Between 1265 and 1274, Thomas Aquinas set out in the Summa Theologica to prove that God exists, purely using five rational arguments, as opposed to drawing insights from scripture.
Part 1 – The Argument from Motion: Drawing upon Aristotle’s writings, as Aquinas was wont to do, given his role as one of the great links between Christianity and Classical thought, Thomas’s first claim is straightforward enough. One thing acts upon another; whatever moves is moved, and by something already moving. His favorite analogy involves burning wood. Wood is capable of burning, but it is not yet doing so. Once wood burns, it changes–it is no longer capable of burning further. So, we all simultaneously have an established identity and distinct potentiality, but that potentiality can only be activated by an external force. And for all of that to be possible, there must be that first, initial mover–the immaculate mover, the one requiring no external stimuli.
Setting forth from the dark in Cori, after struggling a bit to find a viable exit from the old convent, I flattered myself as being an immaculate mover. After all, day after day, I keep churning out the kilometers, even as the temperature climbs, the shade dissipates, and the available daylight declines. This will be the last day with these shoes–unless something goes terribly wrong–and every rock announces its presence with maliciousness, jabbing straight into the sole. No matter. It’s an otherwise easy stroll through the early dawn to Norma, a low-lying hill town with a long runway leading into the center. I buy a couple cups of yogurt, sit down in a park, and watch as a woman commands five cats around the small piazza. She might be an even better example of Aquinas’s point than the yule log.
Part 2 – The Argument from Efficient Cause: Aquinas returns once again to Aristotle, who argued that every material object could be explained according to four causes, which included a) what it is made out of, b) how it is arranged and shaped, c) the purpose for which it is made, and d) the force shaping the matter for that purpose. My backpack, for example, is made out of some sort of synthetic materials, stitched together in a bag shape, intended to carry stuff, and produced by Osprey. As above, this process cannot be self-initiated; an external cause is required. And what might explain an efficient cause behind human cognition and purpose? From Aquinas’s vantage point, only God.
It’s a windy, hilly approach to Sermoneta, a perfect little castle town dominating its own little peak. The Via loops around, passing the fortress, skimming the right side, and finally emerging in a small piazza. I’m far too sweaty for civilization, despite my sudden reentry into a small circle of polite society, so I find a bench off to the side and cool my heels before poking around the medieval center. I tend to experience a similarly circuitous approach when pondering my own causation. My reasons for walking–and walking longer and longer distances, which is the trend of late–are simultaneously boringly straightforward and elusive. That is to say, I walk because I like it, because it makes me happy to be on the trail, to never know what is lurking behind the next turn, to discover new historical tidbits or witness flashes of beauty… but none of that feels like it carries the profundity required to explain a force that has fundamentally reordered my existence–or, that is to say, altered the purpose for which I was made. Regardless, a straightforward purpose has the virtue of requiring little serious consideration. I pick up my pack and begin the descent.
Part 3 – The Argument from Necessary Being: All of us exist right now. But we won’t always exist. And there are some people who will exist who don’t right now. And inevitably, this means that at some point nothing–or nobody–existed. And if that was the case, then nothing would have ever existed, because something cannot come from nothing. A first thing is required. And that was God.
Could pilgrims have existed without hosts? But how can you be a host if no pilgrims ever come strolling past your home? I finished the day in Priverno, where I was the recipient of a very special kind of pilgrim accommodation. For ten years, Gloria has hosted pilgrims in her small home in Priverno. She doesn’t roll out the red carpet, but she does fold out the couch, which necessitates sliding the coffee table down the hall, and moving around other assorted odds and ends. And when time comes for the pilgrim dinner, her office is repurposed into a dining table, all of the work materials sloughed off to the coffee table, now residing in the hall. Size doesn’t matter, or at least house size doesn’t matter when the heart is grandiose.
When Gloria had to run out for an afternoon meeting, I popped over to the cathedral, where I was surprised to come face to face with Saint Thomas Aquinas. Well, his skull. It sits atop a reliquary in the side chapel, on full display. In 1274, Aquinas had set out to attend an ecumenical council in Lyon. Traveling north from Naples, he reached the castle town of Maenza, paying a visit to his niece, only to fall ill. Still, he pushed on, but once he reached the nearby abbey of Fossanova he could carry on no further. Indeed, shortly after his arrival, he declared, “this is the place of my rest forever; I will dwell here because I have chosen it.” He died on March 7, 1274. While he would not ultimately get to enjoy eternal rest in Fossanova–most of his remains ended up in Toulouse, while his right hand is in Salerno–his skull remained in Priverno.
Part 4 – The Argument from Gradation: Instead of Aristotle, we turn now to Heraclitus and Plato. The former famously observed that you never step in the same river twice–everything is constantly changing. Plato built on this, arguing that while change is undeniable, some things are stable. An individual oak changes, but our overarching concept of an oak is stable. This is the Platonic ideal of an oak. Aquinas’s argument, building on this, is that within all categories of things, there are some lesser manifestations and some superior forms. All manner of variation exists. And thus, it logically follows that there must be a perfect form, a being of the highest good. And that, of course, is God.
There is something undeniably perfect about a Cistercian cathedral. Responding to Catholic excess, the Cistercians–for a while, at least–embraced poverty in all forms, including in their architectural design. When you walk inside a Cistercian building, you know it immediately. Frescoes? Bah! Gold-plating? Ha! Decoration of any kind, whatsoever? Nah. This is an ascetic, monkish cell writ large. And for all that simplicity and austerity, there is an elegance and crispness to it that resonates.
I reached the abbey of Fossanova too early. Morning prayer was underway and visits wouldn’t be possible for another hour. And yet, a nun waved me in through the side entrance, so I strolled through the cloister and then popped into the church, which must still look quite similar to what Aquinas found as he careened towards his final days. What is the perfect church–the one that stands above all others? I’m not sure, but I suspect that it might look more like Fossanova than Saint Peter’s.
Part 5 – The Argument from Design: Most everything acts towards an end, whether that be a creature of significant intelligence, or a natural force. But how can something without intelligence move towards a particular end? The only answer is that there is an external force, a puppet master pulling the strings, a director conducting the action. For order to exist in the world, an order that reflects some larger, coherent plan, there must be a larger design–and designer–behind that plan. And once again, that is God.
I had already taken a good bite out of the day, making the long haul to Terracina, where I took a long break to enjoy the Roman ruins, the marvelous central piazza, and the coastal views. I once again stopped dead in my tracks a short distance later on, when the whole Mediterranean coastline unspooled before me. And with all of that, my timing couldn’t have been more perfect when I emerged in a tiny cluster of houses and discovered four Italian pilgrims taking a break. These, I knew thanks to a heads-up from Gloria, were with the Itineranti group of pilgrims–the very same group that I had encountered in San Severo in the spring. What I didn’t know, though, was that the fourth member of their group was Fabiola, who had actually hosted me in San Severo. The look on her face, when she slowly realized who this sweaty man with choppy Italian was in front of her, was worth the whole day’s walk.
Eventually, the time came for us to go our separate ways, so I pushed on, delicately maneuvering through an unusually nasty trail, before joining busier roads for the final approach to Monastero San Magno. The monastery was suppressed and its assets divvied up in 1807, but in recent decades it was recovered, restored, and repurposed. The space is open to all in the community for prayer and reflection, along with pilgrims, of course. One wonders what the larger plan is behind the history at work in this space; its first historical reference dates to the 3rd century AD, when a wave of Roman persecution resulted in the execution of a large number of Christians here. Today, though, the space exudes peace and calm. And ants. Lots of ants. And if those buggers have a divine plan at work, I don’t want to know what it is.
