Aquinas at prayer: the interior life of a "mystic on campus".

Murray, Paul

IF THE TITLE CHOSEN for this article contains a surprise, it almost certainly consists in the juxtaposition of the word "campus" (as in university campus) with the word "mystic." (1) For, it has to be admitted that, as potential candidates for the spiritual life, intellectuals nowadays--at least in the popular imagination--are not high up on the mystical scale. Contemporary academics, indeed academics and intellectuals in every age, tend to be a talkative and inquisitive group, and are inclined, on occasion, to be hard-nosed and polemical. To their peers, as a result, they almost never look particularly holy or mystical. And, if that is indeed the case, it's something academics share with the very first Dominican preachers who were, for the most part, exuberant and confident men, and relatively well educated. One of the earliest reports about the friars comes from a young man called Peter of Aubenas. Peter chose, in the end, to join the Dominicans but, on first acquaintance, the friars didn't appear at all holy or pious. In fact, he tells us that in his opinion the Dominicans looked far too cheerful and showy, "iocundos et ... pomposos." (2) Now the adjective "pomposos" is not a word that sits easily with the word "mystical." But it is a word that people might just be inclined to link with the word "academic." So, with regard to our title, the question arises: in what sense was Thomas Aquinas really an academic "on campus," and in what sense, if any, being an academic, can he be described as a mystic?

I. Aquinas Under Scrutiny: The Judgment of von Speyer

If there is something surprising about our title, there is also something that might well appear distinctly presumptuous. For how, at this distance in time, can one hope to gain access to the interior life of a man, a theologian, who was famously reticent when it came to talking about himself and who, in all his writings, almost never spoke in the first person, almost never used the word "I"? That Aquinas was a profoundly wise man goes without saying, but what evidence is there to suggest that his interior life was marked by that depth of spiritual experience, that contemplative intimacy, we associate with the great Christian mystics?

Before attempting to answer this question, I would like to draw attention to an extraordinary text--a truly bizarre document in my opinion--that has just recently been translated into English. The author is the celebrated friend and confidant of Hans Urs von Balthasar, Adrienne von Speyer. The text contains a number of negative judgments concerning the contemplative life of Aquinas, judgments based not on any kind of ordinary intellectual reflection on the prayer-life of the saint, but rather on knowledge which von Speyer claims she received from a direct seeing--a direct vision--of Aquinas at prayer. (3)

Although not on principle suspicious of such alleged visions, I am by no means persuaded that, in this particular case, von Speyer gained access to the innermost truth concerning the prayer-life of Aquinas. I suspect, in fact, she gained access merely to her own unconscious thoughts and feelings regarding the saint. (4) Nevertheless, the comments von Speyer makes about Aquinas, although they are for the most part mistaken in my opinion, do at least possess the merit of being free of any kind of false unction. Von Speyer is clearly liberated from the need or the desire to appear overpious with regard to the cult of Aquinas. And that is no bad thing. From start to finish, she casts a distinctly cold eye on the question of his prayer life and contemplative experience. So, as we begin our own reflections on this matter, von Speyer's "revelations," whether we judge them to be basically accurate or almost wholly mistaken, can act as a sharp and immediate challenge to the idea suggested by the title of my article, namely the notion that Aquinas was a great Christian contemplative.

Not one vision of Aquinas but two are reported by von Speyer. With regard to the first, she makes bold to declare that Friar Thomas, on those occasions when he turned his attention to prayer, was a man far too controlling and far too obsessively intellectual to surrender easily to the pressure of God's grace. The man, the theologian, whom she sees at prayer, was someone who seems to have resisted being led to the heights of contemplation. "God," she declared, "is a concept for him, something to analyze, to take apart and put back togethe. ... Love, is not there. Everything remains intellectual." (5) Von Speyer notes further that, for Aquinas, prayer is "like a disputation with God or like a scholarly conversation." "But," she goes on at once to say--and the qualification is truly damning--"he does not let God speak. It remains a monologue." (6) And again: "It is as if love got stuck by the busyness of thinking." (7)

That's the first vision of Aquinas, as reported by von Speyer. And the report she gives us of the second is just as negative. For, once again, Aquinas emerges as anything but impressive in his life of prayer. Von Speyer even goes so far as to suggest that the saint "does not feel particularly attracted" to "prayer and contemplation." (8) "He does not fly at a very high level," she declares. "Everything in him is ultimately subordinated to the intellect." (9) In practice this means that "wherever possible he always contemplates things that fit in with the work he is doing at the time. Here, too, he is the one who leads God, as it were, rather than allowing himself to be led by God. He lacks a certain magnanimity. He contemplates, as it were, with pen in hand. But then God has mercy on him and gives him a share in genuine contemplation." (10) That "share," however, we are told by von Speyer, is a very modest share indeed. For, apart from his manifest gifts of wisdom and insight, in the end all that Aquinas's contemplative life adds up to is, we are led to believe, something narrow and ungenerous, a faith-experience of life in the spirit that hardly bears comparison with that of the great contemplatives of the Church: in Von Speyer's words, "a meager subjective experience of grace." (11)

When we compare the writings of Aquinas with those of the mystics, von Speyer might seem to have a point. St. Thomas is a scholastic theologian. He is an intellectual through and through. His style is measured, austere, and impersonal. In contrast, the writings of the mystics possess a vocabulary and a style which, generally speaking, can be described as distinctly vivid and spontaneous, dynamic and affective. Their work is visionary in tendency, and is almost always of an immediate psychological interest; in contrast that of Aquinas is decidedly reserved, plain-spoken, and "ontological." No wonder, then, that both at a popular level and in the world of academe, although regarded as a great Christian philosopher and an outstanding dogmatic theologian, Aquinas has not generally been thought of as a spiritual author, and has never been regarded as a Christian mystic with the distinctive character and genius of someone like St. John of the Cross. Are we to conclude, then, that the insistently dogged and scientific nature of Aquinas's work as a theologian tended somehow to undermine his life as a man of prayer?

II. The Dilemma of the Intellectual: Aquinas and Charles Darwin

There has been for some years now in contemporary spirituality a tendency to set up a contrast--an exaggerated contrast--between, on the one hand, the cold, abstract intellect and, on the other, the warm, sensitive heart. We are told that, in order to make progress in the spiritual life--and indeed in life in general--we must make a journey from head to heart, an exodus out of the arid "Egypt" of dull, controlled reflection to the promised land of spontaneous, fresh, exuberant emotion. Needless to say, the unhappy dualism implicit in this way of thinking is something Dominicans have actively opposed over the centuries. Again and again in their writings we find an unembarrassed enthusiasm for the role not only of the heart but also of the mind in contemplation: the mind in search of God, the mind in love with God. That said, it would be naive to suggest there are no risks involved for the individual believer, whether man or woman, whose task in life is to be a professional theologian, and who regards theology itself as a science. The kind of risks I have in mind here constitute a challenge not only for practicing theologians but for all those who, in their different areas of research, are inclined to approach reality in an exclusively scientific spirit.

