The works considered in this review essay trace the vicissitudes of Jesuit particularism and reflect broader changes in intellectual and cultural history over the past twenty years. Reevaluations of “scientific revolution,” “Enlightenment(s),” and “modernity” itself have provided the preconditions for the possible reframing of Jesuit “philosophical” practices (including “natural philosophy”). Five of these books treat the work of Francisco Suárez in the late-sixteenth and early-seventeenth centuries, a test-case for the problem of periodizing the “modern.” Three other works provide snapshots over the next 150 years: (1) seventeenth-century German-speaking Jesuit natural philosophers embracing experimental science; (2) a late-seventeenth-century superior general of the Society who embraced rigorism to a degree considered unacceptable by other Jesuits; and (3) in the early-eighteenth century, French Jesuit syntheses accommodating “Enlightenment” thought. Taken as a whole, these works demonstrate that, as binary oppositions between “Jesuits” and “moderns” continue to dissolve, Jesuit practices (sometimes in contrast to theories or principles) increasingly appear as accommodating, syncretizing, and hybridizing.
José Pereira, Suárez: Between Scholasticism and Modernity. Milwaukee, Wis.: Marquette University Press, 2007.
Francisco Suárez and His Legacy: The Impact of Suárezian Metaphysics and Epistemology on Modern Philosophy. Edited by Marco Sgarbi. Milano: Vita e pensiero, 2010.
John P. Doyle, Collected Studies on Francisco Suárez, S.J. (1548-1617). Edited by Victor M. Salas. Series: Ancient and Medieval Philosophy. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2010.
The Philosophy of Francisco Suárez. Edited by Benjamin Hill and Henrik Lagerlund. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2012.
Interpreting Suárez: Critical Essays. Edited by Daniel Schwartz. Cambridge (UK) and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012.
Marcus Hellyer, Catholic Physics: Jesuit Natural Philosophy in Early Modern Germany. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005.
Jean-Pascal Gay, Jesuit Civil Wars: Theology, Politics, and Government under Tirso González (1687-1705). Farnham, Surrey (UK); Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012.
Jeffrey D. Burson, The Rise and Fall of Theological Enlightenment: Jean-Martin de Prades and Ideological Polarization in Eighteenth-century France. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010.
It has been two decades since John O’Malley published The First Jesuits.1 His study served as a thoroughgoing revision of the first Jesuit generation. Against prevailing stereotypes of a “Counter-Reformation,” “Tridentine” and “Baroque” militia—the “Pope’s Marines”—O’Malley returned the Jesuits to their Renaissance Humanist origins in the first half of the sixteenth century. In this re-reading, the “rhetorical” dimension of Jesuit ministries—“to adapt what they said and did to times, circumstances, and persons”—embraced more than explicit needs of preaching, lecturing, and casuistical moral calculation. It was “a basic principle in all their ministries, even if they did not explicitly identify it as rhetorical” (O’Malley, 255).
Attention to “diversity of persons,” “variety of regions,” and contingent timeliness of means reflected a broader accommodation to audience, locality, and temporality that marked the Jesuit pastoral style—the irreducibly “rhetorical dimension” of their vision. Once in view, this approach can quickly be perceived in the Spiritual Exercises, the emphasis on experiencias in Jesuit training, in preaching, pedagogy, and mission strategy.
Somewhat fortuitously, O’Malley’s work had been immediately preceded by Stephen Toulmin’s Cosmopolis: The Hidden Agenda of Modernity (1990). As in O’Malley, a guiding principle for Toulmin—stemming in part from his earlier study of casuistry—was recovering the value of the pastoral: “In practical disciplines, questions of rational adequacy are timely not timeless, concrete not abstract, local not general, particular not universal. They are the concern of people whose work is centered in practical and pastoral activities.”2
By means of four opposed binaries—rhetoric/logic (or oral/written); particular/universal; local/general; timely/timeless—Toulmin recast the trajectory of “modernity” in three eras: (1) a pre-1650 “Renaissance” that took rhetoric as its epistemological paradigm; (2) a post-1650 “Counter-Renaissance” (i.e., an effect of the 1618-1648 Thirty Years’ War) centered on logic; and (3) a late-twentieth-century “post-modern” era that has recovered rhetoric’s privileging of the particular. In the received narrative, seventeenth-century science, born in a rational era of tranquility, superseded late-medieval vagaries and sixteenth-century skepticism. In Toulmin’s revision, the seventeenth-century rigidities of John Donne (1572-1631), Blaise Pascal (1623-1662), and Jean Racine (1639-1699) were a post-traumatic reaction, a regrettable repression of sixteenth-century flexibilities found in Erasmus (1466-1536), Montaigne (1533-1592), and Shakespeare (1564-1616).
Taken in tandem, O’Malley and Toulmin turned modernity’s received narrative on its head. While the epistemological modesty of the Renaissance Humanists was retrieved as virtuous, the seventeenth-century “quest for certainty” typified by mathematics and astronomy—Toulmin’s “hidden agenda of modernity”—was re-evaluated as a reaction to trauma.3 In contrast to “Baroque” and “Counter-Reformation” stereotypes, a Renaissance preference for the particular was seen as a marker of Jesuit identity. And yet, as the Chinese Rites, Paraguayan Reductions, Jansenist conflicts, and other heated contests leading up to the final suppression (1773) demonstrate, this identity marker encountered serious challenges over the next 250 years. This perspective raises the question: how did Jesuit thinkers, initially marked out by rhetoric, particularism, and accommodation, adapt to subsequent epistemic shifts privileging contrary values, i.e., logic, universalism, generality, and timelessness?
Francisco Suárez (1548-1617)
Francisco Suárez was born in 1548 in Granada at the far southeastern tip of the Iberian peninsula. It had been only fifty-six years since Emir Muhammad XII had finally surrendered the emirate of Granada and its Alhambra to “The Catholic Monarchs,” Ferdinand II and Isabella I (1492). After eight centuries of Muslim rule, the “Reconquista” of Al-Andalus had been completed. The 1492 Alhambra Decree forced the conversion of Jews to Catholicism under threat of expulsion or execution. In 1501, the crown rescinded provisions for Granada’s Muslims: they too were now obligated to convert or emigrate. The urban landscape in which Suárez was raised, a bricolage of Islamic, Visigothic, and ancient Roman influences, was undergoing rapid transformation: the Jewish ghetto was eliminated, mosques were destroyed or converted into churches, the new cathedral was built on the site of the city’s former main mosque.
