Reflections on the Ontological Argument: Is it Nicene?

Theological Letters

This letter was occasioned by a discussion with a colleague, “Richie.” I expressed to him my inklings that the ontological argument has metaphysical commitments that are incompatible with Nicene-Constantinopolitan commitments. He pressed on whether those commitments are essential to the argument, which prompted me to distinguish the classical formulation by Anselm from the contemporary formulation of Plantinga.

I soon gathered these thoughts into a formal article, which is scheduled to be published in a volume on medieval metaphysics. When first publishing these thoughts here on Substack (August, 2021), I posted the letter, which lacked citations and was not fully fleshed out. I have decided to update this post with the piece that is schedule for publication, complete with academic apparatus. Enjoy!

To all my subscribers, thank you for subscribing. To my paid subscribers, thank you for your support. And to any visitors, please consider subscribing and supporting my work.

Is the God of the Ontological Argument the God of Nicea and Constantinople?

Nathan A. Jacobs

In his Summa Theologiae, Thomas Aquinas explores five proofs for the existence of God, each of which concludes with a variation on, And this all call “God.”¹ Each argument presumes that proving the existence of a being of a certain kind — immutability or modally necessary — proves the existence of God. In the case of the ontological argument, not included in Aquinas’ five ways,² the case is the same. By demonstrating that a maximally great being necessarily exists, the argument claims to prove the existence of God. To quote Anselm, “There is, then, so truly a being than which nothing greater can be conceived to exist, that it cannot even be conceived not to exist; and this being thou art, O Lord, our God.”³ 

Why these proofs are thought to support Christianity is evident in Aquinas’ phrase, “this all call God” (quod omnes dicunt Deum) (emphasis added). The statement is not a rhetorical flourish but a premise. Put in more analytically plain terms, All people, including Christians, use the word God — and only the word God — to indicate a being of kind p. Therefore, a proof for the existence of a being of kind p is a proof for the existence of that which everyone, including Christians, mean by the term God. 

In this essay, I look at whether the ontological argument is in fact a step toward proving the existence of the Christian God. To echo the title of this piece, Is the God of the ontological argument the God of Nicea and Constantinople? I will show there is good reason to think that Anselm’s version of the argument bears commitments that are incompatible with the commitments of Nicene-Constantinopolitan (“N-C”) Trinitarianism. Thus, if one takes N-C Trinitarianism to be normative for Christian doctrine, then the answer is No, the God of Anselm’s ontological argument is not the God of Nicea and Constantinople, and by extension, No, the God of Anselm’s argument is not the God of Christianity. 

Having said this, Anselm’s formulation is not the only formulation of the ontological argument. So, we must ask whether this incompatibility applies to the argument as such or simply to Anselm’s version? As we will see, recent formulations of the argument, such as Alvin Plantinga’s,⁴ take an approach different from Anselm, and these differences are metaphysically significant.⁵ I will show that these differences avoid the confessional pitfalls of Anselm’s case, making Plantinga’s argument compatible with N-C Trinitarianism. Therefore, advocates of N-C Trinitarianism should be careful to differentiate these versions of the argument, since only one is compatible with the N-C confession of faith. 

Before delving into this topic, two qualifications are in order. The first is this. Throughout this essay, I presume the N-C view of the Trinity is the view laid bare and defended by the Cappadocian fathers, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, and Gregory of Nazianzus. That is to say, my position is that the Cappadocians provide the proper historical backdrop for a right interpretation of the council of Constantinople. I realize that some oppose this view. This essay is not about this historical question, however. Hence, for those who deny that the council, and thus N-C Trinitarianism, should be read in light of the Cappadocians, the question of this essay narrows to a more modest question, Is the God of the Ontological Argument the God of the Cappadocians? My choice to frame this essay the way I have reflects my understanding of N-C commitments. If one disagrees, the question of this essay narrows, but this narrowing does not invalidate the incompatibility here expounded.   