One example that illustrates this point with great vividness comes to mind. It is the unforgettable confession Charles Darwin makes in his autobiography concerning the unusual impact that a lifelong dedication to science had on his sensibility and on his capacity to appreciate the finer things of life. Here is a small part of what he shared on that subject: "Up to the age of thirty, or beyond it, poetry of many kinds ... gave me great pleasure ... even as a schoolboy I took intense delight in Shakespeare. ... But now for many years I cannot endure to read a line of poetry; I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me. I have also almost lost my taste for pictures or music." (12) Darwin is speaking here, and with an almost shocking self-penetration, of what he calls "the atrophy of that part of the brain on which the higher tastes depend." (13) "My mind," he writes, "seems to have become a kind of machine for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts." (14) What a devastating end, what a tragic fate for a scholar! But the condition described here is not one peculiar to Darwin as a scientist. In the realm of theology, for example, since the time of Aquinas there have been, I have no doubt, more than a few neo-Thomists and neo-scholastics whose minds were no less cold and machinelike but who lacked the honesty or the self-knowledge to admit to their condition. In the case of Darwin, an insistently scientific approach to nature, over so many months and years, rendered the man incapable in the end of enjoying what are acknowledged universally to be some of the highest and greatest gifts of life.

Is it possible that, in the case of Aquinas, a no less determined, no less scientific approach--this time to the mysteries of God--left the saint in some way bereft of the taste for prayer and contemplation, as von Speyer has suggested? Can the great Scholastic be accused, therefore, of being all head and no heart? In his practice of theology, did the mind of Aquinas become, in the end, like Darwin's, "a machine for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts"?

To attempt some kind of answer to this question, it will be necessary to give attention to two important sources: first, the actual writings of Aquinas, and in particular certain of his reflections that bear directly on the question of prayer and contemplation; and, second, the evidence concerning his own life of prayer and contemplation as reported by those of his contemporaries who knew him well.

III. Science and Devotion: Aquinas and St. Thomas Didymus

A good starting point for our reflections, I would suggest, is an incident to which St. Thomas draws our attention in his commentary on the Gospel of John, chapter 20. The apostle, known as Doubting Thomas, orThomas Didymus, is gazing with amazement and faith at the Risen Christ, and at the open wound in his side. This is the moment, according to Aquinas, when the Doubter is transformed into "a theologian." (15) Thomas, being himself a theologian, identified in a particular way, we may presume, with this moment of contemplative awareness in the life of the apostle. So are we to think of him, then, as in some sense "another Thomas"?

This question, as it happens, was raised by a contemporary of Aquinas, Bernard Gui, in his biography of the saint. Answering his own question, Gui replies: "Not indeed like [Thomas] Didymus in doubting, for our Thomas's hold on divine things was firm and sure; but resembling that Apostle in entering the abyss of the side of Christ ... entering as one invited, and therein searching out and expressing the mysteries contained there, with such assurance that it is as if his hands had handled what the finger of his intellect points to." (16) The "pointing" of the intellect is one thing, the fine brilliance of that kind of understanding, but Thomas, the theologian, was never content with an exclusively intellectual or merely scientific grasp of the mysteries of God. Something once said of St. Dominic can be said equally here of his most famous son: "He was able to penetrate the mysteries ... with the humble understanding of his heart." (17)

Bernard Gui, in his biography, notes that, on occasion, Friar Thomas would take time to read works that were in no way academic, devotional texts, for example, that speak more immediately to the heart than to the head. He undertook this practice, Gui tells us, "in order to offset the aridity which is so often the result of abstract and subtle speculative thinking." (18) And this practice, he says further, "did both his heart good by increasing devotion and his intellect by deepening its considerations." (19) Clearly Aquinas had no intention whatever of becoming a merely cold or abstract intellectual. In this context an observation he makes, in his commentary On The Epistle to the Hebrews, is highly significant. Theology, he notes, although it is indeed a science, is different from other sciences in the role it gives both to the head and to the heart. He writes: "The doctrine of sacred scripture contains not only matters for speculation, as in geometry, but also matters to be accepted by the heart [approbanda per affectum]." (20) Accordingly, the discipline of theology cannot be undertaken in an exclusively academic spirit. "In the other sciences, it is enough to be made perfect according to the intellect; in this one, however, it is required to be made perfect both intellectually and affectively [secundum intellectum et affectum]." (21)

In this sentence the word affectum alerts us to the experiential nature of a genuinely engaged theology, an aspect of theology which, unfortunately, did not always receive due attention from the later Scholastic tradition. But Aquinas, in his commentary On the Divine Names, declares: "The learned person not only attains to knowledge of divine things, he also experiences them, i.e. not only does he receive them as knowledge into his mind, he also becomes one thing with them by love and by affection." (22) The meaning Aquinas gives to the word "experience" when speaking about God has provoked a great deal of debate. Some scholars argue that the word possesses an intellectual rather than an affective meaning. But, in the opinion of Jean-Pierre Torrell, Aquinas uses the word to describe a form of knowledge whose character is not merely speculative but is "a knowing that also has a [frankly] experiential side (quodammodo experimentalis)." (23) The word "experience" itself Aquinas clearly borrows from the vocabulary of the senses. In his commentary On Psalm 33 he offers us, at one point, a description of the experience of God that might almost serve as a definition of mysticism. He writes: "Experience of a thing comes through the senses. ... Now God is not removed from us, nor outside of us, he is in us. ... That is why experience of the divine goodness is called 'taste' (gustatio). ... The effect of that experience is twofold: first, certitude of knowledge, second, the sureness of affectivity." (24)

For Aquinas, the one who truly practices theology does not merely think about the mysteries of the faith at a safe, intellectual distance. No, he or she is someone who, with profound regard, kneels down in spirit, as it were, before the mystery. That, I take it, is the reason why Jean-Pierre Torrell says of Aquinas that, when he attempts to reason about his faith as a speculative theologian, it is never simply "a matter of logical rigour." On the contrary, it always involves, Torrell insists, "the totality of his person." (25) Along, therefore, with the image of the theologian seated at a desk and earnestly devoted to the study of truth, another necessary image for Aquinas is that of the apostle Thomas Didymus falling to his knees at the feet of his Lord and God, and thereby acknowledging both the humanity and divinity of Christ, and becoming, in that moment, in the understanding of Aquinas, "a good theologian" ("bonus theologus"). (26)