Cultural and emotional landscapes were also in upheaval. The multi-religious, multi-lingual and multi-ethnic imperial diversity became a modern bureaucratic unitary nation-state: one monarch, one religion, one language, one people, a forcible transformation facilitated by the crown’s earlier establishment of the Spanish Inquisition in 1478. Emotionally, inhaling Granada’s air must have been terrifying: an atmosphere of fear, secrecy, neighborly betrayal and severe (frequently arbitrary) state violence. Ironically, perhaps, it is not in northern Europe’s Reformation but rather here that we should look for the origins of “religion” invented as an individual affair: in private clandestine ritual practices of Jews, Muslims, and alumbrados, hidden from the community by closed doors and draped windows.4 Like many early Jesuits—along with perhaps a third of all Spanish Christians—Suárez was of Jewish origin.5 According to one inquisitor, Suárez’s converso great-grandmother and other great-grandparents had been burned at the stake. Even before his Jesuit formation’s preference for the particular, Suárez must have been marked by this “subjective turn” to the private individual, a tacit unspoken diversity masked by external unity, along with fear, secrecy, and dissimulation. Sixteenth-century Granada was not simply one Iberian city among many. It was, rather, the epicenter of a tectonic shift from medieval Al-Andalus to modern Spain.
Beyond Iberia lay Northern Europe. Martin Luther’s 95 theses had been composed in 1517; he was declared a heretic in 1520 and excommunicated the following year. A decade later, Henry VIII’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon (aunt of the Spanish Hapsburg Emperor Charles V) was declared null and void. The following year (1534), Ignatius Loyola and his initial companions corporately pronounced their first vows; six years later, the pope approved the formation of their “Society of Jesus.” 1545 saw the opening of the Council of Trent; it would meet on and off for the next eighteen years.
Suárez was born during the council’s third year. His uncle, the brother of his mother Antonia, was a Jesuit theologian and cardinal, Francisco de Toledo (1532-1596)—a member of the Society’s second generation. (It was the grandparents of Antonia and Francisco who had gone to the Inquisition’s stake). Suárez would be eight years old when Loyola died in 1556; and fifteen years old when the Council of Trent concluded in 1563. One year later, at age sixteen, he applied to join the Society. Although initially rejected on the grounds of weak health and a lack of intellectual aptitude, he was admitted conditionally and later fully. Suárez was a member of the third generation of Jesuits: late-Renaissance, post-conciliar, and firmly located in the Reformation’s second act, the first-generation players having all passed away by 1564.6
Benjamin Schwartz, citing O’Malley, notes a key tension in the first Jesuits. The humanistic rhetorical orientation of Loyola and Xavier made them “somewhat unsympathetic to scholastic theology, which they regarded as too speculative and detached from the pastoral and more practical orientation that characterized patristic theology.”7 On the other hand, Loyola’s Constitutions for the Society included a “general exhortation to follow”—or at least “lecture on” [legetur]—Thomas Aquinas. Almost one decade later, this directive would take on added weight after Pope Pius V declared Thomas a “Doctor of the Universal Church” in 1567—four years after Trent’s conclusion and one year after assuming the papacy—and commissioned a master edition of Thomas’s works. This was published in Rome in 1570-1571 just as Pius declared Elizabeth I a heretic and released her subjects from a duty of obedience. Aquinas’s increased stature was thus one of several “Tridentine” markers retroactively attributed to Trent but not, in fact, actually considered at the council—ambiguously suspended between Renaissance and the Baroque.8
However, things were not that simple. As Marco Forlivesi shows in his illuminating chapter tracing legislation regarding Jesuit teaching of both Aquinas and Aristotle, there were fluctuations between the 1586 (trial) and 1599 (final) versions of the Ratio Studiorum regarding what degree of deference must be paid to Aquinas (Sgarbi 77-90; cf. Hill 16-17, 38-40). Curiously, the 1599 text appears not only to encourage but even mandate syncretism: “When a teacher presents opinions that are free from constraints, he must not defend one part more than the opposite part and, if possible, he must try to reconcile the different positions” (Sgarbi 81). Forlivesi observes: Suárez “frequently tries to reconcile the different authors. Instead of merely blaming Suárez’s ‘eclecticism,’ the Neothomists who opposed Suárez should have reflected on the fact that this feature precisely expresses the prescriptions of the education legislation of the Society” (Sgarbi 82). Is there not something of the Renaissance Humanist (what Benjamin Hill terms “inspired irenic synthesis”) in this Iberian bricolage, an eclecticism not foreign to Thomas himself?
Beneath this fundamental tension between a “rhetorical” approach and the admonition to read the scholastic Thomas lies an important application of the preference for the particular: the strong affinity between the early Jesuits and nominalism (or anti-essentialism), especially vis-à-vis their hallmark deployments of casuistry and variants of probabilism.9 The position was fraught with danger—not only was nominalism opposed to the extremely optimistic Aristotelian-Thomistic positions on the human mind’s capacity to know essences in themselves; it had also recently served as the underpinning of attacks on Aristotle by Luther (“I am an Ockhamist”) as well as the long-duration antecedent to sixteenth-century Pyrhonnist skepticism (as found, for example, in Montaigne).10
Keeping in mind the O’Malley-Toulmin paradigm, one of the most intriguing aspects of Suárez’s system is “the idea that we can directly and immediately know the singular within a broadly Thomistic framework,” that is, without Thomas’s agent intellect rejected by Suárez (Hill, 21; emphasis added). At least three currents intersect in this eclectic endeavor: Duns Scotus’s embrace of haecceity [“this-ness”]; Renaissance-inspired Jesuit particularism; and Thomistic essentialism. Another such bricolage can be seen in Suárez’s following Scotus in affirming the univocity of being (a precondition for the possibility of science) while simultaneously embracing analogy (so as to maintain an orthodox distinction between Creator and creatures). Not surprisingly, Suárez, like many of his fellow Jesuits, “was frequently accused of departing too often from views attributed to Thomas Aquinas.” Schwartz relates the case of Enrique Henriquez (or Enríques): initially a Jesuit and Suárez’s teacher, Enríques became a Dominican and after re-entering the Society of Jesus, he secretly denounced his former student to the Inquisition (Schwartz 4).
Finally, Suárez’s career took place beneath a great canopy of geopolitical events. In 1581, Philip II of Spain was crowned Philip I of Portugal and forcibly unified state power on the Iberian peninsula. Seeking “to appoint a distinguished theologian to the most eminent university of this new part of the realm,” Philip insisted that Suárez accept his offer. Suárez “arrived in Coimbra in 1597 to a lukewarm reception” and the question, “Why a Castilian and not a Portuguese?” The succession of Phillip III in 1598 to a bankrupt state would lead to international disaster for Spain. Shortly thereafter Elizabeth I died (1603), ending a lengthy reign punctuated throughout by military conflicts with Spain: she had assisted the Spanish Netherlands in their revolt and defeated the Spanish Armada in 1588.
