, Gieseler II.,
   3, 2 Aufl., p. 42 ff. and 101 ff., gives full extracts, which show that the
   glorification of the Pope could not be carried further in the nineteenth
   century. Augustinus asserted generally: “Nulla lex populo christiano est
   danda, nisi ipsius papæ auctoritate;” for only the papal power is
   immediately from God, and it embraces the jurisdictio et cura totius mundi.
   Alvarus carried the identifying of Christ with the Pope to the point of
   blasphemy, and at the same time declared the Pope to be the rightful
   possessor of the imperium Romanum from the days of Peter. At bottom, both
   distinguish the Pope from God only by saying that to the earthly “dominus
   deus noster papa” (see Finke, l.c., p. 44 ff.; observe that I have placed
   the word “earthly” before the expression, which indicates the trope here
   employed, so far as there is one), adoration is due only
   “ministerialiter.” (Finke, l.c., pp. 40-44, has objected to this last
   sentence, and believes he has refuted it from the source, Augustinus
   Triumphus. That, according to Augustinus, there belongs to the Pope the
   servitus summa [i.e., the Latreia, full divine worship] I have not asserted.
   But certainly Augustinus teaches that the Pope possesses participative and
   exercises ministerialiter the summa potestas [the dominatio, the divine
   power of rule]; in accordance with this therefore must the dulia also he
   defined which belongs to the Pope. Instead of the somewhat short expression
   “ministerialiter,” which it would be better not to use, I should have said:
   “The adoration” belongs in the way in which it is due to him who shares in
   the divine power of rule, and exercises it as an instrument of God.)

   [211] De Pontifice Maximo et generalis concilii auctoritate; see also his
   Summa de ecclesia and the Apparatus super decreto unionis Græcorum.

   [212] Rome, however, always understood these concordata as acts of grace, by
   which only the party admitted to partnership was bound. Even at an earlier
   time this view was maintained by Roman canonists, and was deduced from the
   supreme lordship of the Pope over all men.

   [213] Think of the development of the territorial-prince system in the
   fifteenth century. Great rulers (Emperor Frederick III.) and small literally
   vied with each other, till far on in the sixteenth century, in injuring the
   independence of their national churches. The local princes derived a
   passing, but the Pope the permanent, advantage.

   [214] In the period of conflict between the Popes and the Councils the
   question about the infallibility of the Pope in matters of faith had retired
   into the background. At the Union Council at Florence it was not mentioned.
   Even Torquemada admitted the possibility of a Pope falling into a heresy;
   from this, however, he did not conclude that the council was superior to
   him, for a heretical Pope was ipso facto deposed by God. This impracticable,
   imbecile assumption was first rejected by Cajetan, who reverted to the
   doctrine of Thomas, which was based on fictitious passages from the Fathers,
   while he added himself a new falsification by suppressing the proposition
   laid down at Constance: “error est, si per Romanam ecclesiam intelligat
   universalem aut concilium generale.” With him also originated the famous
   proposition, that the Catholic Church is the born hand-maid of the Pope.

   [215] Janus, p. 365.

   [216] The Pope, it is said in the Bull “Pastor acternus,” has the
   “auctoritas super omnia concilia”; he alone may convene, transfer, and
   dissolve them.

   [217] On the handing down of this saying, see Janus, p. 381, n. 407.

   [218] See Döllinger, Ueber das Studium der deutschen Geschichte (Akad.
   Vorträge II., pp. 407 ff., 418 f.

   [219] See Hugo of St. Victor, de Sacr. II., p. II., c. 2 sq. In his
   Sentences the Lombard made no mention whatever of the papacy! So far as
   others dealt with the Church at all, even the firmness of Cyprian in
   apprehending the hierarchical notion of the Church was not reached. Numerous
   proofs in Langen, Das Vaticanische Dogma, 2. Theil. If Hugo differs from the
   other earlier theologians in entering more fully into a description of the
   Church, this has a connection with his interest in the Sacraments. What he
   says about the hierarchy and the Pope falls behind the Gregorian ideas, and
   therefore does nothing to advance them. Even about the relation of the
   Church (the Pope) to the State he has still evangelical ideas. And yet here,
   as elsewhere also, he must be held as in many respects the precursor of
   Thomas.

   [220] It is amazing that in Thomasius-Seeberg (p. 196) the sentence: “As in
   general, so also with regard to the Church, Scholasticism set itself the
   task of proving that what exists ought to exist,” is followed at once by the
   other: “It must be emphasised here first of all, that Scholasticism does not
   know of a dogma of the Church.”

   [221] The agreement of the “heretics” with the fundamental Catholic notion
   of the Church was not unfrequently substantiated by their Catholic
   opponents. These men were still naïve enough to hold the conception of the
   Church as societas unitatis fidei as their own basis; see correct statement
   by Gottschick (Zeitschr. f. K.-Gesch. VIII., p. 348 f. ).

   [222] The Council of Lyons in 1274 was of epoch-making importance here. The
   vigorous re-awakening of interest in the theoretic statement and proof of
   the papal system in the middle of the fifteenth century likewise finds an
   explanation in the transactions with the Greeks. In this way the relation of
   the Greeks to the West came to be of sinister omen. There was a wish to win
   them for the papacy, and this became the occasion for developing
   “scientifically” for the first time — mostly by means of forgeries — the
   papal theory!

   [223] Thomas develops the chief attributes of the Pope (summus pontifex,
   caput ecclesiæ, cura ecclesiæ universalis, plenitudo potestatis, potestas
   determinandi novum symbolum). The discussions on the distribution of
   hierarchical power may here be left aside (on the development of the notion
   of the Church as a monarchy Aristotle’s influence was at work). We have only
   to note how entirely the second conception of the Church, i.e., the
   hierarchical, is dominated by the doctrine of the Sacraments. The
   particulars of the Thomist conception of the Church were not dogma in his
   day, but they afterwards became the norm for dogmatic construction. That
   Thomas, moreover, does not place the hierarchical notion of the Church side
   by side with the spiritual without indicating a relation has been shown by
   Gottschick, l.c. pp. 347-357. Yet it must not be forgotten that such tenets
   as those of Augustine regarding the Church (taken in connection with
   predestinarian grace) continued to exercise their own influence even when
   they were subordinated to alien thoughts. Thomas (Explanation of the
   Apostolic Symbol; see also “Summa” III., qu. 8) begins by representing the
   Church as a religious community (congregatio fidelium, corpus mysticum)
   whose head is Christ. But while so describing it — as the community of those
   who are united to Christ by the love that proceeds from God — he at the same
   time accentuates the moral character of the community, as an entire whole
   ruled by the divine law, which embraces the earth, heaven, and purgatory,
   and which has its end in the vision and enjoyment of God. In more precisely
   defining the compass of the Church, Thomas’s process of proof is affected by
   all the uncertainties which we already observed in Augustine, and which were
   due to regard on the one hand to predestinarian grace (in accordance with
   which all particulars are determined), and on the other hand to the
   empirical circumstances. Even the reprobi, according to him, are in the
   Church de potentia, that is to say, so long as they stand under the
   influence of the virtus Christi or still through their free will hold a
   connection with him. Now, so far as the Church imparts to the individual the
   love of God, and thereby sanctification, it is an external community like
   the state, is discernible by external marks, is defined by an external limit
   (excommunication) and requires the hierarchical organisation; for this last
   is the presupposition of sacramental celebration. If, until felicity is
   reached, the life of the individual as a believer proceeds by stages of
   faith (i.e., of holding true upon authority) and is regulated by the several
   sacraments which contain the saving grace, this implies that it is of the
   essence of the Church that it is the authority on doctrine and the
   administrator of the Sacraments. But this it can only be as a community with
   a strictly legal and hierarchical organisation. In this way the second
   conception of the Church is brought by Thomas into closest connection with
   the first, and Gottschick (p. 353) is quite correct in further pointing out
   that “faith in the objective sense is part of the commands of the law by
   which (see above) the Church must be guided.” The Church as a legal
   authority on doctrine, and as a priestly sacramental institution, is
   therefore the “exclusive organ by which the Ilead of the Church, Christ,
   forms its members.” One sees then that a very spiritual conception of the
   Church, nay, even the predestinarian, can be brought into combination with
   the empirico-hierarchical (Summa III., qu. 64, art. 2: “per sacramenta
   dicitur esse fabricata ecclesia Christi.”) As salvation is a mystery that
   cannot be experienced, i.e., as a certainty regarding its possession can
   never be reached, inasmuch as it consists of forces that mysteriously
   operate in the human sphere that is inaccessible to reflection, nothing
   remains but simply to surrender one’s self to the sacramental saving
   institution, which, again, involves the graded priesthood. In this way the
   authority of the clergy necessarily became absolute, and the spiritual
   (predestinarian) notion of the Church, so far from correcting, necessarily
   aided this advance of view. Hence follows the tenet of the infallibility of
   the Church, which was bound to issue in the infallibility of the Pope; for
   some kind of rock to build on must be sought for and found. If this does not
   lie in an overmastering certainty which the subject-matter itself brings
   with it, inasmuch as it transforms the absoluteness of the moral imperative
   into the absolute certainty of the grace of God in Christ, it must be given
   in something external. This external thing, certainly, the infallibility of
   the priesthood in teaching and administering the Sacraments, can never
   guarantee to the individual the possession of salvation, but only its
   possibility.

   [224] Summa, III. suppl. qu. 40 art. 4 fin.

   [225] The attitude to the State was involved in the position that only the
   priest is able rightly to teach the law of God, but that even the States
   have no other task than to care for the salvation of the souls of their
   subjects by promoting the virtus that corresponds to the law of God.

   [226] No good Catholic Christian doubted that in spiritual things the clergy
   were the divinely-appointed superiors of the laity, that this power
   proceeded from the right of the priests to celebrate the Sacraments, that
   the Pope was the real possessor of this power, and was far superior to all
   secular authority. The question, however, as to the Pope’s power to rule was
   certainly a subject of controversy.

   [227] A full understanding of the Catholic conception of the Church can only
   be reached by starting from the conception of the Sacraments, which, as has
   been observed, is dependent on the view taken of salvation. But from this
   point of view it can also be said that the Catholic notion of the Church
   forms the necessary supplement to the imperfect idea of faith. That which is
   lacking to faith, taken in the Catholic sense, namely, the certitudo
   salutis, is supplied by the doctrinal authority of the Church on the one
   side and by the Sacramental Church institution on the other, and yet in such
   a way that it is obtained only approximately.

   [228] Let it be distinctly noted here that it was just the strict papal
   system that had widely given rise in the period of the great conflicts
   (eleventh and twelfth centuries) to the greatest uncertainty about
   ordinations, seeing that the Popes cancelled without hesitation
   “simonistic” orders, and likewise orders of the imperial bishops, nay, even
   ordinations at which a single simonist had been present. Innocent II.,
   indeed, at the second Lateran Council, pronounced invalid all ordinations of
   the schismatics, i.e., of the bishops who adhered to Pope Anaclete II.
   (“From him whom he hath ordained we take away the orders” [evacuamus et
   irritas esse consemus]; the curialist theologians are disposed to see in
   this only a suspension of the exercise of office; Hefele, Concil. Gesch.
   V.2, p. 438 f., leaves the passage unexplained; Friedrich [in his edition of
   Janus, 2 Aufl., pp. 143, 456] holds to the cancelling of the orders.) Thus
   it was the Popes who were the instructors of those sects that spread the
   greatest uncertainty as to the most important Catholic question, the
   question regarding the validity of orders. At the time of the Schism it was
   laid down by the papal Secretary, Coluccio Salutato, that as all Church
   power emanates from the Pope, and as a wrongly elected Pope has himself no
   power, such an one can give none; consequently the bishops and priests
   ordained since the death of Gregory XI. were incompetent to dispense the
   Sacraments. If, accordingly, says Coluccio, a believer adores the Eucharist
   that has been consecrated by a bishop ordained in the Schism, he worships an
   idol (in a letter to Jost of Moravia in Martene, Thes. Anecd. II., p. 1159,
   quoted by Janus, p. 318).

   [229] There are referred to here sects like the Catharists and Albigenses,
   “Patarenes,” “Bulgarians,” as also the adherents of Amalrich of Bena, the
   Ortliebists (allied to the Waldensians), the sect of the New Spirit, the
   sect of the Free Spirit, and many similar movements; see Hahn, Gesch. der
   Ketzer ins Mittelalter, 3 Bdd., Reuter, Aufklärung Bd. II., the different
   works of Ch. Schmidt, Jundt, Preger, Haupt; Staude, Urspr. d. Katharer
   (Ztschr. f. K.-Gesch. V. I); Döllinger, Beiträge z. Sectengesch. des
   Mittelalters, 1890.

