THE TWO APPROACHES

In his response (Leg. 1.15) to Atticus' request that he discuss the ius civile — civil law, or (better) the system of justice in the state — Cicero asks whether what is wanted is an enquiry that will be aliquid uberius quam forensis usus desiderat: ‘something more expansive than the practice of the courts calls for’. He has already indicated that the minutiae of the civil law are beneath him; in any case, plenty of other writers have already dealt with the law of gutters and party walls, and with the drafting of contracts and of formulae for the courts. Atticus, and Quintus too, are all agog for a treatment along the lines Marcus proposes. ‘Quite right’, says Cicero (1.16):

CICERO AND ROMAN IDEOLOGY

Modern historians tend to be very severe in assessing Cicero's political acumen, especially the stance he adopted at the end of his life. ‘In the Rome of Antony and Octavian he was an obstructive anachronism’, a man who ‘never penetrated to an understanding of the basic economic and social issues that cried out for remedy, and which were bound to be a source of political instability until something was done about them’. These assessments, which I take from David Stockton, are fairly representative. From a Hegelian view of history, Cicero in 44–43 BC was not the man for the hour. His attempts in the Philippics to rally support for a Republican opposition to Antony show how little he understood the linkage between political effectiveness or insight and real influence over the sources of power. So, with hindsight, it may be said. Yet, on a longer view of history, Cicero's political thought grows in interest — less because of its practical relevance to his own times than as an attempt to diagnose what had gone wrong in Roman Republican ideology and what would be required to put it right.

The work I am referring to as the basis for this claim is De officiis. It is one of the ‘great books’, but no one today perhaps can read it with fresh eyes.

It is a cliché that, in the moral and political philosophy of the schools which formed in the Hellenistic period, the polis loses the central role which it has for Plato and Aristotle. Various explanations of this fact have been put forward, mostly in terms of the sociology and politics of the period. None of these seem to me convincing, but I shall not be concerned with them here, because my concern in this chapter is rather with one set of philosophical arguments which reflect this shift. My focus is further narrowed in that I shall not be concerned with the new Hellenistic schools themselves, but rather with the fate, in the Hellenistic period, of Aristotle's moral and political philosophy, one which in its original version clearly does make the polis, and the kind of relationships which are special to it, important in ethical thought, and which thus contains a robust ‘political philosophy’, one which focuses on questions of equality, justice and authority within a definite unit, the city-state.

Not only does the Aristotelian corpus include an extensive work of political philosophy: Aristotle's ethical theory gives it a specific place. Any ethical theory has to answer the question, ‘What are our obligations to others, and how do they differ with our different relations to others?’ Ancient theories, which are eudaimonistic in structure, pose the question in terms of the extent to which the interests of others have to be taken account of for the agent to achieve her own final end, happiness.

The sixth Symposium Hellenisticum returned to England for the first time since the initial meeting in Oxford in 1978. It took place in Cambridge between 17 and 23 August 1992. Accommodation and meals were provided in St John's College, and discussion sessions were held in the Faculty of Classics. The papers contained in this volume are revised versions of the drafts submitted to the conference: footnotes testify to the vigour and range of the criticisms they provoked during and after the proceedings. Hence as has been usual on these occasions the revisions are sometimes thoroughgoing.

The following scholars participated in the Symposium: Antonina Alberti, Keimpe Algra, Julia Annas, Margaret Atkins, Chris Bobonich, Jacques Brunschwig, Myles Burnyeat, Victor Caston, Andrew Erskine, Jean-Louis Ferrary, David Hahm, Brad Inwood, Anna Maria Ioppolo, André Laks, Tony Long, Jaap Mansfeld, Mario Mignucci, Phil Mitsis, John Moles, Carlo Natali, Martha Nussbaum, John Procopé, Malcolm Schofield, David Sedley, Richard Sorabji, Gisela Striker. Melissa Lane acted as graduate assistant.

Many participants received financial assistance from their home institutions, for which we offer thanks. We are particularly indebted to St John's College and the Faculty of Classics: each made substantial subventions towards costs. Without this generous help the Symposium could not have gone ahead.

