Introduction

At the close of the thirteenth century, there was no feeling of a fin de siècle in Oxford. The young university flourished and the expanding Franciscan movement led the way in the shadow and light of the weighty Parisian condemnations of 1277, and in the light of the Oxford condemnations of 1277 and 1284. Step by step, Duns Scotus pushed back the boundaries of semantics and logic. Massive theological problems lay ahead and the new lecturer of divinity tried to cast new light upon the dilemmas surrounding individuality. During these remarkable years of the mid-1290s everything changed. The theoretical center of the new way of thought was Duns' theory of synchronic contingency. His is an ontology of individuals, comprising the past, present, and future of the created universe. The theory of individuality is a fine example of how philosophy changed. ‘Because of its theological implications, the problem of individuation in the latter portion of the thirteenth century became one of the more controversial and hotly discussed issues in university circles, especially at Paris and Oxford.’ Nevertheless, true individuality is still a rather neglected issue in philosophy. ‘The purely and pre-eminently philosophical problem concerning the ultimate constitutive element of individual reality is either totally neglected or only partially treated by modern philosophers.’

The principal ontological consequence of far-reaching conceptual shifts is discerned in the theory of individuals. Scientific revolutions are, for the most part, matters of major conceptual shifts, and at the end of the thirteenth century, one such shift took place. In ancient philosophy, the individual poses a problem.

The requirement of reciprocity is a very familiar idea. In its most basic form, it admonishes us to ‘do unto others as we would have them do unto us’. Accordingly, we should be willing to treat people kindly if that is how we would like them to treat us in return. But by the same token, if someone treats us unkindly, then reciprocity is often taken to mean that we should treat that person in like terms. Of course, this latter kind of reasoning can, and very often does, get people into all sorts of trouble. One thinks, for example, of the nuclear arms race or international trade wars, where threats of mutual destruction or financial embargoes determine the direction and character of international relations (Goodin 1992: 21–2). And naturally one also thinks of the countless examples of internecine, tit-for-tat retaliations between conflicting ethnic groups.

The requirement of reciprocity can therefore be understood as a force for good relations or as a force for bad relations. As a positive force, deliberative democrats have interpreted it to mean that since democratic decisions are mutually binding, citizens and representatives should aspire to a kind of political reasoning that is mutually justifiable (Gutmann and Thompson 1996: 53 and passim). More specifically, they should be prepared to justify their political proposals by providing reasons that others might reasonably be expected to accept (Rawls 1996, 1999; Habermas 1996, 1998b).

The last chapter began by discussing John Stuart Mill's claim that a democratic state will not succeed unless its citizens share a common national identity. This chapter seeks to expand upon that discussion by examining two main forms that national identity might conceivably take. The first of these forms stresses civic institutions, public offices, agencies and officials, as well as common and authoritative rules that typically apply across the territory of a given state. By contrast, the second of these forms stresses the importance of ethnicity and culture, ancestral memories and struggles, and common fears and hopes for the future. These two forms should not be thought of as mutually exclusive, since in practice they will often overlap. Nevertheless, to the extent that a democratic society really does aspire to treat all of its citizens equally, irrespective of their more particular differences and divisions, I will argue that the creation of an overarching civic nationality should be one of its principal goals.

The chapter will then consider how an overarching civic nationality might best be facilitated in a divided society. To this end, I start by considering two (admittedly stylised) normative models of the democratic state, liberalism and republicanism. As I will portray it, liberalism holds that the institutions of the democratic state should aim to ensure that citizens have access to the same range of rights, resources and opportunities, so that they are equally free to pursue their particular interests as they see fit. Otherwise put, those institutions should be neutral with respect to questions of ethnicity.

Introduction

Absolute conceptions of knowledge and being are characteristic of all important positions of ancient philosophy. These conceptions molded the ideas of physical reality, but they are incompatible with physics as it was built up in the revolution of the natural sciences during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The foundations of the scientific revolution were laid in earlier centuries. For Duns Scotus, physics was not a dominating interest as semantics and logic were, but it is still of interest to pay attention to a number of physical themes within a wider philosophical context. Moreover, in contrast to the other subjects (with the exception of ethics (Wolter) and ontology (Honnefelder)), we have a major and brilliant monograph on the subject, written by Richard Cross.

We start with Duns Scotus' theory of matter (§10.2). Even in this day and age, matter is not a subject dear to modern theology, but long before Van Ruler stressed that both ends of the ontological spectrum – God and matter – share the common property of impeccability, the medieval theory of matter had already moved with the times. Long before Duns Scotus, the pure potentiality theory of matter was a minority opinion in the West, but Duns not only dropped matter as the principle of individuation, he also elaborated on more complex theories of matter and individuality (see Chapter 11). Matter is not something negative, let alone something dirty, for it exists in its own right, not as a non-being facet of being.