   [230] See Gottschick in the dissertation cited above and K. Müller, Bericht,
   etc., p. 37 f.

   [231] See above, p. 90, and Müller, Waldesier, p. 93 ff. and passim.

   [232] See Reuter., 1.c. II., p. 191 if., and Archiv. f. Litt.-und K.-Gesch.
   des Mittelalters I., p. 105 ff.

   [233] In greater numbers than before protocols of processes against heretics
   have been published in recent years; see Wattenbach in the Sitzungsberichten
   der Berliner Academie, 1886, IV., and Döllinger, l.c., Bd. 2. We can very
   easily understand how, above all, the charge was brought against the
   heretics that they did away with the Sacraments.

   [234] Besides Occam, Marsilius of Padua and John of Jandun are specially to
   he named here; cf. Riezler, Die lit. Widersacher der Päpste z. Z. Ludwig’s
   des Bayern, 1874, K. Müller, der Kampf Ludwig’s d. B. mit der röm. Curie, 2
   Bdd., 1879 f., Friedberg, Die Grenzen zwischen Staat und Kirche, 1882, the
   same author, Die mittelalterlichen Lehren über d. Verh. v. St. u. K., 1874
   Dorner, Das Verhältniss von K. u. St. nach Occam (Stud. u. Krit. 1885, IV.).
   How powerfully the idea of the State asserted itself in the fourteenth
   century (cf. even Dante earlier) is well known.

   [235] Cf. the famous decrees of the fourth and fifth Sessions of the Council
   of Constance: “Every legally-convened œcumenical Council representing the
   Church has its authority directly from Christ, and in matters of faith, in
   the settlement of disputes and the reformation of the Church in its head and
   members, every one, even the Pope, is subject to it.” Even the cardinals did
   not venture to refuse their assent. The Thomist conception of the Church was
   as yet no dogma; by the decisions of Constance it was tacitly —
   unfortunately only tacitly — described as error; but at the Council, so far
   as is known, no voice was raised on its behalf, and though Martin V. took
   his stand at the beginning on the newly acquired ground, it was only for a
   minute. That the Council of Bâsle, on an understanding with the Pope, gave a
   fresh declaration of the decrees of Constance, is well known. But thereafter
   Eugene IV. himself, and wisely, brought about the breach. On the Council of
   Constance we shall shortly be able to judge much better than before, when
   the great publication of Finke, Acta concilii Constanciensis will be before
   us, of which the first volume (Acten z. Vorgeschichte) has already appeared
   (1896).

   [236] On the conception of the Church held by the Paris theologians and
   their friends — they thought of themselves, not without reason, as restoring
   the old Catholic view, yet under quite changed circumstances the old thing
   became a new — see Schwab, Gerson, 1858, Tschackert, d’Ailly, 1877, Hartwig,
   Henricus de Langenstein, 1858, Brockhaus, Nicolai Cusani de concilii univ.
   potest. sentent., 1867. Also the works on Clemange and the Italian and
   Spanish Episcopalists. In particular matters the representatives of the
   conciliar ideas, at that time and later, widely diverged from each other,
   and more especially, each one defined differently the relation of the Pope
   to the Council and to the Church: there were some who held the papacy to be
   entirely superfluous, and some who only wished for it, so to speak, a slight
   letting of blood. The great majority interfered in no way with its
   existence, but aimed merely at purifying and restricting it; see the good
   review of the Episcopal system in Delitzsch, Lehrsystem der rom. K., p. 165
   ff. Janus, p. 314 ff. No doubt it only needs to be recalled here that the
   Episcopal system arose from the frightful trouble created by the Schism,
   when the Italians wished to wrest back the papacy from the French. The
   termination of the Schism was a real, but it was also the only permanent,
   result of the Councils. Yet it must not be overlooked that in the
   definitions of the Church which the Episcopalists had furnished, Reformation
   elements were included, though these certainly were derived almost entirely
   from Augustine; for Augustine reiterated the position that the keys are
   given, not to an individual, but to the Church, and in his dogmatic
   expositions he always subordinated the constitutional to the spiritual unity
   of the Church.

   [237] Wyclif’s works are only now being made fully accessible; cf. the
   Trialogues edited by Lechler, the controversial writings published by
   Buddensieg, and especially the treatise de ecclesia edited by Loserth
   (Wyclif Society from 1882). Monographs by Lechler, 2 vols., 1872 (and in
   Herzog’s R.-E.) and by Buddensieg, 1885. The discovery that Huss simply, and
   to a large extent verbally, adopted the Wyclifite doctrine, we owe to
   Loserth (Hus und Wiclif, 1884), see also the same author’s Introduction to
   the treatise de ecclesia. The results of Gottschick’s discussion of Huss’s
   doctrine of the Church (Ztschr. f. K.-Gesch. VIII., p. 345 ff.) apply
   therefore throughout to Wyclif. I do not venture an opinion as to how far
   Wesel and Wessel were influenced by Huss. Savonarola continued the
   opposition of the Mendicant Monks in the old style.

   [238] The translation of the Bible was a great achievement of Wyclif; but it
   must not be forgotten that the Church also of the fifteenth century
   concerned itself with Bible translation, as more recent investigations have
   shown.

   [239] This has been observed especially by Buddensieg, l.c. In dealing with
   Wyclif, as with all the opposition movements from the thirteenth century to
   the fifteenth, the great national economical revolution in Europe must be
   remembered. At the same time the Anglo-Saxon type in Wyclif, as contrasted
   with the Romanic, must not be overlooked.

   [240] “Lex Christi” and “lex evangelica” were the terms constantly applied
   to the contents of the New Testament even by the Reformers of the fourteenth
   and fifteenth centuries, see Otto Clemen, Pupper von Goch (Leipzig, 1896),
   p. 120 ff.; but at the same time it is in some way to hold good that that
   law is a “lex perfectæ libertatis.”

   [241] See Gottschick, 1.c., p. 360 ff.

   [242] See Ritschl, Rechtfertigung und Versöhnung, 2 ed. I., p. 134.

   [243] Huss adhered firmly to the Catholic distinction between clergy and
   laity. Wyclif regarded laymen called directly by Christ as capable of
   priestly acts. But that a direct appointment by Christ is valid could
   scarcely be contested even by a Romish opponent of Wyclif. The only
   question, therefore, must be as to whether such an appointment can be
   established. Hence the assertion that Wyclif and Huss opposed the universal
   priesthood to the priestly order is incorrect.

   [244] See Gottschtck, l.c., p. 364 f.: “Huss has no other view of salvation
   than the ordinary Catholic one. Man’s goal is union with God through visio
   dei and the love dependent thereon. There is preparation on earth for this
   by means of faith and the meritorious fulfilment of the law of love. By
   faith is understood throughout the theoretic assent to a quantum of
   doctrines; there suffices for a good part of this quantum the fides
   implicita. Faith having value only as fides caritate formata, it follows
   that the chief matter is fulfilment of the law. But the qualification for
   this is dependent on the infusion of grace on the ground of the merit of
   Christ, a grace whereby sin is abolished. And Huss never mentions any other
   way in which this takes place than by preaching and the Sacraments, more
   particularly baptism and the Eucharist or the sacrifice of the mass.” Cf.
   the passages quoted by Gottschick, l.c., from the treatise de ecclesia,
   among which those upon fides implicita are specially instructive. I. 38:
   “Christianus debet fidem aliqualiter cognoscere.” 62: “Quantum oporteat
   fidelem de necessitate salutis explicite credere, non est meum pro nunc
   discutere, cum deus omnipotens suos electos secundum gradum fidei
   multiplicem ad se trahit.” 259: “Quicunque habuerit fidem caritate formatam
   . . .in communi sufficit cum virtute perseverantiæ ad salutem. . . . Non
   exigit deus, ut omnes filii sui sint continue pro viatione sua in actu
   cogitanti particulari de qualibet fidei particula (so always quantitatively
   estimated), sed satis est, quod post posita desidia habeant fidem in habitu
   formatam.” Wyclif had a similar opinion (“omnia sacramenta sensibilia rite
   administrata [but for this there is requisite also, and above all, the
   priest who lives like the apostles] habent efficaciam salutarem”).

   [245] The Council of Constance contested the Wyclifite-Hussite propositions
   that were adverse to the Pope, as also the exclusive definition of the
   Church as universitas prædestinatorum.

   [246] Besides the works on the history of the spread of Hussitism
   (especially von Bezold, Zur Gesch. des Husitenthums 1874, and the Studies of
   Haupt), see the works of Keller, which, however, must be used with caution.
     _________________________________________________________________

   3. On the History of Ecclesiastical Science.

   In connection with the history of piety we have been already obliged to
   enter upon the history of theology; for piety and theology are most
   intimately related in the Middle Ages. In the former chapter also (p. 23
   ff.) a sketch of the history of science till the close of the twelfth
   century has been given. From the immense amount of material in the
   thirteenth to the fifteenth century only some cardinal points shall be
   brought more prominently to view. [247]

   The great advancement of mediæval science from the beginning of the
   thirteenth century was occasioned (1) by the immense triumph of the Church
   and the papacy under Innocent III. and his successors; (2) by the
   intensification of piety in consequence of the Mendicant Orders movement;
   [248] (3) by the enrichment and extension of general culture, which was
   partly a consequence of inner developments, and partly arose from contact
   with the East, in Palestine, Constantinople, and Spain. [249] Here the
   acquaintance, now obtained for the first time, with the true Aristotle, the
   teacher of logic, physics, ethics, and politics, became of supreme
   importance. His philosophy, understood as dogmatism, [250] was hailed as a
   gospel, or at least as the necessary introduction to one (“præcursor Christi
   in naturalibus”) and through him the science of the thirteenth century
   received an almost incalculable amount of material, and, above all, impulses
   to master the material.

   The two new forces of commanding importance in the period, the Mendicant
   Orders [251] and Aristotle, had first to achieve a position for themselves.
   At the beginning they met with hostility from the old Orders, and from the
   teachers and universities that were in alliance with them. An attitude of
   self-defence was assumed towards both. The new Aristotelianism, indeed, came
   under ecclesiastical proscription, and there was a wish to exclude
   theologians of the Mendicant Orders from university chairs. There were
   always some, too, who still were influenced by the attacks in general on the
   scientific-dialectic theology, which had been made by such men as John of
   Salisbury and Walter of St. Victor. [252] But the new movement asserted
   itself with an irresistible energy, and the opposition was silenced.

   Yet this was only possible because the new factors really furnished nothing
   new, but completed the triumph of the Church over everything spiritual. The
   new Aristotle, as he was understood, taught the theory of knowledge,
   metaphysics and politics, which admitted of a surer vindication of dogma
   against such opposition as had formerly appeared, e.g., in William of
   Champeaux and Roscellin, and offered a defence against the dangers both of
   an eccentric realism and of an empirical mode of thought. If it is
   permissible, nay necessary, to conceive of the universals on the one hand,
   as the archetypes that express the cosmos of ideas in the thought of God,
   then they exist ante rem (before the thing); if on the other hand they must
   be regarded as simply realised in things (categories and forms) then they
   are in re (in the thing); if, finally, it is undeniable that it is only by
   the observation of things that they are obtained, that accordingly the
   intellect derives them from experience, then they are post rem (after the
   thing). In this way it was possible to apply to every dogma the
   epistemological mode of view which seemed best fitted to defend it. The
   “qualified” realism, which could assume the most different forms, and which
   had been already represented by Abelard, certainly more in a spirit of
   sceptical reserve than with a view to speculative construction, became
   dominant in the thirteenth century. But what was of most importance was that
   the great theologians who developed it showed even greater energy than their
   predecessors in subordinating the whole structure of thought to the
   principle that all things are to be understood by tracing them back to God.

   But the tracing back to God was equivalent to subjecting all knowledge to
   the authority of the Church. The same science which displayed an astonishing
   energy of thought, and through such scholars as Thomas made a really
   important advance upon antiquity in the ethical and political sciences,
   appeared in many respects still more fettered than the science of the
   eleventh and twelfth centuries; for in its view, not only the old dogma
   (“articuli fidei”), but the entire department of ecclesiastical practice,
   the principles of which were traced back to the articuli fidei, was
   absolutely authoritative, and it proceeded much more frankly than before on
   the principle that in particular questions every instance of authority had
   as much weight as a deliberate reflection of the understanding.