THE DE RE PUBLICA AS A TREATISE DE OPTIMO STATU CIVITATIS AND DE OPTIMO CIVE

The De re publica and the De legibus, both to be dated to the second half of the 50s BC, were regarded by Cicero as complementary in the same way as the Republic and the Laws of Plato: ‘Since you have already written a treatise on the ideal constitution of the commonwealth (de optimo rei publicae statu)’, he makes Atticus say, ‘you should also write one on its laws. For I note that this was done by your beloved Plato’ (Leg. 1.15). The Ciceronian notion of the link between the two Platonic dialogues may seem strange to readers familiar with an evolutionary view of the Platonic corpus, in which the Laws do not complement the Republic, but replace it. But Aristotle already shows a tendency to regard the two Platonic dialogues as forming a whole (Pol. 11.6 1265a2–4); and the thesis of a real complementarity between them has recently been argued afresh. The relationship between the De re publica and the De legibus is none the less quite different from that between the Republic and the Laws. Moving from one Platonic dialogue to the other, one moves from the model of the city to ‘a second politeia’ (Laws v 739d–e), from an uncompromising ideal to a greater concern with the possible, while in Cicero the laws of the De legibus are indeed those of the optimus status of the De re publica (Leg. 11.23; 111.12).

The Chalcedonian Definition presents Christ as a union of two disparate natures, divine and human. We move now towards critical discussion, and identify three problems to be considered. First, are the two natures themselves compatible, or do they have to be considered as polar opposites, so that their union is in logic ruled out as self-contradictory? Secondly, what is the value of the terms and analogies in which their union has been conceived? Thirdly, what is meant by the claim that the Lord's humanity was ‘anhypostatic’ or impersonal? We shall try to deal with these problems in order; but it will not be possible to separate them completely.

(1) We may take the natures in turn. On the divine nature there is a large measure of agreement, inspired in the main by Platonic theology. God is incorporeal, good and wise. Gregory of Nyssa no doubt introduced a new factor by describing God as infinite; but this is a natural extension of the common belief in God's total transcendence of the created order. What concerns us now is the doctrine that God is strictly impassible and immutable (see pp. 128–30). How then can he relate himself to events in time? The difficulty is perhaps avoidable in the case of the Creation, since this can be viewed as the beginning of time; but the Incarnation implies that God took action at a moment in history. This raises two distinct problems: first the general problem, how can God act on the world at all without acquiring new, and therefore changed, perceptions and relationships? Secondly, the specific problem, how can a divine being enter human life without himself suffering a change?

During the first two Christian centuries Platonism gradually became the dominant philosophy. The Epicureans had lost their appeal by the end of this period, which witnessed a revival of religious interests, both good and bad. Second-century Stoicism is represented for us by the freed slave Epictetus and the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who were widely respected as moral teachers; but its theoretical side is unknown to us, though Cornutus, an associate of Seneca, commented on Aristotle's logic in works now lost. A general acquaintance with both Epicurean and Stoic doctrine of course persisted much longer, as part of a general philosophical education. Meanwhile, many Pythagoreans were closely allied to the Platonists, and only a minority considered themselves a distinct school. The Aristotelian Aspasius (c. 100–150) wrote a range of commentaries on Aristotle, of which that on the Nicomachean Ethics survives in part. More important are the extensive surviving works of Alexander of Aphrodisias, early third century, the last really distinguished member of the school. His De Fato especially, which deals with the problems of determinism and free will, retains an interest for the non-specialist today.

Opposition to the Platonists came chiefly from a revived scepticism, which claimed to be pursuing the tradition of Pyrrho of Elis, c. 365–275 bc, who himself may have been indirectly indebted to Socrates and more closely to Democritus. We have noted that the Academy went through a sceptical phase under Arcesilaus and Carneades (p. 44), which was perpetuated by Cicero.

The philosophy of Epicurus and that of the Stoics developed at Athens from about twenty years after Aristotle's death. Epicurus, born c. 341 BC, came to Athens in 307–6; Zeno of Citium, some seven years younger, began to teach there c. 301. They soon acquired, and for some centuries maintained, an influence that eclipsed that of all rival schools. Xenocrates' attempt to create a coherent system of Platonism had not won widespread acceptance; both Speusippus and Aristotle had been notable innovators. Aristotle was succeeded by his pupil Theophrastus, best known for his pioneering work in botany, and later by Strato, another scientist; while many later members of his school – the ‘Peripatetics’ – turned towards critical scholarship. Platonists such as Polemo gave much attention to the intricate problems raised by logicians such as Stilpo at Megara, and Diodorus Cronus; and a sceptical movement was emerging under Arcesilaus, head of the Academy from c. 273. Both Epicureans and Stoics offered a practical policy for ordering one's life which could appeal to the ordinary man. It has been argued that this was especially needed in the disorientation caused by the decline of the Greek city-states in the face of Alexander's empire.

Epicureanism was to an unusual extent the unaided work of its founder. It remained an intellectual influence for some five hundred years, during which time its teaching altered remarkably little. Christians accepted a few points of Epicurean doctrine, but rejected its basic assumptions for various reasons, both good and bad, which we shall soon understand.

