## 1. Background: The Pagan and Early-Christian Context


### 1.1 The Ancient Context: Judicial Conscience



To understand the medieval theory of conscience, it is essential to
examine its etymology. Unlike most philosophical categories that are
central to medieval thought, the concept of conscience did not have
its origins in Plato or Aristotle (Potts 1982: 687). Rather, most
scholars agree, it originated in the Greek playwrights of the fifth
century BCE (Sorabji 2014: 12, 15-18). It is also possible to
find its use elsewhere in Greek literature, such as in the fragments
of Democritus (D'Arcy 1961: 5).



The English word "conscience" is derived from the Latin
*conscientia*. Its Greek equivalent is *syneidesis*.
Both terms connote a state or act of "sharing knowledge with
oneself" (Sorabji 2014: 12). This knowledge is privileged and
involves awareness of a personal moral defect. The notion that
"I" can judge "myself" naturally suggests, as
Sorabji puts it, a sort of "split personality". That is,
it suggests that I can at once be both the judge and the one being
judged, particularly with respect to specific, past actions which
ordinarily elicit remorse. This suggestion is rooted in the quite
intuitive idea that human beings are reflexive animals: beings who are
not only capable of turning their attention to objects in the outside
world but can also "turn back on" (*reflectere*) or
become an object to themselves. As C. S. Lewis put it in his study of
the concept of concept of conscience in the Western tradition:



> 
> 
> Man might be defined as a reflexive animal. A person cannot help
> thinking and speaking of himself as, and even feeling himself to be
> (for certain purposes), two people, one of whom can act upon and
> observe the other. Thus, he pities, loves, admires, hates, despises,
> rebukes, comforts, examines, masters or is mastered by,
> "himself" [...] He is privy to his own acts, is his
> own *conscius* or accomplice. And of course, this shadowy inner
> accomplice has all the same properties as an external one; he too is a
> witness against you, a potential blackmailer, one who inflicts shame
> and fear. (Lewis 1960: 187; see also Sorabji 2014: 12)
> 
> 
> 



Lewis refers to this primarily pagan understanding of conscience as an
"inner witness". It does not judge our actions as right or
wrong, but merely testifies to their existence:



> 
> 
> It bears witness to the facts, say, that we committed a murder. It
> does not tell us that murder is wrong; we are supposed to know that in
> some other way. (Lewis 1960: 190)
> 
> 
> 



Others, however, regard the sort of conscience that Lewis describes
here as a type of internal judge, and therefore refer to it as
"judicial conscience" (D'Arcy 1961: 8). While this
property of the mind does not necessarily issue binding rules, it does
pass moral judgements on our deeds. It would, however, eventually take
on the role of issuing moral dictates for future acts as well. Eric
D'Arcy refers to this later form of *syneidesis* or
*conscientia* as the "legislative conscience" whose
innovator, he argues, was the Apostle Paul (ca. 5 CE-ca. 64/67
CE), the most important founder of the Christian faith after Jesus of
Nazareth (D'Arcy 1961: 8).


### 1.2 St. Paul: Legislative Conscience



The judicial understanding of conscience continued well into the first
century of the Common Era. To be sure, Paul himself continued to
employ it. At the same time, D'Arcy credited Paul with
introducing, in addition to the "judicial conscience", a
novel conception he termed the "legislative conscience".
It is not difficult to see why the earlier judicial conception would
later take on legislative features. This is because the ability to
judge past actions as either right or wrong--and to issue
exhortations on that basis--would, once this property came to be
associated with the moral law, take on the legislative role of issuing
commands. Indeed, it is in St. Paul that we find this very association
between *syneidesis* and the moral law:



> 
> 
> [W]hen Gentiles, who do not have the law, do by nature things required
> by the law, they are a law for themselves, even though they do not
> have the law. They show that the requirements of the law are written
> on their hearts, their consciences also bearing witness, and their
> thoughts sometimes accusing them and at other times even defending
> them. (Romans 2:14-15; NIV)
> 
> 
> 



Judging by this passage, there are evidently two expressions of the
moral law according to Paul: The Mosaic Law, explicitly handed down to
the Jews, and another law that is "written on [men's]
hearts". This latter was later glossed as a reference to the
natural law, which is accessible to all people, non-Jews included, and
is consistent with the Mosaic Law. Notice that, according to the
foregoing passage, conscience (*syneidesis*) is not the
ultimate source of right and wrong. Rather, the foundation of right
and wrong is the objective moral law, which is both "written on
[men's] hearts" and borne witness to by conscience.



One might say, then, that the objective norm of morality on
Paul's account is the moral law (or natural law). Conscience,
however, might be termed morality's subjective norm. This is
made clear in another passage from St. Paul, where he is addressing
the question of whether it is permissible for Christians to eat meat
that was previously sacrificed to idols. Some, Paul says, erroneously
think that to eat such food defiles them. In fact, since the pagan
idols do not exist, eating food sacrificed to them, or indeed to God
himself, is morally irrelevant, since "food does not bring us
near to God--we are no worse if we do not eat, and no better if
we do" (1 Corinthians 8:8; NIV). Still, even though the
consciences of such Christians are erroneous, they must follow them
since conscience, Paul suggests, is a rule of conduct (Romans
14:13-23). Eric D'Arcy sums up these two important
contributions of St. Paul as follows:



> 
> 
> St. Paul, then, introduces an entirely new phase in the history of the
> term "conscience" in moral theory, and two new features
> characterize his use of it. First, it is to play a *directive*
> role *before* action takes place. In the pagan writers,
> conscience did not appear on the scene until *after* the action
> was performed, and its role was purely *judicial*; but in St.
> Paul, conscience is credited with a legislative function, and it
> induces an obligation in the proper sense. Second, conscience is
> fallible: the directions it issues may be mistaken; but whether it be
> mistaken or not, it seems that we are bound to follow its rulings.
> (D'Arcy 1961: 11-12)
> 
> 
> 



In sum, we might follow Sorabji's suggestion that this phase in
the development of the concept of conscience--that is, from its
origins in fifth-century BCE Greek literature to the first-century
CE--has eight features (Sorabji 2014: 36).


1. It involves a consciousness of the self rather than of
others.
2. It draws on values to which one feels personally committed or that
are "not necessarily shared by others".
3. It is self-reflexive insofar as it suggests a "split
person": an "I" that has secret knowledge which it
shares with itself.
4. Its original purpose was "retrospective" or judicial,
although it later incorporated into its definition a
"prospective" or legislative function.
5. Although it draws on general moral principles, it is chiefly
concerned with their application to the specific circumstances in
which the agent finds him or herself.
6. It began as a secular concept.
7. In the Christian tradition it is regarded as susceptible to error,
and
8. although cognitive in character, it possesses motivating or
affective power.


### 1.3 St. Jerome: The Invention of Synderesis



That conscience was so central a concept in St. Paul's writings
guaranteed it an important place in the moral theology of the Greek
and Latin Fathers, especially St. Basil, John Damascene and St.
Ambrose. Amongst these early writers, however, it was a text from St.
Jerome that was particularly consequential since it introduced into
the debate a neologism that would have an important impact in the
later Middle Ages: the concept of synderesis.



