What is truth

The question is on truth. First, it is asked what is truth?¹

Again (2), being and the good are convertible.¹ The true and the good, however, are not interchangeable, for some things, such as fornication, are true but not good. The true, therefore, and being are not interchangeable. And so they are not the same.

Now, as Avicenna says,¹ that which the intellect first conceives as, in a way, the most evident, and to which it reduces all its concepts, is being. Consequently, all the other conceptions of the intellect are had by additions to being. But nothing can be added to being as though it were something not included in being—in the way that a difference is added to a genus or an accident to a subject—for every reality is essentially a being. The Philosopher has shown this by proving that being cannot be a genus.² Yet, in this sense, some predicates may be said to add to being inasmuch as they express a mode of being not expressed by the term "being." This happens in two ways.

First, the mode expressed is a certain special manner of being; for there are different grades of being according to which we speak when we speak of different levels of existence, and according to these grades different things are classified. Consequently, "substance" does not add a difference to being by signifying some reality added to it, but "substance" simply expresses a special manner of existing, namely, as a being in itself. The same is true of the other classes of existents.¹

Second, some are said to add to being because the mode they express is one that is common, and consequent upon every being. This mode can be taken in two ways: first, in so far as it follows upon every being considered absolutely; second, in so far as it follows upon every being considered in relation to another. In the first, the term is used in two ways, because it expresses something in the being either affirmatively or negatively. We can, however, find nothing that can be predicated of every being affirmatively and, at the same time, absolutely, with the exception of its essence by which the being is said to be. To express this, the term "thing" is used; for, according to Avicenna, thing differs from being because being gets its name from to-be, but thing expresses the quiddity or essence of the being.¹ There is, however, a negation consequent upon every being considered absolutely: its undividedness, and this is expressed by "one." For the "one" is simply undivided being.²

If the mode of being is taken in the second way—according to the relation of one being to another—we find a twofold use. The first is based on the distinction of one being from another, and this distinctness is expressed by the word "something," which implies, as it were, "some other thing." For, just as a being is said to be "one" in so far as it is without division in itself, so it is said to be "something"¹ in so far as it is divided from others. The second division is based on the correspondence one being has with another. This is possible only if there is something which is such that it agrees with every being. Such a being is the soul, which, as is said in On the Soul, in some way is all things.² The soul, however, has both knowing and appetitive powers. "Good" expresses the correspondence of being to the appetitive power, for, and so we note in the Ethics, the good is that which all desire.³ "True" expresses the correspondence of being to the knowing power, for all knowing is produced by an assimilation of the knower to the thing known,⁴ so that assimilation is said to be the cause of knowledge. Similarly, the sense of sight knows a color by being informed with a species of the color.

The first reference of being to the intellect, therefore, consists in its agreement with the intellect. This agreement is called “the conformity of thing and intellect.”¹ In this conformity is fulfilled the formal constituent of the true, and this is what "the true" adds to being, namely, the conformity or equation of thing and intellect. As we said, the knowledge of a thing is a consequence of this conformity; therefore, it is an effect of truth, even though the fact that the thing is a being is prior to its truth. Consequently, truth or the true has been defined in three ways.

First of all, it is defined according to that which precedes truth and is the basis of truth. This is why Augustine writes: the true is that which is;¹ and Avicenna: the truth of each thing is a property of the act of being which has been established for it.² Still others say: the true is the undividedness of the act of existence from that which is.³

Truth is also defined in another way—according to that in which its intelligible determination is formally completed. Thus, Isaac writes: truth is the conformity of thing and intellect;¹ and Anselm: truth is a rectitude perceptible only by the mind.² This rectitude, of course, is said to be based on some conformity. The Philosopher says that in defining truth we say that truth is had when one affirms that to be which is, and that not to be which is not.³

The third way of defining truth is according to the effect following upon it. Thus, Hilary says that the true is that which manifests and proclaims existence.¹ And Augustine says: truth is that by which that which is, is shown;² and also: truth is that according to which we judge about inferior things is, is shown;³

First, although the persons are really distinct, the things appropriated to each person are only conceptually, and not really, distinct.

Secondly, although the persons are really distinct from each other, they are not really distinct from the essence; so, truth appropriated to the person of the Son is not distinct from the act of existence he possesses through the divine essence.

Thirdly, although being, the true, the one, and the good are more united in God than they are in created things, it does not follow from the fact that they are conceptually distinct in God that they are really distinct in created beings. This line of argument is valid only when it is applied to things which are not by their very nature one in reality, as wisdom and power, which, although one in God, are distinct in creatures. But being, the true, the one, and the good are such that by their very nature they are one in reality. Therefore, no matter where they are found, they are really one. Their unity in God, however, is more perfect than their unity in creatures.

Second, it is asked whether truth is found principally in the intellect or in things?¹

Now, the fulfillment of any motion is found in the term of the motion; and, since the term of the motion of a cognitive power is, the soul, the known must be in the knower after the manner of the knower. But the motion of an appetitive power terminates in things. For this reason the Philosopher speaks of a sort of circle formed by the acts of the soul:¹ for a thing outside the soul moves the intellect, and the thing known moves the appetite, which tends to reach the things from which the motion originally started. Since good, as mentioned previously,² expresses a relation to appetite, and true, a relation to the intellect, the Philosopher says that good and evil are in things, but true and false are in the mind.³ A thing is not called true, however, unless it conforms to an intellect. The true, therefore, is found secondarily in things and primarily in intellect.

Note, however, that a thing is referred differently to the practical intellect than it is to the speculative intellect. Since the practical intellect causes things, it is a measure of what it causes. But, since the speculative intellect is receptive in regard to things, it is, in a certain sense, moved by things and consequently measured by them. It is clear, therefore, that, as is said in the Metaphysics,¹ natural things from which our intellect gets its scientific knowledge measure our intellect. Yet these things are themselves measured by the divine intellect, in which are all created things—just as all works of art find their origin in the intellect of an artist.² The divine intellect, therefore, measures and is not measured; a natural thing both measures and is measured; but our intellect is measured, and measures only artifacts, not natural things.

A natural thing, therefore, being placed between two intellects is called true in so far as it conforms to either. It is said to be true with respect to its conformity with the divine intellect in so far as it fulfills the end to which it was ordained by the divine intellect. This is clear from the writings of Anselm¹ and Augustine,² as well as from the definition of Avicenna, previously cited: the truth of anything is a property of the act of being which has been established for it.³ With respect to its conformity with a human intellect, a thing is said to be true in so far as it is such as to cause a true estimate about itself; and a thing is said to be false if, as Aristotle says, by nature it is such that it seems to be what it is not, or seems to possess qualities which it does not possess.⁴

In a natural thing, truth is found especially in the first, rather than in the second, sense; for its reference to the divine intellect comes before its reference to a human intellect. Even if there were no human intellects, things could be said to be true because of their relation to the divine intellect. But if, by an impossible supposition, intellect did not exist and things did continue to exist, then the essentials of truth would in no way remain.

Third, it is asked whether truth is only in the intellect joining¹ and separating?²

and only secondarily in its formation of the quiddities of things or definitions, for a definition is called true or false because of a true or false combination.¹ For it may happen that a definition will be applied to something to which it does not belong, as when the definition of a circle is assigned to a triangle. Sometimes, too, the parts of a definition cannot be reconciled, as happens when one defines a thing as “an animal entirely without the power of sensing.” The judgment implied in such a definition—“some animal is incapable of sensing”—is false. Consequently, a definition is said to be true or false only because of its relation to a judgment, as a thing is said to be true because of its relation to intellect.

From our discussion, then, it is clear that the true is predicated, first of all, of joining and separating by the intellect; second, of the definitions of things in so far as they imply a true or a false judgment. Third, the true may be predicated of things in so far as they are conformed with the divine intellect or in so far as, by their very nature, they can be conformed with human intellects. Fourth, true or false may be predicated of man in so far as he chooses to express truth, or in so far as he gives a true or false impression of himself or of others by his words and actions; for truth can be predicated of words in the same way as it can be predicated of the ideas which they convey.

Fourth, it is asked whether there is only one truth by which all things are true?¹

But truth predicated of things because of their relation to the human intellect is, as it were, accidental to those things; for, supposing that the human intellect did not or could not exist, things would still remain essentially the same. But truth predicated of things because of their relation to the divine intellect is inseparably attendant on them, for they cannot exist except by reason of the divine intellect which keeps bringing them into being. Again, truth is primarily in a thing because of its relation to the divine intellect, not to the human intellect, because it is related to the divine intellect as to its cause, but to the human intellect as to its effect in the sense that the latter receives its knowledge from things. For this reason, a thing is said to be true principally because of its order to the truth of the divine intellect rather than because of its relation to the truth of a human intellect. So, if truth in its proper sense be taken as that by which all things are primarily true, then all things are true by means of one truth, the truth of the divine intellect. This is the truth which Anselm writes about.¹ But if truth in its proper sense be taken as that by which things are said to be true secondarily, then there are many truths about many true things, and even many truths in different minds about one true thing. Finally, if truth in its improper sense be taken as that by which all things are said to be true, then there are many truths for many true things, but only one truth for one true thing. Things are called true from the truth in the divine or human intellect, just as food is called healthy, not because of any inherent form, but because of the health which is in an animal. If, however, a thing is called true because of the truth in the thing, which is simply its entity conformed with intellect, then it is so called because of something inhering in it after the manner of a form, as food is said to be healthy because of a quality of its own—which is the reason for its being said to be healthy.

Reply Sed Contra 3: Our reply given immediately above will answer the argument taken from colors, for visible is properly predicated of colors, also, even though they are not seen except by means of light.

Reply Sed Contra 4–5: Our answer to the fourth argument from the nature of power and to the fifth from the nature of being is the same.

Reply Sed Contra 6: Even though things are modeled in different ways upon the divine truth, this does not keep things from being true in the proper sense of the term by a single truth—not by many truths. For that which is received in different ways in the things modeled upon the exemplar is not properly called truth with the same propriety as truth is said to be in the exemplar itself.

Reply Sed Contra 7: Although things differing specifically are not on their own part conformed with the divine intellect by one conformity, the divine intellect to which all things are conformed is one, and on its part there is one conformity with all things—even though all things are not conformed to it in the same way. The truth of all things, therefore, is one in the manner described.

Reply Sed Contra 8: Augustine is speaking of truth in our mind as it is modeled upon the divine mind as the likeness of a face is reflected in a mirror; and, as we said, there are many reflections of the first truth in our souls. Or one can say that the first truth belongs to the genus of the soul if genus be taken in a broad sense, namely, in so far as everything intelligible or incorporeal is said to belong to one genus. Genus is used in this way in the Acts of the Apostles 17:28 where we read: for we are also his offspring [ genus ].

Fifth, it is asked whether there is some truth besides the first truth eternal?¹

Proof of the minor: the world is made from nothing, that is, after nothing. Hence, before the world was, there was its non-existence. But a true proposition is formed not only about that which is, but also about that which is not; for, just as what is, is truly stated to be, so that which is not is truly stated not to be—as is clearly shown in On Interpretation.¹ Hence, before the world existed, there was that from which a true proposition could be formed.

This first truth must be one for all things. For in our intellect truth is multiplied in only two ways: first, by the multiplicity of the things known, for this results in a multiplicity of conceptions upon which there follows a multiplicity of truths in our soul; second, by the multiplicity of our ways of knowing, for even though Socrates’ running is one thing, the soul understands time along with it by joining and separating—as it is said in On the Soul.¹ Consequently, the soul knows his running as present, as past, and as future—each in a different way. Accordingly, it forms separate conceptions in which separate truths are found. In divine knowledge, however, neither of these two kinds of diversity can be found. For God does not have separate acts of knowing for separate things, but by one act he knows all, since he knows all by a single principle, that is, by his essence, as Dionysius points out, and he does not direct his act of knowing toward things one by one.² Similarly, too, his own act of knowing does not involve time, since it is measured by eternity, which abstracts from all time inasmuch as it embraces all. It remains, therefore, that there are not many truths from eternity, but one alone.

Whether created truth is immutable

Sixth, it is asked whether created truth is immutable?¹

Proof of the minor: truth according to Anselm is a certain correctness—inasmuch as the thing fulfills that which it receives in the divine mind.¹ But the fact that the proposition, “Socrates is sitting,”² signifies the sitting of Socrates comes from the divine mind, and this proposition will signify his sitting even when Socrates does not sit. Therefore, even when Socrates does not sit, truth remains in that proposition. Consequently, the truth of the proposition is not changed, even if the thing be changed.

Proof of the minor: Anselm proves that the truth of a proposition remains fixed to the extent that it fulfills that which it has received in the divine mind.¹ But each thing likewise fulfills that which it has been ordained in the divine mind to have. Therefore, the truth of each and every thing is immutable.