IV. Dedicated Scholar and Man of Prayer

Gui, in his biography of Aquinas, notes that "in Thomas the habit of prayer was extraordinarily developed." (27) One indication of this fact is that "when perplexed by a difficulty he would kneel and pray." (28) In fact, Gui tells us, that "he never set himself to study or argue a point, or lecture or write or dictate without first having recourse inwardly--but with tears--to prayer." (29) And, what is more, Aquinas was prepared openly to acknowledge, according to Gui, that "prayer and the help of God had been of greater service to him in the search for truth than his natural intelligence and habit of study." (30) Clearly, what counted for Aquinas, as a theologian, was something far more profound than mere cleverness. In his commentary on Matthew's Gospel, he declares: "Humility is what makes a man capable of God." (31)

That Aquinas turned to prayer in the way I have indicated will come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the lives of the saints. And the fact that humble and devoted prayer and dedicated intellectual study should be regarded as two fundamentally different kinds of activity will also occasion no surprise. But what will perhaps seem strange, indeed may even astonish, is that Aquinas held fast to the view all his life that study--theological study--the passionate, unrelenting pursuit of divine truth, was itself somehow an actual form of prayer. Serious thinking about the Gospel was, for Aquinas, nothing less than a sacred activity. In the Prologue to the Sentences he states explicitly that, for the person who is actively engaged in it, theology takes on the form of prayer. It assumes what he calls the modus orativus. (32)

I have always been struck by a particular story about Aquinas that is recorded in one of the early biographies. (33) It reveals in a striking but I think also amusing manner the emphatically intellectual character of the saint. Once, when he was praying in the Dominican convent at Naples, there appeared to Aquinas in a vision a certain Brother Romanus whom he had last seen in Paris. Romanus said to him: "I have passed from this life, but I am allowed to come to you on account of your merits." Aquinas was shaken at first by the apparition, but summoning up his courage, he said to Romanus: "If it be pleasing to God, I adjure you by God to answer my questions." (34) The saint then put to Romanus two rather straightforward questions, the first concerning himself, his work, and the state of his soul, and the second, concerning the spiritual condition of his friend. But, with the third and final question we hear, all of a sudden, breaking into the story, as it were, the voice of Friar Thomas d'Aquino, the searching, indefatigable scholar and passionate Scholastic. Without any preamble, he says to Romanus: "On that question that we have so often discussed together concerning the dispositions of knowing which we acquire here [on earth]: do they remain with us in the fatherland?" (35) It was an unexpected question to put to an apparition, and certainly not the sort of question we imagine saints, or those who have visions of this kind, are normally inclined to ask. The answer Romanus gives is short and, perhaps, not surprisingly, negative. "Brother Thomas, I see God," he declares, "and you may not question me further on that subject." (36)

Now, that would seem to be that, with no more to be said. The end, it would appear, of a brief excursus into Scholasticism. But Aquinas returns at once to his point. Vision or no vision, he is a scholar with a question on his mind, and he is not going to be easily thwarted. "Since you see God," he says to Romanus, "can you see Him directly, in an immediate way [sine media specie], or only by means of a likeness?" The ghostly visitant, at this stage, has clearly had enough. He chooses to bow out of the discussion at once and disappear, but not before delivering a short, mystical citation: "As we have heard so we have seen in the city of our God!" (37)

Friar Thomas, in more than one respect, it would appear, did not conform to the accepted model of a saint. He was pious certainly, but he was also a man obsessed with the desire for knowledge, and with the desire to know God. And, in the end, that obsession itself was part of his holiness. A.D. Sertillanges, in his celebrated work, La Vie intellectuelle, writes: "It is the thinker's special characteristic to be obsessed by the desire for knowledge." (38) But study--the impulse to study--being like prayer rooted in desire, can itself become a form of prayer. Sertillanges calls it "active prayer," a way of praying without ceasing. (39) And that is precisely what study became for Aquinas.

Even, on those occasions, when St. Thomas actually took time to go apart to pray, it was often connected with a particular intellectual challenge that was confronting him. He would withdraw, we are told, "into secret prayer ... in order to obtain understanding of the divine mysteries." (40) So prayer, we can say, was useful to him in his vocation as a Dominican intellectual--a point, as it happens, that Adrienne von Speyer was concerned to stress in the second of her two reports. In fact, she even goes so far as to suggest that Aquinas "uses his contemplation like practice for the clearer vision of his reasonings." (41) "His prayer," she tells us, is "systematic practice for him": "He arranges it into his work, and it serves as preparation for the work." (42)

The primary concern of the Dominican preacher is, or should be, to be helpful or useful for the salvation of others. Accordingly, intellectuals in the Order such as St. Thomas Aquinas have never been afraid to manifest, even with regard to the life of prayer and contemplation, a certain healthy pragmatism. Aquinas would no doubt, for example, have agreed with the eminently practical advice offered, on one occasion, by Pope St. Gregory the Great: "When preachers are resting, they should absorb in contemplation something they can give out later in their sermons, when they are busy again for the good of others." (43) In this passage, the act of contemplation is seen, first and last, as an outstanding aid toward better preaching. It is not regarded, therefore, as an end in itself. But such an exclusively pragmatic approach to the life of contemplation, wise though it certainly is on occasion in view of the preacher's vocation, does not represent the whole of Gregory's or indeed of Thomas's thinking on the subject. (44) The wise pragmatism of these two preachers of the Word is more than balanced, I would say, by a comment Aquinas makes in one of his lesser known works regarding the contemplation of wisdom. There he insists that contemplation possesses something of the happy uselessness--the sheer, self-delighting quality of a game. He writes: "We should observe that the contemplation of wisdom is fittingly compared to a game by reason of two features that are found in a game. First, a game is enjoyable in itself and the contemplation of wisdom provides the greatest enjoyment. ... Second, the activities of a game are not ordered to anything else, but are sought for their own sake. And this same feature belongs also to the delights of wisdom." (45)

V. The Scholastic Among the Mystics

When, as students, we first encounter the work of Aquinas, the scholastic form of his writing can be distinctly off-putting. What we have before us, it would appear, are a series of dogmatic insights merely: the thoughts a man had, not a man having thoughts, not the language of experience. Yes, we have evidence in full of a vast speculative wisdom, of a manifestly intellectual "knowing," but no clear evidence, it would appear, of any kind of deep interior or mystical experience, no evidence, in other words, of "knowing with all one's soul." (46) Carl Gustav Jung, when he first "took a dive into St Thomas" (47)--to use his own vivid expression--found that the plunge was hardly worth the trouble. In a letter to a friend he confessed his disappointment, saying that he "did not feel refreshed afterwards." (48) Almost certainly, I would say, it was the impersonal, scholastic nature of Aquinas's work that was the most immediate cause of his disappointment. Those, like Jung, who have had some familiarity with mystical texts, and with their impressively experiential and personal character, will find it next to impossible, at least in the beginning, to recognize in Aquinas's work its strong, contemplative character.

