One of the features distinguishing the work of Anselm of Canterbury is the systematic attempt to coordinate linguistic nuances with logical distinctions. At times this effort promotes subtle but provocative shifts in perspective that pass far beyond the frameworks of language and logic in their own right. Such a shift in perspective, I believe, marks Anselm's approach to a long-standing problem in Christian theology regarding the power of God. In seeking to clarify the ambiguous terminology of divine omnipotence, Anselm develops an intriguing sense of the “other side” of divine power—the susceptibilities and capacities of this world—that anticipates some of the most important philosophic tendencies of the twelfth century. It seems to me that Anselm's position in this respect has not been adequately recognized, and in this essay I would like briefly to try to situate him in that historic turn.Footnote 1
Centuries before Anselm, Christian theologians had encountered an apparent dilemma in the concept of an omnipotent God. Though God was called all-powerful, it seemed that he did not have the power to do certain things—for example, to lie, or to be deceived, or to be changed. From antiquity to the early Middle Ages, the principal Christian approach to this dilemma was to argue that such inabilities were really testimonies to divine integrity. According to this approach, if God were capable of any of these defective acts, he would be undermining the perfection of his own nature.
While specific aspects of the argument vary with changing contexts, a few selected passages from this early period can suggest its general orientation. Already in the fourth century, for example, Ambrose argues that it is impossible for God to lie or change, since this is “contrary to his nature” (naturœ ejus contrarium). Impossibility of this kind, he continues, is an attribute not of weakness, but of strength or excellence (virtutis) and majesty.Footnote 2 With Augustine the view that God's ability is conditioned only by the supreme character of his own nature acquires a noticeably interior focus—a focus on the divine will. The omnipotent one, he maintains, is not able to do only what he does not will (quod non vult). For justice, he continues,
is not able to will to do what is unjust, or wisdom to will what is foolish, or truth to will what is false…. The omnipotent God is not able (non potest) to die, is not able to change, is not able to be deceived, is not able to become wretched, is not able to be conquered. These and such conditions are absent so that he can be omnipotent…. If, therefore, he is able to be what he does not will, he is not omnipotent ….Footnote 3
By the time Peter Damian develops in the eleventh century the first detailed Christian discussion of divine omnipotence, De divina omnipotentia (composed in the 1060s), the shared sense that the limitations of God are only appropriate self-limitations acquires extensive expression. “Plainly, God is said not to be able to do something in the same way as he is said not to know it; it is certain that he is not able to do that which is evil, just as he does not know how to do it…. That which is said, therefore—that God is not able to do or to know anything evil—is not to be referred to ignorance or impossibility, but to the rectitude of his eternal will (uoluntatis perpetuae rectitudinem).”Footnote 4 From such points of view, any inability of God is strictly a function of his own propriety.
Shortly afterward, in the 1070s, Anselm examines the problem of divine omnipotence near the beginning of the Proslogion.Footnote 5 At first, his approach seems to take a conventional form, but then it takes a subtle and unprecedented turn.
The argument begins with a set of familiar questions and categories.
[1] But how are You also omnipotent if You cannot do all things? [2] Or how can You do all things if You are not able to be corrupted or to tell a lie or to make what is true be false—for example, [to make] what has already happened not to have happened—and, likewise, many [other] things? [3] Or is the “ability” to do these things not power (potentia) but lack of power (impotentia)? [4] For anyone who is able to do these things is able to do what is disadvantageous to himself (sibi non expedit) and what he ought not to do (quod non debet).Footnote 6
Up to this point in the discussion, with the indication that anyone able to do certain things would have the ability to do what is “disadvantageous” to himself and what he “ought not” to do, Anselm's account largely recalls earlier Christian efforts to attribute any inability of God to his own integrity. It should be stressed that this general argument never disappears from the passage. But as the account proceeds it increasingly acquires other conceptual and verbal nuances.
It appears that by being “able” to do what he ought not to do, “he” is not the only one with an “ability.”