Ten years later, Suárez would respond to James I who tolerated religious non-conformity even less than his predecessor Elizabeth. Suárez’s tract, Defensio fidei, attacked James’s requirement that Catholic subjects take an oath of fidelity and provided justification for popular revolt. Political authority resided in the people as derived from God; it remained inalienable even if they consented to transfer it temporarily to a sovereign (Hill 18-19). Published just as the century of Baroque (or “Counter-Renaissance”) absolutism was getting underway, Suárez’s undercutting of divine right monarchy ran against the tide. His tract was publicly burned in London at the end of 1613 and then again in Paris in 1614. The terror is understandable: a Dominican friar had assassinated Henri III in 1589 and in 1610, “an unsuccessful applicant to the Society of Jesus” had assassinated Henri IV (originally Iberian from Navarre), just three years prior to Suárez’s publication. Suárez would die soon thereafter. Four decades later, Puritans would execute Charles I, James I’s Stuart successor—a cautionary tale not lost on the future Louis XIV. Within this overall geopolitical context, Suárez appears as a prophet of the “modern”—nearly eighty years before Locke’s Second Treatise of Government (1690); indeed, twenty years before Locke’s birth.11
Locating Suárez: A Problem of Taxonomy
The question of where to place Suárez in the history of philosophy seems to be a major impetus behind recent publications.12 Although part of the problem perhaps lies with elements of Suárez’s thought, one quickly senses a larger issue at hand: inadequate conceptual means for grappling with the meaning of “modernity.” Simply put: What makes the modern “modern”? In the taxonomies of art history and most other humanistic disciplines, Suárez’s life-span locates him—following Gauvin Bailey on Jesuit Art in Rome, 1565-1610—somewhere between Renaissance and Baroque.13 To whom do these terms typically apply? Renaissance figures set the stage: Thomas Tallis (c.1505-1585), El Greco (1541-1614), Tomás Luis de Victoria (1548-1611). Indeed, Shakespeare’s life-span is one that most nearly approximates that of Suárez. Then enter the Baroque (or at least “post-Renaissance”) players as the seventeenth century approaches: Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679), John Donne (1572-1631), René Descartes (1596-1650) and Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598-1680).14 These are Toulmin’s “Counter-Renaissance” figures. So too with political history: the courtly reigns of Elizabeth I (1558-1603) and Henri IV (1589-1610) are late Renaissance, marked by shifting confessional accommodations. The absolutist governments of James I (1603-1625) and Louis XIV (1643-1715) are Baroque. The Thirty Years’ War signals the sea change. Not insignificantly, it broke out a year after Suárez’s death.
Categories in the history of philosophy, however, appear to transcend this terrestrial fray. Hill summarizes: “Suárez flourished around the time that three of our historical categories intersected, medieval philosophy (300-1500), Renaissance philosophy (1450-1600), and early modern philosophy (1600-1800), and his work for a variety of reasons, does not obviously belong to one more than the others” (Hill 2). On the one hand, although Suárez could hardly be “medieval” in terms of life-span, he seems to be the last of the medievals in terms of thought: “it was Suárez’s ability to coherently synthesize Thomistic, Scotistic, and Nominalistic ideas into a single, conservative Scholastic vision that grounds our assessment of his philosophical talents” (Hill 2n1). On the other hand, categories defining “Renaissance philosophy” as “an alternative to the philosophy and theology dominating the universities” exclude Suárez by definition.
However, even here ambiguities arise. Suárez’s philosophical method, reasons Hill, “was in keeping with the Scholastics rather than the humanists—careful conceptual analysis rather than inspired irenic synthesis” (Hill 3). And yet a major charge laid against Suárez by his opponents was “eclecticism”—one might say his bricolage—in synthesizing (as Hill notes) Thomistic, Scotistic, and Nominalistic ideas. What better way to imitate the method of Thomas himself, engaged three centuries earlier with texts transmitted from the translation centers in Islamic Iberia—the thought of Avicenna, Averroes, and Maimonides?15
But beyond finding (or inventing) the appropriate categories for Suárez lies a more fundamental task: rescuing him from oblivion. There are few scholarly articles available in English, not many dissertations written or books recently published, and no mention of him in any of the main textbooks for historical surveys of philosophy. Indeed, there is no entry for him in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.16 “Take whichever standard for relative importance you want,” writes Hill, “and Suárez does not rate very high by it.” This is curious because, during the first half of the seventeenth century, Suárez “was one of the most important and influential philosophers in all of Europe. Yet around 1650 or so much of his work more or less disappeared from European philosophical life and never really returned” (Hill 1). Descartes published his Discourse on Method in 1637 and his Meditations in 1640. The Thirty Years’ War ended in 1648. The received narrative identifies this epistemic shift as the birth of the “modern.” Toulmin re-frames it as the “Counter-Renaissance.” But even here, as Roger Ariew cautions, there may be more continuity than first appears.17
Evaluating Suárez: Turn to the Subject?
John P. Doyle’s Collected Studies, edited by Victor Salas, is a compilation of essays published over a span of nearly forty years (1967-2006).18 The twelve pieces fall beneath the two broad themes used by many to argue for Suárez’s “modernity.” In the first “theoretical” section are works devoted to Suárez’s conception of being and metaphysics: the reality of possibles, analogy of being and “extrinsic denomination.” The second “practical” section includes studies of Suárez’s thought on human society, law and morality, church and state, international law, and human rights. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the essays in this second section date from 1991 onward and reflect a post-Cold War renewal of interest in Suárez.
Of particular interest from a historian’s perspective are two essays. The first, on the “Truth of the Proposition ‘This is My Body,’” considers Suárez’s attempt to reconcile the problem of transubstantiation. Why would Suárez write this piece in 1587, over thirty-five years after Trent’s thirteenth session (1551) had treated the Eucharist? It might have been a response to the trial Ratio Studiorum of 1586 (for which Suárez served as an adviser) which considered the degree of deference to be paid to Aquinas. A second essay considers “Preaching the Gospel to People like the American Indians.” Doyle lays out Suárez’s conception of the “basic equality of all human beings” and the “personhood and rights of the American Indians in face of Christ’s last command that his followers teach all nations” (Doyle xiv). Suárez’s thought not only recalls his homeland’s transatlantic project of Portuguese-Spanish colonization, the Valladolid Controversy (1550), and the legacy of an earlier generation—Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda (1489-1573), Bartolomé de las Casas, O.P. (c.1484-1566), and Francisco de Vitoria, O.P. (c.1483-1546) of Salamanca. Surely it must also reflect his contemporaneous global Jesuit missionary context, especially the “accommodation” strategy developed and applied by his generational peers, Alessandro Valignano (1539-1606) and Matteo Ricci (1552-1610), in Japan and China respectively. Doyle’s introductory essay on Suárez’s life, works, and influence, along with a bibliography and indexes of names and terms, make this volume a valuable reference work along with its collected studies.