In contrast, a devoted reader of Aquinas, like the great contemporary scholar Jean-PierreTorrell, is prepared to speak openly about the "mystical" dimension of Aquinas's theology. (49) And Etienne Gilson, a figure from the receding past but a no less eminent Thomist in his day, after a lifetime's reading of the work of Aquinas, did not hesitate to declare: "The burning desire of God which in a John of the Cross overflows into lyric poems is here [in Aquinas] transcribed into the language of pure ideas." (50) The end result is not, of course, a kind of exalted or burnished metaphysics, a wonderfully inspired but purely intellectual phenomenon. No--according to Gilson, the Summa theologiae, for example, "with its abstract clarity, its impersonal transparency, crystallizes before our very eyes and for all eternity his [Aquinas's] interior life." (51)

That statement is, I think, both authoritative and illuminating. It invites us to continue to contemplate, as best we can, what we might call the "content" of that interior life. But the very form of Aquinas's writing is, I would suggest, a revelation of its basic, contemplative character. The vision expressed--the way it is expressed--is something utterly plain. Here, there is nothing whatever esoteric or mandarin. And yet that very plainness is, in the end, no small part of its appeal, and part also of its secret. A line from a prose passage by the English poet Ted Hughes comes at once to mind: "Not the plainness of a white marble floor, but of deep, clear water, open and immediate." (52) This simple image, this phrase, I have lifted out of its original and altogether different context. But I can hardly think of a better phrase to describe the distinctive quality and character of Aquinas's writing: "Not the plainness of a white marble floor, but of deep, clear water, open and immediate."

VI. Herman Hesse Reading Aquinas

So solemnly monumental, and indeed almost ahistorical, has Aquinas become in the popular imagination, his work can impress the uninitiated as nothing more than a great marble edifice, a temple of answers, a closed structure of hard and fixed dogma. But Herman Hesse, a representative figure of the twentieth century, encountering for the first time one of Aquinas's most famous works, would seem to have received a more positive impression. He gave an account of this experience in a poem titled "After Dipping into the Summa Contra Gentiles." (53) Bewildered by the chaos of the world's suffering, and by what is named in the poem as "strife, / Obsessions, and longings for a better life," (54) Hesse, as soon as he begins to dabble in the work of Aquinas, finds himself in a world that appears to be free of all strife and anguish, a serene uncomplicated realm, a universe of luminous clarity. He writes:

Whenever we entered the temple of Aquinas,
The graceful Summa contra Gentiles,
A new world greeted us, sweet, mature,
A world of truth, clarified and pure.
There all seemed lucid, Nature charged with Mind,
Man moving from God to Him, as He designed.
The law in one great formulary bound,
Forming a whole, a still unbroken round. (55)

Though these lines certainly capture something of the atmosphere of the Contra Gentiles, the poem overall does not present an accurate picture of Aquinas's work or indeed of Aquinas's world. Later, toward the end of the poem, Hesse briefly evokes an image--his image--of Aquinas and of other "blessed" people like Aquinas, and of the sweet and blissful world that he imagines they were privileged to inhabit; people, he writes, "Who never suffered anguish or knew fear, / Whose times were times of glory and good cheer, / Who lived like children, simple happy lives." (56)

Now that description, as no doubt you are well aware, bears no resemblance whatever to the world of the thirteenth century into which Thomas d'Aquino was born, and lived for nearly fifty years. And it also fails utterly to represent the day-to-day experience of Aquinas as a theologian "on campus" at the University of Paris. Marie-Dominique Chenu, with typical accuracy, warns us not to be taken in by the romantic image of Aquinas as a man so "abstracted" and "solitary" as to be effectively removed from "the conflicts and squabbles of his century." (57) That medieval world, Chenu explains, was one "where a manifest violence of spirit, even among believers, intensified the roughness of people's behavior." (58) Even the members of Aquinas's own immediate family were not immune from the violence of the period. His own brother, Reginaldo, was involved in a plot, in the year 1246, to assassinate the deposed Emperor Frederick II. The attempt failed, and the young man was subsequently caught and executed. (59) It should come, of course, as no surprise to encounter "violent spirits" in the world of politics. But Aquinas's experience of university life as a young theologian in Paris was not, as it happens, that much different. One or two examples of life on campus at the time will serve, I think, to dispel once and for all "the simple, happy lives" scenario proposed by Herman Hesse's poem.

VII. Aquinas "On Campus"

When Thomas arrived in Paris in 1252, he found himself in an atmosphere that was decidedly hostile to the Friars Preachers, that small group of revolutionary mendicants who were just then beginning to enjoy great influence at the university. Needless to say, the drama entailed a lot more than a mere struggle for certain coveted academic positions. "It may virtually be taken for granted," writes Josef Pieper, "that a revolutionary movement which had risen up out of criticism of the existing state of affairs ... would naturally not be treated with joy by the powers representative of the existing order. And it might be anticipated that the antagonism would grow all the stronger as the revolutionary movement exerted an ever more potent spell over 'the younger generation'--which, amazingly, is what the mendicant orders did." (60)

As time passed, the atmosphere within the university got so bad that, by 1255, it became actually dangerous for the friars to walk out into the streets. On more than one occasion, in the immediate vicinity of the Dominican Priory of San Jacques, there were riots and demonstrations. And, by the spring of 1256, things came to such a head that, according to Humbert of Romans, as soon as a friar was seen out in public, he was likely to be surrounded on all sides by an aggressive mob, the air filled with the loathsome sounds of mockery and yelling: "tumult of shoutings, the barking of dogs, the roaring of bears, the hissing of serpents." (61) What's more, all kinds of filth would be deliberately dumped down from above onto the cowled heads of the friars!

Fortunately, at least so far as we know, Thomas was not himself subject to any such form of physical violence. But he did, on one occasion, have to endure the sudden, rude interruption of a heckler in church when he was trying to preach. The heckler, a certain Guillot, while making his dramatic protest, held up for all to see a tract written against the friars, denouncing them in the strongest possible terms as dangerous forerunners of the Antichrist. (62) So Thomas d'Aquino lived, as the Chinese would say, in "interesting times"!