In the course of commenting on *Ezekiel*, Jerome had tied a
prophecy mentioned in its first book to Plato's moral psychology
(commentary *on Ezekiel* 1.7). The prophecy in question
consisted of a vision of four creatures emerging from the heavens,
each with four faces: those of a man, a lion, an ox and an eagle
(Ezekiel 1: 4-14). In his gloss, Jerome noted that "most
people" (*plerique*) interpreted this vision with
reference to Plato's tripartite division of the soul in the
*Republic*: the human face representing reason, the
lion's face the spirited part, and the ox's face the
appetitive part (cf. Plato, *Republic*, 436b-441b). What
did the eagle represent? According to Jerome, it represented that
"spark of conscience" (*scintilla conscientiae*)
which makes us aware of our sinfulness when reason, spirit or desire
become disordered. Medieval manuscripts refer to this psychological
property as *synderesis* (or sometimes
*synteresis*):



> 
> 
> Now above these three was the eagle; so in the soul, they say, above
> the other three elements and beyond them is a fourth, which the Greeks
> call *synderesis*. This is that spark of conscience which was
> not quenched even in the heart of Cain, when he was driven out of
> paradise. This it is that which makes us, too, feel our sinfulness
> when we are overcome by evil Desire or unbridled Spirit, or deceived
> by sham Reason. It is natural to identify synderesis with the eagle,
> since it is distinct from the other three elements and corrects them
> when they err [...] However, we also see that this conscience
> (*conscientia*) is cast down in some people, who have neither
> shame nor insight regarding their offences, and loses its place
> [...]. (commentary *on Ezekiel* 1.7; D'Arcy trans.
> 1961: 16-17)
> 
> 
> 



Most scholars now agree that the neologism "synderesis"
introduced in Jerome's commentary is simply a corruption of the
Greek *syneidesis* (Kries 2002: 67). Since *syneidesis*
is simply the Greek equivalent of the Latin term
*conscientia*--a fact of which Jerome would certainly have
been aware--one might have expected Jerome to use them
interchangeably. Surprisingly, however, Jerome suggests that the Latin
term means something different from the Greek term. In the text cited
above, he quite explicitly states that regardless of how morally
corrupt its possessor becomes, synderesis can never be lost. A few
lines later, however, he does admit the existence of those who are
shameless and lacking in moral insight. Such people are oblivious to
their offenses because, according to Jerome, their conscience
(*conscientia*) ceases to be present in them ("looses its
place"). If synderesis cannot be lost, but conscience can, then
it seems to follow that they are separate properties of the soul. In
any case, whatever Jerome's intention, this curious passage was
indirectly handed down to the Middle Ages via the *Sentences*
of Peter Lombard (1095-1160).


## 2. The Early-Scholastic Tradition


### 2.1 Peter Lombard: The Scholastic Origins of the Debate



Peter Lombard's role in the evolution of the concept of
conscience is both surprising and unsurprising. It is--at first
sight, anyway--surprising because Lombard does not discuss
conscience or synderesis in any actual detail. Indeed, he does not,
strictly speaking, mention the terms "synderesis" or
"conscience" at all. What he does is merely to allude to
Jerome's commentary on *Ezekiel* in the context of
discussing the will's role in how rational agents can naturally
want what is good while simultaneously being slaves to sin (Peter
Lombard, *Sententiae in IV libros distinctae*, 2.39; Potts
1980: 92). In St. Paul's reference to moral weakness in Romans
7:15, he famously says: "For I do not do what I want but do what
I do not want". Is Paul suggesting, asks Lombard, that we have
two separate wills: one naturally oriented towards the good and
another oriented towards sin? Or is it rather the case that we have a
single will that, although naturally inclined to the good, contains a
defect which also "takes pleasure in what is evil"
(*Sententiae in IV libros distinctae*, 2.39; Potts 1980: 93)?
Amongst those who hold the first view, the motivating power that
orients us towards the good is called the "natural" will,
while the inclination towards sin resulting from the Fall is called
"free will" (or "free choice"). With respect
to the former, Peter writes:



> 
> 
> For some say that there are two motivations, one by which a man
> naturally wants what is good. Why naturally? And why is it called
> "natural"? Because such was the motivation of human nature
> in its original state, in which we were created without any defect,
> and this is properly called "nature". For man was created
> with a righteous will [...] Man is therefore rightly said
> naturally to want what is good, because he was constructed with a good
> and righteous will. For the higher spark of reason (*superior enim
> scintilla rationis*) which, as Jerome says, "could not even
> be extinguished in Cain", always wants what is good and hates
> what is bad. (Peter Lombard, *Sententiae in IV libros
> distinctae*, 2.39; Potts trans. 1980: 92-93)
> 
> 
> 



Lombard's brief mention of Jerome's "spark of
reason" (sic) in the aforementioned passage is the full extent
of his treatment of conscience and synderesis. Still, that was
sufficient to ensure that it would receive robust attention by later
scholastics, who would track down the original text from Jerome in
order to comment on it. A compilation of theological writings taken
mainly from Scripture and the Fathers and arranged in systematic
fashion, the *Sentences* had an enormous impact on later
theological enquiry since much it, after the 1220s, was carried out
within the taxonomy that Lombard had laid out in his work. Indeed,
after Alexander of Hales (1185-1245) adopted the
*Sentences* as the main source for his ordinary lectures at
Paris in 1222, and Richard Fischacre (1206-1248) did the same at
Oxford in 1245, lecturing on the *Sentences* became a
requirement for every aspiring master of theology. Thus did such major
scholastics of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries as Bonaventure
(1221-1274), Thomas Aquinas (1224/25-1274), John Duns
Scotus (1265-1308) and William of Ockham (1287-1347) come
to write their important commentaries on the work. This tradition
would continue well into the sixteenth century.



Consisting of four books, each subdivided into chapters, the
*Sentences* follows the distinction that Saint Augustine had
drawn in the *De doctrina Christiana* between the things that
are real and the signs that lead us back to the former. Book one
treats of God, who is really real, and his triune nature. Book two
deals with creation and the fall, including human nature, treating
these as signs that point back to God. Book three treats of Christ,
who is the antidote to the fall, and who, as God incarnate, is both
thing and sign. Finally, book four treats of the sacraments, which are
signs that assist the fallen in their return to God: the ultimate
reality. Since book two deals with human moral psychology in the
context of creation and the fall, it is here, in distinction 39, that
Peter Lombard's mention of Jerome's commentary on
*Ezekiel* is found.



Since Lombard's treatment of Jerome was partial and elliptical,
later thinkers, in composing their commentaries on the
*Sentences*, naturally turned to Jerome's text in order
to scrutinize the original passage. There, they discovered his
apparent distinction between synderesis and conscience, which in turn
would come to frame the parameters of the later medieval debate. If
synderesis and conscience are in fact two separate parts of the soul,
for instance, what is their relationship to one another? What, come to
that, are their respective natures and, rather importantly, can they
become disordered? Such questions would preoccupy the theologians of
the later Middle Ages.