To clarify this point, we should note that the thing according to which there is a change is sometimes said to be changed and sometimes not. For, when it is inhering in a thing which is affected in its respect, then it is said to be changed itself—as whiteness or quantity is said to be changed when something is changed in their respect because they succeed each other in a subject. When, however, that according to which the change occurs is extrinsic, the thing itself is not changed but remains unaffected throughout the whole change. For example, a place is not said to be moved when a thing moves with respect to it. For this reason, it is said in the Physics that place is the unchangeable boundary of the container,¹ because local motion does not mean a succession of loci in regard to one located body, but a succession of many located bodies in one place. Now, there are two ways in which inhering forms are said to be changed with respect to a change of their subject; for general forms are said to be changed in one way and special forms in another. After a change, a special form does not remain the same either according to its act of existing or according to its intelligible character. For example, when a qualitative change has been made, whiteness does not remain at all. But, after a change has been made, a general form retains the same intelligible character, though not the same act of existing. For example, after a change from white to black has taken place, color, according to the general character of color, remains unchanged; but the same species of color does not remain.

It was noted previously,¹ however, that a thing is said to be true by the first truth as by an extrinsic measure; but it is said to be true by an inherent truth as by an intrinsic measure. Consequently, created things change in their participation of the first truth, yet the first truth itself, according to which they are said to be true, does not change in any way. This is what Augustine says: our minds sometimes see more, sometimes less, of truth itself; but truth itself remains, and neither increases nor decreases.² If we take truth as inherent in things, however, then truth is said to be changed inasmuch as some things are said to be changed with respect to truth.

For, as pointed out previously,¹ truth in creatures is found in two different subjects: in things themselves and in intellect. The truth of an action is included in the truth of a thing, and the truth of a proposition is included in the truth of the understanding which it signifies.² A thing, however, is said to be true by its relation to intellect, divine and human. Consequently, if the truth of a thing is considered according to its reference to the divine intellect, then, indeed, the truth of a changeable thing is changed into another truth, but not into falsity. For truth is a most general form because the true and being are interchangeable. Hence, just as, even after any change has been made, a thing nevertheless remains a being, although it is other as a result of the other form by which it has existence; so, also, a thing always remains true—but by another truth; for, no matter what form or what privation it acquires through the change, it is conformed in that respect to the divine intellect, which knows it as it is, whatever may be its state. If, however, the truth of a thing is considered in its reference to a human intellect, or conversely, then sometimes there is a change from truth into falsity, sometimes from one truth to another.

For truth is the conformity of thing and intellect;¹ and, if equal amounts are taken from things that are equal, these things remain equal, although the equality is not the same.² Hence, when intellect and thing are similarly changed, truth remains; but it is another truth. For example, when Socrates sits, what is understood is that Socrates is sitting. Afterwards, when he does not sit, what is understood is that he is not sitting. But, if something is taken from one of two equal things, and nothing from the other, or if unequal amounts are taken from each, then inequality must result; and this corresponds to falsity, just as equality corresponds to truth. Consequently, if an intellect is true, and it is not changed when a thing is changed, or vice versa, or if each is changed but not similarly, falsity results, and there will be a change from truth to falsity. For example, if, when Socrates is white, he is understood to be white, the intellect is true.³ If, however, the intellect later understands him to be black, although Socrates still is white; or if, conversely, he is still understood to be white, although he has turned black; or if, when he has turned pale, he is understood to be reddish—then there will be falsity in the intellect. Accordingly, it is clear how truth changes and how it does not.

Seventh, it is asked whether truth as applied to God is predicated personally or essentially?¹

Truth is taken metaphorically or figuratively in divine matters when we take it according to that formal character by which truth is found in created things. For in these, truth is said to exist inasmuch as a created thing imitates its source, the divine intellect. Similarly, when truth is applied to God and is said to be the highest possible imitation of its principle, this is attributed to the Son. Taken in this way, truth properly belongs to the Son and is predicated personally; and this, too, is what Augustine says.¹

Eighth, it is asked whether every other truth is from the first truth?¹

Ninth, it is asked whether truth is in sense?¹

The reason for this is that the most perfect beings, such as, for example, intellectual substances, return to their essence with a complete return: knowing something external to themselves, in a certain sense they go outside of themselves; but by knowing that they know, they are already beginning to return to themselves, because the act of cognition mediates between the knower and the thing known. That return is completed inasmuch as they know their own essences. Hence, it is said in On the Causes: a being which is such as to know its own essence returns to it by a complete return.¹ Since sense is closer to an intellectual substance than other things are, it begins to return to its essence; it not only knows the sensible, but it also knows that it senses. Its return, however, is not complete, since it does not know its own essence. Avicenna has given the reason for this by pointing out that the sense knows nothing except through a bodily organ, and a bodily organ cannot be a medium between a sensing power and itself.² But powers without any ability to sense cannot return to themselves in any way, for they do not know that they are acting. For example, fire does not know that it is heating.

From this the solutions to the difficulties are clear.

Tenth, it is asked whether there is any false thing?¹

In its relation to a human intellect, however, an inequality of thing with intellect, caused in some way by the thing, is occasionally found; for a thing makes itself known in the soul by its exterior appearance, since our cognition takes its beginning from sense,¹ whose direct object is sensible qualities.² For this reason it is said in On the Soul: accidents greatly contribute to our knowledge of the quiddity.³ Consequently, when there are manifested in any object sensible qualities indicating a nature which does not actually underlie them, that thing is said to be false. Hence, the Philosopher says that those things are called false which are such as to seem to be what they are not, or of a kind which they are not.⁴ For example, that is called “false” gold which has in its external appearance the color and other accidents of genuine gold, whereas the nature of gold does not interiorly underlie them. But a thing is not to be the cause of falsity in the soul in the sense that it necessarily causes falsity; for truth and falsity exist principally in the soul’s judgment; and the soul, inasmuch as it judges about things, is not acted upon by things, but rather, in a sense, acts upon them. Hence, a thing is not said to be false because it always of itself causes a false apprehension, but rather because its natural appearance is likely to cause a false apprehension.

As was pointed out previously,¹ however, the relation to the divine intellect is essential to a thing; and in this respect a thing is said to be true in itself. Its relation to the human intellect is accidental to it; and in this respect a thing is not true, absolutely speaking but, as it were, in some respect and in potency. Therefore, all things are true absolutely speaking, and nothing is false. But in a certain respect, that is, with reference to our intellect, some things are said to be false. Hence, it is necessary to answer the arguments of both sides.

Eleventh, it is asked whether falsity is in sense?¹

Furthermore (3), the answer was given that sense is not deceived with regard to proper sensibles, but only with regard to common sensibles.¹

Hence, if we speak of a sense in the first meaning, in a way there is falsity in sense, and in a way there is not. For sense, in itself, is a thing; and it also passes judgment on other things. If, in its relation to the intellect, it is considered as a thing, then there is no falsity in sense; for a sense reveals its state to the intellect exactly as it is affected. Hence, Augustine says, in the passage referred to: the senses can report to the mind only how they are affected.¹

On the other hand, if sense is considered in its relation to the intellect as representing some other thing, it may be called false in view of the fact that it sometimes represents a thing to the intellect other than it actually is. For, in that case, as we said about things,¹ it is such as to cause a false judgment in the intellect—but not necessarily, since the intellect judges on what is presented by sense just as it judges about things. Thus, in its relation to the intellect, sense always produces a true judgment in the intellect with respect to its own condition, but not always with respect to the condition of things. If sense is considered in its relation to things, however, then there are truth and falsity in sense in the manner in which these are in the intellect. For truth and falsity are found primarily and principally in the judgment of the intellect as it associates and dissociates, and in the formation of quiddities, only in their relation to the judgment following upon this formation. Hence, truth and falsity are properly said to be in sense inasmuch as it judges about sensible objects, but inasmuch as it apprehends a sensible object, there is not properly truth or falsity, except in the relation of this apprehension to the judgment, in so far as a judgment of this or that sort naturally follows upon a particular apprehension. The judgment of sense about certain things—for example, proper sensibles—takes place spontaneously. About other things, however, it takes place by means of a certain comparison, made in man by the cogitative power, a sense power, whose place in animals is taken by a spontaneous estimation. This sensitive power judges about common sensibles and accidental sensibles.² However, the spontaneous action of a thing always takes place in one way, unless by accident it is impeded intrinsically by some defect or extrinsically by some impediment. Consequently, the judgment of sense about proper sensibles is always true unless there is an impediment in the organ or in the medium; but its judgment about common or accidental sensibles is sometimes wrong. Thus, it is clear how there can be falsity in the judgment of sense. As regards the apprehension of the senses, it must be noted that there is one type of apprehensive power, for example, a proper sense, which apprehends a sensible species in the presence of a sensible thing; but there is also a second type, the imagination, for example, which apprehends a sensible species when the thing is absent. So, even though the sense always apprehends a thing as it is, unless there is an impediment in the organ or in the medium, the imagination usually apprehends a thing as it is not, since it apprehends it as present though it is absent. Consequently, the Philosopher says: imagination, not sense, is the master of falsity.³

Twelfth, it is asked whether falsity is in the intellect?¹

From this the answers to the difficulties are clear.

This question treats of knowledge. First, it is asked whether there is knowledge in God?¹

Proof of the minor: our premise is drawn from the fact mentioned in the Intelligences, namely: the first substance is light.¹ But light has active power most of all, as is shown from its diffusion and multiplication. It is, besides, highly knowable and, because of this, also makes other things known. Therefore, the first substance, God, has an active power to know and is himself also knowable.

For this reason others have asserted that, when we attribute knowledge or something of the same sort to God, we postulate nothing positive in him but merely designate him as the cause of knowledge in created things.¹ In other words, God is said to be a knower merely because he communicates knowledge to creatures. Although a partial reason for the truth of the proposition “God is a knower” may be that he causes truth, and Origen and Augustine seem to say this,² it is not the whole truth for two reasons. First, by the same reasoning we should have to predicate of God whatever he causes in creatures, and so we should have to say that he moves since he causes motion in things. This, of course, cannot be said. Second, those attributes which are predicated of both causes and effects are not said to be in the causes because of the effects. Rather, they are said to be in the effects because they are found in the causes. For example, because fire is hot, it induces heat into the air. The converse is not true. Similarly, because the nature of God is to have knowledge, he communicates knowledge to us, and not the other way about.

Still others¹ have said that knowledge and the like are attributed to God in a certain proportionate likeness, as anger, mercy, and similar passions are attributed to him. For God is said to be angry in so far as he does something similar to what an angry man does, for he punishes. In us, this is the effect of anger. Properly speaking, of course, the passion of anger cannot be in God. In the same way, they say, God is said to be a knower because his effects resemble those of a knowing agent. For example, the works of one who has scientific knowledge proceed from determined principles to determined ends, and so do the divinely originated works of nature—as is clear from the Physics.² But, according to this view, knowledge is attributed merely metaphorically to God, as are anger and other like things—an opinion contrary to the words of Dionysius and other saints.³

Consequently, one must give another answer and say that, when knowledge is attributed to God, it signifies something which is in him. The same is true of life, essence, and the like. These attributes do not differ as regards the reality which is signified, but only in our manner of understanding them. For God’s essence, life, knowledge, and whatever else of this sort that may be predicated of him are all the same; but in understanding essence, life, and so forth in his regard, our intellect has different concepts for each.

This does not mean that these concepts are false; for our intellectual conceptions are true inasmuch as they actually represent the thing known by a certain process of assimilation. Otherwise they would be false, that is, if they corresponded to nothing. Our intellect, however, cannot represent God in the same way that it represents creatures; for, when it knows a creature, it conceives a certain form which is the likeness of the thing according to its entire perfection; and in this manner defines the things understood. But since God infinitely exceeds the power of our intellect, any form we conceive cannot completely represent the divine essence, but merely has, in some small measure, an imitation of it. Similarly, extra-mental realities imitate it somewhat, but imperfectly. Hence, all different things imitate God in different ways; and, according to different forms, they represent the one simple form of God, since in his form are found perfectly united all the perfections that are found, distinct and multiple,¹ among creatures. This is like the properties of numbers, which all, in a certain sense, pre-exist in unity, and like all the individual authorities of royal officials, which are all united in the authority of the king.² If there were anything that could perfectly represent God, that thing would be unique, for it would represent him in one way and according to one form. For this reason, there is in God only one Son, who is the perfect image of the Father. Accordingly, our intellect represents the divine perfection by means of different conceptions, for each one of them is imperfect. If one were perfect, it would be the only one, just as there is only one Word in the divine intellect. There are, therefore, many conceptions in our intellect that represent the divine essence, and the divine intellect corresponds to each one of these as a thing corresponds to an imperfect image of itself. Thus, even though we have several intellectual conceptions about one thing, they are all true. Moreover, since names do not signify things without the mediation of the intellect, as is pointed out in On Interpretation, the intellect applies several names to one thing according to the different ways in which it understands it,³ or, what comes to the same thing, according to different formal aspects. To all of these, however, there corresponds something in reality.