   It was only in the thirteenth century — and by the theologians of the
   Mendicant Orders — that the whole existing structure of ecclesiasticism was
   theologically vindicated, and its newest and most questionable parts, as
   well as the oldest and most important, declared inviolate by “science”; it
   was only in the thirteenth century that there was introduced that complete
   interblending of faith on authority and of science which means that at one
   and the same level there is a working at one time with the “credo,” at
   another time with the “intelligo”; such interblending is not yet found in
   Anselm, for example. Certainly it was still theoretically held that
   theology, resting on revelation, is a (speculative) science. [253] ^. But it
   was not held as required, nor even as possible, to rear on the basis of
   faith a purely rational structure: there was rather an alternating between
   authority and reason; they were regarded as parallel methods which one
   employed. The object in view indeed continued to be the knowledge that
   culminates in the visio dei; but there was no longer the wish always to
   eliminate more fully as knowledge advanced the element of faith (authority)
   in order to retain at the last pure knowledge; at all stages, rather, the
   element of authority was held as justifiable and necessary. Nay, there was
   now the conviction that there are two provinces, that of natural theology,
   and that of specific (revealed). The two, certainly, are thought of as being
   in closest harmony; but yet the conviction has been obtained that there are
   things known, and these, too, the most important, which belong simply to
   revealed theology, and which can be interrelated certainly, but not
   identified with natural theology. Natural theology, moreover, must
   subordinate itself to revealed, for theology has its foundation in
   revelation. In point of fact, however, the dogmatic theologian alternated
   between reason and revelation, and his structure derived its style from the
   former; for in particular questions the content of revelation is not derived
   solely from the thought of redemption — however truly this, as the visio
   dei, may be the contemplated end — but is set forth also in a thousand
   isolated portions, which are nothing else than heterogeneous fragments of a
   real or supposed knowledge of the world. It was the effect of holding that
   very conception of the goal of redemption as visio dei that the view of the
   content of revelation threatened to become broken up into an incalculable
   number of things known, and, in spite of the still retained title, acquired
   the character of a natural knowledge of supernatural things. Accordingly
   there was now introduced also the idea of articuli mixti, i.e., of such
   elements of knowledge as are given both in a natural way and by revelation,
   only in the latter way, however, in perfection. What appeared outlined
   already in Tertullian (see Vol. V. c. ii.) as the distinctive character of
   Western theology, now came to its fullest development.

   From the newly-discovered Aristotle the scholars derived courage to advance
   from the compilation of mere “sentences” to the rearing of entire doctrinal
   systems. The imposing form of the Church also, with the unfolding of its
   uniform power, may have been a co-operating influence here; for the
   Scholasticism of the thirteenth century presents the same spectacle in the
   sphere of knowledge, which the Church of which it is the servant presents in
   the sphere of human life generally. In the one sphere as in the other
   everything is to be reduced to subjection; in the one as in the other
   everything is to be brought into a harmonious system; in the one as in the
   other the position is held, tacitly or expressly, that the Church is Christ,
   and Christ is the Church. Thus the theological science of the thirteenth
   century can be described as the submitting to dialectic-systematic revision
   of ecclesiastical dogma and ecclesiastical practice, with the view of
   unfolding them in a system having unity and comprehending all that in the
   highest sense is worthy of being known, with the view of proving them, and
   so of reducing to the service of the Church all the forces of the
   understanding and the whole product of science. But most intimately
   connected with this end is the other, namely, the theologian’s attaining in
   this way to the visio (fruitio) dei; these two ends, indeed, are mutually
   involved, for all knowledge of Church doctrine and of Church practice is
   knowledge of God — this was taught by the Church itself. Now, if the gradual
   knowledge of God is the only means whereby the individual can attain to
   salvation (visio dei), then in theology the objective and subjective aims
   simply coincide; one serves the Church in serving himself, and the converse
   is equally true. The great Schoolmen by no means felt that they wrought as
   slaves, labouring under compulsion for their masters. The only end indeed
   that was clearly before them was their own advancement in the knowledge of
   God; but, standing as faithful sons within the Church, to which all power
   was given in heaven and on earth, their speculations necessarily served,
   with more or less of intention on their part, to glorify the Church’s power
   and give a divine character to all that it did. And yet how many things did
   they come to know, the truth of which is entirely independent of the truth
   of Church theory and practice; how necessary and how helpful was even this
   period in the general history of science and theology; and how many seeds
   were sown broadcast by the great Schoolmen, of the development of which they
   did not allow themselves to dream! Never yet in the world’s history was any
   science quite fruitless which served God with true devotion. Theology has at
   any time become a hindrance, only when it has lost faith in itself or become
   vacillating. We shall see that this was verified also in medieval theology.

   For all that has been stated up to this point applies only to the
   pre-Scotist Scholasticism; it applies above all to Thomas. He exercised,
   moreover, an enduring influence on the period that followed, and his
   influence is still at work at the present day. His predecessors and
   contemporaries have passed out of view in him. The Thomist science, as
   embodied above all in the “Summa,” is characterised by the following things:
   (1) by the conviction that religion and theology are essentially of a
   speculative (not practical) nature, that they must therefore be imparted and
   appropriated spiritually, that it is possible so to appropriate them, and
   that ultimately no conflict can arise between reason and revelation; (2) by
   strict adherence to Augustinianism, and in particular to the Augustinian
   doctrines of God, predestination, sin and grace, [254] but on the other hand
   by contesting on principle Averrhoism; (3) by a thoroughly minute
   acquaintance with Aristotle, and by a comprehensive and strenuous
   application of the Aristotelian philosophy, so far as Augustinianism
   admitted in any way of this (under the conception of God the
   Areopagitic-Augustinian view is only slightly limited); (4) by a bold
   vindication of the highest ecclesiastical claims by means of an ingenious
   theory of the State, and a wonderfully observant study of the empirical
   tendencies of the papal ecclesiastical and sacramental system. Aristotle the
   politician and Augustine the theologian, two enemies, became allies in
   Thomas; in that consists the importance of Thomas in the world’s history.
   While he is a theologian and an Augustinian, he is still always an absolute
   thinker full of confidence; and yet it must not be overlooked that in him
   there are already recognisable the seeds of the destruction of the absolute
   theology. Although hidden, arbitrary and relative elements have already
   found a place for themselves in him. It is still his aim to express all
   things in the firm and sure categories of the majesty of the deity whose
   pervasive power controls all things, and to prove the strict necessity of
   all theological deliverances: the Christian religion is believed in and
   demonstrated from principles; but yet at not a few points the strength
   failed, and the thinker was obliged to fall back upon the authority which
   supports the probable, although he understood how to maintain for the whole
   the impression of absolute validity. [255]

   But was this strict necessity of any service at all to the Church? Should
   the Church not rather have been gratified, when the understanding perceived
   its incapacity to follow up the decisions of authority, and therefore
   abandoned further effort? To this question the reply must not be absolutely
   affirmative, but still less must it be negative. The Church, as it then
   already was, and as it still is to-day, needs both things; it is
   indispensable to it that its articuli fidei and modes of practice be also
   proved, and their rationality brought to view; but it is still more needful
   to it that there be a blind surrender to its authority.

   In this respect there was still obviously too little done by Thomas. In him,
   the determination of the relation of ratio to auctoritas is, indeed, marked
   by a quite special amount of confusion, the claims of faith (as faith on
   authority) and of knowledge receive no elucidation whatever, not to speak of
   reconciliation, and he stated not a few propositions in which there was a
   complete surrender to authority, that “faith” might not be deprived of its
   “merit” (see the sentence quoted above: “Sacred doctrine, however, uses
   human reason also, not indeed for proving faith, for through this the merit
   of faith would be lost” [Utitur tamen sacra doctrina etiam ratione humana,
   non quidem ad probandam fidem, quia per hoc tolleretur meritum fidei]). Yet
   his real interest in theology is still the same as that of Augustine.
   Theology is cognition of God in the strict sense; the necessity, which is
   accentuated in God, must also pervade the whole cognition of Him. The
   articuli fidei, and all results of world-knowledge, must be merged in the
   unity of this knowledge which truly liberates the soul and leads it back to
   God. At bottom the imposing and complicated system is extremely simple. Just
   as the perfect Gothic Cathedral, from its exhibiting what is really an
   organic style, expresses a single architectural thought, and subordinates
   all to this, even making all practical needs of worship serviceable to it,
   so this structure of thought, although all ecclesiastical doctrines are
   submissively and faithfully taken account of, still proclaims the one
   thought, that the soul has had its origin in God, and returns to Him through
   Christ, and even the Augustinian-Areopagite turn given to this thought, that
   God is all in all, is not denied by Thomas.

   But this attitude is dangerous. There will always be a fresh development
   from it of the “Spurious Mysticism,” as the Catholics call it, in which the
   subject is eager to go his own way, and avoids complete dependence upon the
   Church. Nevertheless, the course of scientific development came to be
   helpful to the Church, and we may almost say that the Church here gathered
   figs of thistles. The assiduous study of Aristotle, and the keener
   perception gained through philosophy and observation, weakened the
   confidence of the theologians regarding the rationality and strict necessity
   of the revealed articles of faith. They began to forego revising them by
   means of reason, and subordinating them as component parts of a system to a
   uniform thought. Their scientific sense was strengthened, and when they now
   turned to the revealed tenets, they found in them, not necessity, but
   arbitrariness. Moreover, the further they advanced in psychology and secular
   science and discovered what cognition really is, the more sceptical they
   became towards the “general”: “latet dolus in generalibus” (deception lurks
   under general conceptions). They began to part with their inward interest in
   the general, and their faith in it. The “idea,” which is to be regarded as
   “substance,” and the “necessity” of the general, disappeared for them; they
   lost confidence in the knowledge that knows everything. The particular, in
   its concrete expression, acquired interest for them: will rules the world,
   the will of God and the will of the individual, not an incomprehensible
   substance, or a universal intellect that is the product of construction.
   This immense revolution is represented in mediæval science by Duns Scotus,
   the acutest scholastic thinker; [256] but only with Occam did it attain
   completion.

   We should expect that the result of this revolution would have been either a
   protest against the Church doctrine, or an attempt to test it by its
   foundations, and to subject it to critical reconstruction. But it was 200
   years before these results followed, in Socinianism on the one hand, and in
   the Reformation theology on the other. What happened at first was quite
   different: there was a strengthening of the authority of the Church, and,
   along with full submission to it, a laying to its account of responsibility
   for the articles of faith and for the principles of its practice. [257] What
   was once supported by reason in league with authority must now be supported
   by the latter alone. Yet this conversion of things was felt to be by no
   means an act of despair, but to be an obviously required act of obedience to
   the Church, so complete was the supremacy of the latter over the souls of
   men, even though at the time it might be in the deepest debasement.

   When Nominalism obtained supremacy in theology and in the Church, the ground
   was prepared for the threefold development of doctrine in the future:
   Post-Tridentine Catholicism, Protestantism and Socinianism are to be
   understood from this point of view. [258]

   Nominalism exhibits on one side a number of outstanding excellences: it had
   come to see that religion is something different from knowledge and
   philosophy; it had also discovered the importance of the concrete as
   compared with hollow abstractions, and to its perception of this it gave
   brilliant expression, [259] e.g, in psychology; through recognising the
   importance of will, and giving prominence to this factor even in God, it
   strongly accentuated the personality of God, and so prepared the way for the
   suppression of that Areopagite theology, from which the danger always arose
   of its causing the world and the reasonable creature to disappear in God;
   [260] finally, by placing restrictions on speculation it brought out more
   clearly the positiveness of historic religion. But this progress in
   discernment was dearly purchased by two heavy sacrifices: first, with the
   surrender of the assurance that an absolute accordant knowledge could be
   attained, there was also surrendered the assurance of the categorical
   imperative, of the strict necessity of the moral in God, and of the moral
   law; and secondly, among the historic magnitudes to which it submitted
   itself, it included the Church with its entire apparatus — the commands of
   the religious and moral are arbitrary, but the commands of the Church are
   absolute. The haven of rest amidst the doubts and uncertainties of the
   understanding and of the soul is the authority of the Church.