The second qualification is this. My concern in this essay is not whether Anselm’s argument or Plantinga’s arguments work, and thus I will give little attention to the soundness of their respective cases. My concern is simply to demonstrate that the commitments of Anselm’s case are incompatible with the commitments of N-C Trinitarianism, while Plantinga’s argument need not be.⁶

The God of Anselm and the Locus of Existence

Anselm’s argument appears in the second and third chapters of his Proslogion seu alloquium de Dei existentia. In chapter 2, Anselm defines God as “a being than which nothing greater can be conceived,”⁷ a premise he takes to be self-evident, since even “the fool,” who says there is no God (Ps 14:1) grants this in his denial of God.⁸ Anselm then suggests that the concept of God must exist either in the mind only or in the mind and reality.⁹ This premise may strike the modern reader as odd, but it is firmly rooted in medieval modal logic.¹⁰ Within medieval modal thinking, the categories of impossible, possible but not necessary, and possible and necessary presume a form of realism that determines modalities based on the relationship between logical possibility (the thing in the mind) and existence (the thing in reality). 

To illustrate, the modal assessment of a “thing” begins with an assessment of the terms posited. Specifically, do the predicates ascribed to the subject produce a formal contradiction? Human, for example, places before the mind a rational (specific difference) animal (genus), to use Aristotle’s method of defining a term.¹¹ No formal contradiction appears in this subject-predicate combination. Nor does any arise when adding bipedal, two-armed, ten-fingered, etc. We thus have before us a logical possibility. The next question is whether this possible thing exists in the mind only or in the mind and reality. A look in the mirror demonstrates one instance of human conjoined with existence. Hence, this possible being exists in both mind and reality. As for whether human is contingent or necessary, the answer concerns yet another subject-predicate relationship: Does the negation of the predicate “exists” in reference to “human” yield a formal contradiction? Nothing in the definition of human seems to entail existence, and if we grant that there was a time when humanity did not exist, then this confirms that existence can be negated of human without contradiction. At that time, human existed in the mind only as a logical possibility, nothing more. From all of this it follows that human is a possible but not necessary (i.e., contingent) being.¹² 

Now, contrast the above example with the subject-predicate pairing not-four-sided square. Such a term places before the mind a formal contradiction, since four-sided is an essential property of square. The word combination not-four-sided square thus fails to rise to the level of a logical possibility. As such, the “thing” posited is modally impossible, existing neither in the mind nor in reality. Or put otherwise, before we can assess whether something exists — and if so, whether it exists contingently or necessarily — we must first posit a thing. Incoherent word combinations fail this basic test. Such contradictions exist in neither the mind nor in reality because “they” are meaningless utterances. And as such, “they” are modally impossible. This is why Aquinas says, “Nothing which implies contradiction falls under the omnipotence of God.”¹³ 

Unlike either modal contingency or modal impossibility, modal necessity applies to those things that are not only possible but entail existence by definition. To predicate does not exist of the subject, then, yields a contradiction on par with predicating not-four-sided of square. 

Returning, then, to Anselm, his first premise presumes that God is logically possible. Hence, the thing signified by the word either exists in the mind but not in reality or it exists in the mind and in reality. Building on his premise that God is a being the greater of which cannot be conceived, he concludes that God must exist both in mind and in reality. For a being who exists in the mind only would be inferior to a being who exists in both mind and reality. In other words, saying that God — the being than which nothing greater can be conceived — exists in mind only yields a contradiction, namely, that we can conceive of a being greater than he. Anselm explains,

Therefore, if that than which nothing greater can be conceived exists in the understanding alone, the very being than which nothing greater can be conceived is one than which a greater can be conceived. But obviously this is impossible. Hence, there is no doubt that there exists a being than which nothing greater can be conceived, and it exists both in the understanding and in reality.¹⁴ 