### 2.2 Stephen Langton: Synderesis and its Properties



Stephen Langton (1155-1228), regent master of theology at Paris
and later Archbishop of Canterbury, is important in the present
context less for any systematic treatment of conscience--indeed
Stephen scarcely touches on the issue at all--than for his
somewhat scattered views on synderesis. The relevant treatment comes
in Stephen's *Quaestiones disputatae* of 1203-1205
in the context of his discussion on free decision (*liberum
arbitrium*).



For Stephen, there are three powers (*vires*) of the soul that
are relevant to the moral life: the concupiscible appetite, reason and
synderesis. The concupiscible appetite draws reason towards what is
bad--specifically towards the sin of sensuality--while
synderesis attempts to sway it towards the good. It is reason's
job to adjudicate between these two impulses. Freedom of decision
(*libertas arbitrii*) is the outcome of reason directing the
will to choose in accordance with either the promptings of sensuality,
or the promptings of synderesis (Stephen Langton, *Quaestiones
disputatae*; Lottin ed. *Psychologie et morale* I, 1942:
61).



The purpose of synderesis, then, is to direct reason away from vice
for it is the faculty "by which a person naturally detests what
is evil and is a part of the rational power" (*Quaestiones
disputatae*; Lottin ed. *Psychology et morale* II.1, 1948:
112). Can such a power be extinguished? Yes and no. In its capacity as
an inclination towards the good, which is accidental to it, synderesis
can indeed be lost in the damned. Essentially speaking, however, the
purpose of synderesis is to repudiate what is wicked. In this sense,
it is never lost, even in the damned (*Quaestiones disputatae*;
Lottin ed. 1948: 111).



Stephen Langton's most important contribution to the development
of the concept of synderesis occurs in his discussion of whether
synderesis can merit or demerit. In the process of discussing this
issue Stephen links synderesis to the practical syllogism,
specifically associating it with the grasp of general principles
(*Quaestiones disputatae*; Lottin ed. 1948: 113). D'Arcy
sums up Langton's position as follows:



> 
> 
> Remorse of conscience is the work, not of synderesis, but of reason,
> for synderesis remains at the level of general principles, whereas
> reason descends to the concrete case; but it is precisely over the
> concrete case that remorse of conscience is felt; hence it is by
> reason, and not by synderesis, that we sin. (D'Arcy 1961:
> 23-24)
> 
> 
> 



Langton's association of synderesis with general moral
principles would, as we will see, influence later thinkers such as
Aquinas.


### 2.3 Philip the Chancellor: The First Systematic Treatment of Synderesis and Conscience



Although Stephen Langton was the first scholastic to touch on the
issue of synderesis in any depth, it was Philip the Chancellor (ca.
1170-1237) who wrote the first treatise devoted to exploring the
relationship between synderesis and conscience (Lottin 1948:
139-157). As chancellor of Notre Dame, Philip had the right to
grant the license to teach in the theology faculty at Paris, and it
was under his tenure that the Dominicans and the Franciscans acquired
their chairs in theology: two for the former, and one for the latter.
Although primarily an administrator, Philip was also a trained
theologian. His most important work is the *Summa de bono*,
which includes the treatise on conscience.



In his treatise Philip sets out to answer several questions related to
the ontological status of synderesis, to the question of whether
anyone can sin if they follow synderesis, and to whether it can ever
be extinguished. As to the ontological status of synderesis, Philip
cites Jerome's authoritative suggestion that synderesis is a
faculty or power of the soul. Recall that Jerome had posited a
quadripartite soul: one that is composed of reason, spirit, desire and
synderesis. Since the first three parts of the soul are potentialities
and synderesis is classified alongside these, it seems to follow that
it too must be a faculty or power of the soul, distinct from the
faculty of reason. Philip cites St. Paul and John of Damascus as
corroborating authorities who apparently share the view that
synderesis is a faculty of the soul independent of the others (Philip
the Chancellor, *Summa de bono: Treatise on Conscience*; Potts
trans. 1980: 95-96).



Against the claim that synderesis is a power of the soul, Philip
presents arguments for the view that it is, on the contrary, a moral
habit. On this view, synderesis is to the natural will what choice is
to the deliberative will: a disposition that regulates the rationally
appetitive powers. But while choice simply regulates the deliberative
will with respect to the contingent good, or means towards happiness,
synderesis



> 
> 
> is a disposition arising naturally in conjunction with that
> potentiality by which the natural will is directed to what is good
> without qualification. (*Summa de bono: Treatise on
> Conscience*; Potts trans. 1980: 96)
> 
> 
> 



Moreover, just as the impulse to sin is distinct from the soul, so too
is synderesis. But whereas the former inclines the agent towards evil,
the latter inclines him towards goodness.



Is synderesis, then, a power of the soul or a habit? This distinction
goes back to Aristotle, for whom powers are innate and associated with
specific capacities, while habits are acquired and associated, by
contrast, with tendencies to behave in certain ways. Habits, moreover,
inhere in powers. Although both of these properties dispose the agent
to act in particular ways, powers, in contrast to habits, are linked
to the ability to do so contingently. If I am in the habit of speaking
Russian, for instance, then I will have the tendency to do so on a
regular basis. It is my preferred mode of communication, and I will
take every opportunity to express myself in that language. That I may
have the mere capacity--or power--to speak Russian, on the
other hand, having studied it in school, say, in no way ensures that I
will do so even in situations where I probably should. I might, for
example, hate and resent speaking Russian for various reasons, and
therefore freely refuse to do so under any circumstances (see, e.g.,
Aristotle, *Metaphysics* 9.2, and Potts 1980: 20-22).



Although Philip seems to favour the belief that synderesis is a habit,
the claim that it is a power of the soul has the rather weighty
authority of St. Paul and St. Jerome. Philip therefore splits the
difference, as it were, and argues that it is a "habit-like
power" or "dispositional potentiality"
(*habitualis potentiae*)--a faculty of the soul that
disposes its possessor towards choosing the unqualified
good--though one that is innate rather than acquired through
habituation:



> 
> 
> *Synderesis*, although the morphology of its name makes it
> sound more like a disposition than a potentiality, is nevertheless the
> name of a dispositional potentiality: I do not say of an acquired
> disposition, but of an innate one. And thus, *qua* disposition
> it can be applied to what is related to it as a disposition,
> *qua* potentiality to what is related to it as a potentiality.
> From this it follows that it has a certain opposition to free choice,
> a certain opposition to the impulse [to sin] and sensuality, and a
> certain opposition to *proheresis*, which is part of free
> choice: *qua* potentiality, it is disparate from free choice
> and from sensuality, *qua* disposition it is disparate from
> *proheresis* and the impulse [to sin]...So, if anyone asks
> whether it is a potentiality or a disposition, the right answer lies
> in taking something in between: a dispositional potentiality.
> (*Summa de bono: Treatise on Conscience*; Potts trans. 1980:
> 97)
> 
> 
> 