   Neither the latter nor the former was, strictly speaking, an innovation.
   [261] Through the institution of penance an uncertainty about the moral had
   for long become widely diffused: it was only a question of expressing in
   theory what had for centuries been the fundamental thought in practice — the
   sovereign right of casuistry. [262] Moreover, the contradictory mode of
   procedure, which the great Schoolmen (Thomas at the head of them), in
   obedience to the spirit of jurisprudence, applied to each particular dogma
   and each ethical position, necessarily had the effect of shaking the
   conviction that there is something absolutely valid. If, as any page of
   Thomas will suggest, from two to twelve grounds can be adduced for every
   heresy and for many immoral assertions — if, e.g., there are a dozen grounds
   on which it may be alleged that simplex fornicatio is no mortal sin
   (Thomas), how can the belief be firmly maintained in face of this that it
   must nevertheless be regarded as such?

   From the conflict between yes and no will there always result certainty on
   behalf of the answer which the dogmatic theologian prefers? How can
   certainty be reckoned on at all, so long as there is still one ground only
   for the counter position, and so long as the one ground cannot be shown
   which alone is valid? Nominalism only continued here what Realism had begun;
   it merely did still more in the way of differentiating and distinguishing;
   it extended the recognised method of the acute advocate to ever new fields,
   to the doctrine of God, to the doctrines of creation and providence, to the
   holiness and the honour of God, to sin and reconciliation, and it always
   came to the conclusions, (1) that all is relative and arbitrary — but even
   in Thomas’s dogmatic already much that is very important in the doctrine of
   religion is only “conveniens”; (2) that the doctrines of revealed religion
   conflict with natural theology, with the thought of the understanding about
   God and the world (doctrine of double truth). Finally, when Nominalism
   taught that, since belief (credere) and understanding (intelligere) cannot
   be reconciled, there must be a blind surrender to the authority of the
   Church, and that it is just in this blind obedience that both the nature,
   and also the merit, of faith consist, here also it only wrought out fully a
   general Catholic theorem; for Tertullian had as little doubt as Thomas that
   all faith begins with submission. Though afterwards — from the time of
   Augustine — many considerations had been adduced for modifying the original
   theorem and changing faith into inward assent and love, nevertheless the old
   position remained the same, that faith is originally obedience, and that in
   this it has its initial merit. But if it is obedience, then it is fides
   implicita, i.e., submission is enough. When the later Nominalism declared
   with increasing distinctness the sufficiency of fides implicita, or laid it
   at the foundation of its theological reflections, because many truths of
   faith, taken in general, or as dealt with by individuals, do not admit of
   being accepted in any other way, it only gave to an old Catholic thought a
   thoroughly logical expression; [263] for the danger of transforming religion
   into an ecclesiastical regime was at no time absent from Western
   Catholicism. [264]

   What has already been briefly hinted at above may be distinctly stated here
   — the problem was the elimination of Augustinianism from the ecclesiastical
   doctrine. The whole turning from Realism to Nominalism can be represented
   theologically under this heading. Augustine falls and Aristotle rises —
   ostensibly not in theology indeed, but only in the field of world-knowledge,
   yet as a fact in theology as well; for no one can keep metaphysics and
   theology entirely asunder, and the theological doctrines of the Nominalists
   prove that, while they have reverently called a halt before the old dogmas,
   after having shown them irrational, on the other hand they have revised in a
   new-fashioned way the circle of the new, and really living, doctrines
   (Sacraments, appropriation of salvation). This work directed itself against
   Augustine, in its directing itself against Thomas.

   We have frequently pointed out already, that the history of Church doctrine
   in the West was a much disguised history of struggle against Augustine. His
   spirit and his piety undoubtedly rose far above the average of
   ecclesiasticism, and the new discoveries which he made were in many ways
   inconvenient to the Church as an ecclesiastical institution, and did not
   harmonise with its tendencies. No doubt the Church had accepted
   Augustinianism, but with the secret reservation that it was to be moulded by
   its own mode of thought. We have seen to what extent there was success in
   that in the period that ends, and in the period that begins, with Gregory
   the Great. Gottschalk already experienced what it costs in Catholicism to
   represent Augustinianism. In the time that followed there was developed in
   the sacramental and penance systems a practice and mode of thought that was
   always the more plainly in conflict with Augustinianism; all the more
   important was the fact that the Dominican Order, and especially Thomas,
   sought to rejuvenate the theology of Augustine. Duns Scotus and the
   Nominalist theology directed themselves in the first instance against
   Augustine’s philosophy of religion, against those doctrines of the first and
   last things, which gravitated so strongly to pantheism. But in controverting
   these doctrines, and shaking confidence in the doctrine of God as the
   All-One, they also shook confidence, for themselves and others, in the
   Augustinian doctrines of grace and sin, which certainly had the closest
   connection with his doctrine of God. These Nominalists, who (following Duns
   Scotus) always insisted that reason relates to the realm of the worldly, and
   that in spiritual things there must simply be a following the traditional
   authority of revelation, that the understanding, therefore, must be left out
   of play, really wrought in a most vigorous way, and with the utmost use of
   the “understanding,” within the lines of the Church doctrine. Under certain
   circumstances “not to speculate” leads also to a metaphysic, or at least
   does not hinder a traditional speculation from being corrected and
   transformed in many of its details, and so also in its entire cast. At any
   rate this principle did not prevent the Nominalist theologians from revising
   the existing dogma under the protection of authority. But not only did this
   work now acquire an entirely external, formalistic character, but there were
   also introduced into everything the principles of an arbitrary morality, of
   the “conveniens” too, the expedient and the relative. One might say, that
   the principles of a cosmopolitan diplomacy in matters of religion and morals
   were applied to objective religion and to subjective religious life. God is
   not quite so strict, and not quite so holy, as He might be imagined to be;
   sin is not quite so bad as it appears to be to the very tender conscience;
   guilt is not immeasurably great; redemption by Christ, taken as a whole, and
   in its parts, is very serviceable, but not really necessary; faith does not
   require to be full surrender, and even of love a certain amount is really
   enough. That is the “Aristotelianism” of the Nominalistic Schoolmen, which
   Luther declared to be the root of all mischief in the Church; but that is
   also the “Aristotelianism” which must be most welcome to the hierarchy; for
   here they hold the key of the position, seeing that they determine how
   strict God is, how heinous sin is, etc. That at the same time they neither
   can nor will part entirely with Augustinianism (Thomism) was remarked above.
   But they determine where it is to come in, and they showed that they watched
   jealously the extent to which it was applied.

   In the Pelagianism and Probabilism of Nominalism there lies the express
   apostasy from Augustinianism. [265] But just because the apostasy was so
   manifest, there could not fail to be a certain reaction — though certainly
   no longer a strong one — in the Church. Not only did the Dominican Order, in
   their defending the theology of their great teacher, Thomas, persistently
   defend Augustine also (though not, as a rule, in the most important points),
   but men also appeared in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries who observed
   the Pelagian tendency of Nominalism, and strenuously resisted it in the
   spirit of Augustine. [266] Here Bradwardine must first be mentioned (ob.
   1349) who placed the entire Augustine, together with the predestination
   doctrine, in strong opposition to the Pelagian tendency of the period. [267]
   On him Wyclif was dependent as a theologian, and as Huss took all his
   theological thoughts from Wyclif, and introduced them into Bohemia and
   Germany, Bradwardine is really to be signalized as the theologian who gave
   the impulse to the Augustinian reactions that accompanied the history of the
   Church till the time of Staupitz and Luther, and that prepared the way for
   the Reformation. In the fifteenth century the men were numerous, and some of
   them influential too, who, standing on the shoulders of Augustine, set
   themselves in opposition to Pelagianism. But they neither overthrew, nor
   wished to overthrow, the strong basis of the Nominalist doctrine, the
   authority of the Church. Moreover, Augustinianism exercised an influence in
   many ways on the reform parties and sects; but as no new theology resulted,
   so also all these efforts led to no Reformation. The Augustinians still
   allowed a wide scope to the fides implicita and the Sacraments, because even
   they believed in the idol of Church authority. The reigning theology
   remained unshaken so long as it was not assailed at the root. Even attacks
   so energetic as those of Wesel and Wessel passed without general effect.
   [268] But the fact is unmistakable, that in the course of the fifteenth
   century the Nominalist Scholasticism fell steadily into disrepute. While the
   period revelled in new, fresh impressions and perceptions, that theological
   art became always more formalistic, and its barren industry was always the
   more keenly felt. While the rediscovered Platonism was being absorbed with
   delight, that art still lived under the impulses of the Aristotle who had
   arisen 250 years before. The spirit of the Renaissance and of Humanism was
   in its innermost nature alien to the old Scholasticism; for it had no wish
   for formulæ, syllogisms, and authorities; it wished neither the darkness nor
   the illumination of the “Aristotelian” Scholasticism, but was eager for
   life, that can be reproduced in feeling, and for perceptions that elevate
   above the common world and the common art of living. [269] For the poets and
   humanists — though not for all, yet certainly for the most of them — the
   ecclesiastical theology, as represented in the Scholastic labours of the
   Schoolmen, was like stagnant, filthy water. But still there was always the
   endeavour to find the redeemers in antiquity. Plato, at length the true
   Plato, was discovered, revered and deified. It was not by chance that the
   Platonic reaction coincided with the Augustinian in the fifteenth century;
   for the two great spirits of ancient times had an elective affinity —
   Plato’s Dialogues and Augustine’s Confessions are not incapable of being
   united. The influence of Plato and Augustine guided all the movements in the
   fields of science and theology in the fifteenth century that rose against a
   Scholasticism which, in spite of its rich perceptions, had become fossilised
   and hollow, and had lost touch with the needs of the inner life and of the
   present time. The reflection of the Germans was more serious than that of
   the Italians and French. In the last third of the fifteenth century Germany
   took the lead in thought and scholarship. The Romanic nations did not
   produce in the fifteenth century a man like Nicolas of Cusa. [270] Nicolas
   was the precursor and leader of all the distinguished men who, in the
   following century, starting from the Platonic view of the world, brought so
   strong and fresh a current of real illuminism into the world. Though
   fantastical in many ways and even greatly interested in magic and ghosts,
   some of them at once discoverers and charlatans, these men laid,
   nevertheless, the basis for the scientific (even experimental) observation
   of nature, and were the restorers of scientific thought. Assurance of the
   unity of all things and the bold flight of imagination — both of which had
   been lost by scholastic wisdom — made the new science possible. This science
   by no means arose because Nominalism, or the philosophy of the great student
   of nature, Aristotle, as it was then treated, was always growing more
   empirical, and gradually developed itself into exact science, but a new
   spirit passed over the withered leaves of Scholasticism, scattered them
   boldly to the four winds, and derived confidence and power for gathering out
   of nature and history their secrets, from the living speculations of Plato
   that grasp the whole man, from the original historic sources now discovered,
   and from converse with the living reality.

   By theology little advantage, certainly, was derived from this in the
   fifteenth century. The Italian Humanists, the fathers of this European
   movement, practically took nothing to do with it — at the most they
   instituted some historical investigations, with the view of annoying the
   priests and monks (Laurentius Valla: favours from Constantine, origin of the
   Apostolic Symbol, writings of the Areopagite) — and even the Germans made no
   real contributions to progress. [271] One could help all other sciences by
   going back upon antiquity, but not theology. What it could learn from Plato
   and the Neoplatonists it had learned long before. When men like Nicolas of
   Cusa sought to release it from the embraces of the Schoolmen, they
   themselves knew of no better form for it than that which had been given to
   it by Augustine and Mystics like Eckhart. But trial had been made of this
   form of long time. Just because it appeared unsatisfactory, and there was an
   unwillingness any longer to breathe in this fine fog, there had been, in
   course of time, a passing over to Nominalism. Now, there must be a reverting
   to the beginning — though it might be better understood. Another
   prescription was not offered. Theology seemed doomed to move helplessly in a
   circle; fundamentally it remained as it was; for the iron ecclesiastical
   authority remained. Then came the help, not from Aristotle, nor even from
   Plato and Augustine, but from the conscience of a Mendicant Monk.