Introduction

Modern secular philosophy has often objected to theology that Christianity is loaded with paradoxes. The paradoxical situation of our Western theoretical culture is that its philosophy is itself a paradox, for modern philosophy cannot know itself if it ignores its own history. Apart from the fact that there is flourishing research in the history of medieval philosophy, general philosophy still widely ignores the decisive continuity between sixteenth-, seventeenth-, and eighteenth-century thought, on the one hand, and theology and philosophy in the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries, on the other. The effect of this pattern is that the discontinuity between Western thought at the eighteenth-century universities and philosophy at nineteenth-century universities is usually misunderstood. This misinterpretation specifically has the result that the medieval way (via) of Scotism, which was still very important at the universities of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, plays only a marginal role in the historical literature on seventeenth- and eighteenth-century thought.

The outcome is that the great philosophical individuals (Hobbes, Descartes, Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Leibniz, Wolff) are considered to be the main figures and that the impact of university philosophy and theology is somewhat overlooked. ‘Modern students of theology have often been frequently encouraged to believe that significant theological thinking is a product of the nineteenth century.’ Philosophy students enjoy the same myth. That was the trick of nineteenth-century academic culture, intensified further by the historical revolution of the 1820s. However, the university of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries is the updated medieval university – Catholic and reformational.

For Boethius, philosophy became a source of comfort. In difficult circumstances, we may set our minds free by focusing on a specific agenda. After having uncovered the infrastructure of John Duns Scotus' theology (Johannes Duns Scotus, 1994), I returned to the sphere of philosophy to concentrate on the massive issue of Duns Scotus' own philosophy. I underestimated somewhat the enormity of the task to clean up the research regarding John Duns Scotus' life, works, and philosophical thought. However, my obsession was made lighter and livelier by Marriëtte, Toon, and Elisabeth, my home front and a haven of relief and joy, always fond of keen exchanges of thought to soothe the practical pressures of writing a large book.

I have continually been supported by the wonderful presence of the Research Group John Duns Scotus which gathers regularly in Dordrecht. John Duns' philosophy is a philosophy of individual dignity and goodness, love and friendship. I am grateful for and proud of this unique band of inspirational scholars (Henri Veldhuis, Eef Dekker, Nico den Bok, Klaas Bom, Andreas Beck, Martijn Bac), still going strong in their contributions to Scotist scholarship. Likewise, I enjoy the link between past and present in the Utrecht days of studying and promoting theology (Nico den Bok, Guus Labooy, Arjan Plaisier). We are rediscovering the past in order to infuse present debates with the riches of the classic heritage of Western thought of the past millennium. I am grateful for and proud of such excellent young scholars who started out as students but became my pupils and then my friends who helped prevent me from making mistakes.

I have argued that deliberative democracy can give citizens the confidence to engage openly and frankly with one another, knowing that their views and opinions will receive a fair hearing. It can, moreover, enable them to accept that, in a democracy, citizens do not have an automatic right to get their way, but must instead seek to convince others of the merits of their claims. Critics argue, however, that deliberative democracy is not nearly as open or inclusive as its defenders claim. In order to deliberate successfully, citizens and representatives must know something about the kinds of political commitments that others are likely to have, and have some appreciation of the kinds of political arguments that those others might find acceptable. Otherwise, it is hard to see how they could engage in meaningful deliberation or produce the kinds of principled compromises that I have argued are so important to divided societies. The concern is, however, that this need for familiarity may result in exclusion since it may tempt dominant individuals or groups to close ranks and exclude those whose arguments seem strange or foreign to them (Taylor 1999; Williams 2000).

Deliberative democracy appears, therefore, to give rise to the following dilemma. The more familiar participants are with one another, the more likely it is that their deliberations will be successful. Knowing this, there is a strong temptation for the stronger members of society to exclude the weaker. This dilemma can operate on two levels.

Introduction

Around the turn of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the world saw the birth of the very first universities and the thirteenth century was the very first university century in the history of learning. The medieval university enjoyed continuous growth and flourished, as did Europe itself. The thirteenth century has also been characterized as the century of Aristotle. The philosophical faculties were invaded by his works.

From the religious point of view, one is struck by the enormous vitality in the activities of the Church which gave a new dynamics to the development of faith and theology. The thirteenth century was also the century of the evangelical revival of the mendicant orders. A new évangelisme flowed over Europe and, in particular, over England and Scotland. From the theological point of view, the thirteenth century was the century of the orders of the poverty movement such as the Austin Friars, the Carmelites, the Friars Preaches and the Friars Minor. It was, above all, the first century of the new orders of the Friars Preacher and the Friars Minor. England turned out to be remarkably sensitive to the charm of the Franciscan branch of the poverty movement. In the twelfth century the poverty movement had fallen into relative desuetude, but it rose again in the thirteenth century and its rebirth could in no way have been foreseen.

Poor for the sake of Christ

The spread of the evangelical movement had an enormous impact on the development of theology.

Introduction

Contingency thought presupposes that reality is complicated. Because our reality is complicated, a simple set of parallel distinctions does not satisfy if we have to cope with true, and sometimes harsh, reality. There is no simple one-dimension reality. Since there is only multidimensional reality, we need logical complexity and more devices to do justice to reality. Contingency thought derives its inspiration from the positive drive of biblical revelation that reality has to be better than it usually is. The logic of conversion does not square with the idea of the only one best possible world Actua is. Scholasticism is often ridiculed for piling up unnecessary distinctions, but what is scholasticism?