Now, this initial formulation of the argument is dubious, since existence appears irrelevant to the place of a possible being in the hierarchy of possible beings. Here, the so-called “Great Chain of Being” provides critical context for both the claim and its deficiencies. Chain of Being metaphysics holds that the cosmos is composed of a hierarchy of beings that display an “order of excellence” (ordo eminentiae).¹⁵ Morton W.  Bloomfield summarizes the view of the day: 

The qualitative distinction between each level [of the chain of being] is its degree of perfection. The whole universe may be looked upon as a machine or organism for the production of increasing degrees of perfection. The chain took its origin in perfection and is characterized by a straining back towards its source and original perfection. Creation is a great flowing out from God and a movement back to Him in a series of ontic steps. This flow and ebb, may be termed a vertical rather than horizontal movement such as may be applied to the Aristotelian entelechy…. There is in this definition of perfection a conception of relativity, but the relativity is not based on a dichotomy and hence it is not included among my relative definitions. All creatures, insofar as they are creatures in a hierarchical universe, are perfect, but the degrees of perfection vary. The relativity here involved is that of position leading up to God, although analogy relates all of the levels.¹⁶

The concept of “perfection” (perfectio) here at work is a complex one, given to several definitions in the period. The term may refer in an absolute sense to God; in a relative sense to a creature’s teleological end; or, as a principle of physics, to a creature’s straining toward the good, to name a few possible meanings.¹⁷ In the context of the Chain of Being, it concerns a creature’s excellence relative to other creatures, which determines its place in the hierarchy of beings relative to God. A plant is higher in the chain than a rock because it possesses life, a perfection that rocks lack. An irrational animal, such as a dog, is higher in the chain than a plant, because a dog possesses a form of sentients and locomotion, perfections that plants lack. A human is superior to a dog because a human possesses reason, a perfection that irrational animals lack. And, if we believe the Psalmist (8:5), a human is a little lower than the angels, which indicates that angels possess perfections that a human lacks. 

This metaphysic is relevant to both the failure of Anselm’s argument in chapter 2 and its success in chapter 3. The deficiency of chapter 2 becomes evident when we consider the irrelevance of existence to the hierarchy of beings within this metaphysic. The relative excellence of human to dog, for example, is based on a comparison of the essential properties of the two natures posited: That rational is amongst the essential properties of human but not dog is what places human above dog in the Chain. Were God to choose to create a dog but not a human, this would have no bearing on the relative excellence of these two natures. For the comparative attributes of dog and human would remain the same. Therefore, the premise in chapter 2, that adding existence raises the status of a possible being in the hierarchy of beings, is evidently false. 

Despite the dubious formulation of the argument in chapter 2, Anselm makes a key revision in chapter 3. He argues that necessary existence is qualitatively superior to contingent existence: “To thee alone, therefore, it belongs to exist more truly than all other beings, and hence in a higher degree than all others. For, whatever else exists does not exist so truly, and hence in a lesser degree it belongs to it to exist.”¹⁸ The claim is different from chapter 2. Rather than saying a being is greater if it has existence than if it does not, the argument shifts to claiming that a modally necessary being is superior to a modally contingent being. This revision is significant. By focusing on essential existence, Anselm introduces the idea that existence can be a perfection whose possession is relevant to the being’s excellence if existence is intrinsic to its essence — as opposed to being an extrinsic accident. 

The nuance is important. Amongst contingent beings, the relationship to existence is uniform: Existence is an accident in which created beings can participate and of which they can be deprived. So existence adds nothing to the ontological ranking of contingent beings. But modal necessity contemplates a different type of relationship to existence. Existence here becomes an essential property of the nature posited.¹⁹ In keeping with thinking about the Chain of Being generally, then, if modal necessity indicates a good that is internal to the nature of the being posited, then essential existence denotes a perfection that modally contingent beings lack.