   But what the Renaissance and Humanism did indirectly for theology [272] must
   not be ignored. While it was not really demolished by them, and still much
   less re-shaped, yet for the future re-shaping they certainly rendered most
   valuable services. The sources of history were gradually disclosed for it
   also, and the Humanist Erasmus not only laid the foundation of textual
   criticism of the New Testament and scientific patrology, but carried them at
   once to a high state of perfection. From a taste for the original, criticism
   grew up. What had died out in the Church with Origen, nay, in some measure
   even before Origen, or what — keeping out of view a few Antiochians — had
   never really developed themselves strongly, namely, historic sense and
   historic exegesis, developed themselves now. The Reformation was to reap the
   benefit of them; but by the Reformation also they were soon to be swallowed
   up again. For the history of theology, and of dogmas, in the strictest sense
   of the term, Humanism was otherwise quite unfruitful. Theology was put aside
   by it with a respectful recognition, or with an air of cool superiority, or
   with saucy ridicule. Scarcely anyone approached it with serious criticism.
   Erasmus aimed at giving it a humanistic ennoblement and freeing it from
   restrictions. When the Reformation dawned, he pronounced, among other
   things, the controversy about indulgences to be a monks’ quarrel, or a
   delightful dilemma for causing stir among the parsons. When things then grew
   serious and a decision had to be made, it became apparent that the
   Franciscan ideal, in peculiar combination with antique reserve and
   humanistic worldliness, with silent hatred of dogma and Church, and external
   submission, had a stronger hold on many aspiring souls than a liking for the
   gospel. [273] The scholar, besides, would not let himself be disturbed by
   the din of the “Lutheran rogues.” Theological doctrine was held to be
   something indifferent: “Quieta non movere” — (let things that are at rest
   not bestirred) — or, at least, only in the form of a learned passage of
   arms. The avenger was at the door; the following 150 years showed the
   terrified scholars to a frightful extent that theology will not be mocked.

   4. The Moulding of Dogma in Scholasticism.

   In the Scholasticism of the thirteenth century the Latin Church attained
   what the Greek Church attained in the eighth century — a uniform systematic
   exhibition of its faith. This exhibition had as its presuppositions, first,
   Holy Scripture and the articuli fidei, as these had been formulated at the
   Councils; second, Augustinianism; third, the ecclesiastical (papal)
   decisions and the whole development of ecclesiasticism from the ninth
   century; fourth, the Aristotelian philosophy.

   We have shown in the third and fourth chapters of Vol. V. how the old scheme
   of Christian doctrine had undergone a trenchant modification at the hands of
   Augustine, but how, in its ultimate basis — as regards the final aim of
   religion and theology — it did not lose its recognised validity, its form,
   rather, having only become more complicated. While Augustine described the
   influences of grace that operate in the Sacraments as the influences of
   love, he allowed the old view of the Sacraments to remain, namely, that they
   prepare for, and help to secure, the enjoyment of God. But he at the same
   time gave the most powerful impetus to a dual development of piety and
   ecclesiastical doctrine; for the forces of love that operate in the
   Sacraments establish also the “kingdom of righteousness” on earth, produce
   in this way the life in love that corresponds with the “law of Christ,” and
   qualify the individual for those good works which establish merit before God
   and create a claim for salvation.

   In this last turn of thought Augustine had subordinated (by means of the
   intermediate idea, “nostra merita dei munera” [our merits gifts of God]),
   his new view of divine grace as a gratia gratis data (grace freely given) to
   the old, chiefly Western, view of religion, as a combination of law,
   performance, and reward, and in the period that followed this subordinating
   process always continued to be carried further. Grace (in the form of the
   Sacraments) and merit (law and performance) are the two centres of the curve
   in the mediæval conception of Christianity. But this curve is entirely
   embedded in faith in the Church; for since to the Church (as was not
   doubted) the Sacraments, and the power of the keys dependent on them, were
   entrusted, the Church was not merely the authority for the whole
   combination, but was in a very real sense the continued working of Christ
   Himself, and the body of Christ, which is enhypostatically united to Him. In
   this sense mediæval theology is science of the Church (Ecclesiastik),
   although it had not much to say about the Church. But on the other hand, at
   least till Nominalism triumphed, this theology never lost sight of the
   fundamental Augustinian aim: “Deum et animam scire cupio. Nihilne plus?
   Nihil omnino” (I desire to know God and the soul. Nothing more ? No, nothing
   whatever), i.e., it never discarded the view that in all theology what is
   aimed at ultimately is exclusively the cognition of God and of the relation
   of the individual soul to Him. [274] It was the intermingling of theology as
   ecclesiasticism with theology as nourishment for the soul that produced
   within mediæval theology its internal discords, and lent to it its charm.
   From this intermingling also there is to be explained the twofold end here
   set before the Christian religion, although to the theologians only one of
   the ends was consciously present: religion and theology must on the one hand
   lead the individual to salvation (visio dei or surrender of the will), but
   it must on the other hand build up on earth the kingdom of virtue and
   righteousness, which is the empirical Church, and bring all powers into
   subjection to this kingdom. [275]

   Augustine utilised in quite a new way the articuli fidei; for him they are
   no longer faith itself; but, re-shaping them in many ways, he builds up
   faith by means of them. Yet their authority was not thereby shaken, but in a
   certain way was still further increased, inasmuch as the external authority
   became greater in the degree in which the internal — that faith identified
   itself exclusively with them — became less. This was exactly how things
   continued to move on in the Middle Ages. It was solely the articles of faith
   of ecclesiastical antiquity that were, in the strict sense, dogmas. Only the
   doctrine of transubstantiation succeeded in winning for itself equal dignity
   with the old dogmas, [276] by the quid pro quo that it is implied in the
   doctrine of the incarnation. When in this way the doctrine of
   transubstantiation took its place side by side with the old dogmas,
   everything really was gained; for by this link of attachment the whole
   sacramental system might be drawn up to the higher level of absolute
   Christian doctrine. This, too, afterwards took place, although, prior to the
   Council of Trent, the distinction was never made in detail between what
   belongs to dogma and what is simply a portion of theology, and even after
   the Council of Trent the Church wisely avoided the distinction. It is thus
   explained how, about the year 1500, no one except the most decided papists
   could affirm how far the province of necessary faith in the Church really
   extended.

   The task of Scholasticism, so far as it was dogmatic theology, was a
   threefold one. Following Augustine, it had to shape the old articuli fidei
   so that they would adjust themselves to the elliptic line drawn round the
   sacrament and merit; it had to revise the doctrine of the Sacraments, which
   had come to it from Augustine in an extremely imperfect form; [277] and it
   had to gather from observation the principles of present-day Church
   practice, and to bring these into accord, on the one hand with the articuli
   fidei, raised to the level of theology, and with the doctrine of the
   Sacraments, and on the other hand with Augustinianism. This task became more
   complicated from the fact that the Schoolmen — at least the earlier —
   uniformly combined dogmatics with philosophy of religion, and thus
   introduced into the former all the questions of metaphysics, as rising out
   of the general state of knowledge at the time. But this great task was
   really faithfully carried out by mediæval theology. That theology fulfilled
   the claims that were made upon it; indeed, there has probably never been a
   period in history when, after hard labour, theology stood so securely in
   command of the situation, i.e., of its age, as then. At the same time it
   knew how to maintain for itself until the fifteenth century the impression
   of a certain roundedness and unity, and yet left room, as the contrast
   between the Franciscan and Dominican dogmatists shows, for different modes
   of development. Yet on the other hand it must not be denied that the opinion
   here expressed by no means applies when we deal with the relation between
   piety and theology. In the case of Thomas, it is true, the claims of the
   latter and former still coincide, although not so perfectly as in the Greek
   Church at the time of the Cappadocians and of Cyril. But from the close of
   the thirteenth century piety and theology manifestly held an increasingly
   strained relation to each other. The former recognised itself always less
   clearly in the latter. They were one, it is true, in their ultimate ground
   (finis religionis, authority of the Church); even the most devoted piety was
   not really able to free itself from these bonds. But starting from the
   common basis, theology unfolded a tendency to treat the holy as something
   authoritative, external and made easy by the Church, and this tendency piety
   viewed with growing suspicion and annoyance. In the doctrines of the
   Sacraments and of grace, as Scholasticism gave fuller shape to them —
   developing germs which were not wanting even in Thomas — the strain between
   theology and piety reached clearest expression. The Augustinian reactions
   from the middle of the fourteenth century, at one time noisy in their
   course, at another time moving on silently and steadily, were the result of
   this strain. The official theology of the fifteenth century must be
   recognised only in a relative way as the expression of the true Catholic
   piety of the period. This applies even to Tridentine Catholicism, and holds
   true to the present day. The doctrine, as it is, is not the sphere in which
   vital Catholic faith lives. But because its foundations are also the
   foundations of this faith, the faith lets itself in the end be satisfied
   with this doctrine.

   As we have not to do with the philosophy of religion, we must confine
   ourselves in what follows to describing the scholastic revision of the old
   articuli fidei, the scholastic doctrine of the Sacraments, and the
   scholastic discussion of Augustinianism as related to the new Church
   principles, which led finally to an entire dissolution of the Pauline
   Augustinian doctrine. With regard to the first of these points the statement
   can be quite brief, seeing that in the revision of the old articuli fidei
   theological doctrines were dealt with which, as scientifically unfolded,
   never acquired a universal dogmatic importance, and seeing that this
   revision leads over at many points into the philosophy of religion.

   A. The Revision of the Traditional Articuli Fidei.

   1. The article “de deo” (on God) was the fundamental and cardinal article.
   [278] In the strictly realistic Scholasticism the Areopagitic Augustinian
   conception of God was held as valid: God as the absolute substance. Where
   this conception was adhered to, its absolute necessity for thought was also
   asserted (Anselm’s ontological proof, [279] ) and a high value was ascribed
   to the proofs for God. Through the acquaintance with Aristotle, however, the
   Areopagite conception of God was restricted, which had developed itself in
   Scotus Erigena, Amalrich of Bena and David of Dinanto, as well as among the
   adherents of the Averrhoistic Aristotelianism, into pantheism. The
   cosmological proofs, to which preference was more and more given, [280] led
   also to a stricter distinguishing between God and the creature, and Thomas
   himself, although the Areopagite Augustinian conception of God is still for
   him fundamental, stoutly combated pantheism. [281] Following Anselm, Thomas
   also linked the conception of God as the absolute substance with that of
   self-conscious thought, adopted, still further, from Aristotle the
   definition of God as actus purus, and thus gave the conception a more living
   and personal shape. But he had at the same time the very deepest interest in
   emphasising absolute sufficiency and necessity in God; for only the
   necessary can be known with certainty; but it is on certain knowledge that
   salvation, i.e., the visio dei, depends. Thomas accordingly now conceived of
   God, not only as necessary being, but also as an end for Himself, so that
   the world, which He creates in goodness, is entirely subordinated to His own
   purpose, a purpose which could realise itself indeed even without the world.
   [282] Yet Duns already combated (against Richard of St. Victor, see also
   Anselm, Monolog.,) the notion of a necessary existence due to itself, and
   thereby really abandoned all proofs of God: [283] the infinite is not
   cognisable by demonstration, and hence can only be believed in on authority.
   Occam made as energetic an attack on the “primum movens immobile” (prime
   immovable mover) and likewise fell back on authority. But with the
   impossibility of demonstrating the infinite, and of giving life by
   speculation to the notion of the “necessarium ex se ipso,” there disappeared
   also for Nominalism the conception of the necessity of the inner
   determinedness of the infinite Being, of whom authority taught. God is not
   summum esse (supreme being) and summa intelligentia (supreme intelligence)
   in the sense in which intelligence belongs to the creature, but He is, as
   measured by the understanding of the creature, the unlimited almighty will,
   the cause of the world, a cause, however, which could operate quite
   otherwise from the way in which it does. God is thus the absolutely free
   will, who simply wills because He wills to, i.e., a cognisable ground of the
   will does not exist. From this point of view the doctrine of God becomes as
   uncertain as, above all, the doctrine of grace. Occam went so far as to
   declare monotheism to be only more probable than polytheism; for what can be
   strictly proved is either only the notion of a single supreme Being, but not
   His existence, or the existence of relatively supreme beings, but not the
   one-ness. Accordingly the attributes of God were quite differently treated
   in the Thomist and in the Scotist schools. In the former they were strictly
   derived from a necessary principle, but only to be cancelled again in the
   end, as identical in the one substance, in the latter they were relatively
   determined; in the former — in accordance with the thesis of the summum esse
   — a virtual existence of God in the world was assumed, and in the last
   analysis there was no distinguishing between the existence of God for
   Himself and His existence for the world, in the latter — as the world is a
   free product of God’s will, entirely disjoined from God — only an ideal
   presence of God is taught. As can easily be seen, the contrast is ultimately
   determined by different ideas of the position of man and of religion. For
   the Thomists, the idea is that of dependence on God Himself, who comprehends
   and sustains all things, for the Scotists the idea is that of independence
   in relation to God. It certainly meant an important advance upon Thomas when
   God was strictly conceived of by Duns as will and person, and was
   distinguished from the world; but this advance becomes at once a serious
   disadvantage when we can no longer depend upon this God, because we are not
   permitted to think of Him as acting according to the highest categories of
   moral necessity, [284] and when, accordingly, the rule holds, that the
   goodness of the creature consists in surrender to the will of God, of which
   the motives are inscrutable, while its content is clearly given in
   revelation (so Duns). [285] The view that contemplates God as also
   arbitrariness, because He is will, becomes ultimately involved in the same
   difficulties as the view that contemplates Him as the all-determining
   substance, for in both cases His essence is shrouded in darkness. But the
   narrow way that leads to a sure and comforting knowledge of God, the way of
   faith in God as the Father of Jesus Christ, the Schoolmen would not follow.
   Therefore their whole doctrine of God, whether it be of a Thomist or of a
   Scotist cast, cannot be used in dogmatic. For on this point dogmatic must
   keep to its own field of knowledge, namely, the historic Christ, and must
   not fear the reproach of “blind faith” (“Kahlerglaubens,” collier’s faith,)
   if it is blind faith that God can be felt and known only from personal life
   — and, in a way that awakens conviction, only from the personal life of
   Christ. This does not exclude the truth that Thomistic Mysticism can warmly
   stir the fancy, and gently delude the understanding as to the baselessness
   of speculation. How far, as regards the conception of God, mediæval thought
   in Nominalism had drifted from the thought which had once given theological
   fixity in the Church to the articulus de deo, can best be seen when we
   compare the doctrine of God of Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, or John of Damascus
   with that of Duns or Occam. [286] But the whole of dogmatic is dependent on
   the conception of God; for that conception determines both the view of
   salvation and the view of reconciliation. [287] Finally, it must be pointed
   out, that mediæval theology strongly emphasises the conception of God as
   judge, though this conception was not introduced by it into speculations as
   to the nature of God.