Given the atmosphere within the university during these years it's not surprising to learn that Aquinas on occasion also came under determined and severe intellectual attack. In 1270, for example, he was accused of contaminating his philosophy with naturalism. And, because of a number of suspect propositions then in circulation that were linked with his thought, he was constrained for a number of years to live under the threat of public censure or condemnation. (63) Nevertheless our young Dominican Master seems to have taken it all in his stride. He was never the kind of intellectual who invited opposition or controversy for its own sake. When, however, he found himself confronted by blatant lies or by manifest stupidity in an opponent, Aquinas did not hesitate to assume the role of a fierce advocate and stout defender of the truth. Once, for example, addressing a number of his Parisian adversaries, he declared: "If anyone glorifying himself with false knowledge, dares to argue against what I have just written, let him not babble in the corners or with infants who are incapable of judging such a difficult subject, but let him write against this book--if he dares." (64) And again: "Those who defend that position must confess that they do not understand anything at all and that they are not even worthy of discussion with those whom they attacked." (65)

Students of the work of Aquinas may be inclined to ignore these alarming historical details as irrelevant. After all, when we turn to his actual writings, the spirit we encounter there, line by line, paragraph by paragraph, is one of great calm and quiet order. The world of thought in which we find ourselves is one far removed, it would seem, from the "conflicts and squabbles" of a century long passed. But that serenity of thought, which so distinguishes the work of Aquinas, has not been achieved by ignoring, in any sense, the challenge of his own century. No, his theological vision is one that has been tested in the fires of immediate historical circumstance, and is all the more authoritative for that fact. Speaking of Aquinas's last great work, the Summa theologiae, Josef Pieper writes: "The very fact that a work of such unperturbed objectivity and such deep, radiating peace could grow from a life which, far from being untroubled, consumed itself in strife, gives us an insight into the special quality of the man." (66) And in the same book, Pieper speaks of "the noisy and disgraceful tempest of strife and jealousy in which he had to work." (67)

VIII. Aquinas and the Unknown God

The "wide calm" that impresses us, as soon as we take up and read any of the works of Aquinas, is not a calm born of a cold solipsism but rather that of an open, easy, and living relationship to all things. What the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke said on one occasion, when praising the sculptor Auguste Rodin, can also be said here, I believe, and with the same authority of recognition, regarding the life and work of Aquinas:

 He has left nothing in uncertainty ... he has made things and
 has placed them about him, things and things; so a reality grew
 around him, a wide calm relationship of things that linked him
 with other and older things, until he himself seemed to stem from
 a dynasty of great things; his quiet and his patience comes from
 thence, his fearless enduring age, his superiority over people who
 are much too mobile, too vacillating, playing too much with the
 equilibrium in which, almost unconsciously, he rests. (68)

Of all the works of Aquinas the one which, I think, best communicates this sense of "wide calm" is the Summa contra Gentiles. Page by page, the text reveals to us an ordered universe of ideas, in which, as Herman Hesse notes in his poem, "wisdom and knowledge were not yet divided." (69) But such an impressively achieved vision, both dogmatic and spiritual, does not represent, on the part of Aquinas, a bland, complacent hold on the mysteries of God. No, in fact, the opposite is the case. Had Herman Hesse been able to do more than merely "dip" into the Contra Gentiles, had he persevered in his reading up to book 4, chapter 1, for example, he would, I think, have been startled into a very different perception of Aquinas. For, from the very beginning of the chapter, Aquinas is concerned to emphasize the radical limitation of all human knowledge of God, even when it is informed by faith. "Job," Aquinas notes, "rightly names it a droplet." (70)

Believing Christians today seldom hear from preachers and teachers about the incomprehensibility of the divine nature. So the notion that the height of our human knowledge of God, far from being a remarkable fountain of wisdom, is no more than a mere "drop" in the ocean, relative to the awesome mystery of God, might well sound alarming! But Aquinas, in his work, shows not the least hesitation in making clear to us, and over and over again, the true depth of our ignorance. Thus, in the Summa theologiae, he writes: "Neither Christian nor pagan knows the nature of God as he is in himself." (71) And, in a commentary on Boethius on the Trinity: "At the end of our knowledge, God is ultimately known as unknown." (72) Such forceful language might seem to suggest that Aquinas is of the opinion we can make no true statements whatever about the nature of God. But, in reality, as Brian Davies points out, according to Aquinas "we can know many things about God--that he is loving, good, powerful, and so on." So what then does it mean to assert "We cannot know what God is?" Davies explains: "To grasp his position, we need to understand that according to him we know what something is when we can define it. More precisely, we know what something is when we can locate it in terms of genus and species." (73) But to locate God in that way, to imagine that we could comprehend God as a scientist comprehends objects in the known world, would be knowledge not worth having. Un dieu define est un dieu fini.

Aquinas is, of course, well aware of the marvelous knowledge that comes to us through faith. But so important is the point he wants to make regarding our mind's inability to grasp the unutterable mystery of God, he is prepared, at times, to risk sounding almost like an agnostic. Not for a moment, of course, is he forgetting the fullness of God's revelation to us in Christ. But what makes that final revelation so astonishing is the fact that, at its core, there is not simply a cold handful of dogmas proposed for our acceptance, but rather a living Divine Person present to us in all his mystery. With regard to the "agnosticism" of Aquinas, the Oxford Dominican Victor White asks, "If St Thomas is right when he says we cannot know what God is then are we not driven back to stark agnosticism?" And he replies: "St Thomas's position differs from that of modern agnostics because while modern agnosticism says simply, 'We do not know, and the universe is a mysterious riddle', a Thomist says, 'We do not know what the answer is, but we do know that there is a mystery behind it all which we do not know, and if there were not, there would not even be a riddle. This Unknown we call God. If there were no God, there would be no universe to be mysterious, and nobody to be mystified'"! (74)

No small part of the contemplative strength of Aquinas's theology is the purposefulness with which he is determined to explore, as far as humanly possible, the depths of that mystery and yet, at the same time, to acknowledge himself defeated in the end, mastered by the sheer wonder of what he is contemplating. At one point in the Contra Gentiles, he writes: "If we contemplate the mystery of the Incarnation earnestly and reverently, we find there such a depth of wisdom that our human knowledge is overwhelmed by it. ... That is why to all those who consider things reverently the reasons for this mystery appear ever more marvelous (semper magis ac magis admirabiles)." (75)

IX. The Collapse, the Silence

In the last year of Aquinas's life it was remarked by those closest to him that he was becoming more and more abstracted, more and more absorbed in contemplation. Of course, for years he had been given to bouts of absentmindedness. But this was something different. It was certainly different in intensity. At Compline, during the singing of the Media vita, his face was now bathed in tears. And, during Mass, he would appear completely overwhelmed at times by the mystery he was celebrating. On Passion Sunday 1273, with a large group of people present at the Mass, it was noticed that tears were flowing from his eyes, and, so profound was his ecstasy, at one point he had to be shaken so that he might return to himself and continue with the celebration. (76) On December 6, several months later, finding himself once again rapt in prayer during Mass, something happened, an event of grace so truly overwhelming it was to mark a change in him forever.