Bringing these points to bear on the premise that God is a being the greater than which cannot be conceived, the necessity of divine existence becomes evident. If we present to the mind two beings, being Q and being R, and both Q and R possess every perfection, but Q has existence as an essential property, while R has existence as an accident — if it has existence at all — then which is the greater being, Q or R? As per the claim that essential existence is a perfection, the answer becomes clear: Modal necessity is superior to modal contingency. Therefore, Q is greater than R. Because God is a being the greater than which cannot be thought, it follows that R would wrongly be called “God,” since Q is greater. The name is rightly ascribed to Q and to Q alone. Or to take a simpler route to the same conclusion, if God is a being having all perfections, and essential existence is a perfection, then God must possess essential existence. Hence Anselm’s conclusion: God is modally necessary and cannot not exist. 

Within the modal system Anselm presumes, few means of evading the argument present themselves. One could deny that modal necessity is superior to modal contingency, but this is not an easy case to make, given the argument from the order of excellence. The alternative reply is that God is modally impossible. In other words, there is something problematic in the very idea of a being of the kind the argument presumes. So it is here that Anselm fortifies his case. 

As discussed above, modal impossibility requires a formal contradiction, such that the “thing” presented to the mind is no thing at all; “it” is nothing more than a meaningless word. For this reason, Anselm suggests that “the fool” proves that God exists when he denies that he exists. In chapter 2, he writes, “Or is there no such nature, since the fool hath said in his heart, there is no God? But, at any rate, this very fool, when he hears of this being of which I speak — a being than which nothing greater can be conceived — understands what he hears.”²⁰ The fact that the fool understands what the theist means by the word God, argues Anselm, demonstrates that the logical possibility we call God exists even in the fool’s mind. For the fool knows what he declares to not exist. In this admission, the argument is won. For the fool, admitting that he has God in mind, admits that God is possible. The only question is whether God is contingent (in mind only) or necessary (in mind and reality). As per the case of chapter 3, God necessarily exists in both mind and in reality. 

Now, the feature of Anselm’s argument that I would like to highlight here is this. The argument entails a very specific claim about the locus of existence. The version of the argument in chapter 3 concerns whether existence is an essential or accidental property of the nature in question. In focusing here, the argument becomes an evaluation of essential properties, comparing the properties of universal R with the properties of universal Q.²¹ The superiority of the modally necessary (Q) to the modally contingent (R), claimed in chapter 3, is rooted in the notion that existence is one of the perfections essential to nature Q but accidental to nature R. Such is par for the course in reasoning about the order of excellence in the Chain of Being: The hierarchy concerns the comparative perfections of various natures, not of particular subjects who might have those natures. For this reason, the argument inevitably identifies the divine nature as the locus of existence for God. 

I expect that those familiar with Western medieval philosophy will immediately recognize a twofold problem with the above characterization: (i) it treats the divine nature as complex, as if it has various properties, and (ii) it treats the divine nature as a universal that a particular subject might have. Anselm, like others in the medieval West, advocates a brand of divine simplicity that rejects both points. The notion goes back to Augustine of Hippo and is traceable to the impact of “certain books of the Platonists” upon his thought.²² 

According to Augustine, God is above both the material instantiations of Forms in our world and above the Forms themselves. He is the transcendent source of both. Thus, we must be careful to avoid the idea that God has various goods the way creatures do. God is The Good and thus transcends the realm of becoming; he is immutably what he is.²³ As this insight develops in Augustine’s thinking, it leads to a brand of divine essentialism, such that God is an “absolutely simple essence” (summa simplex essentia).²⁴ So emphatic on the point is Augustine that he insists we not even distinguish God from his essence, lest we imply that his nature is a good that he has. Rather, God is what he has.²⁵ Everything we say of God is identical with God.²⁶ This is what it means to say God is simple.