José Pereira’s Suárez: Between Scholasticism and Modernity is a second single-author volume. Like Doyle, Pereira considers the two main “themes” that can be deployed in arguing for Suárez’s “modernity.” From the “theoretical” perspective, Pereira argues that Suárez’s pivotal claim is that intra-mental consciousness is “better known” to us [notior] than extra-mental reality; it can thus serve as the ground of reality’s truth-claims. From this Pereira concludes that Suárez both summed up the past and inaugurated the future: he was both the “Baroque” systematician who synthesized major “medieval” systems (and the unwitting progenitor of Descartes) and the initiator of seventeenth-century idealism, “modernity,” and eventually nihilism.
From the “practical” perspective, Pereira surveys Suárez’s political theory, especially concerning the monarch’s power descending from God through means of the people. Confusingly, Pereira muddies the waters by concluding that Suárez was a proleptic “fulfiller of the Catholic Enlightenment.” Pereira’s desire to come up with a “modern” term in the political sphere that will be analogous to Descartes in the epistemological sphere is understandable. However, the introduction here of an “Enlightenment” empties the term of its historicity; it also robs actual “Catholic Enlightenment” episodes (such as the Prades Affair discussed below) of their creative novelty. In spite of these chronological confusions, Pereira does underscore Suárez’s ambivalent historical position vis-á-vis the circa 1650 divide and his monograph is useful in its extended studies of both the metaphysical-epistemological and political-legal aspects of Suárez’s thought.
The first of three collections of essays by various authors is Francisco Suárez and His Legacy edited by Marco Sgarbi. The twelve essays—six in Italian and six in English—are presented as case studies that assess Suárez’s influence on subsequent philosophical thought. Victor Salas (editor of the John Doyle collection discussed above) follows Pereira’s lead in “Francisco Suárez: End of the Scholastic ἐπιστήμη?” (Sgarbi 9-28). After beginning with the observation that Descartes’s subordination of the “objective” to the “subjective” is often identified as the onset of the modern, Salas then provides a useful overview of scholars who have argued for Suárez’s modernity by viewing him as Descartes’s precursor: these include Étienne Gilson, Alasdair MacIntyre, Martin Heidegger, Jean-Luc Marion, and Philipp Rosemann.19
Salas engages Rosemann who argues (employing Foucault) that Suárez represents the end of the Scholastic “episteme” for two main reasons: first, the “abandonment of the quaestio disputata in favor of the more textbook-like character of the Disputationes metaphysicae prefigures the form that Descartes’ work would take and thereby gives rise to the ‘autonomous subject’ of modernity.” And second, Suárez’s “rejection of the analogy of being in favor of univocity signals the beginning of modernity’s new approach to the question of being”—a view that has provoked a great deal of heated exchange recently thanks to Brad Gregory’s revisionist history of the Reformation (Sgarbi 11-12).20 Against Rosemann, Salas shows that the shift from quaestio disputata to relectio had already occurred in mid-fifteenth-century Salamanca, nearly a full century before Suárez’s birth. He then argues that Suárez’s embrace of univocity was more complex, aiming “to preserve analogy within the unitary concept of being” (Sgarbi 19). Salas lays out the problem in simple terms—”how can one reconcile the apparent tension that arises from maintaining both the absolute simplicity of the unitary concept of being and the dissimilarity or otherness of analogy?”—and endorses Doyle’s argument for “aptitudinal being.”
Following Pereira, Salas colorfully concludes that Suárez, by making the subjective (formal concept) determinative of the objective (objective concept), unwittingly set in motion “the process in which Scholasticism’s fascination with intra-mental acts would metastisize into modernity’s epistemic obsession” (Sgarbi 26). Suárez’s “turn to the subject” might indeed be proto-Cartesian. But in light of the O’Malley-Toulmin paradigm, could it not also be a third-generational extension of the first Jesuits’ preference for the particular?
Two other essays in the Sgarbi volume push this preference for singulars chronologically further. Daniel Heider studies Pedro Hurtado de Mendoza, S.J. (1578-1641), a native of Valmaseda near Bilbao and a member of the generation following Suárez. Heider notes that “the ideological variety” of Jesuits’ Thomistic philosophy, impacted by nominalism and Scotism, was “apparent as early as in the first generation.” As examples he cites Pedro Fonseca, S.J. (1528-1599) “whose metaphysics is substantially Scotus-orientated”; and Francisco de Toledo, S.J. (1532-1596)—professor at the Roman College and Suárez’s uncle—whose theory of universals had a strong “conciliatory” attitude toward nominalism (Sgarbi 106). Heider reads Hurtado as the most representative of the “radically liberal” Jesuit interpreters of Aquinas in the generation that succeeded Suárez, focusing especially on the principle of individuation. Hurtado suppresses “the overall meaning of the material principle of individuation in Aquinas” and opts instead for the principle of the “whole entity” [entitas tota] constituting the individuation. Heider locates Hurtado’s interpretation within “the nominalizing climate of post-Renaissance early modern thought,” a widespread “cultural emphasis on individuality released by the Renaissance, Humanism, and Protestantism.” This drift was “determinative” for “the Jesuit professors” (Sgarbi 139).
Hurtado died in 1641. Anna Tropia pushes the chronology forward in her study of the work of Luis de Losada, S.J. (1681-1748) as a continuation of Suárez’s long-term influence at Salamanca. Tropia argues that, although Suárez never claimed to be a Scotist, Losada’s work traces Suárez’s break with Aquinas step by step and makes clear “the Scotist derivation.” Tropia notes that both Suárez and Scotus believed that “every cognitive process” begins with knowing singulars. Both philosophers rejected Aristotelian equations of intellect with universals and senses with singulars. Rather, “the intellect, owing to its nobility, is indeed able to know what the senses are able to know, and in a superior way” (Sgarbi 99).
These essays trace Scotus’s influence on Suárez, Hurtado, and Losado over a period of nearly two centuries. Although the “primacy of singulars” over against the universal has been the subject of previous studies, it takes on new significance in light of Toulmin’s reassessment of the particular/universal binary and O’Malley’s underscoring of the first Jesuits’ “rhetorical” privileging of the particular.
Finally, in 2012, two volumes of collected essays appeared from the university presses of Cambridge and Oxford. They differ from one another precisely over the problem of classifying Suárez historically—how to do so and whether it is a significant issue.
