In Chapter 4, “Bonaventure and the Nine Choirs of Angels,” I examine one of the most condensed discussions in Bonaventure’s text. In Itinerarium 4.4, Bonaventure says that our spirit must be “brought into conformity with the heavenly Jerusalem.” But “no one enters that city,” he adds, “unless that city has first descended into the person’s heart by means of grace.” How does that happen? Well, the heavenly Jerusalem “descends into the heart,” according to Bonaventure, when “our spirit is adorned with nine orderly levels” – levels that correspond, as it turns out, to the nine choirs of angels. In this section, Bonaventure takes two major traditions regarding the nine choirs of angels – one that can be traced to the Celestial Hierarchy of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite and the other to a homily by Pope St. Gregory the Great – and condenses them into nine words and nine short phrases. This chapter shows how remarkably concise Bonaventure could be using the methods he had learned for preaching.

While it is common to compare Boethius’ philosophy with that of his intellectual predecessors and heirs, as far as I know there are no studies comparing Boethius and his most well-known Greek contemporary, Dionysius the Areopagite. Yet both were Christians who were inspired by Plato and deeply influenced by Proclean Neoplatonism. This chapter begins to fill this lacuna in the literature by comparing the way that Boethius in the Consolation of Philosophy and Dionysius in On Divine Names employ key Neoplatonic ideas and metaphors in speaking and thinking about God’s nature and providence. The chapter compares how Boethius and Dionysius employ Neoplatonic sphere and circle metaphors (1) to illustrate how God is both completely simple and yet also has, or rather is, a multiplicity of “attributes” or activities, and (2) to articulate the relationship between God and creatures in terms of remaining, proceeding, and reverting.

This essay offers an account of Thomas Aquinas’s very complex understanding of love (amor) and related concepts, such as delight (delectatio) and divinely infused charity. It acknowledges the many Platonic influences on Aquinas’s thought in these regards, influences that come to him especially through Augustine of Hippo and Pseudo-Dionysius – both of whom he occasionally criticizes, however, for adhering too closely to Platonic doctrines. Aquinas is intent upon tying all human love in some sense to nature, acknowledging that this entails that in many regards human love is necessitated. To the extent, however, that the rational appetite (the will) is involved, love is not necessitated. The divinely infused virtue of charity brings in further complications, for it is a love that is not natural but comes to a person from above: it is supernatural. And yet it too, according to Aquinas, is not wholly necessitating but affects man in a way that leaves his will free.

This chapter offers a survey of three authors who exerted a strong influence on medieval theology: John Cassian (who transmitted the spirituality of the Egyptian Desert Fathers to the Latin West), Boethius (whose Consolation of Philosophy is discussed in some detail) and Pseudo-Dionysius (who is the father of apophatic theology).

This chapter argues that my account of hope offers an alternative to indeterminacy and dogma. Commentators such as John Caputo and Jean-Luc Marion claim that deconstruction and negative theology are incompatible; as they observe, Dionysius affirms Christian commitment while Derrida does not. In my reading, however, deconstruction and negative theology affirm a hope that is identical in kind, though not in content. Although Derrida and Dionysius express different hopes, they both construe hope as a discipline that incorporates self-critique. Through hope, it is possible to affirm particular beliefs and practices while acknowledging that every commitment is radically uncertain.

This chapter argues that a negative political theology helps to address the problem posed by the persistence of the sacred. Giorgio Agamben argues that, whether it derives from religious worship or national identity, reverence for the sacred functions to neutralize resistance. My account of hope indicates on the contrary that a concern for transcendence can intensify critique. Rather than affirming the sacred uncritically or disavowing it altogether, communities can acknowledge the special significance of particular texts and traditions while maintaining an ethical discipline that loosens their authority. Some political movements find it difficult to combine critique of the status quo with concrete proposals, but hope offers a way to affirm particular policies while subjecting them to ongoing critique.

This chapter argues that it is both impossible and unnecessary to exclude religion from secular politics. Martin Hägglund claims that deconstruction entails a radical atheism, but Derrida suggests that political commitments are formally indistinguishable from religious faith insofar as they are both directed toward the unforeseeable future. Much as Dionysius orients himself toward an unknowable God, Derrida affirms a justice that is radically elusive. Political theorists such as Mark Lilla argue that religion and politics should be strictly separated, but my account of hope indicates that they are inseparable. Where secularism and theocracy both promise an impossible clarity, atheism and Christian thought share an uncertain hope.

This chapter draws upon my reading of Derrida and Dionysius to develop an account of a hope that incorporates critique. I argue that, although it is difficult, it is possible to maintain the uncertain affirmation that I describe in the first two chapters through hope. Where Albert Camus claims that hope posits a confidence that distracts from life here and now, Derrida and Dionysius describe a hope that claims no assurance concerning what is to come. Rather than projecting desire onto a fantasized future, a self-critical hope energizes efforts to improve the present. In my view, hope is a practice, not the conclusion of a proof; it depends upon decision, which inevitably goes beyond the evidence. For this reason, it cannot guarantee a good result, but that does not mean that it must be abandoned. On the contrary, hope is a resolute desire that endures vulnerability.

This chapter argues that, like deconstruction, Christian thought inhabits the tension between negativity and affirmation. Where commentators such as Stathis Gourgouris claim that religion asserts a certainty that excludes critique, negative theology unsettles every claim to represent the divine. Dionysius the Areopagite argues that Christian discourse must be simultaneously affirmed and negated. Although this seems like simple contradiction on the level of logic, it becomes the means of ethical transformation when enacted in time. Negative theology constitutes a discursive practice that destabilizes the self through continual self-critique. Insofar as it continues to affirm Christian practices that are directed toward an unknowable God, negative theology models a hope that persists despite its uncertainty.