[5] And the more he is able to do these things (Quœ quanto magis potest), the more powerful are adversity and perversity over him (tanto magis adversitas et perversitas possunt in illum) and the less powerful he is against them (et ipse minus contra illas). [6] Therefore, anyone who in this way is able, is able not by a power but by a lack of power (non potentia potest, sed impotentia). [7] For it is not the case that he is said to be able (dicitur posse) because he himself is able; rather, [he is said to be able] because his own lack of power causes something else to be powerful over him (quia sua impotentia facit aliud in se posse)—or [for some other reason coinciding] with some other way of speaking (even as we say many things improperly [multa improprie dicuntur]—[8] for example, when we substitute “to be” for “not to be” and substitute “to do” for “not to do” or for “to do nothing”). [9] For we often say to someone who denies that something is the case, “It's as you say [it] is,” although we would say more properly (magis proprie), “It's not, as you say it's not.” [10] Likewise, we say, “This man is sitting even as that man is [also] doing” or “This man is resting even as that man is [also] doing”—although sitting is not doing anything and resting is doing nothing. [11a] So, then, when someone is said to have the power to do or to experience what is not advantageous to himself or what he ought not [to do or to experience], by “power” a powerlessness is understood. [11b] For the more he has the [alleged] ability, the more powerful are adversity and perversity over him and the more powerless he is against them. [12] Therefore, O Lord God, You are more truly omnipotent because You are not at all powerful through powerlessness and because nothing is powerful over You (nihil potest contra te).Footnote 7
If God had the capability to act defectively, Anselm argues (beginning with sentence five), “he” would not have a genuine capability at all; he would be ceding power to something else. Insofar as God loses power, something else gains it. The syntax of the passage articulates the transaction. The fifth sentence begins as if the subject of potest were the agent of power: Quœ quanto magis potest … (“the more he is able to do these things …”). Abruptly, the “he” of potest yields to a new subject, a pair of contrary agents: … tanto magis adversitas et perversitas possunt in illum (“the more powerful are adversity and perversity over him”).Footnote 8 The sentence, which began with an apparent increase in the power of the initial subject, now ends with its actual diminution: et ipse minus contra illas (“and the less powerful he is against them”). With the dwindling of authentic power, potentia itself is displaced by impotentia in the following sentence.Footnote 9 By sentence seven, it becomes clear that this displacement is not only a philosophic matter but a linguistic one, based on what the initial agent “is said” to be able to do (dicitur posse), rather than on what he is able to do in fact. Insofar as that agent is a figure for God, presented, as it were, in a counterfactual situation, the seeming power attributed to God himself is belied by the power of an adversary (sentence seven): “his own lack of power causes something else (aliud) to be powerful over him.” By the close of the passage (sentence twelve), this purported aliud is finally reduced to nihil: “nothing is powerful over You.” But in the process of developing his argument, Anselm has distinctly turned the inquiry from the consummate realm of God to a converse realm (contrary-to-fact) on the “other side” of him. Anselm seeks in effect to look not only inside God, but outside him.
In treating divine power as a double-sided phenomenon, Anselm displays more than an inclination toward dialectic; he demonstrates what might be called the dialectical imagination. An omnipotent God has no rival in fact; in order to reveal the consequences of a divine default, Anselm has to call into effect the recipients of a supposed transfer of power. Such would-be adversaries—adversitas, perversitas, impotentia—are all privations, threatening to grasp power if Omnipotence should lose it. They are, as it were, the ulterior side of power.
Even when he is not speaking of God, Anselm pointedly senses this other side of power. For all its deficiency, this converse condition does not just shadow the exercise of a capability; it can suggest it obliquely from the opposite side. When “we say that injustice causes robbery” (iniustitia facit rapinam) or that “blindness causes a man to fall into a pit” (cœcitas facit hominem cadere in foveam), writes Anselm in his later De casu diaboli, “we should not at all understand that injustice and blindness cause something. Rather, we should understand that if justice were in the will and sight in the eye, then neither the robbery nor the fall into the pit would occur.”Footnote 10 If injustice and blindness, as Anselm maintains, are only absences displacing what should be present, the apparent agency assigned to them in the grammar needs in turn to be displaced in order to clarify proper causality. For Anselm such clarifications have an almost exegetical force, exposing below the “impropriety” of language the “very core of truth” (medullam veritatis).Footnote 11
Even the most mundane terms of capability are subject to the two sides of power. When we say that “Hector was able to be overpowered by Achilles” (Hector potuit vinci ab Achille), remarks Anselm in De veritate, the ability really lies with Achilles, even though the expression “was able” (potuit) applies to Hector.Footnote 12 Citing the Hector/Achilles example and similar instances elsewhere in Anselm's work, Desmond Paul Henry stressed about half a century ago Anselm's sense of a logical and linguistic distinction between ostensible competences and actual liabilities.Footnote 13 But while that distinction has its point, I think that the duality of Anselm's perspective involves a shift in orientation broader and deeper than the analysis of logic and language alone.