We can see Anselm’s embrace of the claim in his defense of divine justice, for example. Anselm draws a distinction between a just creature and divine justice, arguing that the creature has justice, while God is justice. The case is an extension of his greatest-possible-being reasoning: “what [the supreme nature] is, it is completely through itself and not through something other [than itself] [quod est, omnino per se est, non per aliud].”²⁷ 

Anselm carries this reasoning across the various divine attributes.²⁸ Were we to posit a being with all classical divine attributes but suggest that said being has these attributes by participation in something else, then we could conceive of a greater being, namely, one who has these perfections in itself. The case for simplicity is no different. According to Anselm, the most perfect being must have every true good.²⁹ But, Anselm argues, any being that has parts is not fully the goods that it has. If, for example, there is an ontological good to my hand, then that particular good is restricted to that part of me; it does not apply to me as a whole. The greatest possible being, being every true good, must be wholly these goods, lest it be possible to conceive of a being greater still — namely, one who is wholly every true good. To be wholly every true good, however, requires that God is without parts, incomposite, being one simple thing. And that simple thing is The Good from which all particular goods derive. Anselm writes, 

How is it, then, O Lord, that You are all these things? Are they Your parts, or, instead, is each one of them the whole of what You are? For whatever is composed of parts is not absolutely one but is in a way many and is differ- ent from itself and can be divided actually or conceivably [intellectu]. But these [consequences] are foreign to You, than whom nothing better can be thought. Hence, there are no parts in You, O Lord. Nor are You more than one thing. Rather, You are some- thing so one and the same with Yourself that in no respect are You dissimilar to Yourself. Indeed, You are Oneness itself, divisi- ble in no respect (nullo intellectu). Therefore, life and wisdom and the other [characteristics] are not parts of You but are all one thing; and each one of them is the whole of what You are and the whole of what all the others are.³⁰

Anselm carries this insight through to the conclusion that divine simplicity includes the collapse of who and of what. Unlike in creatures, where there is a distinction between the particular subject who has the nature and the nature had, God is his own nature, and his nature is his existence: “Therefore, O Lord, You alone are what You are, and You are who You are. For anything having parts distinct from its whole … is not altogether what it is…. But You are what You are, because whatever You once or in any respect are, this You are always and as a whole.”³¹ The inevitable result of such simplicity is that God is his own essence and his essence is his own existence. Therefore, Anselm’s argument goes further than saying the divine nature has existence as an essential property. The case of the ontological argument is that the divine nature is its own existence, and that existing nature is God.³²

The claim that the divine nature includes essentially existence may sound unextraordinary. However, the claim could not be more significant to the question of this essay. For, as we will see in the next section, the N-C confession of the Trinity carries an equally clear commitment on the locus of existence. And the N-C commitment is not only different from but incompatible with Anselm’s argument.

The God of Nicea & Constantinople and the Locus of Existence

Two aspects of the N-C understanding of the Trinity are relevant to the Anselmian version of the ontological argument. The first is its distinction between hypostasis and ousia, which reveals where the N-C confession locates existence. The second is the doctrines of eternal generation and procession, respectively, which introduce uniquely Christian doctrines that entail further commitments concerning the existence of divine persons. As we will see, both features pose significant difficulties for a N-C embrace of Anselm’s argument. I will first flesh out the N-C doctrines, and then return to Anselm in light of this exposition. We will begin with the former.

Nicene Trinitarianism is known largely for its profession that the Trinity consists of three hypostases (often translated “persons”) and one ousia (often translated “substance,” “essence,” or “nature”). The hypostasis-ousia distinction is largely developed by the Cappadocian fathers — Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Gregory of Nyssa — after the Council of Nicea (325 AD) as a clarification codified at the Council of Constantinople (381 AD). While those familiar with the Cappadocian “formula” may take these terms for granted, the development that the N-C use of hypostasis represents is significant in ancient philosophy.