The first century BC witnessed the emergence of a new movement in philosophy which, though it involved no really distinguished creative thinkers, was to prove an important influence on Christian thought. The philosophy of this period is sometimes called ‘syncretistic’, which implies a merging of previously distinct systems; but this suggestion is true only in part. Certainly there was no general merging of the older schools. Most of them retained a clearly marked individuality. Epicurean doctrines were expounded, for example, by the Latin poet Lucretius; scepticism was taught by Aenesidemus, and the sceptical, ‘academic’ brand of Platonism was expounded by Cicero; work on Aristotle continued, and a collected edition of his writings was produced by Andronicus of Rhodes, perhaps c. 65–40 BC. But as we have seen, there had already been contacts between Stoics, Platonists and Aristotelians. The new movement begun by Antiochus of Ascalon about 80 BC claimed to be a revival of genuine Platonism which rejected the sceptical tradition, and moreover claimed that there was substantial agreement in doctrine between Plato, Aristotle and Zeno (!), the founder of Stoicism. Clearly the conflict with scepticism was of prime importance. At the same time the Pythagorean number-theories which had attracted Plato and his immediate successors enjoyed a revival of interest.

Two basic issues called for philosophical treatment by Christian writers: the proof of God's existence and the question of his nature. It might seem that such debates were ruled out ab initio by the widely accepted principle that we can know that God is, or exists, but can ever know what he is; this appears to make the first exercise unnecessary and the second impossible. But the principle was not consistently followed, even where it was accepted in theory. In the first place, Christian writers appreciated the need to offer some rational justification of their faith; they had to reply to sceptics who denied the possibility of knowledge as such, to propagandists who accused the Christians of unreasoning credulity, and to atheists who denied the existence of any divinity. Secondly, the proposition that God cannot be known was rarely taken in the literal sense it might have for a modern reader; to do so, indeed, would disallow the positive teaching about God which is found in the Bible. It was usually taken to mean that direct or adequate knowledge of God was impossible for men, at least in this life; for the future there was St Paul's promise that we should see him ‘face to face’.

We can thus distinguish three philosophical problems:

1. The rational defence of the doctrines of faith, of belief in authority, and of the general possibility of acquiring knowledge at all.

2. Proofs of God's existence.

3. The nature of God.

The Christian Doctrine of God gives rise to a problem of more general application. How important was the influence of Greek thought upon the early Church, and how should we estimate its value?

Christians will agree that their primary inspiration is the life and teaching of Jesus Christ as presented in the New Testament. Much of this teaching was based on the sacred Scriptures as he knew them, which roughly correspond to our Old Testament. We cannot demonstrate that Jesus himself treated all these Scriptures as having equal authority and value; most Jews of his time drew a distinction between the Law, the Prophets and the Writings; and certainly few modern Christians will equate them. But a general allegiance to the Old Testament has been an indispensable part of Christian discipleship ever since the second-century Church rejected the Marcionites' attempt to discard it.

Most Christians, again, accept the judgement of the early Church in supplementing the Gospel records with other documents which reveal how the life and death of Jesus was interpreted and imitated by his followers of the next generation; the documents added to the Gospels in our New Testament. Many scholars, of course, go much further than this; for example, they regard St Paul's letters as our primary authority, since they provide contemporary evidence for the life of the Church, whereas the Gospels attempt to recall the events of a generation or two before they were written.

Christology can be defined as ‘The study of the Person of Christ, and in particular of the union in Him of the divine and human natures’. This definition relies on philosophical concepts as employed in the debates about Christ which led up to the Council of Chalcedon in 451. The ‘christology’ of the New Testament is far less formal and unified; there is no mention of a union of natures, and the key-word prosōpon usually means ‘face’ or ‘appearance’, sometimes ‘dignity’ (Matt. 22:16 etc.) but never ‘person’, except perhaps at 2 Corinthians 2:10. Our present task is to explain how the philosophical concepts were introduced, what they meant, and whether their use is justified. For this purpose we need some account of the actual development of the doctrine of Christ; but this can be reduced to a mere outline, which can easily be filled in from the standard text-books.

The New Testament embodies two contrasted pictures of Christ. In the Synoptic Gospels he is unquestionably a man. He is set apart from other men by the authority with which he spoke, his miraculous powers, the prophecies which he fulfilled, his dispensation of the Spirit, his declared fellowship with the Father, his virginal conception, and above all by his rising from the dead. But he remains a Jewish teacher, a carpenter by trade, the son of Mary, along with his brothers and sisters. By contrast, the Fourth Gospel presents him as a heavenly being come down to earth, who can speak of ‘the glory which he had with his Father before the world existed’ (John 17:5).