To appreciate something of that shift, it might be worthwhile to glance back for a moment at the position of Peter Damian. Though the De divina omnipotentia is frequently regarded as an extreme endorsement of the boundless power of God—including the power to restore virginity to one who has lost it, or to make it so that Rome never existedFootnote 14—especially since the work of André Cantin in the 1970s it has been realized that much of the text is actually a defense of the view that God cannot make the past not to have been.Footnote 15 The passages commonly quoted from Damian are virtually cries of defiance, emerging from his instinct that no power can be denied to God, and resisting the inexorable conclusions of his own analysis, which seemed to show that indeed God cannot do certain things. In fact, I think that where Anselm and Damian most intriguingly differ is where they seem most to agree, in those very passages where Damian too argues against God's power to annul the past.
Damian's general rationale is plausible enough. Were God to make the past not to be, he would, for example, confound being with non-being, esse with non esse, and would thus consign his work to that limbo of confusion (confusionis alternitas) which is the mark of evil.Footnote 16 For God to annul the past would contradict his own activity. The problem facing Damian is whether such a constraint is compatible with the assertion that God is “all-powerful,” and his language exposes the dilemma. “That which is said, therefore (Hoc ergo quod dicitur)—that God is not able to do or to know anything evil (Deus non posse malum aliquod uel nescire)—is not to be referred (non referendum est) to ignorance or impossibility, but to the rectitude of his eternal will (uoluntatis perpetuae rectitudinem).”Footnote 17 Unlike Anselm, Damian never quite aligns the “inability” of God with the powerlessness of that which is other than God; his formulation keeps non posse on the side of God himself. When it is said that God cannot do (non posse) evil, that which is said (Hoc … quod dicitur) is to be referred to God's own rectitude, not to impossibility.Footnote 18 Such a God is eternally right, but at the cost of not being “able” to do everything.
However subtle the difference may seem to moderns, it is a fateful one for Peter Damian. For having given substantial reasons why God cannot contradict his own activity, such as by making it so that Rome never existed, he is required to admit in effect that the demands of dialectic (artis dialecticae) and the entanglements of words (consequentiamque uerborum)Footnote 19 thereby compel the conclusion that God cannot do certain things. It is at this point that Damian is forced to go back on himself and develop the themes of God's eternal present and his independence from natural law, which lead to the provocative claims often quoted from his work. Damian hardly sees, as Anselm later suggests, that it might be possible in this case to use dialectic to God's own advantage, and thereby to show how adding the apparent “power” of defection would not supplement God's power but aggrandize all the powerlessness outside him.Footnote 20
By contrast, Anselm has a somewhat defter way of relieving God of any “incapacity.” For him, impossibility is not, as it were, the self-entrapment of a muscle-bound divinity. It is the other side of divine ability, and Anselm finesses it into the open, where it is vulnerable. Some twenty years after the Proslogion, in Cur Deus homo, Anselm explains that
when God causes (facit) something, then once it has happened it is no longer able (iam non potest) not to have happened; instead, it is henceforth always true that it has happened. Nevertheless, it is not right to say that it is impossible for God (impossibile deo) to cause what is past not to be past …. For whenever we say “God is not able,” we are not denying His ability but are signifying His insuperable ability and power. For nothing else is meant except that no thing can make Him do (nulla res potest efficere) what He is said to be unable to do…. And our reason for saying that God does something by necessity is not that there is some necessity in Him but that there is some necessity is some other thing (in alio) ….Footnote 21
For Damian, if God is considered “unable” to do certain things, it is necessary to add that this inability really refers to his rectitude. For Anselm, the very meaning of “unable” is dissected and directed to the constraint in all other things. In effect, instead of apologizing that God cannot do the impossible, Anselm argues that it is really everything else that cannot do it. The turn of perspective here is more than a logical and linguistic maneuver, and it is all the more telling because the passage at large stresses the irresistible, interior force of divine will.Footnote 22 Anselm's God, for all his comprehensive power, virtually operates in a two-sided universe.
It should be stressed that Anselm's approach to such a universe remains cautious in orientation. Since all power is conserved in God, he tends to treat the other side of power as only a realm of privation, however vividly deployed in his work. Even when divine power itself is not at stake, his view of causality is informed by this circumscribed sense of the conservation of power. When, for example, in De casu diaboli the teacher stresses that “injustice” is “nothing” (nihil) and the student indicates that nonetheless “we say” that “injustice approaches” (dicimus accedere iniustitiam), the teacher strictly responds: “Then, express yourself more properly and clearly, and ask about the departure of justice.”Footnote 23
Yet Anselm does offer tentatively a more versatile version of the other side of power, especially in the incomplete material (much of it perhaps written at a late stage of his life) now called the Philosophical Fragments.Footnote 24 In this material he explores some of the ways in which power may be exercised by agents other than the one to which an action is explicitly ascribed. It is widely recognized that this fragmentary set of texts repeatedly implies questions about the various modulations of power and possibility—from logical compatibility to inherent capacity to direct agency—that Anselm himself does not fully answer. The tensions between his arguments and the distinctions of contemporary modal logic have been extensively considered in recent years.Footnote 25 In this brief discussion of Anselm's approach to omnipotence I would like only to note the pervasive sense in the Philosophical Fragments of a world far more complex than one divided between power and privation.