Within ancient pagan philosophy, greater attention is paid to the issue of universals than to individuals. We find some skeptical interest in the question of identity, such as whether Theseus’ ship is the same ship, despite changing out all of its boards over time,³³ and perhaps in response to such questions, the Stoics introduce the notion of an idiosyncratic quality (idiōs poion) that differentiates one individual from another. Yet, it is unclear whether the Stoics are addressing the metaphysical question of individuality or the epistemological question of identity.³⁴ 

In Aristotle, the metaphysical place of the individual is clear, but the definition is strictly negative. The individual, or primary substance, is the point at which divisions between genera and species terminate. As for what the primary substance is, it is being that is neither in a subject nor predicated of a subject.³⁵ In other words, once we reach the end of universal predicates, all we can say is what the subject is not. 

In Porphyry, we find something akin to the Stoic notion of idiosyncratic properties in application to the metaphysical question of particularity. The particular, says Porphyry, consists of a unique combination of properties that can never be said of another individual.³⁶ Such a definition appears to offer a “bundle theory” in which particularity is an emergent phenomenon produced by a unique composite of universals. 

Admittedly, there are legitimate questions about whether Aristotle or Porphyry have a more robust view of the individual than such readings admit.³⁷ But whether they do or not, there is no question that the metaphysics of the individual play a far more important role in the Eastern Church fathers, given their development and defense of Trinitarian and Christological doctrines.

The first point of note when looking at the Eastern fathers on particularity is their chosen terminology. Rather than employing atomon (individual), tode ti (this something), or either to kata meros or hekastos (particular), the Eastern fathers use hypostasis. 

The term hypostasis takes on this meaning in the fourth century thanks to the Cappadocians. Prior to their innovative use of this term, the words hypostasis and ousia were two of several words for “substance,” used interchangeably for an individual, a species, or a genus — all of which were considered substances.³⁸ The point is evident in the Council of Nicea. When condemning the Arian claim that the Father and the Son are of two different natures, the council of Nicea uses hypostasis and ousia as synonyms for “nature” or “essence,” anathematizing those “who affirm that the Son of God is of a different substance or essence” (i.e., hypostasis or ousia).³⁹ Yet, the semantic range of the word “substance” created confusion in the wake of Nicea. As Basil of Caesarea points out, some, when speaking about the number of divine subjects, would confess several hypostases, while others, when speaking about the number of natures, would confess only one hypostasis.⁴⁰ 

In order to address this post-Nicea confusion, the Cappadocians introduce a definitive change in language: “The distinction between ousia and hypostasis is the same as that between the general and the particular, as, for instance, between the animal [human] and the particular man.”⁴¹ From this point onward, Christian thinkers were to use hypostasis to refer to the particular subject and ousia to refer to the nature or essence of that subject. 

The decision to employ hypostasis, as opposed to ousia, in this way is not surprising, given how the term was first introduced to Christian theology. Origen uses the word as a means of opposing Sabellian and Sabellian-style views that say that the Father and the Son are two only in thought or concept, not in reality. Origen argues, to the contrary, that the Father and the Son are two “substantially,” or in reality (tō hypostasei).⁴² In the hands of the Cappadocians, this notion of hypostasis develops into a distinctly Christian view of the individual or particular subject.⁴³

Epistle 38 of Basil of Caesarea’s corpus — often attributed to his brother Gregory of Nyssa⁴⁴ — is likely the first fully developed treatment of the Cappadocian view of hypostasis.⁴⁵ In this letter, the author first speaks about the common nature shared by several individuals, which we identify by a general noun: “we employ the noun [human] to indicate the common nature, and do not confine our meaning to any one human in particular.”⁴⁶ This common nature, says the author, does not and cannot exist on its own. For, as the author explains, the common nature “has not standing” or “stability” (stasis), presumably playing  on the word hypostasis.⁴⁷ Hence, the nature never exists on its own, but only ever subsists (hyphestōsan) in the individual. Using Paul as an example, “the nature [physin] subsists in the thing indicated by the name [Paul].”⁴⁸ 

A certain existential priority is thus introduced here. The hypostasis is ontologically anterior to the nature, the nature subsisting within the hypostasis, which supplies the nature with stability and existence. And lest we think this relationship between a hypostasis and its nature is relegated to creatures, not God, we should remember that Epistle 38 is written specifically to clarify the concept of the divine hypostases.