There were, it would seem, two aspects to this extraordinary event, a physical as well as a mystical aspect. According to James Weisheipl, "The physical basis for the event could have been ... an acute breakdown of his physical and emotional powers due to overwork." (77) That a profound mystical experience can, on occasion, be accompanied by a complete physical collapse is noted in one place by the Dominican preacher and mystic Johannes Tauler. He writes: "A man may die of a broken heart because God works in him so vehemently that it is more than he can bear." (78) And again: "Many a man has died of this, giving himself up so utterly to these wondrously great works that his nature could not endure it and collapsed under the strain." (79) After Mass that morning, December 6, 1273, St. Thomas Aquinas, we are told, "hung up his instruments of writing." From that day on he never wrote another word. He never completed the Summa. Asked by his bewildered assistant, Brother Reginald, "Father, are you going to give up this great work?" Thomas replied: "I can't go on. ... Everything seems as so much straw in comparison with what I have seen and what has been revealed to me." (80)

Aquinas, the "bonus theologus," leaves us with a final, unexpected word. And the word is silence. This does not mean, of course, that he had no more to say. It means simply that what he had glimpsed, in his ecstasy, was utterly beyond the reach of human thought and human speech. Years earlier, in a treatise on the Trinity, he had written: "God is honoured by silence, not because we may say or know nothing about him, but because we know that we are unable to comprehend him." (81)

In the light of all the different texts and stories contained in the present article, I have no doubt that Aquinas was both a great intellectual and a great, albeit discreet, mystic. That is the reason, I am persuaded, why the "silence" of which he speaks--the silence that honors God--can be detected between the lines and words of almost everything he wrote. It is a silence, first and last, of attention to the Word of God, the silence of the grace of listening, the silence of a mind continually amazed at the radiant fullness of truth revealed in Christ. It is a silence of willing obedience to the will of the Father, and to the least movement of the workings of the Spirit. It is a silence of love, of Trinitarian communion, a silence of day-to-day intimacy and friendship, a silence that denotes the very opposite of a mere intellectual monologue. It is a silence that, though contemplative of the fact that God is beyond all human thoughts, all human words, is never for a moment disdainful of the humble words we use when we try to speak of God. It is the silence of a mind utterly at rest in the contemplation of truth, and yet ever restless in its search for a deeper understanding. It is a silence that breathes with that freedom of spirit that comes from the contemplation of eternal things, and that yet remains committed always to the immediate task of the hour. It is the silence of a man, living for years in the midst of the ordinary squabbles and conflicts of academe, who was yet able to be somehow at ease, and to live a quite extraordinary interior life. It is the silence of a mystic on campus.

Inevitably, with respect to our subject, there are innumerable gaps and omissions in the present study. And, perhaps, the most surprising is the nonappearance of even one of Aquinas's actual prayers. But now, by way of conclusion, I wish to cite three stanzas (numbers 1, 4, and 7) from Aquinas's poem Adoro Te Devote: first, in the original Latin, and then in English translation by Gerard Manley Hopkins. The most recent scholarship regarding the poems and prayers encourages us to believe, I'm happy to say, that Aquinas really is the author of this beautiful prayer. (82) It is a work that betrays not only a profound sense of wonder at the mystery of Christ's presence in the Eucharist; it is also a prayer of manifest need, a prayer of asking. Of the three stanzas, the second contains a direct reference to St. Thomas Didymus, the disciple who became in the end "the good theologian," the man of faith with whom our Thomas Aquinas so clearly identified.

Adoro te devote, latens Deitas
Quae sub his figuris vere latitas;
Tibi se cor meum totum subjicit,
Quia te contemplans totum deficit.

Godhead here in hiding, whom I do adore,
Masked by these bare shadows, shape and nothing more,
See, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart
Lost, all lost in wonder at the God thou art.

Plagas, sicut Thomas, non intueor:
Deum tamen meum te confiteor.
Fac me tibi semper magis credere,
In te spem habere, te diligere.

I am not like Thomas, wounds I cannot see,
But can plainly call thee Lord and God as he.
Make this faith the deeper every day I live,
Stronger hope to hold by, greater love to give.

Jesu, quem velatum nunc aspicio,
Oro, fiat illud quod tam sitio:
Ut te revelata cernens facie,
Visu sim beatus tuae gloriae. (83)

Jesu, whom I look at shrouded here below,
I beseech thee send me what I thirst for so,
Some day to gaze on thee face to face in light
And be blest for ever with thy glory's sight. (84)

Notes

(1.) This article was originally given as a talk at the University of St. Thomas, St. Paul, Minnesota, September 17, 2009.

(2.) Gerald de Frachet, Vitae Fratrum [Lives of the Brethren] in Monumenta Ordinis Fratrum Praedicatorum, ed. B.M. Reichert, Vol I, IV, 13, v (Louvain 1896), 184.

(3.) Adrienne von Speyer, The Book of All Saints, Vol 1, ed. Hans Urs von Balthasar, trans. D.C. Schindler (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2008).

(4.) Or, it may be, that while describing her "vision," she was at the same time unconsciously tapping into Hans Urs von Balthasar's decidedly negative attitude toward certain traditions of Scholasticism. Referring, on one occasion, to the rage provoked in him, as a young Jesuit, by the utter "dreariness" of the Scholastic theology to which he was exposed at the time, von Balthasar wrote: "I felt like tearing down, with Samson's strength, the whole temple and burying myself beneath the rubble!" See Adrienne von Speyer, Erde und Himmel. Ein Tagebuch, II: Die Zeit der grossen Dikate, ed. Hans Urs von Balthasar (Einsiedeln, 1975), 195.

(5.) Von Speyer, The Book of All the Saints, 241.

(6.) Ibid., 240.