   2. Stormy debates on the right way of understanding, and the right way of
   mentally representing the doctrine of the Trinity, [288] had already run
   their course, when the Mendicant Orders made their appearance in science.
   The bold attempts to make the mystery more intelligible, whether by
   approximating to tritheism (Roscellin), [289] or by passing over to Modalism
   (Abelard), were rejected in the period of Anselm and Bernard (against
   Gilbert). [290] Where Augustine’s treatise De trinitate was studied and
   followed, a fine Modalism introduced itself everywhere, [291] and it was
   easy for any one who wished to convict another of heresy to bring the
   reproach of Sabellianism against his opponent who was influenced by
   Augustine. Even the Lombard was charged with giving too much independence to
   the divina essentia, and with thus teaching a quaternity, or a species of
   Sabellianism. [292] The lesson derived in the thirteenth century from these
   experiences was to guard the trinitarian dogma by a still greater mustering
   of terminological distincions than Augustine had recourse to. The exposition
   of the doctrine of the Trinity continued to be the high school of logic and
   dialectic. In Thomism the doctrine still had a relation to the idea of the
   world, in so far as the hypostasis of the Son was not sharply marked off
   from the world-idea in God. Thomism was also necessarily obliged to retain
   its leaning to Modalism, as the conception of God did not at bottom admit of
   the assumption of distinctions in God, but reduced the distinctions to
   relations, which themselves again had to be neutralised. The Scotist School,
   on the other hand, kept the persons sharply asunder. But this school,
   especially in its later period, could equally well have defended, or yielded
   submission to, the quaternity, or any other doctrine of God whatever. But
   before this the whole doctrine had already come to be a mere problem of the
   schools, having no relation to living faith. The respect that was paid to it
   as the fundamental dogma of the Church was in flagrant contrast with the
   incapacity to raise it in theological discussion above the level of a
   logical mystery. Like Augustine in his day, the mediæval theologians let it
   be seen that they would not have set up this dogma if it had not come to
   them by tradition, and the decree of the Lateran Council (see page 182, note
   7,) which places behind the persons a “res non generans neque genita nec
   procedens” (a thing not begetting nor begotten nor proceeding) really
   transforms the persons into mere modalities kat' epinoian (existing for
   thought), or into inner processes in God. Or is it still a doctrine of the
   Trinity, when the immanent thinking and the immanent willing in God are
   defined and objectified as generare and spirare (begetting and breathing)?
   But in Nominalism the treatment of this dogma grew no better. The Thomist
   School was certainly still regulated by a concrete thought, when it sought
   to make the Trinity more intelligible by means of analogies; for according
   to these the finite world, and especially the rational creature, show traces
   of the divine nature and the divine attributes. But this idea Scotism had
   set aside, emphasising the threefold personality as revealed fact. Its
   “subtle investigations,” even Schwane confesses, [293] “went astray too much
   into a region of formalism, and came to be a playing with notions.”

   3. The doctrine of the eternity of the world [294] was universally combated,
   and the creation from nothing adhered to as an article of faith. But only
   the Post-Thomist Schoolmen expressed the temporality of the world, and
   creation out of nothing, in strict formulæ. Although Thomas rejected the
   pantheism of the Neoplatonic-Erigenistic mode of thought, there are still to
   be found in him traces of the idea that creation is the actualising of the
   divine ideas, that is, their passing into the creaturely form of
   subsistence. Further, he holds, on the basis of the Areopagite conception of
   God, that all that is has its existence “by participating in him who alone
   exists through himself” (participatione ejus, qui solum per se ipsum est).
   But both thoughts obscure the conception of creation. [295] Hence it is
   characteristic of Thomas, who elsewhere, as a rule, finds strict necessity,
   that he refrains from showing that the world’s having a beginning is a
   doctrine necessary for thought; Summa., P. I., Q. 46, Art. 2: “It is to be
   asserted that the world’s not having always existed is held by faith alone,
   and cannot be proved demonstratively: as was asserted also above regarding
   the mystery of the Trinity . . .that the world had a beginning is credible,
   but not demonstrable or knowable. And it is useful to consider this, in case
   perhaps some one, presuming to demonstrate what is of faith, should adduce
   reasons that are not necessary, thus giving occasion for ridicule to
   infidels, who might think that on the ground of such reasons we believe what
   is of faith.” If only Thomas had always taken to heart these splendid words,
   which, moreover, were directed against Bonaventura and Albertus Magnus, who
   undertook to prove the beginning of the world in time a doctrine of reason!
   Duns Scotus and his school naturally followed Thomas here, in so far as they
   held the temporality of the world as guaranteed simply by the authority of
   faith. [296] Yet the view of Albertus certainly survived at the same time in
   the Church. The purpose of the creation of the world was taken by all the
   Schoolmen to be the exhibition of the love (bonitas) of God, which seeks to
   communicate itself to other beings. Even Thomas, correcting the Areopagite
   conception of God, declared the creation of the world no longer a necessary,
   but only a contingent, means, whereby God fulfils His personal end. Yet he
   certainly represented the personal end of God, which is freely realised in
   creation, as the supreme thought: “divina bonitas est finis rerum omnium”
   [297] (the divine love is the end of all things), i.e., God’s willing His
   own blessedness embraces all movements whatever of that which exists, His
   willing it by means of creation of the world is His free will; but as He has
   so willed to create, the end of the creature is entirely included in the
   divine end ; the creature has no end of its own, but realises the divine
   end, which is itself nothing but the actualising of the love (bonitas). In
   this way the pantheistic acosmism is certainly not quite banished, while on
   the other hand, in the thesis of Thomas, that God necessarily conceived from
   eternity the idea of the world, because this idea coincides with His
   knowledge and so also with His being, the pancosmistic conception of God is
   not definitely excluded. In the Scotist school, the personal end of God and
   the end of the creature are sharply disconnected. [298] As regards divine
   providence, from the time of Anselm and Abelard onwards, all the questions
   were again treated which were formerly dealt with by Origen; but from the
   time of Thomas they were added to in an extraordinary degree, so that quite
   new terminology was here created. [299] To the question whether this world
   is the best, Thomas gave a negative answer, after Anselm had answered it in
   the affirmative; yet even Thomas thinks this universe cannot be better; God,
   however, could have created other things, which would have been still
   better. [300] As a consequence of his fundamental view, Thomas assumes that
   God directs all things immediately; yet the greater the independence was
   that was attributed to the world, the stronger became the opposition to this
   thesis. In the theodicy, moreover, which was vigorously revised in the
   thirteenth century in opposition to the dualistic sects, Thomas attached
   himself more closely to Augustine. He did not shrink from the thought that
   God produces “quasi per accidens” (as it were accidentally) the corruptiones
   rerum (corruption in things); for the “perfection of things in the universe
   requires that there shall be not only incorruptible, but also corruptible
   entities” (“perfectio rerum universitatis requirit, ut non solum sint entia
   incorruptibilia, sed etiam corruptibilia”); but from this it follows that
   the perfectio universi requires beings that can fall from the good, “ex quo
   sequitur ea interdum deficere” (from which it follows that they are
   sometimes defective). [301] In these doctrines, too, greater caution came to
   be exercised, as the distinction came to be more sharply drawn between God,
   and the creature as endowed with its own volitional movement. [302]

   4. The history of Christology was similar to that of the doctrine of the
   Trinity. In the twelfth century there was still much keen discussion with
   regard to the former, as the satisfaction was not general with the Greek
   scheme that had been framed in opposition to Adoptianism (Abelard’s
   Nestorian Christology was a protest against the doctrine of John of Damascus
   and of Alcuin, and continued to extend its influence). [303] Even the
   Lombard, although, with Alcuin, he denies that the Logos assumed a human
   person, [304] still gravitated — certainly in a very peculiar way — to a
   Nestorian thought, in so far as he denied, in the interest of the
   immutability of God, that by the incarnation God “became” something, the
   humanity rather being for him only like a garment. [305] But against this
   doctrine, described as Nihilianism, and adopted by the dialecticians (Christ
   was, as man, non aliquid [not something]), a strong opposition was raised in
   the period of Alexander III., especially by German scholars (Gerhoch); there
   was asserted, in opposition to it, the most complete and real
   interpenetration of deity and humanity in Christ (see Alcuin), and the
   Lombard’s doctrine was even publicly described as dangerous. [306] With this
   “nota” against “Nihilianism,” the doctrine of the two natures came to the
   great Schoolmen, and the problem of the “hypostatic union” now became as
   much the field of contest for the acutest thought as the problem of the
   Trinity. [307] At the same time the view all took of the communicatio
   idiomatum implied that the thought must be excluded of a human person as
   existing for himself in Christ. But here, also, there resulted important
   differences between the Thomists and Scotists; for Thomas made the greatest
   effort to give such predominance to the divine factor that the human became
   merely something passive and accidental; as he was influenced by the
   Areopagite, he continued also, in a very real way, the Greek Monophysite
   Christology; nor was there wanting to him the Areopagite background, that
   the Logos entered into just the same relation to human nature as a whole,
   into which he entered with the human nature of Jesus. Against this Scotus
   made an effort, in a very modest way, and with a profusion of confusingly
   complicated terminology, to save something more of the humanity of Christ.
   But in return for this, he has to hear the verdict of modern Catholic
   theologians of dogma, that “he won for himself no laurels; that what he did,
   rather, in this field, with his critical censures (of the Angelic Doctor)
   was mostly a fiasco.” [308] His effort to attribute existence even to the
   human individual nature of Christ was disapproved. His mild attempts,
   likewise, were repudiated to fix certain limits to the human knowledge of
   Christ, and to deduce the sinlessness of the human will of Jesus, not from
   the hypostatic union, but from the “plenissima fruitio quam habuit
   Christus” (fullest enjoyment that Christ had), i.e., from his perfect
   surrender of will. [309] On this field Thomism continued victorious. The
   Scotists did not succeed in securing the recognition of a special mode of
   being for the individual human nature of Christ. [310]

   The victory of the Monophysite doctrine of Christ concealed under the
   Chalcedonian formulæ, [311] was all the more surprising from no practical
   religious use whatever being made of it, the real interest in Christ finding
   expression rather, on the one hand, in the idea of the poor life of Jesus
   and the Ecce homo, on the other hand, in the doctrines of reconciliation and
   of the Sacraments. [312] But it is only apparently that the doctrine of
   reconciliation has the Greek Christology, together with the doctrine of the
   two natures, as its presupposition. This has been shown already above in
   connection with the reconciliation doctrine of Anselm, Abelard, and the
   Lombard. [313] It still remains to us here to specify concisely the thoughts
   of the later Schoolmen on the work of Christ. [314]

   The Lombard had brought the merit of Christ into the foreground, and at the
   same time had given expression to all possible thoughts about redemption by
   Christ — the Anselmic theory excepted — and had attached himself closely to
   Augustine and Abelard (“reconciliati sumus deo diligenti nos” [we are
   reconciled to God, who loves us]). The modification in the thirteenth
   century consisted now in this, that, in opposition to Abelard, and with a
   certain adherence to Anselm, objective redemption (in its bearing upon God)
   was brought into the foreground, but at the same time, the point of view of
   merit, which Anselm had only suggested, was strongly emphasised. This turn
   of things appears already in Alexander of Hales and Albertus; but Thomas was
   the first to furnish a full, strictly-thought-out doctrine of redemption.
   Certainly even he alternates between the points of view, which is always a
   sign that the point of view is not firmly got hold of; for, where the
   sufficient reason is wanting, reasons tend to accumulate. But the sufficient
   reason was really wanting to Thomas; for P. III., Q. 46, Art. 1-3, the
   necessity of the death of Christ is explicitly rejected — God could also
   have simply remitted sin in the exercise of His free will, — the chosen way
   of deliverance by the death of Christ (liberatio per mortem Christi) is only
   the most fitting, because, by it, more and greater things are imparted to us
   than if we were redeemed solely by the will of God (sola voluntate dei).