Second, it is asked whether God knows or understands himself?¹

Proof of the minor: Augustine says: whatever understands itself comprehends itself.¹ However, only finite being can be comprehended, as Augustine clearly shows in the same passage.² Therefore, God does not understand himself.

Note, therefore, that a thing is perfect in two ways. First, it is perfect with respect to the perfection of its act of existence, which belongs to it according to its own species. But, since the specific act of existence of one thing is distinct from the specific act of existence of another, in every created thing of this kind, the perfection falls short of absolute perfection to the extent that that perfection is found in other species. Consequently, the perfection of each individual thing considered in itself is imperfect, being a part of the perfection of the entire universe, which arises from the sum total of the perfections of all individual things. In order that there might be some remedy for this imperfection, another kind of perfection is to be found in created things. It consists in this, that the perfection belonging to one thing is found in another. This is the perfection of a knower in so far as he knows; for something is known by a knower by reason of the fact that the thing known is, in some fashion, in the possession of the knower. Hence, it is said in On the Soul that the soul is, in some manner, all things,¹ since its nature is such that it can know all things. In this way it is possible for the perfection of the entire universe to exist in one thing. The ultimate perfection which the soul can attain, therefore, is, according to the philosophers,² to have delineated in it the entire order and causes of the universe. This they held to be the ultimate end of man. We, however, hold that it consists in the vision of God; for, as Gregory says: what is there that they do not see who see him who sees all things?³

Moreover, the perfection of one thing cannot be in another according to the determined act of existence which it has in the thing itself. Hence, if we wish to consider it in so far as it can be in another, we must consider it apart from those things which determine it by their very nature. Now, since forms and perfections of things are made determinate by matter, a thing is knowable in so far as it is separated from matter For this reason, the subject in which these perfections are received must be immaterial; for, if it were material, the perfection would be received in it according to a determinate act of existence. It would, accordingly, not be in the intellect in a state in which it is knowable, that is, in the way in which the perfection of one thing can be in another.

Hence, those ancient philosophers¹ erred who asserted that like is known by like,² meaning by this that the soul, which knows all things, is materially constituted of all things: its earth knows the earth, its water knows water, and so forth. They thought that the perfection of the thing known had the same determined act of existence in the knower as it had in its own nature. But the form of the thing known is not received in this way in the knower. As the Commentator remarks,³ forms are not received in the potential intellect in the same way in which they are received in first matter, for a thing must be received by a knowing intellect in an immaterial way. For this reason, we observe, a nature capable of knowing is found in things in proportion to their degree of immateriality. Plants and things inferior to plants can receive nothing in an immaterial way. Accordingly, they are entirely lacking in the power of knowing, as is clear from On the Soul.⁴ A sense, however, can receive species without matter although still under the conditions of matter;⁵ but the intellect receives its species entirely purified of such conditions. There is likewise a hierarchy among knowable things; for, as the Commentator says,⁶ material things are intelligible only because we make them intelligible; they are merely potentially intelligible and are made actually intelligible by the light of the agent intellect, just as colors are made actually visible by the light of the sun.⁷ But immaterial things are intelligible in themselves. Hence, although less known to us, they are better known in the order of nature.

Since God, being entirely free of all potentiality, is at the extreme of separation from matter, it follows that he is most knowing and most knowable. It follows, too, that the knowability of his nature is directly proportioned to the act of existence which it exercises. Finally, because God is by reason of the fact that he possesses his own nature, it follows that God knows to the extent that he possesses his nature as one most knowing. For this reason Avicenna says: he himself knows and apprehends himself because his own quiddity, being completely stripped, that is, of matter, is that of a thing perfectly identified with himself.¹

Third, it is asked whether God knows things other than himself?¹

But now we must further consider the manner by which he knows creatures. It should be understood, therefore, that, since every agent acts to the extent that it is in act,¹ that which is effected by the agent must in some way exist in the agent. This is the reason why every agent causes something similar to itself.² Now, whatever is in another is in it according to the manner of the recipient. Hence, if the active principle is material, the effect is in it somehow materially, because it is, as it were, in a material power. If the active principle is immaterial, however, its effect will also be in it immaterially. Now, as we have said earlier,³ a thing is known by another in so far as it is received immaterially by that other. Consequently, active material principles do not know their effects, because these latter do not exist in them in a manner in which they could be known; but in immaterial active principles the effects are present in a manner in which they are knowable, since they are there immaterially. Therefore, every immaterial active principle knows its own effect. This is why it is said in On the Causes: an intelligence knows what is below it in so far as it is its cause.⁴ Therefore, since God is the immaterial active principle of things, it follows that in him there is knowledge of things.

Fourth, it is asked whether God has proper and determinate knowledge of things?¹

By knowing a cause, we know the effect only inasmuch as the effect follows from the cause. Therefore, if there is some universal cause whose action is not determined to any effect except through the intermediate action of some particular cause, from the knowledge of such a common cause we will not have proper knowledge of the effect but merely a general knowledge of it. For example, the action of the sun is determined to the production of this plant through the intermediate action of a germinating force which is either in the ground or in the seed. Consequently, if the sun could know itself, it would not have a proper knowledge of this plant but only a general knowledge, unless it also knew the proper causes of the plant. Therefore, in order to have proper and perfect knowledge of any effect, the knower must have assembled in himself complete knowledge of the proper and common causes. This is also what the Philosopher says: we are said to know a thing when we know its first causes and its first principles down to its elements,¹ that is, down to its proximate causes, as the Commentator explains.² Now, we say that something is known to God inasmuch as he is its cause through his essence. In this way a thing is in him and can be known by him. Therefore, since he is the cause of all proper and common causes, through his essence he knows all proper and common causes; for there is in a thing, determining its common nature, nothing of which God is not the cause. Consequently, the reason for his knowledge of the common nature of things is the very same as the reason for his knowledge of the proper nature and proper causes of each individual thing. Dionysius gives the same explanation when he writes: if according to one cause God gives being to all existing things, then he knows all things according to that same cause³—and further on: for the cause of all, knowing itself, would be idle somewhere if it did not know those things that are from it and whose cause it is.⁴ Idle here means to fall short of causing something that is found in a thing; and it would follow that God would be idle in this sense were he ignorant of any of the realities that exist in a thing.

Thus, it is clear from what has been said that all the examples induced to show that God knows all things in himself are faulty—like that of the point,¹ which, if it could know itself, would (according to the example) know lines, and that of light, which, by knowing itself, would know colors. For not everything in a line can be reduced to a point as to its cause, nor can everything in color be reduced to light. Consequently, if a point knew itself, it would know the line only in a general way; and light would know color similarly. This is not the case with divine knowledge, as is clear from what has been said in the preceding article.²

The divine essence is the intelligible character of a thing inasmuch as that thing imitates the divine essence. No created thing, however, fully imitates the divine essence. For, if so, there would be only one such imitation, and the divine essence considered in that way would be the proper intelligible character of only one being, just as there is only one image of the Father which perfectly imitates him, and that is the Son. However, since a created thing imperfectly imitates the divine essence, it happens that different things imitate it in different ways; yet every one of them has been produced according to a likeness of the divine essence. Thus, whatever is proper to each finds in the divine essence that which it imitates. In this respect, the divine essence is the likeness of a thing, even in regard to what is proper to it. Similarly, it is the proper intelligible character of that thing, and, for the same reason, the proper character of another thing, and also of all other things. Therefore, it is the common character of all things in so far as it is the one thing which all things imitate; but it is the proper character of this or that thing inasmuch as things imitate it in different ways. In this way the divine essence causes proper knowledge of each and every thing, for it is the proper intelligible character of all.

Fifth, it is asked whether God knows singular things?¹

Proof of the minor: many things, as Augustine says, meaning despicable things, it is better not to know than to know.¹ But many singulars are worthless. Since everything which is better should always be attributed to God,² it seems that he does not know all singulars.

Proof of the minor: there are, as Boethius¹ and the Commentator say,² certain things which are difficult for us to know because of a defect in us—for example, the very things which are most knowable in themselves, immaterial substances. On the other hand, there are other things which are not known because of some defect in them—for example, those that have very little existence, such as motion, time, vacuums, and the like. Now, first matter has a very limited act of existence. Hence, God does not know matter since it is of itself unknowable.³

Therefore, we must simply admit that God knows all singulars, not only in their universal causes, but also each in its proper and singular nature. As proof of this, note that the divine knowledge which God has of things can be compared to the knowledge of an artist, since he is the cause of all things as art is the cause of all works of art. Now, an artist knows a product of his art by means of the form which he has in himself and upon which he models his product. However, he produces his work only with respect to its form—nature has prepared the matter for the works of art. Accordingly, by means of his art, an artist knows his works only under the aspect of the form. Now, every form is of itself universal; and, consequently, by means of his art, a builder knows, indeed, house in general, but not this house or that house, unless he acquires other knowledge of it through his senses. But if the artistic form produced matter as it produces form, then by its means the artist would know his work both under the aspect of its form and under that of its matter. Consequently, since matter is the principle of individuation, he would know it not only in its universal nature but also inasmuch as it is a definite singular. Therefore, since divine art produces not only the form but also the matter, it contains not only the likeness of form but also that of matter. Consequently, God knows things in regard to both their matter and their form; and, therefore, he knows not only universals but also singulars.

But a difficulty still remains. Since everything that is in something is in it according to the manner of that in which it is, and thus the likeness of a thing can be in God only immaterially, how is it that our intellect, because it receives the forms of things in an immaterial way, does not know singulars, yet God knows them? The reason for this will be clear if we consider the difference between the relation to the thing had by its likeness in our intellect and that had by its likeness in the divine intellect. For the likeness in our intellect is received from a thing in so far as the thing acts upon our intellect by previously acting upon our senses. Now, matter, because of the feebleness of its existence, for it is being only potentially, cannot be a principle of action; hence, a thing which acts upon our soul acts only through its form; consequently, the likeness of a thing which is impressed upon our sense and purified¹ by several stages until it reaches the intellect is a likeness only of the form. On the other hand, the likeness of things in the divine intellect is one which causes things; for, whether a thing has a vigorous or a feeble share in the act of being, it has this from God alone; and because each thing participates in an act of existence given by God, the likeness of each is found in him. Consequently, the immaterial likeness in God is a likeness, not only of the form, but also of the matter. Now, in order that a thing be known, its likeness must be in the knower, though it need not be in him in the same manner as it is in reality. Hence, our intellect does not know singulars, because the knowledge of these depends upon matter, and the likeness of matter is not in our intellect. It is not because a likeness of the singular is in our intellect in an immaterial way. The divine intellect, however, can know singulars, since it possesses a likeness of matter, although in an immaterial way.

Sixth, it is asked whether the human intellect knows singulars?¹

It happens, however, that our intellect knows the singular indirectly. For, as the Philosopher says,¹ phantasms are related to our intellect as sensible objects are related to sense and as colors outside the soul are related to sight.² Therefore, just as the species in the sense is abstracted from things themselves and by its means the cognition of the sense is extended to the sensible things themselves, so also our intellect abstracts the species from the phantasms, and, by means of this species, its cognition is extended, in a certain sense, to the phantasms.

There is, however, this difference: the likeness in sense is abstracted from the thing as from an object of knowledge, and, consequently, the thing itself is directly known by means of this likeness. The likeness in the intellect, however, is not abstracted from the phantasm as from an object of knowledge but as from a medium of knowledge after the manner in which our sense receives the likeness of a thing which is in a mirror; it is directed to it not as to a thing but rather as to a likeness of a thing. Consequently, from the species which it receives, our intellect is not applied directly to knowing the phantasm but rather the thing whose phantasm is presented. Nevertheless, by a certain reflection our intellect also returns to a knowledge of the phantasm itself when it considers the nature of its act, the nature of the species by which it knows, and, finally, the nature of that from which it has abstracted the species, namely, the phantasm. It is like the case of sight, which is brought through a likeness received from a mirror directly to a knowledge of the thing reflected, but by a sort of reflection to the image itself in the mirror. Therefore, inasmuch as our intellect, through the likeness which it receives from the phantasm, turns back upon the phantasm from which it abstracts the species, the phantasm being a particular likeness, our intellect gets some kind of knowledge of the singular because of its dynamic union with the imagination.