(7.) Ibid., 241. Questioned by von Balthasar concerning St. Thomas's spiritual state "at the end of his life," von Speyer's reply, while being somewhat more positive in tone, is still basically negative in its overall judgment of the saint: "When the intellectual power weakens, then something does emerge that is more like love. His meticulousness loses strength, so that a kind of goodnaturedness comes out that was basically missing beforehand."

(8.) Ibid., 364.

(9.) Ibid., 364-65.

(10.) Ibid.

(11.) Ibid., 366. One or two other aspects of von Speyer's report sound a lot more plausible. She says, for example: "His perseverance in work is hard to imagine. ... He has his heart set on bringing the whole, completed achievement to God. He overtaxes himself." And again: "You would have to say that he is holy because he placed his enormous intellectual gifts entirely in the service of the Church's truth, because he allowed himself to be taken up into a greater context" (365).

(12.) Charles Darwin: His Life Told in an Autobiographical Chapter and in a Selected Series of His Published Letters, ed. Francis Darwin (New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1893), 53-54.

(13.) Ibid.

(14.) Ibid.

(15.) St. Thomas Aquinas, In Joannem Evangelistas, 20, lect.6, ed., Parma, 634.

(16.) Bernard Gui, The Life of St Thomas Aquinas: Biographical Documents, Vol. 13, ed. Kenelm Foster (London: Longman, Green, 1959), 36.

(17.) Jordan of Saxony, [Libellus] On the Beginnings of the Order of Preachers, trans. Simon Tugwell (Dublin, 1982), 2.

(18.) Gui, Life, 15: 38. The one devotional work explicitly mentioned by Gui is a work ascribed to Cassian: "Homilies of the Fathers" (Collationes Patrum).

(19.) Ibid.

(20.) St. Thomas Aquinas, In Epistolam ad Hebraos, Caput V, lect.II, ed., Parma, col. 714.

(21.) Ibid. In the same text Aquinas also writes: "Perfection is of two kinds: one is of the intellect, when a person has the wisdom to discern and judge correctly about matters which have been proposed; the other is perfection of love, which charity produces, and is present when a person adheres entirely to God," 713.

(22.) See St. Thomas Aquinas, Expositio in librum b. Dionysii de divinis nominibus, no.191, ed. C. Pera (Turin: Marietti, 1950), 59.

(23.) Jean-Pierre Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Vol 2: Spiritual Master, trans. Robert Royal (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2003), 95.

(24.) Ibid., 96. For some reason this particular statement and others like it in Aquinas's work tend either to be ignored or overlooked by certain authors, both ancient and modern. In the fifteenth century, for example, the Carthusian monk Vincent Aggabach, impressed by the decidedly intellectual character of the saint's work, thought it necessary to exclude Aquinas altogether from the history of Christian mysticism. On this point, see Martin Grabmann, The Interior Life of Aquinas, trans. N. Ashenbrener (Milwaukee: Bruce, 1951), 31.

(25.) Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, 2: 371.

(26.) See In Johannem Evangelistas, 20, lect.6, ed., Parma, 634.

(27.) Gui, Life 15: 36.

(28.) Ibid., 37.

(29.) Ibid.

(30.) Ibid. William of Tocco, who was one of the witnesses at the First Canonization Enquiry at Naples, remarked of St. Thomas that "all his writing began with prayer, and in all his difficulties he had recourse to prayer, with many tears." See "From the First Canonization Enquiry," LVIII, in The Life of St Thomas Aquinas: Biographical Documents, ed. K. Foster (London: Longman, Green, 1959), 98.

(31.) See In Matthaeum, Cap. XI, ed., Parma, 114.

(32.) See In Sent. Pro., a.5 sol; cited in Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, 2: 17.

(33.) De vision fratris Romani, in William of Tocco, Vita XLV, 118-19. A version of this story can also be found in Gui, Life 19, 186-87. My own reflection on the vision of Romanus which follows was originally published in The NewWine of Dominican Spirituality: A Drink Called Happiness (London: Burns and Oates, 2006), 110-13.

(34.) Tocco, 119.

(35.) Ibid., 88.

(36.) Ibid.

(37.) Ibid., 89.

(38.) A.D. Sertillanges, The Intellectual Life (Cork: The Mercier Press, 1965), 71.

(39.) Ibid., 70.

(40.) See Ystoria sancti Thome de Aquino de Guillaume de Tocco, Vol. 30, ed. Claire le Brun-Gouanvic (Toronto, 1996), 80.

(41.) Von Speyer, The Book of All Saints, 364.

(42.) Ibid.

(43.) Pope St. Gregory the Great, PL 75:761A. This text is cited by Humbert of Romans in his Treatise on the Formation of Preachers, no. 236. See Early Dominicans: SelectedWritings, ed. Simon Tugwell (NewYork: Paulist Press, 1982), 252.

(44.) In the Summa theologiae, Thomas writes: "Gregory makes the contemplative life to consist in the love of God, inasmuch as through loving God we are aflame to gaze on his beauty" (II-II q.180, a.1). According toThomas the individual at prayer can be so overwhelmed at times by the immensity of the power of God, the ecstasy experienced is of such force it seems literally to sweep the person out of their standing (II-II q.175, a.1 and a.2). A number of Thomas's own contemporaries reported that he himself, on occasion, experienced rapture of this kind. See Gui, Life 23:42, 24: 44.

(45.) Prologue, Expositio libri Boetii de ebdomadibus, ed. Leonine, 267-68. The term "contemplation," in this passage, does not refer specifically to a form of Christian contemplation but rather to a simple act of gazing at the truth. A comparable statement by Aquinas can be found in Contra gentiles, III, Ch 2, no. 9.

(46.) This distinction between "knowing" and "knowing with all one's soul" is noted by the French philosopher Gustav Thibon, when speaking about the mysticism of his friend Simone Weil. "Such mysticism," he writes, "had nothing in common with those religious speculations divorced from any personal commitment which are all too frequently the only testimony of intellectuals who apply themselves to the things of God. She actually experienced in its heart-breaking reality the distance between 'knowing' and 'knowing with all one's soul', and the one object of her life was to abolish that distance." See Thibon's "Introduction" to Gravity and Grace by Simone Weil (London: Routledge, 1962), viii-ix.

(47.) Letter to Victor White OP, 31 December 1945, in C.G. Jung Letters, Vol 1: 1906-1950, eds. G. Adler and A. Jaffe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973), 540.

(48.) Ibid.

(49.) Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, 2: 3.