For Hill and Henrik Lagerlund the historical question undergirds the project. As seen above, Hill surveys the problem of classifying Suárez and concludes that it is “best to consider Suárez a transitional figure, partly medieval and partly modern” (Hill 6). This perspective grounds the volume’s organization. Two (in one case three) historians of philosophy have been paired—on the one hand, a historian of medieval-Renaissance philosophy; on the other, a historian of early modern philosophy—for each of five thematic sections: (past) Background and (future) Influence; Metaphysics; Natural Philosophy; Moral and Psychology; Ethics and Natural Law. This structure aims at “playing off [Suárez’s] medieval and modern characteristics in a way that views them as complementary”; the end-result hopes for “a better sense of Suárez’s ‘revolutionary conservative’ mind” (Hill 5-6). In addition to Hill’s excellent introduction laying out the problem of categorization, a biographical overview, and synopsis of the chapters, this volume includes a remarkably thorough bibliography of Suárez’s publications and secondary sources up to the present—a welcome resource for any scholar.
In terms of the early Jesuits’ preference for particularity, Roger Ariew’s “Descartes and Leibniz as Readers of Suárez: Theory of Distinctions and Principle of Individuation” (Hill 38-53) is especially instructive. Ariew’s discussion of Suárez’s later influence illustrates “that while Jesuits officially leaned toward Thomism, in practice they mixed their Thomism with other Scholastic views, Scotism in particular” (Hill 38, author’s emphasis). Suárez argued “against both Thomas and Scotus that the principle of individuation is matter and form together, rejecting both Thomas’s signate matter and Scotus’ haecceitas.” Curiously, both Leibniz and Jakob Thomasius “said that the view to be defended is the same as the nominalist view, by which they meant Suárez’s” (Hill 48). The principle of individuation in the early Leibniz (Metaphysical Disputation, 1663) was owed to Suárez: “not negation, existence, or haecceity, but whole entity [entitas tota], which for composite creatures is their matter and form but not their accidents” (Hill 50).
In sharp contrast, Schwartz’s volume explicitly dispenses with the question of whether Suárez is “the very founder of modernity” and, if so, whether this is to be “celebrated or regretted.” The purpose of this volume is “not to adjudicate between these views” since the “standard used to judge the value of Suárez’s works turns not so much on his location within a narrative about the history of philosophy but on the precise presentation of questions, his fair-minded and exhaustive consideration of opposing views, and the cogency and originality of his answers. It is primarily on this score that Suárez deserves our attention” (Schwartz 1).
The volume features seven authors considering five broad themes: Metaphysics (three authors), God, Mind, Law and Ethics, Political Power, and War. Schwartz’s introduction provides a brief yet instructive biographical sketch with tantalizing extracts from Raoul de Scorraille’s “still unsurpassed” work of the early twentieth century.21 A brief select bibliography is also included. In retrospect, what unites Suárez’s treatments of these broad themes? Schwartz suggests that Suárez was able to make room for “new and better solutions where his predecessors saw none. It was this combination of reverence for and dissatisfaction with tradition that explains his innovative achievements” (Schwartz 18).
In terms of early Jesuit preference for particularity, Schwartz’s introduction provides a succinctly lucid account of Suárez on individuation (Schwartz 9-10). After laying out Suárez’s reasoning for saying that “the essence of an actually existing horse and its existence do not differ outside the mind,” Schwartz notes the common negative interpretation (deriving from Gilson, 1948) that this move reduces “existence to essence” and thereby diminishes the “metaphysical importance of creation.” However, Schwartz suggests that an opposite reading is actually “more natural”: Suárez does not so much demote the metaphysical status of existence so much as that of essences: “their existence depends on the existence of things they are essences of.” He then quotes a line from Norman Wells which takes on added significance in light of the O’Malley-Toulmin paradigm: a “metaphysics […] which is knowledge of essences or aeternae et necessariae veritates ha[s] been dealt a mortal blow” (Schwartz 9).
Three monographs carry these same questions forward into the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Marcus Hellyer’s Catholic Physics, a study of Jesuit professors of natural philosophy in German-speaking lands (especially Mainz, Wüzburg, and Ingolstadt), begins with the establishment of the schools around 1600. Hellyer’s subject is the transformation, over approximately one and a half centuries, “of Jesuit natural philosophy from a largely scholastic body of knowledge and discourse into an experimental, mathematicized science (Hellyer 5).”
Three large themes emerge. First, in spite of the Society’s efforts to maintain uniformity in its teaching during a time of rapid development in the sciences, the story is not simply one of repression. Rather, Jesuit professors “used several strategies to exploit the spaces left by the structures and practices of censorship to teach and publish novelties” (Hellyer 6). For example, although Jesuits were obliged to declare heliocentrism erroneous, they also taught students the theory’s advantages over the church’s officially sanctioned cosmology. Second, Jesuit physics was constrained by the official relationship between theology and natural philosophy. Perhaps the most obvious example of this was the doctrine of transubstantiation: the theological doctrine seemed necessarily to entail maintaining the Aristotelian-scholastic theory of matter. This resulted in a stubborn rejection by Jesuits of alternate matter theories such as Cartesian atomism. Third, in sharp contrast to this intellectual intransigence, matters were quite the opposite in the practical realm. Jesuits adopted forms of scientific experiments with increasing enthusiasm, in particular, the Torricelli mercury tube and the air pump.
Hellyer describes the seventeenth-century tension between “experience” and “experiment” as mathematics and physics proceeded along their path toward the mathematicization of science. What constituted “a valid experiential basis for claims about the nature of bodies”? In natural philosophy (physics), the Aristotelian paradigm emphasized repeated, everyday experience [experientia]. Mathematics, by contrast, emphasized “observations of particular phenomena assisted by instruments or even created by instruments—e.g., a vacuum (Hellyer 139). Jesuits increasingly engaged this controversy—both theoretically and practically (in their laboratories)—over the possibility of reconciling the “new form of philosophy” (mathematicized experimental physics) with Aristotle. A century later, the topic of the 1718 graduation oration was “Does the experimental physics of the moderns surpass the speculations of the ancients?” In 1746: “Can experiment decide physical questions?” and whether philosophy could even survive without experiments. In 1750, Berthold Hauser, the foremost German Jesuit authority on experimental philosophy, asked: “Was Aristotle a Physicus Experimentalis?” Hellyer concludes: “By the middle of the eighteenth century, experiment had become synonymous with natural philosophy for the Jesuits” (Hellyer 182, emphasis original).
Hellyer’s account of Jesuit institutional trends toward increasing uniformity nicely exemplifies Toulmin’s paradigm of a “Counter-Renaissance.” In 1565, Jesuits had argued over the tension between “too much liberty” in philosophical opinions and the harmful effects of being “bound to the doctrine of just one or another author.” Aristotle had emerged as pre-eminent but not infallible (Hellyer 29, 32). However, the tides turned: in 1611, General Acquaviva expressed his concern over the “lack of uniformity in the choice of opinions.” In a move paralleling that discussed above (in terms of Thomas), he declared that it was not enough to express the same conclusions; agreement also had to extend to the arguments. The mandate to follow Aristotle was strengthened two years later (Hellyer 33).