This existential priority is not unique to this letter. In Epistle 52, Basil of Caesarea is emphatic that a nature is never anterior to, or underneath (hypercheimena), the hypostasis.⁴⁹ The existential reality is always the reverse: The hypostasis is what supplies existence to a nature, giving to it concrete reality, or stability.⁵⁰ 

The individual, on this view, is neither a posterior product of a bundle of properties, nor is it identifiable with the particular lump of matter in which properties adhere, nor is it a phenomenon emerging out of the hylomorphic composition of form and matter. Rather, the individual is its own discrete reality that sits beneath these. In the subject, natures and matter adhere, and the individual subject supplies concrete existence and stability to the otherwise-abstract nature, not vice versa. 

The view has some resonance with the so-called “moderate realism” of Aristotle, insofar as it denies that form has any concrete existence apart from material instantiation. However, rather than locating concrete existence in either matter or the hylomorphic bundle of form and matter, the Eastern Church fathers introduce the individual as its own principle with its own discrete, non-repeatable reality, ontologically anterior to and beneath both the form and matter it possesses.⁵¹ 

This view became normative for the Eastern Church fathers after the Cappadocians. As Johannes Zachuber points out, the notion that natures subsist in individuals proved critical to answering the Christological conundrums after Constantinople, leading up to Chalcedon.⁵² Moreover, in the centuries after Chalcedon, we not only find echoes of the view, but the position is identified as distinctively Christian. 

By the seventh century, Maximus the Confessor identifies the bundle theory, in which an individual is a product of “ousia with idiomata,” as the position of “the philosophers,” and he differentiates the Christian view from this position, Christians holding that hypostasis is the discrete subject that exists beneath the nature.⁵³ As we will see, the metaphysical commitment that the hypostasis is the locus of existence will mark the first challenge to a N-C embrace of Anselm's argument.

The second challenge concerns the doctrines of eternal generation and procession. According to the N-C view, the Son is begotten of (or eternally generated by) the Father, and the Holy Spirit eternally proceeds from (or is spirited by) the Father. Within the N-C framework, both begetting and proceeding are causal terms: The Father causes the Son and the Spirit to exist and to have his (divine) nature. These modes of causation are not making or creating. As the N-C Creed declares, the Son is begotten not made. But begetting and spiration are modes of causation, nonetheless.⁵⁴ 

The point is evident in the Cappadocian dealings with the Eunomians. The crux of the Eunomian case for a heteroousian position (i.e., the Son is of a different nature than the Father) is the pro-Nicene doctrine that the Father is uncaused, while the Son is caused. From this the Eunomians argue that the Father, being unoriginate, is ontologically superior to the Son, who originates from the Father.⁵⁵ The Cappadocian reply never shies away from the point that the Father causes the Son or that the Father, unlike the Son, is uncaused. Gregory of Nyssa freely admits, “When ... this word [unoriginate] has the meaning of ‘deriving existence from no cause whatever,’ then we confess that it is peculiar to the Father.”⁵⁶ What the Cappadocians deny is twofold. First, they deny that this difference between Father and Son indicates a difference in nature. Second, they deny that this mode of causation is creation. 