Seventh, it is asked whether God knows singular things now existing or not existing?¹ This inquiry is occasioned by the position of Avicenna mentioned above.² We wish to inquire whether God knows propositions, especially about singulars.

In this respect, however, the divine intellect differs from ours. In order to know a subject and an accident and to know different accidents, our intellect forms separate concepts, and, consequently, passes from knowledge of a substance to knowledge of one of its accident. Again, in order to know the inherence of one of its accidents, it joins one species with the other, and, in a certain manner, unites them. In this way, the intellect forms propositions in itself. But by one reality, namely, its own essence, the divine intellect knows all substances and all accidents. Consequently, it neither passes from substance to accident nor joins one with the other; but instead of the joining of species which takes place in our intellect, there is, in the divine intellect, complete unity; because of this, God, without complexity, knows what is complex, just as he knows many things simply and with unity, and material things immaterially.¹

Eight, it is asked whether God knows non-beings and things which are not, have not been, and will not be?¹

We must remark, however, that an artist has two kinds of knowledge about something that can be made: speculative and practical. He has speculative or theoretical knowledge when he knows the intimate nature of a work but does not have the intention of applying the principles to the production of the work. His knowledge is practical, properly speaking, when by his intention he ordains the principles of the work to operation as an end. In this way, as Avicenna says, medicine is divided into theoretical and practical.¹ It is clear that the practical knowledge of an artist follows his speculative knowledge,² since it is made practical by applying the speculative to a work.³ But when the practical is absent, the speculative remains. Evidently, then, an artist can have knowledge of some work which he sometimes sets about making and sometimes does not, as when he thinks up the form of some piece of handicraft which he does not intend to make. Moreover, the artist does not always regard this work which he does not take steps to make as something within his power; for sometimes he visualizes a type of device entirely beyond his power of making. He regards it rather in the light of his own purposes, that is, he sees that he could attain such and such an end by means of such and such a device. For, as the Philosopher says,⁴ in the order of things to be done, ends are as principles are in the order of things to be studied; hence, as conclusions are known in their principles, products of art are known in the light of their purposes.

It is clear, therefore, that God can know some non-beings. Of some he has, as it were, practical knowledge - that is, of those which are, have been, or will be; and these come forth from his knowledge as he decides. Of those which neither have been, are, nor will be—which he has decreed never to make—he has a kind of speculative knowledge. And although one can say that he sees these things as within his power, since there is nothing he cannot do, it is more appropriate to say that he sees them in his goodness, the end of all that is made by him; for he sees that there are many other ways of communicating his goodness, besides those he has already communicated to existing things, having existence, past, present, or future, because all created things cannot equal his goodness, no matter how much they seem to participate in it.

Ninth, it is asked whether God knows infinites?¹

Note, therefore, that cognition extends itself to many or to few things according to the force of the means of knowing. For example, a likeness received in the sense of sight has the same determinations as the particular conditions of the thing. Hence, it leads us to the knowledge of only one thing. But a likeness received in the intellect is freed from particular conditions; and since it is more elevated, it leads us to the knowledge of a number of things. Indeed, because one universal form, by its very nature, is such that it can be participated in by an infinite number of singulars, the intellect can in some way be said to know infinites. However, since that intellectual likeness does not lead to knowledge of a singular according to its distinctive features but only under the aspect of a common nature, our intellect, through the species which it has within it, knows infinites only potentially. But the medium by which God knows, namely, his own essence, is a likeness of the infinites capable of imitating that essence. It is a likeness not only of that which is common to them, but also of those features by which they are distinguished from one another, as is clear from what was said earlier.¹ Hence, the divine cognition has the power to know infinites. The manner in which God knows actual infinites must now be considered.

There is no reason why something cannot be infinite in one respect and finite in another. For example, a body can be infinite in length but finite in width. The same can be true of forms. For example, let us suppose some infinite body that is white. The extensive quantity of the whiteness, in so far as whiteness can be said to have quantity accidentally, will be infinite;¹ but its intensive or essential quantity will nevertheless be finite. The same is true of any other form of an infinite body; for every form received in matter is limited according to the nature of the recipient and so does not have infinite intensity. It is possible neither to know nor to traverse an infinite. Both are repugnant to the idea of infinite. Nevertheless, if something were to be moved across an infinite, not in the direction of its infinity, it could be traversed. For example, what is infinite in length but finite in width could be traversed across its width but not along its length. Similarly, if an infinite were known in the respect in which it is infinite, it could by no means be known perfectly; but, if it were known in a respect which is not that of the infinite, it could be perfectly known. For, since the character of infinity fits quantity,² as the Philosopher says, and quantity of its very nature has an order of parts, an infinite would be known by way of its infinity if it were known part by part. If our intellect had to know a white body in this manner, it would never be able to know either it or its whiteness perfectly. If, however, it knew the nature of whiteness or of corporeity which is found in an infinite body, then it would know the infinite perfectly with respect to all its parts—not, however, according to its infinity. Thus it is possible for our intellect in some manner to know an infinite continuum perfectly; but it cannot know an infinite number of things taken one by one, since it cannot know many things by means of one species. Hence, if our intellect has to consider a number of things, it has to know them one after another. Consequently, it knows discontinuous quantity only through continuous quantity. Therefore, if it were to know a multitude that is actually infinite, our intellect would be knowing an infinite according to its infinity, but that is impossible. The divine intellect, however, knows all things through one species. Hence, simultaneously and with one intuition, God has knowledge of all things. Consequently, he does not know a multitude according to the order of its parts, and he can know an infinite multitude, but not according to its infinity; for, if he were to know it according to its infinity so that he would be grasping part after part of the multitude, he would never come to its end and never know it perfectly. I simply concede, therefore, that God actually knows infinites absolutely. These infinites, however, are not equal to his intellect in the way in which he himself as known equals his intellect; for the essences of created infinites are, as it were, intensively finite as whiteness is in an infinite body. God’s essence, however, is infinite in all respects; and because of this all infinites are finite to him and can be comprehended by him.

Tenth, it is asked whether God can make infinites?¹

Some ancient philosophers¹ posited actual infinites, both essential and accidental, thinking that an infinite would necessarily be a result of what they posited as a beginning. For this reason, they also posited an infinite process of causes. The Philosopher refutes this position, however.² Others, following Aristotle, conceded that an essential infinite cannot be found either in act or in potency, because it is impossible for a thing to depend essentially upon an infinite number of things; for, if this were true, then its own act of existence would never be formally constituted. But they posited an accidental infinite, both in potency and in act. Algazel holds: there are an infinite number of human souls separated from bodies³—something which he thought followed from his view that the world is eternal. He saw no difficulty since they have no mutual dependence, and so in their multiplicity they constituted merely an accidental infinity. Others asserted that there cannot be an actual infinite, either essential or accidental. They admitted a potential infinite, which, as is taught in the Physics,⁴ consists in succession; and this is the position of the Commentator.⁵ But for either of two reasons it can happen that an actual infinite cannot exist: either because to be in act is contradictory to the infinite by the very fact that it is infinite; or because of some extrinsic reason—as being lifted up is repugnant to a lead triangle, not because it is a triangle, but because it is lead. But if an actual infinite is not contradictory to the infinite as such and can exist, as I hold, or if it cannot exist merely because of some impediment extrinsic to the notion of an infinite, then I say that God can make an actual infinite. If, however, actual existence is repugnant to the very notion of an infinite, then God cannot make one, just as, for example, he cannot make a man be an irrational animal. This would mean that two contradictories would coincide in one act of existence.⁶ However, whether or not it is intrinsically repugnant for an actual infinite to exist must be discussed elsewhere,⁷ since this question arose only incidentally. Answers, however, must be given to the difficulties on both sides.

Eleventh, it is asked whether knowledge is predicated of God and men purely equivocally?¹

Proof of the minor: in Isaiah 40:18 we read: to whom then have you likened God?—as if to say: he can resemble no one.

Consequently, it must be said that knowledge is predicated neither entirely univocally nor yet purely equivocally of God’s knowledge and ours. Instead, it is predicated analogously, or, in other words, according to a proportion. Since an agreement according to proportion can happen in two ways, two kinds of community can be noted in analogy. There is a certain agreement between things having a proportion to each other from the fact that they have a determinate distance between each other or some other relation to each other, like the proportion which the number two has to unity in as far as it is the double of unity. Again, the agreement is occasionally noted not between two things which have a proportion between them, but rather between two related proportions—for example, six has something in common with four because six is two times three, just as four is two times two. The first type of agreement is one of proportion; the second, of proportionality. We find something predicated analogously of two realities according to the first type of agreement when one of them has a relation to the other, as when being is predicated of substance and accident because of the relation which accident has to substance, or as when healthy is predicated of urine and animal because urine has some relation to the health of an animal. Sometimes, however, a thing is predicated analogously according to the second type of agreement, as when sight is predicated of bodily sight and of the intellect because understanding is in the mind as sight is in the eye.¹ In those terms predicated according to the first type of analogy, there must be some definite relation between the things having something in common analogously. Consequently, nothing can be predicated analogously of God and creature according to this type of analogy; for no creature has such a relation to God that it could determine the divine perfection. But in the other type of analogy, no definite relation is involved between the things which have something in common analogously, so there is no reason why some name cannot be predicated analogously of God and creature in this manner.

But this can happen in two ways. Sometimes the name implies something belonging to the thing primarily designated which cannot be common to God and creature even in the manner described above. This would be true, for example, of anything predicated of God metaphorically, as when God is called lion, sun, and the like,¹ because their definition includes matter which cannot be attributed to God. At other times, however, a term predicated of God and creature implies nothing in its principal meaning which would prevent our finding between a creature and God an agreement of the type described above. To this kind belong all attributes which include no defect nor depend on matter for their act of existence, for example, being, the good, and similar things.

Twelth, it is asked whether God knows singular future contingents?¹

Proof of the minor: let us suppose that God knows some singular future contingent event, such as that Socrates is sitting. Now, either it is possible that Socrates is not sitting or it is not possible.¹ If it is not possible, then it is impossible for Socrates not to sit. Hence, for Socrates to sit is necessary, although what was granted was contingent. On the other hand, if it be possible not to sit, and granted he does not, nothing inconsistent follows from this.² It would follow, however, that the knowledge of God is erroneous, and hence it would not be impossible for his knowledge to be false.

As evidence of this, it should be noted that we have certain powers and cognitive habits in which there can never be falsity; for example, sense, science, and the understanding of principles.¹ On the other hand, we have others in which there can be falsity; for example, imagination, opinion, and judgment.² Now, falsity occurs in a cognitive act because something is not in reality as it is apprehended. Hence, if there is any knowing power such that there is never any falsity in it, then the thing to be known by it never falls short of what the knower apprehends about it. Now, what is necessary cannot be prevented from happening even before it happens, in view of the fact that its causes are unchangeably ordained to its production. Hence, by means of habits that are always true, what is necessary can be known even when it will happen in the future, just as we know a coming eclipse or the rising of the sun by means of true science.³ But a contingent can be impeded before it is brought into being; for at that stage it exists only in its causes, which may be prevented from producing their effect. After a contingent has been brought into existence, however, it can no longer be prevented. Hence, such a power or habit can make about a present contingent a judgment in which falsity is never found, as sense does when it judges that Socrates is sitting when he sits. From this it is clear that a contingent can be known as future by no cognition that excludes all falsity and the possibility of falsity; and since there is no falsity or possibility of falsity in the divine knowledge, it would be impossible for God to have knowledge of future contingents if he knew them as future.

Now, something is known as future when an order of past and future stands between the event and the knowledge. This order, however, cannot be found between the divine knowledge and any contingent thing whatsoever; but the relation of the divine knowledge to anything whatsoever is like that of present to present. This may be understood by the following example. If someone were to see many people walking successively down a road during a given period of time, in each part of that time he would see as present some of those who walk past, so that in the whole period of his watching he would see as present all of those who walked past him. Yet he would not simultaneously see them all as present, because the time of his seeing is not completely simultaneous.¹ However, if all his seeing could exist at once, he would simultaneously see all the passers-by as present, even though they themselves would not all pass as simultaneously present. Therefore, since the vision of divine knowledge is measured by eternity, which is all simultaneous and yet includes the whole of time without being absent from any part of it, it follows that God sees whatever happens in time, not as future, but as present. For what is seen by God is, indeed, future to some other thing which it follows in time; to the divine vision, however, which is not in time but outside time, it is not future but present. Therefore, we see what is future as future because it is future with respect to our seeing, since our seeing is itself measured by time; but to the divine vision, which is outside of time, there is no future. For example, what one would see who is within the ranks of passers-by and sees only those who are in line ahead of him is quite different from what he would see were he outside their ranks and saw all of them simultaneously.