Less expected, however, was the way in which the seventeenth-century Jesuit embrace of experimentalism continued as a hallmark of Renaissance “rhetorical” values. O’Malley traces the way in which the experiencia formed the core of Jesuit training. The novitiate included six principal testing experiencias—“experimental experiences”—which would provide data upon which decisions for entering the Society could be made. This empirical turn to individual experience a posteriori as the basis for decision-making and probability marked the method as “rhetorical,” giving priority to the individual here-and-now. Ignatius expressed his typical flexibility in mandating accommodation: “these experiencias may be advanced, postponed, adapted, and in some cases where the superior approves, replaced by others, according to the persons, times, places, and their contingencies.”22 The Jesuit emphasis on arriving at decisions (which are not certain but highly probable) by means of experimental a posteriori reflection (and not a priori scholastic deduction) is evident at the individual level—e.g., in the specifically Jesuit craft of “discernment of spirits” (the Spiritual Exercises)—as well as at the cultural level in Jesuit missionary strategies of accommodation. It is not so strange, then, to see experiencia invoked in the apparent conflict between Aristotelian “experience” and instrumental “experiment.”
In a second monograph, Jesuit Civil Wars, Jean-Pascal Gay lays out in minute and gripping detail the “civil war” waged between General Tirso González (1687-1705) and his fellow Jesuits in the late seventeenth century. Two crises dominated this generalate: first, Gallicanism, which reached a high-point in 1688-1690 when Louis XIV forbade Jesuits from communicating with the curia in Rome. Second, González’s vigorous crusade against probabilism, the moral position which the Society regarded as its own. Although the story is remarkable, surprising, and frequently arresting in its own regard, its subject-matter—probabiliorism versus probabilism—takes on added layers of significance when considered in light of the O’Malley-Toulmin paradigm.
Resistance to the Renaissance Humanistic fluidity of Jesuit probabilism reached fever pitch in the mid-seventeenth century. In 1656—eight years after the end of the Thirty Years’ War, thus echoing Toulmin’s approximate date of a “Counter-Renaissance” circa 1650—the general chapter of the Dominican order encouraged a break with probabilism; and Pascal published his Provincial Letters attacking Jesuit “moral laxism.” In 1674, González tried to publish his tract on The Right Use of Probable Opinions, a probabiliorist’s attack on probabilism. The Jesuit Roman censors rejected his request citing six conclusions. The sixth concern was intramural: since González’s work “extolled known adversaries of the Jesuits,” it would have appeared “as a disavowal of a doctrine common in the Society” (Gay 146).
Far more remarkable, however, was the tenor of the other five conclusions which found that González’s work was unacceptable in its extreme “subjectivism.” How? González argued that one should follow the opinion that one regarded and judged as more probable than other opinions—a Cartesian turn to the subject in the most extreme. Moreover, what if a superior judged a matter differently? Ought one to follow the superior in obedience? Or ought one rather to follow one’s own conscience which had judged another opinion more probable? Finally, González’s position erased the distinction between orthodoxy and heterodoxy. In his schema, no one could actually be judged heretical and there was no such thing as “temerarious judgment” (Gay 146-147). In this improbable turn of events, the sixteenth-century humanistic emphasis on Ignatian “discernment” of individual experience collided with Cartesian “clear and distinct” ideas intuited in subjective solitude. A confused jumble ensued: subjectivist rigorism.
After González was elected general in 1687, he immediately turned to getting his book published without approval from Jesuit or papal censors. His own assistants asked him to suppress the book and warned him of the consequences. He refused, and in 1692, he was informed that his book had been denounced to the pope “on behalf of” (and by members of) the Society (Gay 163). In 1693, the Inquisition intervened, meaning that the Jesuit general and the Inquisition were now pitted against the Society’s own congregation of procurators. The Inquisition decided, however, that the crisis itself had made the book’s publication necessary, if only to save the face of the late Pope Innocent XI who had first instigated the work against “the scandal that created in the world the lax opinions of Jesuits” (174). At the end of his term of office, González asked the pope for a prohibition of probabilism within the Society. If the pope did not accede, the general warned that probabilism would be the Society’s “own doctrine” as it had already been interpreted among Jesuits as having the “strength of law” (209). The request was not granted and González died in 1703.
One of Gay’s arguments is that the episode was an example of publicity in the sense that Jesuit intramural strife (“civil wars”) spilled out into the public sphere. This openness revealed fissures and a vulnerability that could be exploited by enemies, entailing serious consequences for both the Society and the church as the century progressed toward the Jesuit suppression and French Revolution. When the fifteenth general congregation met in 1706 to choose a new general, it felt constrained not to deal explicitly with the trauma. Yet, Gay concludes, what “characterized González’s generalate had been clearly disowned by the Congregation in a set of several moves that could not be misread by those who had lived the previous years of crisis” (Gay 282). One of the most curious of these cryptic acts was using Cartesianism as a cipher for González’s hyper-subjectivism. Although probabiliorism could not be directly censured, a list of thirty “Cartesian” propositions were discussed and then prohibited (Gay 281-282). A worthwhile future project would be to evaluate the reasoning behind these prohibitions: were the grounds excessive subjectivism? Or rather rigidity, i.e., overly-presumptuous claims to certainty against mere probability?
Jeffrey Burson’s Rise and Fall of Theological Enlightenment brings the story of Jesuit accommodation and eclecticism into the eighteenth century. The scandalous event at the heart of the book is a Sorbonne dissertation written at mid-century (1749) by a French cleric, Jean-Martin de Prades. Prades’s work attempted to synthesize Catholic doctrine and ideas of the philosophes. After an uneventful defense a political firestorm erupted—the “Affaire de Prades”—involving the court, the Parlement, Jansenists, Jesuits, and philosophes. Against older Enlightenment historiography that would have read the scandal as a predictably straightforward conflict between “religion” and “reason,” Burson patiently analyzes the event as a thoroughly contingent intersection of various trajectories.