It would seem, then, that synderesis is a potentiality, albeit an
unusual one. Is it connected to the cognitive side of the soul or to
the appetitive? According to Philip, it is related to the appetitive,
and specifically to the rational appetite, that is, to the will,
rather than to the sense appetite. However, as we saw, Philip divides
the rational appetite into what he calls "natural will"
and "deliberative will". The natural will signifies the
general inclination that humans have to the good or happiness as such.
Such an object is beyond the scope of choice. Having said that,
happiness can be achieved in any number of ways and by the acquisition
of any number of legitimate, though contingent goods. Indeed, it is
fair to say that rational agents never choose happiness *as
such*, given that it is a mere abstraction. Rather, what they
choose are particular goods which, taken together, comprise the good
life if pursued in an orderly way. Such contingent goods are the means
to happiness and are the objects of the deliberative will, and
therefore choice. Synderesis, according to Philip, pertains to the
natural will. It is the remnant of original rectitude or justice
which, although damaged during the fall, remains in the soul in
diminished form. As Philip puts it, synderesis is that which
"murmurs back against sin and correctly contemplates and wants
what is good without qualification" (*Summa de bono: Treatise
on Conscience*; Potts trans. 1980: 100).



On the matter of conscience and how it is related to synderesis,
Philip distinguishes them. For one thing, conscience can be mistaken
while synderesis cannot. Specifically, conscience is the result of a
concurrence of synderesis with free decision (*liberum
arbitrium*). Put otherwise, it is the specific application of a
general moral principle that is the outcome of deliberation. When
correctly applied, conscience is correct. When incorrectly applied, it
errs. In either case, the judgement of conscience generates a moral
obligation to act. Philip uses the following example of how
synderesis, which is always right, can nonetheless conjoin with an
erring conscience (Potts 1980: 104):


1. Unerring universal premise of synderesis: "Everyone who
falsely claims to be the Son of God should be put to
death".
2. Erring minor premise of reason: "This Christ fellow is
falsely claiming to be the Son of God".
3. Erring judgement of conscience: "Therefore this Christ
fellow should be put to death"



From the foregoing example, it is clear that synderesis delivers a
general, non-deliberative proposition, while conscience yields what
Potts calls a particular, "deontic proposition":



> 
> 
> Philip's argument is [...] that we need to distinguish
> between *general* and *particular* propositions which
> are of the form: "*A* ought to ph" where the
> proper name of any person may be substituted for
> "*A*" and any verb-phrase containing a verb of action
> for "ph" (I shall henceforth call these "deontic
> propositions"). (Potts 1982: 690-692)
> 
> 
> 



In the example given above, then, the first, universal premise is
correct (by definition), while the conclusion, as mediated by erring
reason, generates an incorrect deontic proposition, which is to say,
an obligation to act, albeit a mistaken one.


## 3. The Later-Scholastic Tradition


### 3.1 St. Bonaventure: Conscience as Cognitive/Synderesis as Affective



One of the most prominent representatives of the Franciscan
intellectual tradition, Bonaventure (1217-1274) lectured on the
*Sentences* at Paris from 1250 until 1252, when he became
regent master in the theology faculty, a position he held until 1257.
His commentary on the *Sentences* is the fruit of these
lectures, and it is in this work that he discusses the topics of
conscience and synderesis. For Bonaventure we not only possess innate
moral knowledge, but we also have an inextinguishable inclination
towards achieving the good. Our inborn knowledge of the former, that
is, of the natural law, is associated with conscience, which resides
in the intellect, while our inclination towards desiring the good is
associated with synderesis, which inheres in the will.



What is the ontological status of conscience? According to
Bonaventure, just as theologians have disagreed over the nature of
"thought", defining it variously as the power of thinking,
a habit or an apprehended principle of knowledge, so too have they
differed over how to define "conscience"
(*conscientia*). Most commonly, however, the term has been used
to refer to a cognitive habit or disposition that relates to the
practical as opposed to the theoretical intellect. Indeed, it is the
disposition that perfects the practical intellect. How so? Through its
consciousness of the principles that comprise the natural
law--such as that "God is to be honoured"--and
through the issuing of such injunctions to the will. As Bonaventure
puts it:



> 
> 
> theoretical knowledge perfects our thought to the extent that the
> latter is theoretical, whereas conscience is a disposition perfecting
> our thought to the extent that it is practical, or to the extent that
> it directs us towards deeds. (Bonaventure, commentary on the
> *Sentences*, 2.39: a. 1, q. 1; Potts trans. 1980: 111)
> 
> 
> 



Is such a disposition innate or acquired? It is possible, according to
Bonaventure, to find authorities on both sides of the debate. For the
opinion that conscience is innate, Bonaventure cites, among other
authorities, St. Paul's famous reference to a moral law that is
"written on [men's] hearts" in Romans 1:14-15.
He also appeals to a "natural instinct to seek blessedness and
[to] honor [one's] parents" (commentary on the
*Sentences*, 2.39: a. 1, q. 2; McGrade trans. 2001:
175-176). For the opinion that conscience is not innate, on the
other hand, Bonaventure cites Aristotle's claim that the soul is
a blank slate. Bonaventure's solution is to find a middle
position between St. Paul, on the one hand, and Aristotle, on the
other. His conclusion: conscience is part innate, part acquired.



In what sense is it innate? Just as rational creatures have a natural
capacity to judge the veracity of first principles in the realm of
speculative reason, so we have an innate capacity to judge the first
principles of practical reason. This innate capacity to immediately
grasp such principles as true or not in the realm of practical reason
is called conscience. It is associated, for Bonaventure, with the
Augustinian "natural light"--or "natural
tribunal"--that is built into the structure of the mind and
which permits rational agents to intuitively grasp the basic
principles of the natural law (see, e.g., Augustine, *City of
God*, 11.27, Bettenson trans. 1972: 461-462). Just as the
mind is disposed to grasp, in the realm of theoretical reason, the
axiomatic nature of such propositions as that "all bachelors are
unmarried males", so too it has a innate disposition to grasp as
self-evidently true such basic principles in the domain of practical
reason as "Honour thy father and mother" and "Do not
harm thy neighbour".