   There were three points of view especially which Thomas applied. First, he
   stated (Q. 46) a large number of arguments that were intended to prove that
   the death of Christ, with all the circumstances of His suffering, was the
   most fitting means of redemption. Within the lines of this idea many points
   of view are already suggested that deal with the facts. But above all the
   infinite pain which He endured is taken into account. His suffering (during
   His whole life and in death) is represented as being the sum of all
   conceivable suffering, in the sense too of its being His own pain and the
   pain of sympathy on account of our sin. Here justice is done to the
   Abelardian-Augustinian tradition, viz., that the suffering of Christ, the
   Mediatorial Man, is redemptive, inasmuch as it brings God’s love home to our
   hearts, becomes an example to us, recalls us from sin, and stirs as a motive
   responsive love. But on the other hand, the convenientius (more fitting) in
   an objective sense is also already brought out here, inasmuch as the death
   of Christ was the most fitting means for winning for men the gratia
   justificans (justifying grace) and the gloria beatitudinis (glory of
   beatitude). [315]

   In Q. 408, new points of view are now introduced under the heading “de modo
   passionis Christi quantum ad effectum” (on the mode of Christ’s suffering as
   regards its effect). The hypothetical character here passes into the rear
   behind the necessary result of the suffering. But the whole inquiry is
   dominated by the fundamental thought: “Christus non est passus secundum
   divinitatem, sed secundum carnem,” (Christ did not suffer as to His
   divinity, but as to His flesh), with which the divinity associated itself.
   Here the death of Christ is placed under the points of view of merit (Art.
   1), satisfaction (Art. 2), sacrifice (Art. 3), redemption (Arts. 4 and 5),
   and “efficientia” (Art. 6). This is succeeded, in Quest. 49, by an inquiry
   as to how far the death of Christ has freed us from sin (Art. 1), from the
   power of the devil (Art. 2), and from liability to penalty (a reatu pœnæ)
   (Art. 3), and again, as to whether by it we are reconciled to God (Art. 4),
   whether by it entrance to heaven is secured for us (Art. 5), and whether by
   it Christ was exalted (Art. 6). Among these points of view there stand out
   prominently (secondly) that of satisfaction and (thirdly) that of merit as
   specially important.

   The conception of satisfaction is obtained by taking (against Anselm) in the
   strictest sense the voluntariness of Christ’s sufferings, and then defining
   this voluntary suffering according to the particular rule, that satisfaction
   always consists in a gift for which the party injured has more love than he
   has hatred for the injury. This is shown in the suffering of Christ, which
   is described (see above) as not only suffering in death but suffering in
   life, [316] and which has its value in the divine-human life of the
   Mediator. Just on that account the satisfactio is not only sufficient but
   superabundans; [317] i.e., it is not only æqualis omnibus peccatis humani
   generis (equal to all the sins of the human race), but positively in excess
   of them. In this way an idea is obtained which, though apparently
   unobjectionable and worthy, was to give occasion to the most unhappy
   speculations. A vicarious penal suffering, in the strict sense of the terms,
   is not recognised even by Thomas, because on the whole question he allowed
   only a limited range to the justitia dei. [318] Still, some lines of
   exposition in Quest. 49 touch on that thought. [319]

   With regard to merit, a distinct idea is to be got under this term as to how
   far Christ’s suffering really profits individuals. It is a circumstance of
   value that Thomas sets aside, and ceases to employ, the Greek thought which
   dominates his doctrine of the person of Christ, namely, that the humanity of
   Christ is in itself human nature in general. With this mechanical idea of
   the matter he was not satisfied. Here also we see that between his doctrine
   of the person of Christ, and his doctrine of His work, there is quite a
   chasm. Only once [320] does he touch on the thought that God is reconciled
   because He has now found the good in human nature. Elsewhere he has quite a
   different view, with which indeed he crowns his discussion (Q. 48, 1), and
   of which as his discussion proceeds he never loses sight. It is the view
   hinted at by Anselm, that by His voluntary suffering Christ merited
   exaltation (Q. 49, 6), that the exaltation, however, cannot be conferred
   upon Him, but passes over from Him to the Church of which He is the Head.
   [321] The fulness with which Thomas stated and repeated this thought is a
   guarantee that for him it was an extremely valuable one. It has also been
   expressed by him thus (Q. 48, Art. 2): “The head and the members are, as it
   were, one mystical person, and thus the satisfaction of Christ belongs to
   all believers, just as to His own members” (caput et membra sunt quasi una
   persona mystica, et ideo satisfactio Christi ad omnes fideles pertinet,
   sicut ad sua membra). Here, finally, the conception of the faithful
   (fideles) also (as the ecclesia) is introduced into the question about the
   effect and bearings of redemption; but only in the 1st Art. of Quest. 49 has
   Thomas come to deal more closely with faith — simply however to pass over at
   once to love: “It must be affirmed that by faith also there is applied to us
   the passion of Christ, with a view to its fruit being seen, according to the
   passage Rom. 3: ‘Whom God hath set forth as a propitiator through faith,
   etc.’ But the faith by which we are cleansed from sin is not fides informis,
   (unformed faith), which can exist even along with sin, but is fides formata
   per caritatem (faith deriving form from love), so that in this way the
   passion of Christ is applied to us, not intellectually merely, but also
   effectually.” (“Dicendum quod etiam per fidem applicatur nobis passio
   Christi ad percipiendum fructum ipsius, secundum illud Rom. 3: ‘Quem
   proposuit deus propitiatorem per fidem, etc.’ Fides autem per quam a peccato
   mundamur non est fides informis, quæ potest esse etiam cum peccato, sed est
   fides formata per caritatem, ut sic passio Christi nobis applicetur, non
   solum quantum ad intellectum, sed etiam quantum ad effectum.”)

   When we review the exposition given by Thomas, we cannot escape the
   impression created by confusion (multa, non multum, [many things, not
   much]). The wavering between the hypothetical and the necessary modes of
   view, between objective and subjective redemption, further, between the
   different points of view of redemption, and finally, between a satisfactio
   superabundans and the assertion that for the sins after baptism we have to
   supplement the work of Christ, prevents any distinct impression arising. It
   was only a natural course of development when Duns Scotus went on to reduce
   everything entirely to the relative. It is what always happens when an
   attempt is made to find a surer hold for the actual in what is assumed to be
   the metaphysically necessary; this actual presents itself in the end only as
   the possible, and so, very soon also, as the irrational. No one thought of
   the moral necessity of penalty.

   Duns Scotus draws the true logical conclusion from the theory of
   satisfaction (as distinguished from the idea of vicarious penal suffering),
   by tracing everything to the “acceptatio” of God. All satisfaction and all
   merit obtain their worth from the arbitrary estimation of the receiver.
   Hence the value of Christ’s death was as high as God chose to rate it. But
   in the strict sense of the term infinity cannot at all be spoken of here ;
   for (1) sin itself is not infinite, seeing that it is committed by finite
   beings (it is, at the most, quasi infinite, when it is measured, that is to
   say, though this is not necessary, by the injury done to the infinite God);
   (2) the merit of Christ is not infinite, for He suffered in His human
   (finite) nature [322] ; (3) in no sense is an infinite merit needed, because
   God can estimate any merit as highly as He pleases; for nothing is
   meritorious in itself, because nothing is good in itself, but the sovereign
   divine will declares what it wills to be good and meritorious. And so Duns
   has not hesitated to assert that an angel, or even a purus homo who should
   have remained free from original sin and been endowed with grace, could have
   redeemed us. It is a question merely of receiving the first impulse; the
   rest every man must acquire for himself together with grace. Grace must only
   raise him, so to speak, above the point at which he is dead. Of course, Duns
   made the further effort to show the conveniens of the death of the God-man,
   and here he works out essentially the same thoughts as Thomas. But this no
   more belongs, strictly speaking, to dogmatic. For dogmatic, it is enough if
   it is proved that in virtue of His arbitrary will God has destined a
   particular number to salvation; that in virtue of the same arbitrary will He
   already determined before the creation of the world, that the election
   should be carried out through the suffering of the God-man; and that He now
   completes this plan by accepting the merit of the God-man, imparting the
   gratia prima to the elect, and then expecting the rest from their personal
   efforts. Here the reason at bottom for Christ’s having died is its having
   been prophesied (see Justin), and it was prophesied because God so decreed
   it. Everything “infinite” — which is surely the expression for what is
   divine and alone of its kind — is here cleared away; as a fact, human action
   would have been enough here, for nothing is necessary in the moral sense,
   and nowhere does there appear more than a quasi-infinity. [323] This theory,
   the product of thought on the uncontrollable, predestinating arbitrariness
   of God (and on legal righteousness), stands side by side with an explicit
   doctrine of two natures! [324] But it is quite distinctly irreligious in
   this respect, that it confines the work of Christ to the procuring of that
   “gratia prima” (primary grace), which is nothing but the creating of a kind
   of possibility, in order that man may himself take concern for the reality
   of his redemption. [325]

   By Scotus it was brought about that this doctrine also became severed from
   faith, and was entirely transformed into a dialectic problem. In this lies
   the disintegration of dogma through Scotism. The doctrine of the Trinity,
   Christology, and the doctrine of redemption, were now happily withdrawn from
   the domain of the inwardly necessary, comforting faith that saves. Thus it
   continued to be in the Nominalist school. Only in the one particular, which,
   however, was constantly brought under the category of the conveniens —
   namely, that the love of God shown in the death of Christ becomes a motive
   to reciprocal love — did there survive a meagre remnant of an inspiring
   thought. While in the fourteenth century the Scotist theory of satisfactio
   secundum acceptationem (satisfaction on the ground of acceptance) gained
   always more adherents, was here and there carried even to the point of
   blasphemy by the formalism of dialectic, and had an influence even on the
   Thomists, traces are not wanting in the fifteenth century that more serious
   reflection, dealing with the essence of the matter, had begun to return.
   This had undoubtedly a connection with the revival of Augustinianism,
   perhaps also with a renewed study of St. Bernard, and it is to be met with
   more in the practical religious, than in the systematic expositions; indeed,
   in the former the thought of Christ’s having borne the penalty of guilt in
   the interests of the righteousness of God seems never to have entirely
   disappeared. Ritschl points to Gerson. [326] “Gerson declares sin to be the
   crime of high treason, and finds God’s righteousness so great that in mercy
   He surrenders His innocent Son to penalty, evidences, in this way, the
   harmony between His righteousness and His mercy, and removes sin on
   condition that the sinner unites himself to Christ by faith, i.e., by
   obedience and imitation. [327] In the Nominalist school the same view is
   still to be met with in Gabriel Biel. [328] In the end, even John Wessel
   comes back to it.” But Ritschl is inclined to think that the idea of the
   penal value of Christ’s death, which, from the time of Athanasius, had ever
   again appeared sporadically in the Church, did not pass from Biel and Wessel
   to the Reformers. [329]

   B. The Scholastic Doctrine of the Sacraments. [330]

   The uncertainty of the Schoolmen regarding the doctrine of redemption, and
   the fact that the treatment of it could be as easily relegated by them to
   the School as the doctrines of the Trinity and of the natures in Christ, are
   explained from the circumstance, that in the doctrine of the Sacraments it
   was definitely set forth what faith in the divine grace in Christ needed. In
   the Sacraments this grace is exhibited, and in the Sacrament of the
   Eucharist particularly it is clearly and intelligibly traced back — through
   the doctrine of transubstantiation — to the in-carnation and death of
   Christ. That was enough. Those facts now form merely the presuppositions;
   faith lives in the contemplation and enjoyment of the Sacraments. But the
   Sacraments are committed to the Church, and are administered by the
   hierarchy (as servants, priests, and as judges). Thus the connection with
   Christ, which is effected only through the Sacraments, is at the same time
   mediated by the Church. Christ and the Church indeed are really made one, in
   so far as the same Church which administers the Sacraments is also, as the
   mystical body of Christ, so to speak, one mystical person with Him. This is
   the fundamental thought of Mediæval Catholicism, which was adhered to even
   by the majority of those who opposed themselves to the ruling hierarchy.