Drawing on the past thirty years of revisionism in Enlightenment historiography (including that of Dale van Kley who provides a foreword), Burson begins with the presupposition of a “Theological Enlightenment” which would have been an oxymoron not so long ago.23 By demonstrating that philosophes and Enlightenment theologians mingled freely by the 1740s, he is able to argue that the Prades affair was not predictable, let alone inevitable. It occurred, rather, because of “changes in the sociopolitical balance of power within the old regime church between 1749-1752” as well as long-term after-effects of the 1729 expulsion of Jansenist doctors from the Sorbonne. In the broader historical scheme, Burson argues that the Prades affair signals the divergence between the French Enlightenment and a reactionary “Counter-Enlightenment” in the second half of the century.24
Of particular interest is Burson’s attention to the Parisian collège of Louis-le-Grand. Beginning in 1701, Jesuits had been producing the Journal de Trévoux in the collège’s annex. By publishing excerpts and critical commentaries on new books, the Journal was an act of accommodation “designed to shepherd public opinion in directions favorable to religion by critically engaging new learning in terms compatible with both church and society” (Burson 43). The journal became a highly-influential force in this epoch of mass printing and the public sphere, reaching its apogee in 1734 and eventually closing in 1767.
At the heart of this enterprise were two editors, Claude G. Buffier, S.J., and René-Joseph Tournemine, S.J. Burson focuses on their “Jesuit synthesis” of Lockean empiricism and Malebranchean occasionalism that drives his Parisian “Theological Enlightenment.” Although the term might be overreaching—a more modest “rue Saint-Jacques synthesis” might have been more precise—it highlights yet one more instance of the kind of Jesuit accommodation seen in Suárez and his later followers as well as the German Jesuit natural philosophers embracing experimentalism.25 But there is a closer bond with Suárez (who is mentioned by Burson with respect to political theory but not epistemology or metaphysics) as this synthesis shares strong characteristics with nominalism, anti-essentialism and Scotist individuation. Buffier-Tournemine took sensationalism from Locke and privileged perception as the “first idea” of a thing which never achieved knowledge of the thing itself. This materialism was tempered by taking occasionalism from Malebranche: although thoughts might be occasioned by matter, they were ultimately and solely caused by God. Burson’s summary unintentionally evokes Suárez, experimentalism, and individuation: “The Jesuit synthesis vested metaphysical causality and absolute free agency in God alone, and acknowledged that speculative reason about him was limited […] and that essential knowledge of substance was impossible. Yet experience provided humans with a kind of ‘common sense’ built on an individual’s internal sense (or in some writers, internal sentiment) of his or her own existence” (Burson 21-22). Or, as Van Kley wryly puts it: “I sense, therefore I am.”26
Nineteenth-century Epilogue: Inventing Tradition
Alasdair MacIntyre recounts a fascinating episode from the mid-nineteenth century. After the post-Napoleonic Jesuit restoration of 1814, post-Kantian idealists held the ascendancy while those advocating a systematic return to “Thomas” were a small, disruptive and scorned minority. As late as 1865, a Jesuit provincial could write disparagingly: “Those two members of the [Society], well known as uncompromising Thomists, suddenly rose in defense of that commonly rejected doctrine […] their way of feeling and of thinking implies a condemnation of the whole body of the Society and, which is worse, of the Episcopate.”27 Fifteen years later, Leo XIII’s mandate to teach only Thomism in Catholic institutions would place “a severe strain on Jesuit obedience of the intellect” at the Gregorian University in Rome since many of the priest-professors were disciples of Descartes and Suárez.28
“Thomas” might indeed have been “restored” in name. However, MacIntyre argues that this restored version, a somewhat typical nineteenth-century invention of tradition,29 was actually an “epistemologized” Thomism that reenacted “the disagreements of post-Cartesian philosophy.” Moreover, MacIntyre traces this turn back to Joseph Kleutgen, S.J., who played a key role in drafting Aeterni Patris and the scholastic revival it instigated. Kleutgen, argues MacIntyre, “mislocated the rupture” between ancients and moderns. Why? Because he read Thomas through Suárez who (for MacIntyre) “was already a distinctively modern thinker, perhaps more authentically than Descartes.”30 Thomas became—via Suárez—the proleptic “answer to Descartes.”
* The author is grateful for comments by Robert Araujo, Robert Bireley, John McManamon, John O’Malley, John Padberg, and J.B. Shank.
1 John W. O’Malley, The First Jesuits (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993).
2 Stephen Toulmin, Cosmopolis: The Hidden Agenda of Modernity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 34. My emphasis. See Toulmin and Albert R. Jonsen The Abuse of Casuistry: A History of Moral Reasoning (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988).
3 Compare John Dewey’s 1928-1929 Gifford Lectures: Dewey, The Quest for Certainty: A Study of the Relation of Knowledge and Action (New York: Minton, Balch, 1929).
4 Alastair Hamilton, Heresy and Mysticism in Sixteenth Century Spain: Alumbrados (Cambridge: J. Clarke, 1992).
5 Robert A. Maryks, The Jesuit Order as a Synagogue of Jews (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 104; Jean Lacouture Jesuits: A Multibiography, tr. Jeremy Leggatt (Washington, D.C.: Counterpoint, 1995), 27.
6 Martin Luther (d. 1546); Henry VIII (d. 1547); Ignatius Loyola (d. 1556); Charles V (d. 1558); Mary Tudor (d. 1558); John Calvin (d. 1564).
7 Schwartz citing O’Malley, First Jesuits, 251.
8 Compare another Tridentine myth: the Council’s alleged condemnation of vernacular liturgy, in John W. O’Malley, Trent: What Happened at the Council (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2013), 190. Note that Thomas Aquinas does not appear in O’Malley’s index.
9 See James F. Keenan, “The Casuistry of John Mair, Nominalist Professor of Paris (1506-1531),” Annual of Society of Christian Ethics (1993): 205-222; reprinted in Keenan and Thomas A. Shannon, eds., The Context of Casuistry (Georgetown: Georgetown University Press, 1995); Keenan, “Moral Theology,” in Raymond Bullman and Fred Parrella, eds., From Trent to Vatican II: Historical and Theological Investigations (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006): 161-178; and Keenan, “The Birth of Jesuit Casuistry: Summa casuum conscientiae, sive de instructione sacerdotum, libri septem by Francisco de Toledo (1532-1596),” in Thomas McCoog, ed., The Mercurian Project: Forming Jesuit Culture, 1573-1580 (Rome: IHSI, 2004): 461-482; Robert A. Maryks, Saint Cicero and the Jesuits: The Influence of the Liberal Arts on the Adoption of Moral Probabalism (Aldershot, Hampshire [UK] and Burlington, VT: Ashgate; Rome: IHSI, 2008). See Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, cited.
10 Sixteenth-century skepticism, abundantly evident in Luther (see especially the Heidelberg Theses ) as well as Montaigne, is at the very heart of the problem of “discernment of spirits” in Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises. See Moshe Sluhovsky, Believe Not Every Spirit: Possession, Mysticism, & Discernment in Early Modern Catholicism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007).