In what sense, though, is conscience acquired? Although the ability to
judge the deontic propositions of the natural law as self-evidently
true is innate, it does not follow that the *contents* of such
propositions are innate. It does not follow, that is, that the
concepts "father" and "mother" in the precept
to honor one's parents are in the mind from birth. And indeed,
so Bonaventure thinks, they are not. Rather, they are species or
likenesses acquired through sense experience which, once acquired,
form the terms of the universal propositions of the natural law that
are intuitively grasped. In this sense, Bonaventure is true to
Aristotle:



> 
> 
> For everyone agrees that there is an imparted light of the
> apprehensory potentiality which is called a natural tribunal, but we
> acquire forms and likenesses of things by means of the senses, as
> Aristotle says explicitly in many places, and as experience also
> teaches us. (commentary on the *Sentences* 2.39: a. 1, q. 2;
> Potts trans. 1980: 113)
> 
> 
> 



Conscience, then, is partly innate and partly acquired with respect to
the content of the natural law. But what is the relationship of such
universal premises to the conclusions of practical reason? How does
the agent proceed from a general knowledge of right and wrong to the
application of this knowledge to concrete situations? After all, such
universal premises are only useful to the extent that they can be
applied. For Bonaventure, the habit of directing the agent toward
applying the general principles of the natural law to specific
actions, like the habit of immediately grasping deontic principles, is
innate. But in order to apply this self-evident knowledge we must
acquire further knowledge. For example, although we grasp *a
priori* the truth that one should honor one's father and
mother, we have no innate knowledge that John and Mary are our parents
and that it is they specifically who must be honoured as opposed to,
say, Michael and Jane. Rather, this type of knowledge is derived from
experience and instruction.



Note that conscience does not simply move from the general to the
particular with respect to concrete actions. It also moves from the
general to the specific with respect to propositions themselves. As
Potts points out, there are in fact two classes of deontic
propositions: basic and derived (Potts 1982: 698). Consider the
deontic proposition to obey God, which is basic, or maximally evident.
Obviously, other more specific precepts can be derived from this very
general one. Historically, for instance, from the basic deontic
proposition to obey God the Jews derived the further, less evident but
more specific deontic propositions to refrain from eating pork and to
circumcise their sons. How did they come to know these more specific
propositions? By means of a revealed commandment--via (divine)
instruction, in other words (commentary on the *Sentences*
2.39: a. 2, q. 3, ad 4; Potts trans. 1980: 120). Although the
distinction between basic and derived deontic propositions is
Potts', and although the case cited is an example of an
erroneous conscience (Bonaventure argues that male circumcision and
the prohibition on eating pork are no longer applicable), it
accurately sums up Bonaventure's distinction between
propositions that are "very clearly evident" versus those
that are "less evident":



> 
> 
> Just as some things that are cognizable are very clearly evident, such
> as axioms and first principles, while some are less evident, such as
> particular conclusions, so also in things that can be done, some are
> evident in the highest degree, for example, "Do not do to
> another what you do not want done to you" and that one should
> submit to God and suchlike. In the same way, then, as the cognition of
> first principles is said to be innate in us by reason of that light,
> because (due to their self-evidence) that light suffices for cognizing
> them (after the reception of species) without any additional
> persuasion, so also the cognition of moral first principles is innate
> in us, in that that judicatory suffices for cognizing them. Again, in
> the same way as cognition of the particular conclusions of the
> sciences is acquired, because the light innate in us does not fully
> suffice for knowing them, but some persuasion and fuller acquaintance
> are needed, so on the side of things that can be done we must
> understand, similarly, that we are bound to do some things which we
> know only through additional instruction. (commentary on the
> *Sentences* 2.39: a. 1, q. 2; McGrade trans 2001: 179)
> 
> 
> 



This distinction between basic, or very general principles, and
specific or derived precepts is germane to the question of whether
conscience can ever be mistaken and, if so, whether in such cases it
continues to bind. Bonaventure's response is that we can never
be mistaken about basic deontic propositions. Rather, it is with
respect to derived ones that we sometimes err since



> 
> 
> although conscience is always right so long as it sticks to the
> general and is moved by simple inspection, it can become mistaken when
> it descends to particulars and brings things together, because the
> actualisation of deliberative reason is mixed with it. (commentary on
> the *Sentences* 2.39: a. 2, q. 3, ad 4; Potts trans. 1980:
> 120)
> 
> 
> 



Is one obliged to always follow one's conscience? It depends,
since conscience is fallible. If what it dictates is in accordance
with God's will, then one is obliged to follow it on pain of
eternal damnation. If erroneous--if what it dictates is contrary
to the divine will--as is sometimes the case when applying basic
deontological principles, then conscience does not bind. Rather, the
agent has an obligation to correct the error in order to bring his
conscience into line with the natural law. If he does not, and follows
his erroneous conscience, he commits a mortal sin. "It is clear
that *conscientia* always either binds us to do what it tells
us, or binds us to change it" (commentary on the
*Sentences* 2.39: a. 1, q. 3; Potts trans. 1980:
114-115). Obviously, then, the intellect plays an important role
in achieving happiness given its possession of conscience. But what of
the will? Does it not have an equally important role to play in the
moral life? Yes: in its possession of synderesis. In line with
tradition, Bonaventure calls synderesis the "spark of
conscience" (commentary on the *Sentences* 2.39: a. 2;
McGrade trans. 2001: 186). He breaks with tradition, however, in
arguing that it inheres in the will rather than in the intellect.
Indeed synderesis, for Bonaventure, is precisely the counterpart of
conscience insofar as the will, like the intellect, has an innate
inclination towards the moral (as opposed to the useful) good. In the
case of the intellect this disposition takes the form of the
"natural light" of conscience that apprehends the first
principles of the natural law; in the case of the will, it takes the
form of synderesis: a "natural bias" towards desiring the
moral good. There is one sense, however, in which synderesis is not
exactly analogous to conscience. While it looks very much like a
habit, synderesis is rather, according to Bonaventure (presumably
following Philip the Chancellor), a habit-like power of the soul
(commentary on the *Sentences* 2.39: a. 2, q. 1; Potts trans.
1980: 116-117).



Can synderesis ever be extinguished? No: it is an innate orientation
towards goodness that cannot be completely eradicated, ontologically
speaking, even in the most vicious of people. In its exercise,
however, it can become impeded "either by the darkness of
blindness, or by the wantonness of pleasure, or by the hardness of
obstinacy" (commentary on the *Sentences* 2.39: a. 2, q.
2; Potts trans. 1980: 117). In such cases, synderesis ceases to
"murmur" against evil or "goad" towards the
good, either because the agent is blinded by ignorance, distracted by
physical pleasure or is so stubbornly persistent in their depravity
that they cannot reorient themselves towards the good. Still, when
synderesis follows the innate judgement of conscience with respect to
basic deontic principles, which can never err, then it too functions
correctly because that is its natural state. It has the potential to
go wrong and fall into sin only during the exercise of deliberation
with respect to particular truths since it is here that reason can
become faulty and the will, which is free, disordered. When reason and
will malfunction synderesis is "overthrown, in that its effect
and its government over the other deliberative powers is repulsed and
broken" (commentary on the *Sentences* 2.39: a. 2, q. 3;
Potts trans. 1980: 119). When this happens, the agent sins.


### 3.2 St Thomas Aquinas: Synderesis and Conscience as Cognitive



Thomas Aquinas (1224/25-1274) is, by any measure, one of the
most important, if not the most important, scholastic theologian of
the later Middle Ages. Although his views on conscience and synderesis
have received less attention in recent years than his theory of
natural law, this is unjustified. For the scholastics, a full account
of morality includes not only an explanation of how practical norms
are grounded, but also an understanding of how they are grasped and
how it is that rational agents, despite possessing an infallible guide
to such knowledge, often fail to apply it. One's metaethics, in
other words, is inextricably linked to one's moral psychology,
which is to say, to one's understanding of how the will and the
intellect interact with one's knowledge of right and wrong.