   The Schoolmen’s doctrine of the Sacraments has its root in that of
   Augustine; but it goes far beyond it (formally and materially). Above all,
   there was not merely a passing out of view in the Middle Ages of the
   connection between verbum and sacramentum, on which Augustine had laid such
   stress, but the verbum disappeared entirely behind the sacramental sign. The
   conception became still more magical, and consequently more objectionable.
   On the other hand, it cannot be denied that in its seven Sacraments
   Catholicism created a very efficient and impressive institution of an
   educational kind, the service of which, however, for the individual, did not
   consist in giving him certainty of salvation, but in training him as a
   member of the Church. And yet the mediæval doctrine of the Sacraments must
   be regarded, at least in its Thomist form, as the logical development of the
   Old Catholic fundamental view; for the definition of grace given by Thomas
   (P. III., Q. 62, Art. 1): “grace is nothing else than the communicated
   likeness of the divine nature, according to the passage II Pet. I: he hath
   given to us great and precious promises, that we may be partakers of the
   divine nature” (gratia nihil est aliud quam participata similitudo divinæ
   naturae secundum illud, II Pet. I: Magna nobis et pretiosa promissa donavit,
   ut divina simus consortes natura), allows of no other form of grace than the
   magical sacramental. Augustine’s view, which, however, does not at bottom
   contradict the one just stated, is here thrust aside, and only comes under
   consideration so far as a link with it is found in the “participata
   similitudo divine naturae” (communicated likeness of the divine nature).
   Hence the further suppression of the verbum, to which even Augustine, though
   he has the merit of having taken account of it, had not done full justice.

   A strictly developed doctrine of the Sacraments could not exist, so long as
   the number of the Sacraments was not definitely fixed. But on this point, as
   antiquity had handed down nothing certain, the greatest vacillation
   prevailed for centuries, so difficult was it to determine anything which had
   not already been determined by the tradition of ancient times. The doctrine
   of the Sacraments was accordingly developed under the disadvantage of not
   knowing for certain to what sacred acts the general conceptions were to be
   applied. Still, theology had already wrought for long with the number seven,
   before the number was officially recognised by the Church.

   The number seven developed itself in the following way: As sacred acts in a
   pre-eminent sense, there had been handed down from ecclesiastical antiquity
   only baptism and the Eucharist, but baptism included the Chrisma
   (anointing). This last could be counted separately or not. At the same time,
   there was an indefinite group of sacred acts which were enumerated quite
   variously (the reckoning of the Areopagite was not determinative). Bernard,
   e.g., speaks of many Sacraments, and himself mentions ten. [331] Even Hugo
   of St. Victor gives quite a special place to baptism and the Eucharist. Yet
   it was just he who contributed to a widening of the conception. By him,
   [332] as well as by Abelard, [333] there are reckoned as the sacramenta
   majora or spiritualia baptism, the Eucharist, confirmation, unction [334]
   and marriage. [335] How this combination arose is unknown. It continued to
   exist, however, in the school of Abelard, i.e., there was no reduction again
   made, only additions followed. Robert Pullus may have exercised an influence
   here, [336] who in his Sentences counts along with the other three
   Sacraments, not unction and marriage, but confession [337] and ordination.
   [338] From the combination of these reckonings the number seven as applied
   to the Sacraments may have arisen. [339] No doubt the sacred number also
   gave fixity to this particular enumeration. [340] It is first found in the
   Sentence Book of Alexander III., when he was still Master Roland, [341] and
   then in the Lombard. [342] The latter however represents it, not as a
   recognised tenet, but as his own view, without specially emphasising it. The
   vacillation continued to exist even in the period that followed. The decrees
   of the great Councils of 1179 and 1215 imply that there was still nothing
   fixed as to the number of the Sacraments. But the great Schoolmen of the
   thirteenth century, who followed the Lombard, all accepted seven as the
   number of the Sacraments, and although special stress was laid by them on
   baptism and particularly the Eucharist, which was described, e.g., by Thomas
   as the most potent of all the Sacraments (“potissimum inter alia sacramenta
   sacramentum,”) [343] they already made some attempt to vindicate the number
   on internal grounds. [344] For the first time at Florence (1439) was there a
   definite ecclesiastical declaration made as to seven being the number of the
   Sacraments. [345]

   The technical revision of the conception of the sacrament begins with Hugo
   of St. Victor. He sets out from the Augustinian definition: “sign of a
   sacred thing” (“visible form of invisible grace”), but it appears to him
   unsatisfactory, because too wide. He adds to it two things: first, that the
   sacrament must have a natural resemblance to the sacred thing which it
   represents; second, that it is also the vehicle of this sacred thing, and
   communicates it to the receiver of the sign. Hence (de sacram, Christ. fid.
   I. 9, 2): “A sacrament is a corporeal or material element set forth sensibly
   to view, representing by resemblance, signifying by institution, and
   containing by consecration some invisible and spiritual grace” (sacramentum
   est corporale vel materiale elementum foris sensibiliter propositum ex
   similitudine repræsentans, ex institutione significans et ex sanctificatione
   continens aliquam invisibilem et spiritalem gratiam), or (Summa tract. IV.
   1): “a sacrament is a visible form of invisible grace conveyed in it, i.e.,
   which the sacrament itself conveys, for it is not only the sign of a sacred
   thing, but also its efficacious operation” (sacramentum est visibilis forma
   invisibilis gratiæ in eo collatæ, quam scil. confert ipsum sacramentum, non
   enim est solummodo sacræ rei signum sed etiam efficacia). The sacrament has,
   further, the similitudo from nature, the significatio from institution, the
   efficacia through the consecrating word of the priest, or the first from the
   Creator, the second from Christ, [346] and the third from the dispenser (!).
   This German “Mystic” was therefore the first to give fixed form to the
   mischievous definition which so sadly externalised the sacrament and
   eliminated the word. The Augustinian distinction between the sacrament and
   the saving benefit in the sacrament (res sacramenti or res cujus sacramentum
   est) Hugo retained.

   Hugo’s definition passed over to the Lombard, and was never again set aside
   in the Church. By it the Sacraments, in the stricter sense of the term, were
   raised above the field of the “sacramentalia”: the Sacraments are not merely
   signs; they are vehicles and “causes” of sanctification. The Lombard defines
   thus (Sent. IV., Dist. 1 B): “That is properly called a sacrament which is a
   sign of the grace of God, and a form of invisible grace in such a way that
   it bears the image thereof, and exists as a cause (et causa existat).
   Sacraments, therefore, are instituted for the purpose, not merely of
   signifying, but also of sanctifying. For things that are merely instituted
   for the sake of signifying are only signs and not sacraments, as were the
   carnal sacrifices and ceremonial observances of the old law.” But, further,
   Sacraments are “;signa data” (signs given, not “natural” signs), in the
   sense, namely, that they rest on free divine institution. The Lombard
   differs, accordingly, from Hugo in his regarding as necessary, not a
   corporeal or material element, but only some kind of sign, which may
   therefore consist also in an act; and also in his not saying that the
   Sacraments contain grace, but only — with greater caution — that they effect
   it causally.

   In general, this definition of the Lombard lies at the foundation of the
   later definitions. But the more firmly it came to be held that the number of
   the Sacraments was seven, the more distinctly was the difficulty felt of
   applying the definition given to all the Sacraments individually. Hence it
   is not to be wondered at that the Nominalist theologians abstained more and
   more from giving a general definition that dealt with the essence [347] .

   Thomas begins (III., Q. 60) his statement of the doctrine of the Sacraments
   with the words: “After consideration of those things which relate to the
   mysteries of the incarnate Word, there are to be considered the Sacraments
   of the Church, which have efficacy from the incarnate Word Himself” [348] By
   these terms, the unguarded definition of Hugo is set aside. He then
   proceeds, down to Quest. 65, to state the general doctrine of the
   Sacraments. Here it is worthy of note that Thomas, going still further than
   the Lombard, modifies the cruder conception of Hugo (“continet”). Indeed, he
   will not accept, without guarding clauses, the “causa existit” of the
   Lombard. He rejects, certainly, the opinion of Bernard and others, that God
   only works “adhibitis sacramentis” (with employment of sacraments). This
   would not lead beyond an interpretation of them as signs; but he then shows
   that it can be said of the Sacraments that “in some way” (per aliquem modum)
   they “cause grace.” The “causa principalis” of grace, rather, is God, who
   works as the fire does by its warmth, that is, communicates in grace His own
   nature. The Sacraments are the “causa instrumentalis”; but this latter cause
   “does not act by virtue of its own form, but only through the impulse it
   receives from the principal agent” (non agit per virtutem suæ formæ, sed
   solum per motum quo movetur a principali agente). “Hence the effect does not
   derive its character from the instrument, but from the principal agent; as a
   couch does not derive its character from the axe, but from the design which
   is in the mind of the artificer (unde effectus non assimilatur instrumento
   sed principali agenti; sicut lectus non assimilatur securi, sed arti, quæ
   est in mente artificis). And in this way the Sacraments of the new law cause
   grace, for they are applied to men by divine appointment (ex divina
   ordinatione) for the purpose of causing grace in them (ad gratiam in eis
   causandam). . . . It is to be asserted that the causa principalis cannot
   properly be called the sign of an effect that may be hidden (effectus licet
   occulti), though the cause itself is sensible and manifest; but the causa
   instrumentalis, if it be manifest, can be called the sign of a hidden
   effect, because (eo quod) it is not only cause, but also in a certain way
   (quodammodo) effect, in so far as it is set in motion (movetur) by the
   principal agent. And according to this, the Sacraments of the new law are at
   the same time causes and signs, and hence it is that it is commonly said of
   them, that they effect what they symbolise (efficiunt quod figurant).” The
   “causæ et signa” is in the style of Old Catholic thought; but the opposition
   of a spiritual to a coarse Mysticism is quite specially apparent here. In
   the period that followed, the loosening of grace from sacrament, in the
   sense of regarding the latter as merely associated with the former, was
   carried still further, but not because a more spiritual view was advocated
   (as by Thomas), or because weight was laid on the “word,” [349] but because
   the conception of God, which indeed exercised its influence even upon
   Thomas, only in another way, allowed only of a conjunction by virtue of
   divine arbitrariness. [350] Bonaventura already had denied, both that the
   Sacraments contain grace substantially (substantialiter), and that they
   effect it causally (causaliter); God has not bound His grace to the
   Sacraments, but has appointed by decree (“ex decreto”) that it shall be
   derived “per sacramenta” from the supreme physician, Christ. In this
   direction Scotus went further. He defines the Sacrament [351] as “a sensible
   sign, which efficaciously signifies, by divine appointment, the grace of
   God, or the gracious effect of God, and is ordained for the salvation of man
   the pilgrim” (signum sensibile, gratiam dei vel effectum dei gratuitum ex
   institutione divina efficaciter significans, ordinatum ad salutem hominis
   viatoris). But the ambiguous formula, which he employs elsewhere also,
   “significans effi