Therefore, the fact that our sense of sight is never deceived when it sees contingents when they are present does not prevent the contingents themselves from happening contingently. In like manner, God infallibly knows all the contingents, whether they are present, past, or future to us; for they are not future to him, but he knows that they are when they are; and the fact of his knowing them does not prevent them from happening contingently. The difficulty in this matter arises from the fact that we can describe the divine knowledge only after the manner of our own, at the same time pointing out the temporal differences. For example, if we were to describe God’s knowledge as it is, we should have to say that God knows that this is, rather than that it will be; for to him every thing is present and nothing is future. For this reason, Boethius says that his knowledge of future things is more properly called providence than foresight, since he sees them all, as it were, from a great distance, in the mirror of eternity.¹ However, it might also be called foresight because of its relation to other things in whose regard what he knows is future.

For this reason, others¹ say that this antecedent is contingent since it is composed of a necessary and a contingent; for God’s knowledge is necessary, but what is known by him is contingent, and each of these is included in the antecedent mentioned in the difficulty. For example, the following are contingent: “Socrates is a white man,” or “Socrates is an animal and he runs.” However, this argument, too, is invalid, for the truth of a proposition is not affected by the necessity and contingency of that which is affirmed materially in a proposition. The truth of a proposition is determined only by the principal composition. Hence, the same character of necessity and contingency is found in each of the following: “I think that man is an animal” and “I think that Socrates is running.” Consequently, since the principal act signified in the antecedent, “God knows Socrates is running,” is necessary, no matter how contingent the thing may be which is affirmed materially, this still does not prevent the afore-mentioned antecedent from being necessary.

Hence, others¹ simply concede that the antecedent is necessary. Yet, they add, from the fact that an antecedent is absolutely necessary, it need not follow that the consequent is absolutely necessary, unless the antecedent is the proximate cause of the consequent. If it is the remote cause, the necessity of the effect can be impeded by the contingency of the proximate cause. For example, even though the sun is a necessary cause, the flowering of a tree, its effect, is contingent; for its proximate cause, the tree’s germinating power, is not constant. This argument, however, does not seem to be sufficient; for it is not due to the nature of the cause and effect that a necessary consequence follows from a necessary antecedent, but rather to the relation that the consequent has to its antecedent. For the contrary of the consequent can by no means stand with the antecedent. And this would happen if a contingent consequent followed from a necessary antecedent. This relationship must be found in any true conditional, whether the antecedent is the effect, the proximate cause, or the remote cause. Moreover, if this relationship is not found in the conditional, the proposition is not true at all. Therefore, this conditional is also false: “if the sun moves, the tree will flower.”

Hence, the difficulty must be solved differently: the antecedent is necessary without any qualification, and the consequent is absolute necessary in the way in which it follows from the antecedent. For what is attributed to a thing in itself is quite different from what is attributed to a thing in so far as it is known. What is attributed to it in itself belongs to it according to its own manner; but what is attributed to a thing or follows upon it in so far as it is known is according to the manner of the knower. Hence, if, in the antecedent, something is signified which pertains to knowledge, the consequent must be taken according to the manner of the knower, not according to the manner of the thing known. For example, were I to say, “if I understand something, that thing is without matter,” what is understood need be immaterial only in so far as it is understood. Similarly, when I say, “if God knows something, it will be,” the consequent should not be taken according to the mode of being of the thing in itself but according to the mode of the knower. For, although a thing in itself is future, it is present according to the mode of the knower. Consequently, we should rather say, “if God knows something, it is,” than say, “it will be.” We must, therefore, judge in the same way the proposition, “if God knows something, it will be,” and this one, “if I see Socrates running, Socrates is running”; for both are necessary as long as the action is going on.

Thirteenth, it is asked whether God's knowledge changes?¹

Proof of the minor: if a knower at times knows more things, at other times fewer, his knowledge changes. Therefore, a knower who can know more or fewer things than he now knows possesses knowledge subject to change. Now, God can know more than he knows: he knows that there are, or were, or will be things made by him; however, he could make more which he is never going to make. Consequently, he could know more things than he does. Similarly, he can know fewer than he does, since he could do away with a part of what he is going to make. Therefore, his knowledge can be increased and diminished.

On the part of knowledge itself, a change takes place when knowledge which was not had previously is newly acquired or when knowledge of what was known previously is lost. Accordingly, we can speak of a generation or corruption, or of an increase or decrease, in knowledge. Such a change, however, cannot take place in God’s knowledge, since, as we have shown,¹ its object is not only beings but also non-beings, and there cannot be anything beyond being and non-being because between affirmation and negation there is no middle ground.² It is true that in a certain respect the objects of God’s knowledge are only things existing in the present, Past, or future, namely, in so far as his knowledge is ordained to the work which his will carries out. However, even if he would know something by this kind of knowledge that he did not know previously, there would be no change in his knowledge, because on its part it pertains equally to beings and non-beings. If there were any change in God, it would be in his will, which would be determining his knowledge to something to which it had not previously determined it.

This, however, could not cause any change in his will, either; for to produce its act freely belongs to the nature of the will, because, of its very nature, the will is equally able to go out to either of two opposites. For example, it can will or not will to make or not to make a thing. However, the will cannot make itself simultaneously will and not will; nor can the divine will, which is immutable, first wish something and later not wish the same thing at the same time, because then God’s will would be circumscribed by time and would not be entirely simultaneous. If we are speaking of absolute necessity, therefore, it is not necessary for him to wish what he wishes. Therefore, absolutely speaking, it is possible for him not to wish it. On the other hand, if we are speaking of the necessity following a supposition, then it is necessary that he wish it if he wishes or has wished it.¹ On this supposition, then, namely, if he wishes or has wished, it is not possible for him not to wish. Now, since a change requires two terms, it always views the final term in its relation to the first. Consequently, only this would follow, that it would be possible for his will to change if it were possible for him not to wish what he wishes, if he had previously wished. It is clear, therefore, that no change is affirmed of his knowledge or will by the fact that more or fewer things could be known by God through this kind of knowledge; for to say that he is able to know more means simply that he can by his will determine his knowledge to make more things.

On the part of the act, there are three ways a change takes place in knowledge. The first occurs when knowledge actually considers what it previously did not consider. For example, we say that a person changes who passes from habit to act. Now, this kind of change cannot be found in God’s knowledge, because he does not know habitually but only actually, since in him there is no potentiality such as there is in a habit. Change is found in a second way in the act of knowing when it considers now one thing, now another. But neither can this be found in God’s knowledge, since he sees all through the one species of his essence, and consequently looks upon all things in the same intuition. A third kind of change occurs when, in his contemplation, a person passes from one thing to another. But this, too, cannot be found in God, for discursive reasoning is a passage between two members, and there is no discursive reasoning in knowledge that sees two things if it sees both in one intuition. This is what actually takes place in the divine knowledge, since God sees all things by one intuition.

From the point of view of the manner of knowing, there can also be changes in knowledge by reason of the fact that one can now know something more clearly and perfectly than he did before. This can arise from two sources. First, it can arise from a difference in the medium by which the cognition takes place. For example, one may first know something through a probable middle term, and later through a middle term that is necessary. This, however, cannot take place in God because his essence, which for him is the medium of knowing, never changes. Secondly, it can come from the intellectual power which causes a man of greater acumen to know something more penetratingly, even through the same medium, than another man does. This, too, however, cannot take place in God, since the power by which he knows is his own essence, and this does not change. Hence, it remains that God’s knowledge does not change in any way whatsoever from the point of view of the knower.

But from the point of view of the thing known, knowledge can also change in its truth and falsity, because, if a thing is changed while the judgment of it remains the same, the judgment which was previously true is now false. This, however, cannot take place in God either, since the intuition of God’s cognition is directed to a thing as it is in its presentness, that is, in so far as it has already received this rather than that determination; and in this respect it can change no more. Even if that thing should receive another state, that state will again fall under the divine vision in the same way; hence, God’s knowledge changes in no way whatsoever.

Fourteenth, it is asked whether God's knowledge is the cause of things?¹

It should be observed, however, that knowledge as knowledge does not denote an active cause, no more than does a form as a form. Action consists, as it were, in the procession of something from the agent; but a form as a form has its act of existence by perfecting that in which it is, and by resting in that thing. Consequently, a form is not a principle of acting, except through the mediation of a power. In some cases, it is true, the form itself is the power, but not by reason of being a form. In other cases, the power is other than the substantial form of the thing. For example, the actions of bodies do not take place without the mediation of certain of their qualities. Similarly, knowledge denotes that there is something in the knower, not that something has been caused by the knower. Hence, an effect never arises from knowledge except through the mediation of the will, which, of its very nature, implies a certain influence upon what is willed. For action never proceeds from a substance without the mediation of a power, although in the case of some substances, such as God, will is identical with knowledge. In other substances, namely, all creatures, this is not the case. Similarly, effects proceed from God, the first cause of all things, through the mediation of secondary causes. Hence, between his knowledge (the cause of the thing) and the thing caused there is found a twofold medium: one on the part of God, namely, the divine will; another on the part of things themselves in regard to certain effects, namely, the medium of secondary causes through whose mediation things proceed from God’s knowledge. Moreover, every effect follows not only the condition of the first cause but also that of the intermediate cause. Hence, the things known by God proceed from his knowledge as conditioned by his will and as conditioned by secondary causes. Consequently, it is not necessary that these things follow the manner of his knowledge in all respects.

Fifteenth, it is asked whether God has knowledge of evil things?¹

Ideas are the object of our inquiry. First, it is asked whether there are ideas in God?¹

Note, however, that a thing can imitate a form in two ways. It can imitate it because of the agent’s intention, as an artist makes his painting imitate someone whose portrait he is making. It happens at times, however, that such an imitation is not intentional, but happens by chance or by accident. For example, painters frequently paint something resembling someone when they have not intended to do so. Now, what imitates a form by chance is not said to be formed according to that form, because "according to" seems to imply direction to an end. Hence, since the exemplary form or idea is that according to which a thing is formed, the exemplary form or idea should imitate something intentionally, not accidentally. We see also that a thing acts because of an end in two ways. The agent himself may determine his end—and this is true of all intellectual agents—or the end of the agent may be determined by another principal agent. For example, the flight of an arrow is toward a definite end, but this end is determined by the archer. Similarly, an operation of a nature which is for a definite end presupposes an intellect that has pre-established the end of the nature and ordered it to that end. For this reason, every work of nature is said to be a work of intelligence. Consequently, if a thing imitating something else comes into existence through an agent which has not itself determined the end, the form imitated will not have the character of an exemplar or idea merely because of what has happened. For example, we do not say that the form of the man who generates is the idea or exemplar of the man who is generated; but we use these terms only when an agent acting for an end has determined the end himself—whether the form imitated be within him or outside of him. For we say that the form of art in the artist is the plan or idea of the artistic product, and we also say that a form outside the artist is a plan if he imitates it when he makes a thing. This, therefore, seems to constitute the character of an idea: it must be a form which something imitates because of the intention of an agent who antecedently determines the end himself.

Consequently, it is clear that those who say that all things happen by chance cannot admit the existence of ideas. This opinion, however, is criticized by philosophers,¹ because things which happen by chance do not happen uniformly, but happen only in a few instances. We see, however, that the course of nature always, or at least in most cases, proceeds in an uniform manner. Similarly, those who say that all things proceed from God by a necessity of nature and not by a decision of will cannot admit ideas, because those who act impelled by the necessity of nature do not determine the end for themselves. This cannot be the case here, however, because, if a thing acts for an end but does not determine that end itself, it has its end determined for it by something else superior to it; and thus there would be a cause superior to God. This, of course, is impossible, since all those who speak of God understand him to be the first cause of beings. For these reasons, Plato affirmed the existence of ideas, avoiding the opinion of the Epicureans,² who asserted that everything happens by chance, and that of Empedocles³ and others who asserted that everything happens because of a natural necessity. This reason for affirming ideas, namely, on account of the previous planning of the works that are to be done, is suggested by Dionysius, who says: we say that exemplars in God are the intelligible characters of things that come to be, the individually pre-existing causes of subsistent beings. These, theology calls ‘predefinitions.’ They predetermine and cause godly and good inclinations in creatures. It is according to these that the super-substance predefines and produces all things.⁴ However, because an exemplary form or idea has, in some sense, the nature of an end, and because an artist receives the form by which he acts—if it is outside of him—we cannot say that the divine ideas are outside of God. They can be only within the divine mind, for it is unreasonable to say that God acts on account of an end other than himself or that he receives that which enables him to act from a source other than himself.