A conspicuous feature of Anselm's account is the emphasis on indirect causality, such as the delegation of power to an intermediate agent that is no mere absence. A man who orders a house to be built, for example, may be said to build it, but despite the indirection of what Anselm elsewhere calls “common parlance” (usus loquendi), for Anselm the actual builder is the individual (or individuals) whom the man employs to do the work.Footnote 26 Like the oblique language used to describe the activity of the employer, his responsibility for the house is only remote; he operates not per se, but per aliud, through the activity of another. Linguistic distinctions about propriety are parallel to philosophic ones about causality.Footnote 27
In the Philosophical Fragments the principle of activity per aliud extends far beyond cases in which a cause operates through an intermediate agent, as in building a house by employing a worker or causing it to be lighted by making a window (dicitur ille facere lucidam domum qui fenestram fecit). Anselm's discussion intricately specifies six “modes” of causation, including the creation or removal of various conditions or circumstances that facilitate or obstruct the production of an effect.Footnote 28 Such mediating circumstances include the material conditions underlying an object, as in the case of a sword that has iron as a cause per se, and earth (“of which the iron is made”) as a cause per aliud (via the iron). “For every cause has other causes of itself. [This chain of causation continues] until [it reaches] the Supreme Cause of all things, viz., God ….”Footnote 29 Such fragmentary explorations of different forms of indirect causality schematically suggest the sense in which divine power operates obliquely with a range of secondary causes. In a double-sided universe of that kind, the other side of omnipotence is a realm not just of converse deficiencies, but of coordinate potentialities.
In previous work on the period immediately following Anselm, I have described in detail the philosophic and imaginative development of a two-sided universe—a universe in which divine power is conserved even while it is delegated, as direct expression is diversified in indirect language that obliquely evokes its own origin.Footnote 30 That twelfth-century development is deeply dependent upon a range of philosophic sources—from Aristotelian accounts of material potentiality to early Neoplatonic treatments of figurative discourse to Eriugenian notions of the reflexivity of divine natureFootnote 31—that are far beyond Anselm himself, and quite remote from his theological world. Yet in seeking to understand a conceptual change in a civilization, it is not enough to point to newly stimulating encounters with formative texts, translations, and thoughts. It is necessary to ask why the civilization sought those encounters in the first place and what turns of mind made it susceptible to them. It is commonly observed that there is little evidence of direct influence by Anselm on the variegated schools of twelfth-century theology, to say nothing of the more specific renaissance of natural philosophy. It nonetheless seems to me that his work critically signals the increasing sense during this period of a counterpoint between the power of God and points of reference outside him.Footnote 32 Given the practical limits of this essay, I can only glance briefly at that emerging view in the decades following Anselm, exhibited by a number of important Christian thinkers who are themselves not natural philosophers and who are associated with diverse philosophic persuasions.
The strategies that are shared by these thinkers—Peter Abelard, Hugh of St. Victor (along with the Summa sententiarum, strongly influenced by Hugh), and Peter LombardFootnote 33—are all the more significant because their general approaches are at times at odds with each other. The essential point is not just their common concern to conserve divine power, though Abelard, Hugh, and the Lombard indicate that if God could act defectively, the “ability” would be weakness: infirmitas or non posse.Footnote 34 More deeply, these thinkers all display a keen sensitivity to the ways in which the very reference points of power shift with the nuances of language. No one considers it to be “power,” maintains Abelard, that a man “is able (potest) to be overcome easily.”Footnote 35 (Anselm's Hector, who was “able” to be overpowered by Achilles, might have agreed.) Conversely, the statement that what God makes he is “not able” (non potest) to make better, indicates the author of the Summa sententiarum, requires analysis. The inability, argues the author (like Hugh of St. Victor), really lies with the world, which cannot embrace a greater good (ipsa capere non potest)—not with God, who is able to make a better world.Footnote 36 To expose the “twofold meaning of words” (duplicem verborum intelligentiam) in statements about power, urges Peter Lombard, it is necessary to unfold their wrappings (involuta). Only then is it possible to distinguish what is said of God “properly” (proprie) from what is not. In such statements “the sense is twofold” (duplex est sensus). It is true, indicates the Lombard, that God cannot make in another or better manner what he makes, if the manner of operation is referred to God's wisdom, which is supreme. But the manner could be other or better if it is referred to “the thing itself that God makes” (Si vero referatur modus ad rem ipsam quam facit Deus); to such things God can give diverse modes of existence.Footnote 37Si vero referatur modus ad rem ipsam … It is revealing that the very act of referral that Peter Damian once directed to God—that which is said is “to be referred” (Hoc ergo quod dicitur … referendum est)Footnote 38—is in effect reversed here by the Master of the Sentences, who uses it (referatur modus) to indicate the variegated capacities of the world.