Aquinas discussed the issues of synderesis and conscience in several
of his major works, from his early commentary on the
*Sentences* and the *De veritate* to his mature
*Summa theologica* (see D'Arcy 1961: 36-47). As
might be expected, his account is very different from that of his
Franciscan contemporary Bonaventure. For one thing, Bonaventure
assigns synderesis to the will. He also describes it, as we saw above,
as a "habit-like faculty". Aquinas, as might be expected,
hews much closer to his Dominican mentor and teacher Albert the Great
(ca. 1200-1280) for whom both synderesis and conscience belong
to the intellect (see Dougherty 2018: 221).



For Aquinas, the rational part of the soul comprises the faculties or
powers of intellect and will. The object of the will is the good, and
the object of the intellect is the true. The latter potency is further
divided into the speculative intellect (*intellectus
speculativus*) and the practical intellect (*intellectus
practicus*). How do these differ? The object of the speculative
intellect is truth as such, while the object of the practical
intellect is the good "under the aspect of truth" (Thomas
Aquinas, *Summa theologica* I, q. 79, a. 11, ad. 2). Synderesis
and conscience, for Aquinas, both belong to the practical
intellect.



All reasoning must start from immediately evident principles if an
infinite regress is to be avoided. This is as true in the realm of
practical reason as it is in the realm of speculative reason. Once
such principles have been grasped and assented to, more specific
conclusions can be deduced. How are these principles grasped? In the
domain of speculative reason, they are apprehended by the innate
disposition that Aquinas calls
*intellectus*--"intuitive reason" or
"understanding"--and that Aristotle called
*nous*. The objects of this habit are such self-evident
propositions as that "every whole is greater than its
part" and that "things equal to one and the same are equal
to one another" (*Summa theologica* I-II, q 94, a. 2,
corp.). Once their terms are known, the intellect immediately grasps
the truth of such propositions since they are analytic in nature. The
corresponding habit in the domain of practical reason, on the other
hand, is synderesis: a property of the soul which can never be lost,
which never errs, and whose objects are the first principles of the
natural law (*De veritate* 16.1, corp.). A good description of
how Aquinas understands synderesis is Hoffmann's, who calls it
an "infallible moral awareness" (Hoffmann 2012: 255). Like
understanding, synderesis is innate:



> 
> 
> Wherefore the first practical principles, bestowed on us by nature, do
> not belong to a special power, but to a special natural habit, which
> we call "synderesis". Whence "synderesis" is
> said to incite to good, and to murmur at evil, inasmuch as through
> first principles we proceed to discover, and judge of what we have
> discovered. It is therefore clear that "synderesis" is not
> a power, but a natural habit. (*Summa theologica* I, q. 79, a.
> 12, corp.)
> 
> 
> 



In broad terms, synderesis is a link between the human intellect and
the divine wisdom. The universe is created and governed by a
providential God and is therefore subject to the order of final
causality. Accordingly, all things, rational and non-rational alike,
seek their proper ends. Non-rational beings, since they lack will and
intellect and are therefore incapable of prudential reasoning, achieve
their ends through the natural inclinations that are implanted in them
by God. In this sense, they participate in the providential plan for
all creation that Aquinas calls the "eternal law": the
divine wisdom insofar as it directs all creatures towards their ends
(*Summa theologica* I-II, q. 93, a. 1, corp.). They do so,
however, in a diminished way. Rational beings, by contrast,
participate in divine providence in a more excellent way. This
participation in the eternal law is called the natural law, whose
moral principles function to direct human beings toward their ultimate
end: happiness (*Summa theologica*, I-II, q. 91, a. 2, corp.).
These moral principles, which are grasped and accordingly possessed by
synderesis, offer an insight into God's intentions for human
beings and therefore into the ultimate purpose of human life. As
Baylor writes of Aquinas's theory:



> 
> 
> Moral principles are based upon and derived from a rationality that is
> present in reality; they are a human knowledge of the exemplary ideas
> in the divine mind according to which creation is imbued with a
> rational order. (Baylor 1977: 46)
> 
> 
> 



Practical reasoning, then, plays a central role in the achievement of
happiness, the final end for humans, and therefore in God's plan
for us. Like speculative reasoning, practical reasoning generally
takes a deductive form. Just as science is the conclusion of the
demonstrative syllogism, so conscience is the conclusion of a
practical syllogism. The practical syllogism, like the demonstrative
syllogism, contains a major premise, a minor premise and a conclusion.
The major premise is drawn or deduced from synderesis. The minor
premise, on the other hand, is drawn either from faith, natural reason
or human positive law. From the major and minor premises, a conclusion
is drawn that generates a moral obligation to act (Hoffmann 2012:
258). This inferential judgment is associated, for Aquinas, with
conscience: an act--as opposed to a faculty or a habit--that
includes a number of applications, such as "to witness, to bind,
or incite, and also to accuse, torment, or rebuke" (Thomas
Aquinas, *Summa theologica* I, q. 79, a. 13, corp.).



Conscience acts as a "witness" when it is consciously
aware of some personal wrongdoing, whether of commission or omission.
It "binds" or "incites" when it makes a
judgement that some act should be performed. Finally, it
"accuses", "torments" or "rebukes"
when it judges that some past action was either morally acceptable or
it was not. Although it is difficult to see how conscience in the
first sense--conscience as witness--can function as an
application of knowledge to conduct, this seems less problematic in
the second and third senses of the term, which harken back to the
legislative and judicial senses of conscience found in St. Paul and
pagan antiquity, respectively (D'Arcy 1961: 46). In any case, an
example of the way in which conscience applies the natural
law--whose principles are apprehended by synderesis-- is
articulated in Aquinas's *De veritate*:



> 
> 
> If the judgement of synderesis expresses the statement: "nothing
> prohibited by the law of God is to be done", and if the
> knowledge of higher reason presents this minor premise "sexual
> intercourse with this woman is forbidden by the law of God", the
> application of conscience will be made by concluding: "this
> sexual intercourse is to be avoided". (*De veritate*, q.
> 17, a. 2, corp.; cited in Dougherty 2018: 222)
> 
> 
> 



Now the dictates of conscience can either be right, if correctly
deduced from the natural law, or wrong, if they are incorrectly
deduced. The dictates of the former are the product of a
"correct conscience" and the judgements of the latter are
the result of an "erroneous conscience". Since synderesis
is infallible, the main source of an erroneous conscience, when it
does occur, is the agent's adoption of a faulty minor premise in
the practical syllogism (*De veritate* q. 17, a. 2; Potts
trans. 1980: 132-133).