Second, it is asked whether there are many ideas?¹

From this the plurality of ideas can be understood. A form can exist in the intellect in two ways. First, it can exist there so as to be a principle of the act of understanding, as is the form had by a knower in so far as he understands. This is the likeness of what is understood, existing in him. Second, the form can exist in the intellect so as to be the end-term of the act of understanding. For example, by understanding an architect thinks out the form of a house; and since that form has been thought out by means of an act of understanding and is, as it were, effected by that act, it cannot be a principle of the act of understanding and thus the first means by which the understanding takes place. It is, instead, "the understood," by which the knower makes something. Nevertheless, it is the second means by which understanding takes place, because it is by means of the excogitated form that the architect understands what he is to make. Similarly, with respect to the speculative intellect, we see that the species by which the intellect is informed so that it can actually understand is the first means by which understanding takes place; and because the intellect is brought into act by means of this form, it can now operate and form quiddities of things, as well as compose and divide. Consequently, the quiddities formed in the intellect, or even the affirmative and negative propositions, are, in a sense, products of the intellect, but products of such a kind that through them the intellect arrives at the knowledge of an exterior thing. Hence, this product is, in a fashion, a second means by which understanding takes place. If, however, the intellect of an artist were to produce a work that resembled itself, then, indeed, the very intellect of the artist would be an idea, not in so far as it is an intellect, but in so far as it is understood. Now, with respect to those things made in imitation of something else, we sometimes find that they imitate their archetype perfectly. In such a case, the operative intellect when preconceiving the form of what was made, possesses as an idea the very form of the thing imitated precisely as the form of the thing imitated. At other times, however, we find that that which is made in imitation of another is not a perfect imitation. In this case, the operative intellect would not take as its idea or archetype the form of the archetype itself, absolutely and exactly as it is, but it takes it with a definite proportion varying according to the degree of closeness with which the copy imitates the original. I say, therefore, that God, who makes all things by means of his intellect, produces them all in the likeness of his own essence. Hence, his essence is the idea of things—not, indeed, his essence considered as an essence, but considered as it is known. Created things, however, do not perfectly imitate the divine essence. Consequently, his essence as the idea of things is not understood by the divine intellect unqualifiedly, but with the proportion to the divine essence had by the creature to be produced, that is, according as the creature falls short of, or imitates, the divine essence. Now, different things imitate the divine essence in different ways, each one according to its own proper manner, since each has its own act of existence, distinct from that of another. We can say, therefore, that the divine essence is the idea of each and every thing, understanding, of course, the different proportions that things have to it. Hence, since there are in things different proportions to- the divine essence, there must necessarily be many ideas. If we consider the essence alone, however, there is but one idea for all things; but if we consider the different proportions of creatures to the divine essence, then there can be said to be a plurality of ideas.

Third, it is asked whether ideas belong to speculative or only to practical knowledge?¹

God’s knowledge is related to things in these four ways. Since his knowledge causes things, he knows some things by ordaining by a decree of his will that they come into existence at a certain time. Of these things he has actual practical knowledge. Moreover, he knows other things which he never intends to make, for he knows those things which do not exist, have not existed, and never will exist, as we said in the preceding question.¹ Of these things he has actual knowledge, not actually practical knowledge, however, but merely virtually practical. Again, since he knows the things which he makes or is able to make, not only as they exist in their own act of existence, but also according to all the notes which the human intellect can find in them by analysis, he knows things that he can make even under an aspect in which they are incapable of execution. Finally, he knows certain things of which his knowledge cannot be the cause—evils, for example. Therefore, it is very true to say that there is both practical and speculative knowledge in God.

Now we must see which of the preceding ways is proper to the ideas which must be attributed to God’s knowledge. As Augustine says if we consider the proper meaning of the word itself, an idea is a form;¹ but if we consider what the thing itself is, then an idea is an intelligible character or likeness of a thing. We find, moreover, in certain forms, a double relation: one relation to that which is informed by these forms, and this is the kind of relation that knowledge has to the knower; another to that which is outside, and this is the kind of a relation that knowledge has to what is known. This latter relationship, however, is not common to all forms, as the first is. Therefore, the word form implies only the first relation. This is why a form always has the nature of a cause, for a form is, in a sense, the cause of that which it informs—whether this informing takes place by inherence, as it does in the case of intrinsic forms, or by imitation, as it does in the case of exemplary forms. But an intelligible character and a likeness also have the second relationship, which does not give them the nature of a cause. If we speak, therefore, of an idea, considering only the notion that is properly conveyed by that word, then an idea includes only that kind of knowledge according to which a thing can be made. This is knowledge that is actually practical, or merely virtually practical, which, in some way, is speculative. On the other hand, if we call an idea an intelligible character or likeness in a wide sense, then an idea can also pertain to purely speculative knowledge. Or, if we wish to speak more formally, we should say that an idea belongs to knowledge that is practical, either actually or virtually; but an intelligible character or likeness belongs to both practical and speculative knowledge.

Fourth, it is asked whether there is in God an idea of evil?¹

Fifth, it is asked whether there is in God an idea of first matter?¹

Reply Sed Contra 2:

Sixth, it is asked whether there are ideas in God of those things which do not exist, will not exist, and have not existed?¹

Seventh, it is asked whether there are in God ideas of accidents?¹

There are other accidents, however, that are not inseparable from their subject and do not depend on its principles. These are brought into existence by an operation other than that by which the subject is produced. For example, it does not follow from the fact that a man is made a man that he is a grammarian; this is the result of another operation. Now, the ideas in God of such accidents are distinct from the idea of the subject, just as the form of a picture of a house, which an artist conceives, is distinct from the form he conceives of the house itself. If we take idea in its broader sense, however, as meaning a likeness, then we can say that both types of accidents have distinct ideas in God, because he can know each one in itself distinctly. This is why the Philosopher says that,¹ with respect to their manner of being known, accidents should, like substances, have ideas; but with respect to the other reasons why Plato posited exemplars, namely, to be the causes of generation and of being, it seems that only substances have ideas.

Eighth, it is asked whether there are in God ideas of singulars?¹

This question treats the word. First, it is asked whether there can be a word, properly speaking, in God?¹

Now, because the vocal word is expressed by means of a body, such a word cannot be predicated of God except metaphorically, that is, only in the sense in which creatures or their motions, being produced by God, are said to be his word inasmuch as they are signs of the divine intellect as effects are signs of their cause.¹ For the same reason, the word which has an image of the vocal word cannot be properly predicated of God, but only metaphorically. Consequently, his ideas of things to be made are called the word of God only metaphorically. But the word of the heart—that which is actually considered by the intellect—is predicated properly of God, because it is entirely free of matter, corporeity, and all defects; and such things are properly predicated of God, for example, knowledge and the known, understanding and the understood.

Second, it is asked whether word is predicated of God essentially or only personally?¹

For the clarification of this matter, it should be noted that our intellectual word, which enables us to speak about the divine word by a kind of resemblance, is that at which our intellectual operation terminates. This is the object of understanding, which is called the conception of the intellect—whether the conception can be signified by a simple expression, as is true when the intellect forms the quiddities of things, or whether it can be signified only by a complex expression,¹ as is true when the intellect composes and divides. Now, for us every object of understanding really proceeds from something else. For example, conceptions of conclusions proceed from principles, conceptions of the quiddities of later things proceed from quiddities of things prior, or at least an actual conception proceeds from habitual knowledge. Now, this is universally true of whatever we understand, whether it be understood by its essence or by its likeness; for conception itself is an effect of the act of understanding. Consequently, when the mind understands itself, its conception is not the mind but something expressed by the mind’s act of knowledge. Hence, two things pertain to the nature of our intellectual word: it is understood, and it is expressed by an agent distinct from itself. Therefore, if word is predicated of God because of its resemblance to both of these characteristics, then the name of word implies a real procession—and not merely because of our manner of thinking. On the other hand, if it is predicated of God merely because of its resemblance to one of these characteristics, namely, that it is understood, then word as applied to God does not imply a real procession but one only according to our manner of thinking, such as "the understood" implies. This, however, would not be taking word in its proper meaning, because it is not taken in its proper meaning if something belonging to its nature is entirely left out. Consequently, if "word" is taken in its proper meaning when used of God, it can be predicated of him only personally. However, if it is taken in a broad sense, it can also be predicated essentially. Since, however, we should use words as most people use them,² as the Philosopher says, usage should be followed very carefully when it comes to the meanings of words. Moreover, since all the saints commonly use word as a personal predication, this is even a stronger reason for saying that it is predicated personally.

Reply Sed Contra 1: One could easily answer the objections proposed here if he wished to support the opposite opinion. To the difficulty drawn from the words of Augustine one could say that Augustine understands word in so far as it implies a real origin.

Third, it is asked whether Word is a proper name of the Holy Spirit?¹

Fourth, it is asked whether the Father does utter all creatures in the Word by which he utters himself?¹

Fifth, it is asked whether the name "Word" implies a relation to creatures?¹

Among relative terms, we find that some are used to signify the relations themselves, for example, the word "likeness." Others are used to signify something upon which a relation follows. For example, "knowledge" is used to signify a certain quality upon which a particular relation follows. We find this difference also in the relative names used of God, both in the names used of him as from all eternity, as well as in those used of him as from the beginning of time. For "Father" is used of him as from all eternity, and "Lord" as from the beginning of time; and each of these words is used to signify the relations themselves. But "Creator," used of God as from the beginning of time, is employed to signify a divine action upon which a certain relation follows. The same is true of "Word"; it is used to signify something absolute to which something relative is joined; for, as Augustine says, the Word is simply "begotten wisdom."¹ This, however, does not prevent Word from being a personal predication, because God begetting or God begotten is, like Father, predicated personally.

It may happen, however, that an absolute thing is able to have a relation to many other things. This is why a name that is used to signify something absolute upon which a relation follows can be spoken of as being relative to many things, and it is in this manner that "knowledge" is used. Inasmuch as it is knowledge, it is relative to what is known, but inasmuch as it is a particular accident or form, it is related to the knower. In the same way, word is related to the one who utters it and to that which is uttered by the word. In the latter relation, it can be taken in two ways: first, according as the two are interchangeable, and in this sense we speak of a word as being related to what is spoken; second, according as the word is related to a thing to which the character of being uttered belongs. And since the Father principally utters himself by begetting his Word, and, as a consequence of this, utters creatures, the Word is principally, and, as it were, essentially referred to the Father, but consequently, and, as it were, accidentally, to creatures; for it is only accidental to the Word that creatures are uttered through it.

Reply Sed Contra: The arguments supporting the opposite opinion conclude that the Word is in some way related to creatures, but not that it implies this relation essentially or, as it were, principally. In this limited sense, they must be granted.

Sixth, it is asked whether things do exist more truly in the Word or in themselves?¹

Reply Sed Contra 1: This argument proceeds from the truth of the thing, not from the truth of predication.

Seventh, it is asked whether the Word is related to those things which do not exist, will not exist, and never have existed?¹

From this our replies to the difficulties are clear.

Eighth, it is asked whether all created things are life in the Word?¹

To which attribute can God's providence be reduced

The question is on providence. First, it is asked to which attribute can God’s providence be reduced?¹

Now, the end of things to be done pre-exists in us in two ways: first, through the natural knowledge we have of man’s end. This knowledge, of course, as the Philosopher says,¹ belongs to the intellect, which is a principle of things to be done as well as of things to be studied; and, as the Philosopher also points out,² ends are principles of things to be done. The second way that these ends pre-exist in us is through our desires. Here, the ends of things to be done exist in us in our moral virtues, which influence a man to live a just, brave, or temperate life. This is, in a sense, the proximate end of things to be done. We are similarly perfected with respect to the means towards this end: our knowledge is perfected by counsel, our appetite, by choice; and in these matters we are directed by prudence. It is clear, therefore, that it belongs to prudence to dispose, in an orderly way, the means towards an end. And because this disposing of means to an end is done by prudence, it can be said to take place by a kind of reasoning process, whose first principles are ends. The very reason for the sequence described above—and found in all things to be done—is taken from ends, as is clear in the case of art products. Consequently, if one would be prudent, he must stand in the proper relation to the ends themselves, for a reasoned plan cannot exist unless the principles of reason are maintained. Hence, prudence requires not only the understanding of ends but also moral virtues by which the will is settled in a correct end. For this reason, the Philosopher says that the prudent man must be virtuous.³ Finally, this is common to all rightly ordered powers and acts of the soul: the virtue of what is first is maintained in all the rest. Consequently, in prudence, in some way, are included both the will as directed towards an end and the knowledge of the end itself.

From what has been said it is now clear how providence is related to God’s other attributes. His knowledge is related both to ends and to means toward ends, because through knowledge God knows himself and creatures. But providence pertains only to that knowledge which is concerned with means to ends and in so far as these means are ordained to ends. Consequently, in God providence includes both knowledge and will, although, taken essentially, it belongs only to knowledge, that is, to practical, not to speculative, knowledge. Providence, moreover, also includes the power of execution; hence, an act of power presupposes an act of providence, as it were, directing it, and for this reason power is not included in providence as the will is.