Christians came to characterize God as a Trinity of Father, Son and Spirit, three Persons in one substance. We shall have to explain the meaning and background of the technical terms employed here; but some larger questions call for attention. Pure monotheism is commonly thought to be one of the great achievements of Israelite religion. Why then did later Judaism apparently complicate and confuse it with a doctrine of subordinate agencies and powers? And why did Christians pick out just two of these powers, God's Word and his Spirit, connect them with their master Jesus, and associate them with the Father in a triadic or trinitarian theology? We might, perhaps, explain this process theologically, in terms of a divine providence preparing the way for the later Christian doctrine; but this would not answer our perfectly proper historical enquiry into the stages by which the transformation came about and the human reflections which it involved.

The first question could be answered in general terms by saying that the Israelites found it necessary to envisage God both as enthroned in majesty above the heavens and as intervening actively in the affairs of men, to reward, to punish, or to inspire. The early Israelites pictured God as himself coming down and appearing in human form (see p. 100 above); but it was clearly naive to suppose that God could absent himself from heaven and attend exclusively to some particular human crisis. It was then supposed that God acts at a distance through the medium of subordinate spiritual beings, the angels.

Gregory of Nazianzus has the confidence to demand ‘Are not spirit and fire and light, love and wisdom and righteousness, and mind and reason and the like, names of the First Nature?’ (Orat. 28.13). He goes on to point out that all these names can convey misleading suggestions. Nevertheless they were firmly rooted in Christian tradition. Hence, as we have shown, the common descriptions of God as ‘unknowable’ or ‘indescribable’ are not to be pressed in a literal sense; they do not debar us from shadowing out God's nature by using words drawn from our everyday experience. These words, indeed, could not be avoided, in view of the biblical texts which describe God as Fire, Light, Life, etc. (Deut. 4:24, 1 John 1:5, John 1:4, etc.). But reinterpretation is needed, and the Christian writers tend to refine such bold metaphors; very commonly they retain the notion that God is mind or intelligence, and interpret the other terms as indicating dispositions or activities of the divine mind. At the same time, Neoplatonist philosophers were debating whether or not nous was the proper designation of the First Principle.

It is convenient to distinguish the predicates applied to God as metaphysical and natural, the latter group including both physical and moral terms. Within the first group we have dealt briefly with the descriptions of God as Being, as Unity, and as ultimate Source (Jer. 2:13 etc.). We must now consider the attributes of Mind and Spirit.

Augustine's three books On Free Will have a controversial purpose and are mainly aimed against Manichaeism; his central concern is the problem of evil, which the Manichees regarded as a cosmic principle comparable in power with God himself. Augustine has two distinguishable forms of reply, neither of them wholly original, but both developed with persuasive skill. In the first, he claims that our main concern is with moral evil. Like other thinkers, Augustine distinguishes two forms of evil, sin and suffering; but suffering, he claims, is the just punishment for the sin which man has committed at and after the Fall. Was it right, then, for God to create a world in which men could sin? Augustine answers that sin is a misuse of free will, and without free will there can be no virtuous conduct; God did right, therefore, in creating man free. Embedded in this argument is the claim that sin consists in the choice of lesser goods when greater ones should have been preferred; in particular, of course, bodily pleasures rather than spiritual benefits (op. cit. 2.48–54). Evil of this kind can arise in a world which is wholly good, as befits God's creation; no blame attaches to God for creating a world where there are different degrees of goodness; indeed such variety enhances its perfection as a whole. It is men who are to blame for choosing the lesser goods (3.5.12–3.6.18; cf. Civ. Dei 11.16–18, 12.4–5, etc.).

As literature, the dialogues of Plato's middle period are among the world's greatest creative achievements; the later dialogues fall short of them in imaginative power and dramatic skill. Nevertheless they advance considerations of great importance for the future of logic and metaphysics. Plato was now much concerned with the theory of knowledge. A fairly early dialogue, the Meno, had pointed the way; Meno, an intelligent but uneducated slave, is questioned by Socrates and shown to discover a simple mathematical truth without being told. Some truths, then, can be known independently of experience; and Plato concludes that the soul became acquainted with the Forms in a previous existence which we have forgotten; the discovery of such truths is in fact a recollection (anamnēsis). This clearly marks a distinction between knowledge of the Forms and knowledge of everyday facts; but the proof of our pre-existence gives little support to the theory of transmigration, which Plato presents in several dialogues with a wealth of imaginative detail; for we are said to recollect a previous ideal existence, whereas the transmigration theory would make it probable that other imperfect incarnations have preceded our present life.

In the Theaetetus, where the problem of knowledge is more fully discussed, there is surprisingly little reference to the Forms; but the dialogue is important, inter alia, for its demonstration that perceptual knowledge involves more than mere perception, and again for the suggestion that knowledge is a disposition; knowing is not something like seeing or sleeping which we do from time to time; to know something is to be able to act or answer correctly when required.