Now it is clear that we have an obligation to follow a correct
conscience since to do so contributes to achieving our final end. But
what of an erroneous conscience? Does this have any authority? For
Aquinas, an erring conscience also binds. It does not, however,
necessarily excuse. As Hoffmann puts it,



> 
> 
> regardless of whether my action is objectively good, evil or
> indifferent, conscience binds, for it is by means of conscience that
> an action is proposed to me as good, bad, or indifferent. (Hoffmann
> 2012: 260)
> 
> 
> 



For example, it is objectively right--in accordance with the
natural law--to refrain from sex outside of marriage. But suppose
that an agent (mistakenly) believes that such abstinence is sinful,
and yet still refrains. According to Aquinas, this agent, although he
does what is objectively right, nonetheless sins. Why? Because in
choosing the opposite of what his conscience dictated, he chose to do
something he believed to be evil. And choosing what is (subjectively
if not objectively) wrong, for Aquinas, is a sin: "[F] from the
very fact that a thing is proposed by the reason as being evil, the
will by tending thereto becomes evil" (*Summa
theologica*, I-II, q. 19, a. 5, corp.).



What follows from this is that conscience, whether right or erroneous,
always binds. As to the question of whether an erroneous conscience
excuses, on the other hand, that depends on the type of ignorance that
causes it. This is because some types of ignorance render an act
involuntary and therefore excusable, and some do not. Ignorance that
excuses is called invincible, and concerns ignorance about the facts
of the situation (assuming, of course, there is no negligence
involved). Such cases, that is, where an agent could not have known
better under the circumstances and would not have thus acted had he
known better, are excusable. Aquinas uses the example of
fornication--voluntary, illicit sex--to illustrate his
point. Although it is a sin to commit adultery, a man is excused if he
has sexual relations with a woman who is not his wife, so long as he
is genuinely, if improbably, mistakes the women for his wife. This
is



> 
> 
> because this error arises from ignorance of a circumstance, which
> ignorance excuses, and causes the act to be involuntary. (*Summa
> theologica* I-II, q. 19, a. 6, corp.)
> 
> 
> 



Ignorance that contributes to an erroneous conscience that is in any
way voluntary is vincible, or able to be corrected, and therefore
culpable if followed. This generally happens where the agent's
ignorance of the particulars of the situation is either the result of
negligence, or where there is ignorance of the relevant moral
principles. The former cases are the result of the agent not taking
appropriate care to find out about the facts of situation so that he
or she can sin while feigning ignorance. In the case of one's
ignorance of universal premises, this too is culpable since it is
one's obligation to know the moral law. (*Summa
theologica* I-II, q. 19, a. 6, corp.).



But one might be wondering how it is that culpable ignorance is even
possible where it relates to general moral principles. How can one go
wrong about the universal premises that form the major premise of the
practical syllogism, which are drawn from the precepts which comprise
the natural law, if synderesis, which grasps such premises, is
infallible? Aquinas's answer is that there are two types of
natural law precepts: primary--or those which are "most
general"--and secondary. Aquinas is less specific on this
topic than is optimal, but in drawing this distinction he seems to
mean something like the following. About the primary precepts of the
natural law, no-one can go wrong. Unfortunately, as we have seen, such
precepts are of a very general character, such as "do good and
avoid evil". For such general knowledge to be applicable by
conscience, it must be further specified. This further specification
comprises the secondary precepts of the natural law, which are closely
drawn from the former precepts and from natural inclination. About
such secondary, derived precepts of the natural law, such as
"adultery is to be avoided", humans are all too prone to
become ignorant. For Aquinas such ignorance is the result either of
vice or of having been socialized in a culture with "vicious
customs":



> 
> 
> I answer that [...] there belongs to the natural law, first,
> certain most general precepts, that are known to all; and secondly,
> certain secondary and more detailed precepts, which are, as it were,
> conclusions following closely from first principles. As to those
> general principles, the natural law, in the abstract, can nowise be
> blotted out from men's hearts. [...] But as to [...] the
> secondary precepts, the natural law can be blotted out from the human
> heart, either by evil persuasions, just as in speculative matters
> errors occur in respect of necessary conclusions; or by vicious
> customs and corrupt habits [...]. (*Summa theologica*
> I-II, q. 94, a. 6, corp.)
> 
> 
> 



A final problem seems to emerge: are we not, according to
Aquinas's account of the erroneous conscience, left with the
possibility of a moral dilemma? For if we have an obligation to always
follow our consciences, but we sometimes sin when we do follow them,
then it seems that we are sometimes put into a double bind. We seem,
that is, to sometimes have conflicting obligations so that regardless
of what we do, we sin. Aquinas's solution is that it is only
wrong to follow a conscience that is in a state of vincible ignorance.
Since such ignorance is by definition correctable, we can always
resolve the apparent dilemma by choosing to put aside our ignorance.
As far as acting from invincible ignorance is concerned, we are
pardoned.


### 3.3 William of Ockham: New Directions in the Understanding of Synderesis and Conscience



With the fourteenth-century theologian William of Ockham
(1285-1347) we encounter some radically new developments on the
topics of synderesis and conscience. While Ockham's Franciscan
predecessor John Duns Scotus had disagreements with Aquinas about the
nature of the moral law, Scotus fundamentally agreed with the
Dominican in viewing synderesis and conscience a habit and an act of
the practical reason, respectively, whose jobs were to apprehend the
basic principles of morality in the case of synderesis, and to apply
them in the case of conscience (John Duns Scotus, *Ordinatio*
2, d. 39; Wolter trans. 1997: 162-163). Like Scotus, Ockham also
agrees with Aquinas in several crucial respects. Where Ockham departs
from Aquinas, and indeed with the entire scholastic tradition which
preceded him, however, is in his abandonment of the concept of
synderesis, and in his unique approach to the invincibly erroneous
conscience.



It is difficult to know for certain why Ockham abandoned the concept
of synderesis. Michael Baylor, however, has suggested two
possibilities. The first is that, as we have seen, synderesis was
regarded by Ockham's predecessors, like Aquinas, as an inborn
habit. But for Ockham, rational agents only come to possess habits by
acquiring them, and they can only acquire them by doing the relevant
acts repeatedly. The notion that a habit could be innate, then, would
have seemed incoherent to Ockham (Baylor 1977: 78; Fuchs 1952:
5-6).