Apart from the over-technicalities of some authors, the gist of this approach is to the point. Reality is not simple, let alone simplistic, and it is of no help to dream away in the presumption that we can start with clarity and simplicity. If we recognize that reality is complicated and that this complexity has to be acknowledged, there has to be a search for tools which are able to do justice to this complex reality. This is the Sitz im Leben of Scotus' ramified logic and analytical method. Scholastic method is to be explained as analytical method avant la lettre.

Introduction

In many respects, modern philosophy profoundly differs from medieval thought. In a sense, this truth is a trivial one, for medieval thought also differed from ancient philosophy, just as archaic, prephilosophical thought profoundly differed from ancient Greek, Hellenistic and Roman philosophia. Still, there is a secret to be uncovered. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century thought, both in its philosophical and its theological sources, is much more alike medieval thought than is usually considered. Just as, in important respects, the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries might be reckoned among the early modern centuries, so the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries might also be reckoned among the Middle Ages. The academic continuity was still immense.

Nevertheless, in terms of the influence of the great individual early modern thinkers – single, usually writing in a modern language, outside the university – the Cartesian and Lockean revolution in the theories of knowledge and science delivers a different picture. In philosophy, epistemology became the heart of the matter, although this was only fully effectuated in the nineteenth century. However, medieval thought did not know of the dictatorship of epistemology, which was only broken by, for example, Wittgenstein halfway through the twentieth century. In the Middle Ages, epistemology and the theory of proof and demonstration were not a central concern, although they were dealt with skillfully. There was no epistemic anxiety, a phenomenon which arose mainly in the nineteenth century. The nineteenth century was the century of epistemological and methodological supremacy.

In this book I present a philosophical argument about deliberative democracy and its relevance for the resolution of ethno-political conflict in divided societies. Although my approach is philosophical, I take a broad view of the kinds of considerations that are relevant to normative or evaluative thought. More specifically, I agree with Robert Goodin and Phillip Pettit ‘that questions about what can feasibly be achieved in a certain area are just as central to normative concerns as questions about what is desirable in that area’ (1993: 1). Political philosophy is concerned with the way in which political institutions and practices ideally ought to be arranged, rather than with the way they actually are arranged. For this reason, the arguments that political philosophers make inevitably stand at a certain, if indeterminate, remove from the particular circumstances in which those arguments are to apply. In this book, however, I take it as a guiding assumption that there is little point in advancing normative arguments that are so far removed from empirical realities and constraints that they fail to provide policy makers with any real practical guidance.

Accordingly, I aim to show that deliberative democracy provides normative or evaluative standards not just towards which the members of divided societies should aspire, but also towards which they can aspire, even if only in the longer run. Of course, the obvious difficulty is how to strike an appropriate balance between normative concerns and empirical constraints. As Goodin points out, the ‘case for some sort of empirical theory informing policy choices is intuitively obvious.

In the last chapter, I argued that the requirement of reciprocity can play its part in helping to create a stronger sense of common national identity among the citizens of a divided society. More specifically, I argued that, by requiring citizens to provide reasons for their proposals that others can accept, reciprocity promotes the kinds of compromises that build shareable goods. In turn, those goods can form the basis of a stronger sense of common national identity. That argument, however, is incomplete. In so far as the deliberative requirement of reciprocity is concerned only with how to justify political proposals, it might underpin the decisions of a small and highly exclusive group of ruling elites just as easily as it might underpin the decisions of a large and highly representative legislative assembly. But then it would seem that reciprocity alone is too weak to support the basic assumption upon which all forms of democracy ultimately rest – that all those who are bound by a decision should be entitled to an equal say in its making.

As we saw in Chapter 2, democracy can be justified by appealing to two important values, namely intrinsic equality and personal autonomy. A group of benevolent elites might be willing to engage in reasoned discussion among themselves, and might, moreover, be willing to treat each person's good and interest with equal consideration. In this sense, the requirement of reciprocity satisfies the value of intrinsic equality.

Introduction

Over the last ten years I have been constantly aware that momentous decisions and events were taking place in Duns' life seven centuries ago. In 1298–99 John Duns acted as a bachelor lecturing on the Sentences in Oxford in the academic year 1298–99. This series of lectures was to change his life. In 1301, rather than become a theological master in Oxford, he sailed for France to become a bachelor lecturing on the Sentences and Master of Divinity in Paris, the intellectual capital of Europe.

This move must have been the result of an intervention by the international leadership of the Franciscan Order on John Duns' behalf. All that time the Friars Minor were by far the largest mendicant order. John Duns, born in Scotland, did not go to Paris as a studens de debito, nor as a studens de gratia (§1.4). He went to become a bachelor of the Sentences. However, Parisian Franciscan bachelors reading on the Sentences were appointed by the Minister General of the Order (§1.8 and §§2.1–2.2 and §2.4). Duns Scotus became the showpiece of Augustinian thought, the mainstream of Western theology and philosophy, within a few years through the quality of his thought as master of theology at the University of Paris. It had been assumed that he would set the theological and philosophical agenda for years, but it turned out to be that he would do so for centuries, even though he was to die within a short time.