11 James Brown Scott (1866-1943) argued this as early as the 1930s. See Scott, The Catholic Conception of International Law: Francisco de Vitoria, Founder of the Modern Law of Nations; Francisco Suárez, Founder of the Modern Philosophy of Law in General and in Particular of the Law Nations (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 1934); see Yves Simon, Philosophy of Democratic Government (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951), esp. 169-178.
12 For a recent review essay of works under consideration here, see Sydney Penner, “‘The Pope and Prince of All the Metaphysicians’: Some Recent Works on Suárez,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy 21/2 (2013): 393-403. See also Penner’s impressive website devoted to Suárez: http://www.sydneypenner.ca/suarez.shtml.
13 Gauvin Alexander Bailey, Between Renaissance and Baroque: Jesuit Art in Rome, 1565-1610 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003); see Alexandra Bamji, Geert H. Janssen, and Mary Laven, eds., The Ashgate Research Companion to the Counter-Reformation (Farnham, Surrey, and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2013), reviewed in this very issue of the JJS.
14 Adding to the problem is lumping together figures like Montaigne and Bacon with Descartes as “canonical early modern” philosophers. See Hill, 5.
15 Richard E. Rubenstein, Aristotle’s Children: How Christians, Muslims, and Jews Rediscovered Ancient Wisdom and Illuminated the Dark Ages (Orlando: Harcourt, 2003); see Menocal, Ornament of the World.
16 There is still not one as of this writing: http://plato.stanford.edu/. Accessed 4/30/2013.
17 Roger Ariew, Descartes and the Last Scholastics (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1999); revised as Ariew, Descartes among the Scholastics (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011); see Ariew in Hill and Lagerlund discussed below.
18 See also the annotated bibliography of Doyle’s works compiled by Raul Corazzon on his “Theory and History of Ontology” website: http://www.ontology.co/biblio/john-doyle.htm.
19 Étienne Gilson, Being and Some Philosophers (Toronto, 1952); Pereira (2007); Alasdair MacIntyre, Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry (Notre Dame, 1990); R. Miner, “Suárez as Founder of Modernity: Reflections on a Topos in Recent Historiography,” History of Philosophy 18 (2001): 17-36; Olivier Blanchette, “Suárez and the Latent Essentialism of Heidegger’s Fundamental Ontology,” The Review of Metaphysics 53 (1999): 3-19; Jean-Luc Marion, Sur la théologie blanche de Descartes. Analogie, création, des vérités éternelles et fondement (Paris, 1981); Philipp Rosemann, Understanding Scholastic Thought with Foucault New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999). Compare Schwartz’s brief consideration of this question (Schwartz 1).
20 The “univocity” of being in Scotus has recently become a hotly-contested issue due to its prominent position in the argument of Brad S. Gregory, The Unintended Reformation: How a Religious Revolution Secularized Society (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2012. See index heading “Univocity.”
21 The biography by Raoul de Scorraille, S.J., was first published in 1912-1913 as François Suarez, de la Compagnie de Jésus (Paris: P. Lethielleux).
22 The Constitutions of the Society of Jesus, tr. with commentary by George E. Ganss (St. Louis: The Institute of Jesuit Sources, 1970), #65.
23 For the trajectory, see Dale K. Van Kley, The Religious Origins of the French Revolution: From Calvin to the Civil Constitution, 1560-1791 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996); Jonathan Sheehan, “Enlightenment, Religion, and the Enigma of Secularization: A Review Essay,” American Historical Review 108.4 (2003): 1075-1076; David Sorkin, The Religious Enlightenment: Protestants, Jews, and Catholics from London to Vienna (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008); Ulrich L. Lehner, “What is ‘Catholic Enlightenment’?,” History Compass 8 (2010): 166–178; Lehner and Michael O’Neill Printy, eds., A Companion to the Catholic Enlightenment in Europe (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2010).
24 Darrin M. McMahon, Enemies of the Enlightenment: The French Counter-Enlightenment and the Making of Modernity (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2001).
25 See J. B. Shank review of Burson in The American Historical Review, 117/1 (2012): 279-280.
26 Compare J. B. Shank, “A French Jesuit in the Royal Society of London: Father Louis-Bertrand de Castel, S.J. and Enlightenment Mathematics, 1720-1735,” Journal of Early Modern Studies 1/1 (Fall 2012): 151-184. “Is it possible for a Parisian Jesuit to be considered an embodiment of Enlightenment?” asks Shank. “This paper argues yes.”
27 Quoted in Paolo Dezza’s Alle origini del neotomismo (Milan: Fratelli Bocca, 1940), 96; in Alasdair MacIntyre, Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry: Encyclopaedia, Genealogy, and Tradition (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1990), 72.
28 Gabriel Daly, Transcendence and Immanence: A Study in Catholic Modernism and Integralism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980), 10; drawing on L’Università Gregoriana del Collegio Romano nel primo secolo dalla restituzione (Rome: Cuggiani, 1925), 34.
29 Stephen Schloesser, Jazz Age Catholicism: Mystic Modernism in Postwar Paris (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), 27-35.
30 MacIntyre, 75.
See James F. Keenan“The Casuistry of John Mair, Nominalist Professor of Paris (1506-1531),” Annual of Society of Christian Ethics (1993): 205-222; reprinted in Keenan and Thomas A. Shannon eds. The Context of Casuistry (Georgetown: Georgetown University Press 1995); Keenan “Moral Theology” in Raymond Bullman and Fred Parrella eds. From Trent to Vatican II: Historical and Theological Investigations (New York: Oxford University Press 2006): 161-178; and Keenan “The Birth of Jesuit Casuistry: Summa casuum conscientiae sive de instructione sacerdotum libri septem by Francisco de Toledo (1532-1596)” in Thomas McCoog ed. The Mercurian Project: Forming Jesuit Culture 1573-1580 (Rome: IHSI 2004): 461-482; Robert A. Maryks Saint Cicero and the Jesuits: The Influence of the Liberal Arts on the Adoption of Moral Probabalism (Aldershot Hampshire [UK] and Burlington VT: Ashgate; Rome: IHSI 2008). See Jonsen and Toulmin The Abuse of Casuistry cited.
Gauvin Alexander BaileyBetween Renaissance and Baroque: Jesuit Art in Rome 1565-1610 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press2003); see Alexandra Bamji Geert H. Janssen and Mary Laven eds. The Ashgate Research Companion to the Counter-Reformation (Farnham Surrey and Burlington VT: Ashgate 2013) reviewed in this very issue of the JJS.
Compare J. B. Shank“A French Jesuit in the Royal Society of London: Father Louis-Bertrand de Castel, S.J. and Enlightenment Mathematics, 1720-1735,” Journal of Early Modern Studies 1/1 (Fall 2012): 151-184. “Is it possible for a Parisian Jesuit to be considered an embodiment of Enlightenment?” asks Shank. “This paper argues yes.”