The second possible explanation--though Baylor thinks this
implausible--has to do with the way that Ockham understands the
foundations of morality as compared with Aquinas. For Ockham, there is
no essential connection between the moral order as it currently exists
and the divine wisdom. The highest norm of morality is the divine
will. It just so happens that murder, for example, is wrong today. But
there is no reason that God could not make murder right tomorrow if he
so willed. The moral order, in short, is contingent. On the Thomistic
view, however, the natural law is a participation in the eternal law.
It is the point of contact between God's plan for us as
conceived in the divine mind, on the one hand, and the human
intellect, on the other. Synderesis, as we saw above, plays a key role
in this connection insofar as it grasps the moral principles that lead
human beings to their final destiny. Moreover, the moral principles
that guide us in how to achieve our final end are as true today as
they were yesterday, and indeed will be for all time, owing to the
natures that God has bestowed upon us. As Baylor writes:



> 
> 
> As the element of man's original nature which was substantially
> undamaged after Adam's fall, the *synteresis* was the
> anthropological point of connection between an abiding moral order,
> which manifested ideas in the divine intellect according to which
> creation was necessarily ordered, and man's certain knowledge of
> universal principles of that moral order. Ockham, however, stressed
> the absolute contingency of creation [...] For Ockham,
> God's will, as manifested in the moral precepts he has ordained,
> constitutes the ultimate and objective norm of morality. God is under
> no obligation; rather, it is divine will which determines moral
> obligation. This awesome conception of divine liberty and omnipotence,
> and the contingency of the created order has led many to the
> conclusion that the objective basis of Ockham's ethics is
> authoritarian or positivistic and inherently unstable since it appears
> to depend only upon an alterable divine fiat. If this were so, then it
> would appear odd also to posit within man an inborn and inalienable
> knowledge of moral principles in the form of *synteresis*.
> (Baylor 1977: 79-80)
> 
> 
> 



A distinguished proponent of the interpretation Baylor describes was
Servais Pinckaers. Because the foundations of morality are rooted in
the divine will, which can change, there was no need for Ockham to
resort to a mechanism that discovers the eternal principles of
morality as these emerge from human nature since, for Ockham, no such
principles exist. Rather, according to Pinckaers' interpretation
of Ockham, moral principles are known through revelation. (Pinckaers
1993: 258). While Pinckaers was correct in his assessment of
Ockham's metaethics--which is fundamentally authoritarian
despite elements of rationalism--he was wrong in his
characterization of Ockham's moral epistemology. This is
because, while it is indeed possible to come to know the principles of
morality via divine revelation, on Ockham's account, it is also
possible, despite their grounding in God's will, to come to know
them via natural reason and experience (see Eardley 2013:
82-87). Examples of the former, that is, of principles that are
self-evidently true, are "every blameworthy evil is to be
avoided" and "the will ought to conform itself to right
reason". An example of a moral proposition that is grounded in
experience, on the other hand, is "an angry man should be calmed
with soothing words" (Eardley 2013: 86-87). God obviously
wills that we should follow such injunctions. But how can we know his
will if not through revelation? Although the contemporary philosopher
Peter Geach was not a particularly sympathetic reader of Ockham, he
was willing to concede the possibility that a metaethics grounded in
divine commands could nonetheless yield a naturalistic moral
epistemology. As he put it:



> 
> 
> the rational recognition that a practice is generally undesirable and
> that it is best for people on the whole not even to think of resorting
> to it is thus in fact a promulgation to a man of the Divine law
> forbidding the practice, even if he does not realise that this is a
> promulgation of the Divine law, even if he does not believe there is a
> God. (Geach 1981: 170)
> 
> 
> 



Ockham would have agreed.



A second and related way in which Pinckaers misinterpreted
Ockham's moral epistemology was Pinckaers' assumption
that, because Ockham discarded the traditional notion of synderesis,
he must have done the same for its twin concept of conscience.
Pinckaers conceded that moral principles, even if rooted in the divine
will, still need to be applied to particular situations on
Ockham's account. This role was, of course, reserved for
conscience in the earlier tradition. In Ockham, according to
Pinckaers, this role now became associated with practical reason and
prudence (Pinckaers 1993: 259).



A closer reading of the textual evidence suggests that Ockham very
much made use of the traditional concept of conscience. Indeed, much
of how he employed the concept was consistent with the tradition,
especially as articulated by Aquinas. Ockham associates the dictates
of practical reason, for example, with judgements of conscience. He is
also emphatic in his belief that rational agents have an absolute
obligation to follow their consciences, which can be correct or
erroneous (*Quaestiones variae*, q. 8, a. 1, OTh 8: 411). A
conscience is correct when it is in accord with right reason; it is
erroneous when it is not. Finally, an erroneous conscience, for
Ockham, as with Aquinas, is either in a state of
vincible--voluntary and therefore culpable--ignorance, or in
a state of invincible--or involuntary--ignorance. Where
conscience is in a state of vincible ignorance, we must do our best to
set it aside. In all these cases Ockham follows the tradition, with
one exception: that of the invincibly erroneous conscience (Eardley
2013: 94-98), the state in which the agent finds himself with
the correct universal principles, but non-culpably errs with respect
to his grasp of the circumstances in which he finds himself.



In what sense does Ockham depart from the tradition? For Ockham, the
act of following an invincibly erroneous conscience is not merely
excusable, as it was For Aquinas, but "virtuous and
meritorious". Consider the following example from Ockham. While
walking down the street one day you pass a homeless person who asks
you for money. He appears to have a moral claim on you since you
assent to the moral principle that "help is to be given to every
needy person in extreme need lest he die". Does he appear needy,
and indeed desperate to you? Yes. Sizing him up, you determine that,
although it is theoretically possible that he could be fraud, this
seems unlikely. For Ockham, you are obliged in this instance to follow
your conscience, and indeed you do. It turns out, however, that this
apparent homeless person is in fact a very wealthy person who is
impersonating a beggar. For Ockham, in following your conscience, you
are not merely excused or absolved of your error, but your (ignorant)
act is virtuous and, indeed, regarded by God as meritorious (so long,
that is, that your act of charity is done out of love for God). As
Ockham puts it:



> 
> 
> Consequently, [in the above case] a right act of the will and an error
> of the intellect remain at the same time with respect to the same
> object. And the whole reason is because that error is not in the power
> of the one who is mistaken, who took all due diligence to find out the
> truth, and therefore that error excuses from every sin. And
> consequently, the will that elicits the act in conformity to such
> [invincibly] erroneous reason acts virtuously and meritoriously.
> Indeed, had he not, while in such error, willed to help that person,
> he would have performed a vicious and demeritorious act because such
> an act would have been knowingly elicited against conscience and
> against non-culpable reason, because in the aforementioned case he
> does not know that he is in error but believes that he possesses right
> reason, and consequently by despising reason [in this way] he sins
> mortally. (*Quaestiones varie* q. 8, a. 2, Oth 8:
> 423-424)
> 
> 
> 



What is motivating Ockham's novel suggestion? Even Aquinas
admitted that we have an obligation to follow our consciences, whether
right or erroneous. When we do not do so, according to Aquinas, we
sin. Of course, when our consciences are in a state of voluntary or
vincible ignorance we also have a duty to put aside our error,
otherwise we sin. It is obviously not possible, however, to put error
aside in the case of invincible ignorance since such ignorance is by
definition involuntary. Accordingly, for Aquinas, we are obliged to
follow such a conscience. Although we act wrongly, in such cases, we
are, for Aquinas, excused on the grounds that we could not have known
better. To return to Aquinas's example of inadvertently sleeping
with someone who is not your spouse: this might be excusable, for
Aquinas, but there is no possibility that such an act might be
considered virtuous, much less meritorious. But for Ockham, if it is
vicious and therefore punishable *not* to follow an invincibly
erroneous conscience, then merely being excused for following it when
we are under a moral obligation to do so would be an insufficient
reward. Rather, it should logically follow that it is virtuous and
therefore meritorious.