(50.) Etienne Gilson, The Christian Philosophy of St Thomas Aquinas (New York: Random House, 1956), 375. A no less striking remark regarding the contemplative basis of Aquinas's teaching was made by the saint's early biographer, Bernard Gui. Hardly had Thomas begun to teach, we are told, and people were at once aware that here was a mind possessed by "a new light from God": "The divine splendor hitherto hidden in his soul was now shining out, and all were amazed at the glory and lucidity of his utterance." See Gui, Life 11: 33.

(51.) Gilson, 376.

(52.) Ted Hughes, ed. A Choice of Shakespeare's Verse (London: Faber and Faber, 1971), 202. Hughes is describing here one of the sonnets of Shakespeare.

(53.) The poem is, in fact, one of a batch of poems attributed to a fictional character in Hesse's novel The Glass Bead Game. But since the voice we hear in the poem is much closer to the troubled, searching voice of a poet like Hesse, living in the twentieth century, than to the voice of the young, serene Master of "the Game," Joseph Knecht, I have taken the liberty of attributing a number of the statements in the poem to Hesse himself. This is not, of course, to deny the objective distance that still remains between Hesse, the living poet, and the fictional author of his poem. See "After Dipping into the Summa Contra Gentiles," in The Glass Bead Game, trans. R. and C. Winston (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1974), 412-13.

(54.) Ibid., 412.

(55.) Ibid.

(56.) Ibid., 413.

(57.) Marie-Dominique Chenu, St Thomas d'Aquin et la Theologie (Paris: Seuil, 1959), 113.

(58.) Ibid.

(59.) See James Weisheipl, Friar Thomas d'Aquino: His Life, Thought andWorks (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1983), 48. At the time of his brother's execution St. Thomas was already a member of the Order of Preachers.

(60.) Josef Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, trans. R. and C. Winston (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press,1987), 64.

(61.) Humbert of Romans, Chart. U.P., I, 311-12, n.273; cited in Weisheipl, Friar Thomas d'Aquino, 93.

(62.) This incident took place on Palm Sunday, April 6, 1259. See Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, 1: 71-72.

(63.) See Chenu, St Thomas d'Aquin, 111-12.

(64.) De unitate intellectus contra Averroistas, 5, II. 434-41; cited in Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, 1: 93.

(65.) De unitate intellectus contra Averroistas, 3, II. 315-17; cited in Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, 1: 93. Although there are similar caustic remarks peppered throughout Aquinas's work, indicative of life "on campus," they are few and far between. What most characterized his reaction to intellectual opponents, even those who were decidedly intransigent, was an openness of spirit to anything they might be saying that was true, and an amazing patience. Again and again he is spoken of by his contemporaries as a man "wonderfully kind" (miro modo benignus).

(66.) Josef Pieper, The Silence of St Thomas, trans. D. O'Connor (London: Faber and Faber, 1957), 12.

(67.) Ibid., 20.

(68.) Letter to Lou Andrea-Salome, August 10, 1903, in Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke:1892-1910, trans. J.B. Greene and M.D. Herter Norton (New York: Norton, 1945), 123.

(69.) Hesse, "After Dipping," 412.

(70.) Summa contra Gentiles, Lib. IV, cap.1, 4.

(71.) Summa theologiae, I, q.13, a.10, ad 5.

(72.) Super Boethium de Trinitate, 1.2. ad 1, 84.

(73.) See Brian Davies, The Thought of Thomas Aquinas (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 41.

(74.) See Victor White, God the Unknown (London: Harvill Press, 1956), 18-19.

(75.) Summa contra Gentiles, Lib. IV, cap. 54,173.

(76.) See Gui, Life 28: 46. And see also William of Tocco, Vita S. Thomae Aquinatis, in Fontes vitae S. Thomae, eds. D. Prumer and M.H. Laurent, in facsimiles attached to Revue Thomiste (1911-1937), 103. Many times during his life Aquinas was seen weeping at prayer, a fact that rather contradicts the notion of the saint as a cold and unemotional contemplative. See the reports in Gui's biography, and also the reports given by the witnesses at the first Canonization Enquiry: The Life of St Thomas Aquinas: Biographical Documents, 34, 37, 87, 98, 100. On the subject of tears, Aquinas made an observation that would seem to have come straight from the depth of his own contemplative experience: "Tears are caused not only through sorrow, but also through a certain tenderness of the affections, especially when one considers something that gives joy mixed with pain. ... In this way tears arise from devotion." Summa theologiae II-II, q.82, a.4, ad 3.

(77.) See Weisheipl. Friar Thomas d'Aquino, 322. I am indebted to Weisheipl for the helpful phrase "mystic on campus." See his impressive paper, "Mystic on Campus: Friar Thomas," in An Introduction to the Medieval Mystics of Europe, ed. P. Szarmach (Albany: State University of NewYork Press, 1984), 135-59.

(78.) See Johannes Tauler, Sermon 11, in Sermons, trans. M. Shrady (New York: Paulist Press, 1985), 58.

(79.) Ibid.

(80.) This account was shared by Brother Reginald with a friar who then passed on the story to Bartholomew of Capua. See the First Canonization Enquiry at Naples, in Fontes vitae S. Thomae, 376. "Straw," in the Middle Ages, was a common term for Scripture's literal sense. As an image it evoked, therefore, something distinctly limited and yet of manifest value. So, although Aquinas was compelled, at the end, to acknowledge the radical limitation of his lifetime's work, he was not simply dismissing it all as so much rubbish.

(81.) Super Boetium de Trinitate, 2, 1, ad 6, 94.

(82.) See Torrell, Saint Thomas Aquinas, 1: 132-35, and see also 357. One of the principal reasons why this prayer is judged to be almost certainly the work of Aquinas is because Tocco, in his biography of the saint, not only names it as one of his works but actually includes it in the biography itself. See Ystoria sancti Thome de Aquino de Guillaume de Tocco, 197-98.

(83.) In the Parma edition of Aquinas's work, the poem is given the title "Oratio post corporis et calicis elevationem." See Piae Preces, in Opuscula alia dubia, 243-44. Until very recently the first line of Aquinas's poem was thought to end with the phrase "latens deitas" (see, for example, the Parma edition). But the word originally used by Aquinas was "veritas" not "deitas" (see Ystoria sancti Thome de Aquino, 197). Here, in citing the poem, I have retained the phrase "latens deitas" in order to help explain the phrase "Godhead here in hiding" in the translations by Hopkins.

(84.) See The PoeticalWorks of Gerald Manley Hopkins, ed. Norman H. McKenzie (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990). Hopkins attempted to translate Adoro Te Devote a number of times. McKenzie includes the principal variants on pages 111-12 and 312-14. The version cited here, with a few minor exceptions, can be found on 112.

PAUL MURRAY, OP