For all its limitations, even this world has capabilities of its own, powers not exercised directly by God himself but in effect delegated to his creatures. God uses human beings as it were as instruments (quasi instrumentis), maintains Abelard, as a wealthy man builds a tower by the workers he employs (sicut diues aliquis turrim componere per opifices quos adhibet); accordingly, he is said to be able to accomplish all things (posse omnia efficere) as he operates either per se or through his creatures. (Significantly, whereas the example of a man indirectly building a house appears to have been used by Anselm defensively, as a cautious way to distance God from acts for which he is not directly responsible, Abelard seems more inclined to align such delegated activity with the plenitude of God himself.) Although God is not able to walk, continues Abelard, he can make it so that another walks (aliquis ambulet).Footnote 39 It can be said, maintains the author of the Summa sententiarum, that walking and other such human actions pertain to God's omnipotence (ad ejus omnipotentiam pertineant), since although God is not able to walk, he is able to make walking occur (potest facere ut ambuletur).Footnote 40 While God is not able to walk or talk and the like, writes Peter Lombard, he is able (potest) to make it so that a man can do such activities. God is able to make (potest facere) whatever he wishes to be made, either per se or by a creature, “just as by men he makes houses, and works of this kind” (sicut per homines facit domus, et hujusmodi artificia).Footnote 41 Shortly after the Lombard's Sententiae, Alan of Lille argues in an early summa that just as there are certain “possible” things that God can do (quedam possibilia potest Deus), there are certain “possible” things (like walking) that he cannot do (quedam non potest) but that his creatures can.Footnote 42 By this point, the very defense of omnipotence involves an explicit strategy of dividing the realm of power itself. Long afterward, working in the following century with an expansive array of different philosophic sources and designs, Aquinas develops his own views of both the division and the correlation: “to detract from the perfection of creatures is to detract from the perfection of divine power.”Footnote 43
Anselm could scarcely have dreamed of such a formulation, which belongs to a period in which questions about the workings of omnipotence are frequently examined less in terms of divine will than in terms of the order of possibility itself. From such a perspective, as Aquinas himself indicates, the statement that “God can do all things” (omnia) is rightly understood to mean that “God can do all things that are possible” (omnia possibilia)—that is, all things that do not contradict the logic of being.Footnote 44 Such an exploration of the conditions of possibility directs close attention to the capacities of this world, and it has far-reaching implications for late-medieval views of the contingencies of the created order.Footnote 45
But if this shift in emphasis toward the exploration of objects themselves seems like a “paradigm shift” in the assessment of divine power, it should be stressed that paradigms sometimes change not by sudden transformations but by subtle, incremental turns of mind and expression. With regard to things that are not possible, maintains Aquinas, “it is more appropriate to say that such things cannot be done, than that God cannot do them.”Footnote 46 Over a century and a half before Aquinas's statement, Anselm is maintaining that once something has happened “it is no longer able not to have happened,” but “it is not right to say that it is impossible for God to cause what is past not to be past ….”Footnote 47 By the time of Aquinas, the metaphysics underlying that shared turn of perspective have conspicuously changed, and in any case, as I have indicated, there is no simple, direct line from Anselm's theology even to the wider perspectives of the twelfth century, let alone the perspectives of the century after it. Yet Anselm's position seems to me no less momentous on that account. Situated in more than a chronological sense at the turn of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, he is in effect a figure posed between two worlds. His approach to the dialectics of divine power seems to me to mark the dividing line between the ancient or early-medieval stress on the propriety of God and the late-medieval emphasis on the correlative of his creation. It is all the more striking that a thinker celebrated for his intense concentration on the concept of God comes by the very force of his analysis to see God's power from the other side.