The Other two arguments we concede.

Second, it is asked whether the world is ruled by providence?¹

This position, however, was criticized by other philosophers¹ on the following grounds. Material and efficient causes, as such, cause only the existence of their effects. They are not sufficient to produce goodness in them so that they be aptly disposed in themselves, so that they could continue to exist, and toward others so that they could help them. Heat, for example, of its very nature and of itself can break down other things, but this breaking down is good and helpful only if it happens up to a certain point and in a certain way. Consequently, if we do not admit that there exist in nature causes other than heat and similar agents, we cannot give any reason why things happen in a good and orderly way. Moreover, whatever does not have a determinate cause happens by accident. Consequently, if the position mentioned above were true, all the harmony and usefulness found in things would be the result of chance. This was actually what Empedocles held.² He asserted that it was by accident that the parts of animals came together in this way through friendship—and this was his explanation of an animal and of a frequent occurrence! This explanation, of course, is absurd, for those things that happen by chance, happen only rarely; we know from experience, however, that harmony and usefulness are found in nature either at all times or at least for the most part. This cannot be the result of mere chance; it must be because an end is intended.

What lacks intellect or knowledge, however, cannot tend directly toward an end. It can do this only if someone else’s knowledge has established an end for it, and directs it to that end. Consequently, since natural things have no knowledge, there must be some previously existing intelligence directing them to an end, like an archer who gives a definite motion to an arrow so that it will wing its way to a determined end. Now, the hit made by the arrow is said to be the work not of the arrow alone but also of the person who shot it. Similarly, philosophers call every work of nature the work of intelligence. Consequently, the world is ruled by the providence of that intellect which gave this order to nature; and we may compare the providence by which God rules the world to the domestic foresight by which a man rules his family, or to the political foresight by which a ruler governs a city or a kingdom, and directs the acts of others to a definite end. There is no providence, however, in God with respect to himself, since whatever is in him is an end, not a means to it.

Third, it is asked whether God’s providence does extend to corruptible things?¹

It must be noted, however, that a thing is provided for in two ways: for itself, or for other things. For example, in a home, care is taken of some things on their own account, namely, those things that constitute the essential goods of a household, such as sons, possessions, and the like; and other things, such as utensils, animals, and the like are cared for so that the essential things can use them. Similarly, in the universe, the things in which the essential perfection of the universe consists are provided for on their own account, and like the universe itself, these things stay in existence. But the things that do not endure are provided for, not for their own sake, but for the sake of other things. Consequently, spiritual substances and heavenly bodies, which are perpetual both as species and as individuals, are provided for on their own account both as species and as individuals. Corruptible things, however, are perpetual only as a species; hence, these species are looked after for their own sake, but the individual members of these species are not provided for except for this reason: to keep the species in perpetual existence. If we thus understand the opinion of those who say that divine providence does not extend to corruptible things of this kind, except as they participate in the nature of a species, it need not be rejected; for this opinion is true if it is understood as referring to the providence of things by which they are provided for on their own account.

Fourth, it is asked whether the motions and actions of all bodies here below are subject to divine providence?¹

It should not be thought, however, that those acts of things here below which are outside their proper course are entirely outside the order of providence. For a thing comes under God’s providence in two ways: it can be something to which something else is ordered or it can be something that is ordered to something else. Now, as said in the Physics and in the Metaphysics,¹ in an order of means to an end, all the intermediate members are ends as well as means to an end. Consequently, whatever is rightly ordered by providence comes under providence not only as something that is referred to something else, but also as something to which another thing is referred. However, a thing which leaves the right order comes under providence only as something referred, to something else, not as something to which another thing has been referred. For example, the act of the generative powers by which a man generates another complete in his nature is directed by God to a particular thing, namely, a human form; and to the act itself something else is directed, namely, the generative power. A defective act which results occasionally in the generation of natural monstrosities is, of course, directed by God to some useful purpose; but to this defective act itself nothing else was directed. It happened merely on account of the failure of some cause. With regard to the first-named act of generation, the providence is one of approval; with regard to the second, it is one of permission. These two kinds of providence are discussed by Damascene.²

It should be noted, however, that some have restricted God’s providence to only the species of natural things,¹ and have excluded it from individuals except as they participate in a common nature. They did this because they did not admit that God knows singulars, but said that God directs the nature of a species in such a way that the resultant power of a species can bring about a certain action, and, if this should fail at times, the failure itself is directed to something useful—just as the corruption of one thing is directed to the generation of another.² They denied, however, that a particular force is directed to a particular act and that this particular failure is directed to this particular use. But since we say that God knows all particular things perfectly, we assert that all individual things, even as individuals, fall under God’s providence.

Fifth, it is asked whether human acts are ruled by providence?¹

Now, man is numbered among these creatures, because his form—that is, his soul—is a spiritual being, the root of all his human acts, and that by which even his body has a relation to immortality. Consequently, human acts come under divine providence according as men themselves have providence over their own acts; and the defects in these acts are ordained according to what belongs to these men themselves, not only according to what belongs to others. For example, when a man sins, God orders the sin to the sinner’s good, so that after his fall, upon rising again, he may be a more humble person; or it is ordered at least to a good which is brought about in him by divine justice when he is punished for his sin. The defects happening in sensible creatures, however, are directed only to what belongs to others; for example, the corruption of some particular fire is directed to the generation of some particular air. Consequently, to designate this special manner of providence which God exercises over human acts, Wisdom 12:18 says: you, with great favour, dispose of us.

Sixth, it is asked whether brute animals and their acts are subject to God’s providence?¹

Seventh, it is asked whether sinners are ruled by God’s providence?¹

Eighth, it is asked whether all material creatures are governed by God’s providence through angels?¹

Ninth, it is asked whether divine providence does dispose bodies here below by means of the celestial bodies?¹

Consequently, others (the Platonists)¹ made simple and separated forms the first principles of natural effects. These were the origin, they said, of the existence and generation and every natural property of bodies here below. This opinion also, however, is false; for, if a cause remains always the same, then the effect is always the same. Now, the forms they posited were immovable. Consequently, any generation resulting from them would always have to happen in bodies here below in a constant manner. But we see with our own eyes that what happens is quite the contrary. It is therefore necessary to say that in bodies here below the principles of generation, of corruption, and of the other motions that depend upon these do not always remain the same; but they nevertheless always remain as the first principles of generation, and thereby make continual generation possible. Moreover, they must be unchangeable in their substance, and subject only to local motion. Consequently, as a result of their approach or withdrawal, they bring about diverse and contrary motions in bodies here below. Now, the heavenly bodies are of just such a nature. Consequently, all material effects should be reduced to them as to their cause.

In this reduction, however, two errors have been made. Some have reduced the bodies here below to heavenly bodies, as though the latter were their absolute first cause, for these philosophers denied that immaterial substances exist.¹ Consequently, they said that what is prior among bodies is first among beings. This, however, is clearly false. Whatever is moved must be reduced to a first immovable principle, since nothing is moved by itself,² and one cannot keep going back into infinity. Now, even though a heavenly body does not undergo change by generation or corruption or by a motion which would alter what belongs to its substance, it is nevertheless moved locally.³ Consequently, the reduction must be made to some prior principle so that things undergoing qualitative change are traced back by a definite order to that which causes this change in other things but is not so changed itself, although it is moved locally; and then further back to that which does not change in any way at all.

Others have asserted that the heavenly bodies cause not only the motion of bodies here below but also their very beginning. For example, Avicenna says that,¹ as a result of what is common to all heavenly bodies, that is, their circular motion, there is caused the common element of bodies here below, namely, first matter; and, as a result of those things which differentiate one heavenly body from another, there is caused the difference in their forms. Thus, the heavenly bodies are media, to some extent, between God and things here below even in the line of creation. This position, however, is contrary to faith,² which teaches that the whole of nature in its first beginning was created directly by God. But that one creature should be moved by another, presupposing that natural powers of each creature are given it as a result of God’s work, is not contrary to faith. Consequently, we say that the heavenly bodies are the causes of bodies here below merely in the line of motion. Thus, these heavenly bodies are instruments in the work of governing, but not in the work of creating.

Tenth, it is asked whether human acts are governed by God’s providence through the instrumentality of celestial bodies?¹

There have been many errors regarding human acts. Some have said that human acts do not come under God’s providence and cannot be reduced to any cause other than our own providence. As Augustine says,¹ this seems to have been the position of Cicero. The position, however, is untenable; for, as proved in On the Soul,² our will is a moved mover. Consequently, its act must be reduced to some first principle that is an unmoved mover. For this reason, some have reduced all the acts of the will to the celestial bodies;³ for, since they asserted that our senses and intellect are the same, it followed that all the powers of the soul are material and, therefore, subject to the action of the heavenly bodies. The Philosopher, however, destroys this position by showing that the intellect is an immaterial power and that its action is not material.⁴ As he says in the Generation of Animals,⁵ if the actions of principles are immaterial, the principles themselves must be immaterial. Consequently, it is impossible for the actions of the will and intellect of themselves to be reduced to any material principles. Avicenna,⁶ therefore, declared that heavenly bodies were made, like man, of a soul and body, and that, just as the actions and motion of a human body are reduced to celestial bodies, so all the actions of the soul are reduced to celestial souls as to their principles. Consequently, whatever will we have is caused by the will of a celestial soul. This position is consistent with his opinion on the end of man, which he holds to be the union of the human soul with a celestial soul or intelligence.⁷ For, since the perfection of the will is its end and its good—and this is its object, just as the visible is the object of sight—then that which acts upon the will should have the nature of an end, because an efficient cause acts only in so far as it impresses its form on a recipient. Faith, however, teaches that God is the direct end of man’s life, and that we will be beatified and enjoy the vision of God.⁸ Consequently, he alone can leave an impression on our will.

Now, the order of what is moved should correspond to the order of the movers. But in our ordination to our end, with which providence is concerned, the first thing that is in us is our will; and the characters of the good and of an end primarily pertain to the will, which uses everything we have as instruments toward achieving our end. However, in a certain respect the intellect precedes the will, and is, moreover, more closely related to it than our bodily powers are. Consequently, God alone, who is the first provider in all respects, leaves his imprint on our will; the angels, who follow him in the order of causes, leave their imprint on our intellect in so far as we are enlightened, cleansed, and perfected by them, as Dionysius says.¹ But the celestial bodies, which are inferior agents, can leave their imprint only upon our sensible powers and the other powers in our organs. Of course, inasmuch as the movement of one power of the soul flows over into another, it happens that the impression made by a celestial body will, as it were, accidentally flow over into the intellect and finally into the will. Similarly, the impression made by an angel upon our intellect also accidentally flows over into our will. But the relation of the intellect and of the will to the sensitive powers is different in the following respect: the intellect is naturally moved by the sensitive apprehension in the way in which a potency is moved by an object, because, as is said in On the Soul,² the phantasm is related to the potential intellect as color is to sight. Consequently, whenever an interior sensitive power is disturbed, the intellect is necessarily also disturbed. We see, for example, that when the organ of the imagination is injured the action of the intellect is necessarily impeded. By this means, therefore, the action or influence of a celestial body can flow over into the intellect with a kind of necessity; but this influence is accidental, because what it directly influences is the body. I say necessity flows over—unless there is a contrary disposition in what is affected. But the sensitive appetite is not the natural mover of the will. Instead, the opposite is true, because, as is said in On the Soul,³ a higher appetite moves a lower as one sphere moves another. And no matter how much a lower appetite is troubled by the passion, as of anger or of concupiscence, the will need not be disturbed. Indeed, the will has the power to repel a disturbance of this kind; for, as we read in Genesis 4:7: the lust thereof shall be under thee. Consequently, no necessity is introduced into human acts by the influence of celestial bodies, either by the celestial bodies themselves or by those things which receive their influence. The celestial bodies introduce only an inclination, which the will can resist by means of an acquired or infused power.

The question concerns predestination. First, it is asked whether predestination does belong to knowledge or will?¹

On the other hand, predestination differs from providence in two respects. Providence means a general ordering to an end. Consequently, it extends to all things, rational or irrational, good or bad, that have been ordained by God to an end. Predestination, however, is concerned only with that end which is possible for a rational creature, namely, his eternal glory. Consequently, it concerns only men, and only with reference to those things that are related to salvation. Moreover, predestination differs from providence in a second respect. In any ordering to an end, two things must be considered: the ordering itself, and the outcome or result of the ordering, for not everything that is ordered to an end reaches that end. Providence, therefore, is concerned only with the ordering to the end. Consequently, by God’s providence, all men are ordained to beatitude. But predestination is also concerned with the outcome or result of this ordering, and, therefore, it is related only to those who will attain heavenly glory. Hence, providence, is related to the initial establishment of an order, and predestination is related to its outcome or result; for the fact that some attain the end that is eternal glory is not due primarily to their own power but to the help of grace given by God.