To the former point, the Cappadocians argue that the Eunomian case commits a category error, confusing formal cause (what the subject is) with efficient cause (how the subject comes to be). Gregory uses the story of Adam and Abel to illustrate the point: 

The first man, and the man born from him, received their being in a different way; the latter by copulation, the former from the molding of Christ Himself; and yet, though they are thus believed to be two, they are inseparable in the definition of their being…. [I]t is because the one and the other was a man that the two have the same definition of being; each was mortal, reasoning, capable of intuition and of science. If, then, the idea of humanity in Adam and Abel does not vary with the difference of their origin, neither the order nor the manner of their coming into existence making any difference in their nature, which is the same in both, … what necessity is there that against the divine nature we should admit this strange thought?⁵⁷

Here, Gregory illustrates the distinction between formal and efficient cause and why a difference in the latter need not entail a difference in the former. Adam and Abel have distinct efficient causes, the one being molded by Christ and the other being begotten of Adam. But they share a common formal cause — human. In the same way, Gregory argues, the Father and the Son share a common divine nature, or formal cause, as per Nicea. That the Father is ungenerate and the Son is generate is a difference of efficient cause, irrelevant to their common divinity: 

In our view, the “native dignity” of God consists in godhead itself, wisdom, power, goodness, judgment, justice, strength, mercy, truth, creativeness, domination, invisibility, everlastingness, and every other quality named in the inspired writings to magnify his glory; and we affirm that every one of them is properly and inalienably found in the Son, recognizing differences only in respect of unoriginateness.⁵⁸ 

Now, this brings us to the second point, namely that the “originateness” of the Son does not mean he is created. Gregory of Nyssa points out this important ambiguity in the Eunomian case: To wit, the meaning of the term “unorginate” (anarchos, anarchē) is unclear. If unoriginate is taken as an equivalent for uncreated (agenētos), then we can affirm that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are all unoriginate — none of the persons are created. But if these terms are taken in a broader sense to exclude every mode of causation, then the point is denied. For the Son and the Spirit are caused by the Father, but these modes of causation are not creation. Gregory writes, 

[W]hen the question [of whether the Son is unoriginate] is about “origin” in its other meanings [i.e., created] (since any creature or time or order has an origin), then we attribute the being superior to origin to the Son as well, and we believe that that whereby all things were made is beyond the origin of creation, and the idea of time, and the sequence of order. So, He, Who on the ground of His subsistence is not without an origin, possessed in every other view an undoubted unoriginateness; and while the Father is unoriginate [anarchon] and ungenerate [agennēton], the Son is unoriginate [anarchon] in the way we have said, though not ungenerate [agennēton].⁵⁹

Here, of course, Gregory is presuming the distinction, developed in pro-Nicene terminology, between genētos (created) and gennētos (begotten). The Son, being the Only-Begotten (Monogennēs), is indeed generated, or gennētos, and in a unique manner — hence, monogennēs. But the Son is not created, or genētos. Admittedly, some philosophers of religion balk at this distinction today, just as the Heteroousians did in the fourth century.⁶⁰ But for our purposes, it makes little difference whether the distinction is cogent; the point is simply that it exists. The Cappdocians, in keeping with the pro-Nicenes generally, deny that the Son is created, but nonetheless affirm that the Father causes him to exist. He is begotten, not made (gennēthenta ou poiēthenta), to quote the Nicene Creed.   

Returning to Anselm, the above commitments create significant problems for a N-C embrace of Anselm’s case. As we saw in the previous section, the crux of Anselm’s argument is that the divine nature has existence as an essential property, which is what makes it superior to other natures for whom existence is accidental. When considering the ways of avoiding the argument, we passed over the retort that the being Anselm posits is metaphysically impossible, accepting his reply that the possibility of God is proved by the fool getting God in mind when denying he exists. However, the N-C metaphysics of hypostasis takes the position that natures never exist in themselves; they always subsist in hypostases. That is to say, natures are not and cannot be the locus of existence. Granting the N-C position, what Anselm proposes is metaphysically impossible. For all natures, including the divine nature, are abstractions unless a hypostasis provides them with stasis and concrete existence. By the light of N-C metaphysics, then, what Anselm calls “God” is a chimera on par with a “square circle,” since a nature is an abstraction that cannot exist in itself, but to this Anselm appends self-existence.