Therefore, just as we said above¹ that providence consists in an act of reason, like prudence, of which it is a part, because it belongs to reason alone to direct and to ordain, so now we say that predestination also consists in an act of reason, directing or ordering to an end. However, the willing of an end is required before there can be direction to an end, because no one directs anything to an end which he does not will. This is why the Philosopher says that a perfect prudential choice can be made only by a man of good moral character, because moral habits strengthen one’s affections for the end which prudence dictates.² Now, the one who predestines does not consider in a general way the end to which his predestination directs him; he considers it, rather, according to the relation it has to one who attains it, and such a person must be distinct in the mind of the one predestining from those persons who will not achieve this end. Consequently, predestination presupposes a love by which God wills the salvation of a person. Hence, just as a prudent man directs to an end only in so far as he is temperate or just, so God predestines only in so far as he loves. Another prerequisite of predestination is the choice by which he who is directed to the end infallibly is separated from others who are not ordained to it in the same manner. This separation, however, is not on account of any difference, found in the predestined, which could arouse God’s love; for, as we read in the Epistle to the Romans 9:11–13: when the children were not yet born nor had done any good or evil . . . it was said . . . 'Jacob I have loved, but Esau I have hated.'³ Consequently, predestination presupposes election and love, and election presupposes love. Again, two things follow upon predestination: the attainment of the end, which is glory, and the granting of help to attain this end, namely, the bestowal of the grace that pertains to the call to be among the predestined. Predestination, therefore, has two effects: grace and glory.

Reply Sed Contra 1–2–4: We concede the other arguments presented here. One might reply to the second, however, by pointing out that not everything that is found in more things is thereby a genus, for it might be predicated of them as an accident.

Second, it is asked whether foreknowledge of merits is the cause or reason for predestination?¹

Now, to discover the cause of predestination we must recall what we have said previously,¹ namely, that predestination is a certain direction to an end, and this direction is brought about by reason, moved by the will. Consequently, a thing can be the cause of predestination if it can move the will. However, a thing can move the will in two ways, first, as something due, secondly, as something not due. Now, as something due, a thing can move the will in two ways, namely, either absolutely or on the supposition of something else. The ultimate end, which is the object of the will, moves absolutely; and it moves the will in such a fashion that the will cannot turn away from it. For example, as Augustine says, no man is capable of not willing to be happy.² But that without which an end cannot be had is said to move as something due “on the supposition of something else.” If an end can be had, however, without a certain thing which contributes merely to the well-being of the end, then that thing does not move the will as something due. In this case, the will inclines to it freely; but when the will is already inclined to it freely, the will is thereby inclined to all the things without which it cannot be had, as to things that are due on the supposition of that which was first willed. For example, out of liberality a king makes a person a soldier; but, because one cannot be a soldier without a horse, on the supposition of the afore-mentioned liberality, giving the soldier a horse becomes due and necessary.

Now, the end-object of the divine will is God’s own goodness, which does not depend on anything else. God needs nothing to help him possess it. Consequently, his will is inclined first to make something freely, not something due, inasmuch as it is his goodness that is manifested in his works. But, supposing that God wishes to make something, it follows as something due from the supposition of his liberality that he make those things also without which those that he has first willed cannot be had. For example, if he wills to make a man, he must give him an intellect. But if there is anything which is not necessary for that which God wills, then that thing comes from God, not as something due, but simply as a result of his generosity.

Now, the perfection of grace and glory are goods of this kind, because nature can exist without them inasmuch as they surpass the limits of natural powers. Consequently, the fact that God wishes to give grace and glory is due simply to his generosity. The reason for his willing these things that arise simply from his generosity is the overflowing love of his will for his end-object, in which the perfection of his goodness is found. The cause of predestination, therefore, is nothing other than God’s goodness.

According to these principles, a solution can be found to the controversy that has been taking place between certain groups. Some have asserted¹ that everything comes from God’s simple pleasure, while others² say that everything which comes from God is due. Both opinions are false. The former ignores the necessary order that exists between the things God causes, and the latter asserts that everything arises from God because of a natural necessity. A middle course must therefore be chosen so that it may be laid down that those things which are first willed by God come from his simple pleasure, but those that are required for this first class of things come as something due, although on the basis of a supposition. This “debt” does not, however, make God obliged to things but only to his own will; for what is said to come from God as something due is due simply in order that his will be fulfilled.

Third, it is asked whether predestination is certain?¹

It should be known that, since predestination is a particular type of providence, not only its notion adds something to providence, but also its certitude adds something to the certitude of providence. Now, the ordering of providence is found to be certain in two respects. First, it is certain with relation to a particular thing, when God’s providence ordains things to some particular end, and they attain that end without failure. This is evident in the motions of celestial spheres and in all things in nature that act necessarily. Second, providence is certain in relation to things in general, but not in particular. For example, we see that the power of beings capable of generation and corruption sometimes falls short of the proper effects to which it has been ordered as its proper ends. Thus, the power that shapes bodies sometimes falls short of forming members completely. Yet, as we saw above when treating providence,¹ these very defects are directed by God to some end. Consequently, nothing can fail to attain the general end of providence, even though it may at times fall short of a particular end.

The ordering of predestination, however, is certain, not only with respect to its general end, but also with respect to a particular and determinate end. For one who is ordained to salvation by predestination never fails to obtain it. Moreover, the ordering of predestination is not certain with reference to a particular end in the way in which the ordering of providence is; for, in providence, the ordering is not certain with respect to a particular end unless the proximate cause necessarily produces its effect. In predestination, however, there is certitude with respect to an individual end even though the proximate cause, free choice, does not produce that effect except in a contingent manner.

Hence, it seems difficult to reconcile the infallibility of predestination with freedom of choice; for we cannot say that predestination adds nothing to the certitude of providence except the certitude of foreknowledge, because this would be to say that God orders one who is predestined to his salvation as he orders any other person, with this difference, that, in the case of the predestined, God knows he will not fail to be saved. According to this position, one predestined would not differ in ordination from one not predestined; he would differ only with respect to [God’s] foreknowledge of the outcome. Consequently, foreknowledge would be the cause of predestination, and predestination would not take place by the choice of him who predestines. This, however, is contrary to the authority of the Scriptures and the sayings of the saints.¹ Thus, the ordering of predestination has an infallible certitude of its own—over and above the certitude of foreknowledge. Nevertheless, the proximate cause of salvation, free choice, is related to predestination contingently, not necessarily. This can be considered in the following manner. We find that an ordering is infallible in regard to something in two ways. First, an individual cause necessarily brings about its own effect because of the ordering of divine providence. Secondly, a single effect may be attained only as the result of the convergence of many contingent causes individually capable of failure; but each one of these causes has been ordained by God either to bring about that effect itself if another cause should fail or to prevent that other cause from failing. We see, for example, that all the individual members of a species are corruptible. Yet, from the fact that one succeeds another, the nature of the species can be kept in existence; and this is how God keeps the species from extinction, despite the fact that the individual perishes. A similar case is had in predestination; for, even though free choice can fail with respect to salvation, God prepares so many other helps for one who is predestined that he either does not fall at all or, if he does fall, he rises again. The helps that God gives a man to enable him to gain salvation are exhortations, the support of prayer, the gift of grace, and all similar things. Consequently, if we were to consider salvation only in relation to its proximate cause, free choice, salvation would not be certain but contingent; however, in relation to the first cause, namely, predestination, salvation is certain.

Fourth, it is asked whether the number of predestined is certain?¹

In this way the aforementioned distinction can be sustained, as long as we concede, without any qualifications, that both numbers are certain as far as God is concerned. It should be noted, moreover, that the number of the predestined is certain in this respect, that it cannot be increased or diminished. The number could be increased if one who was foreknown [as lost] could be predestined; but this would be contrary to the certainty of foreknowledge or of reprobation. Again, the number could be diminished if it were possible for one who is predestined to become non-predestined; but this would be contrary to the certainty of predestination. Thus, it is clear that the certitude about the number of the predestined is made up of two certitudes, the certitude of predestination and the certitude of foreknowledge or reprobation. These two certitudes differ, however; for, as has been said,¹ the certitude of predestination is the certitude of knowledge and of direction to an end, while the certitude of foreknowledge is merely the certitude of knowledge. For God does not preordain the reprobate to sin as he ordains the predestined to merit.

Fifth, it is asked whether the predestined are certain of their predestination?¹

Sixth, it is asked whether predestination is helped by the prayers of the saints?¹

Attending only to the immutability of God’s decrees, some have declared that prayer, sacrifice, and similar actions help in no way at all. This is said to have been the opinion of the Epicureans,¹ who taught that all things happened necessarily because of the influence of celestial bodies, which they called gods.

Others said that sacrifices and prayers help to this extent, that they change the preordination made by those who have the power to determine human acts. This is said to have been the opinion of the Stoics, who taught that all things are ruled by certain spirits whom they called gods; and, even though something had been pre-established by them, according to the Stoics, such a prearrangement could be changed by placating their souls through prayers and sacrifices. Avicenna seems to have fallen into this error, too;¹ for he asserts that all human actions whose principle is the human will can be reduced to the wills of celestial souls. He thought that the heavenly bodies had souls, and, just as a heavenly body influences a human body, so, according to him, the celestial souls influence human souls. In fact, what takes place in things here below is according to the notions of these celestial souls. Consequently, he thought that sacrifices and prayers helped these souls to conceive what we wished to take place.

These theories, however, are opposed to the faith. For the first destroys freedom of choice;¹ the second, the certainty of predestination.² Consequently, we must answer the problem differently, and must say that, while God’s predestination never changes, prayers and other good works are nevertheless effective in obtaining the effect of predestination. Now, when considering any order of causes, we must consider not only the order of the first cause to the effect but also the order of the second cause to the effect and the order of the first cause to the second cause, since the second cause is ordered to an effect only through the direction of the first cause. For, as is clear from On the Causes,³ the first cause gives to the second cause the power of influencing the effect.

I say, therefore, that the effect of predestination is man’s salvation, and this comes from it as from its first cause. It can have, however, many other proximate and, as it were, instrumental causes, which are ordered by divine predestination for man’s salvation, as tools are used by a craftsman for completing a product of his craft. Consequently, the effect of God’s predestination is not only that an individual person be saved but also that he be saved by certain prayers or certain merits. Gregory also said this: what holy men effect by their prayers is predestined to be obtained by prayer.¹ Consequently, Boethius says: if we pray well, our prayers cannot be without effect.²

Reply Sed Contra 5: We concede the fifth argument.

The question is on the book of life. First, it is asked whether the book of life is a created thing?¹

We are not speaking of the book of life in these senses, however, but only in the sense that the book of life is said to be the representation of those who are to attain eternal life, and whose names, according to a comparison drawn from human affairs, are said to be written down in this book.¹ For, in a state that is wisely ruled, anyone who becomes a citizen must do so according to the ordinances of its ruler. Hence, those who are to be admitted to citizenship are enrolled as being, as it were, participants in the state. By using this enrollment, the ruler of the state is guided in rejecting persons from and in admitting them to the fellowship of the citizens subject to him. Now, the citizens who are ruled most perfectly by divine providence form the society of the Church triumphant, which is also called the City of God in Scripture. Hence, the enrollment or representation of those who are to be admitted to that society is called the "book of life." This is clear from Scripture’s manner of speaking. For example, Luke 10:20 says: rejoice in this, that your names are written in heaven, that is, in the book of life; Isaiah 4:3: everyone . . . shall be called holy . . . that is written in life in Jerusalem; and in the Epistle to the Hebrews 12:22–23 we read: but you are come . . . to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to the company of many thousands of angels, and to the church of the first-born who are written in the heavens. It is necessary, therefore, to carry out the metaphor—and say that from this enrollment the ruler of the society shall know those who are to be given life. The bestowal of life, of course, belongs to God alone. However, God is not guided by anything created, for he is a rule that is directed by nothing extrinsic to himself. Consequently, the book of life, in the sense in which we are now using it, means something uncreated.

Second, it is asked whether the book of life is predicated of God personally or essentially?¹

Third, it is asked whether the book of life can be appropriated to the Son?¹

Fourth, it is asked whether the book of life is the same as predestination?¹

Reply Sed Contra 1–2: It is not difficult to answer these arguments.

Fifth, it is asked whether the book of life is spoken of in relation to uncreated life?¹