Part 4 of 4
By Robert Whyte
The last objection we have to urge against the intellectual theory is that it gives no adequate account of the moral energy and efficacy of faith.
The Scriptures teach that faith is the germinant principle of the whole Christian life, the master-principle, not only in the statics, but in the dynamics of the soul. It is not a mere idle sentiment, dreaming itself away in sweet dreams of heaven; still less is it an antinomian persuasion of our deliverance from all moral obligation. It is an energetic and regenerative principle. It "works by love" (ἐνεργουμένη),1 "purifies the heart,"2 "overcomes the world,"3 and the 11th chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews is an imperishable monument of its triumphs. It enlists on its side two of the most powerful principles of action. It rectifies, quickens, and strengthens the authority of conscience, and it generates a personal love. Either of these two, Conscience or Love, is by itself most masterful; but their alliance is simply irresistible. And it is the glory of faith that it reconciles these two, so often unhappily divorced from each other, welding them together in the fires of redeeming love into a dual sovereignty, under whose united sceptre law is transformed into liberty, and duty into choice.
The ancient moralists failed to supply motives powerful enough to produce virtuous and holy lives, and especially to regenerate the more vicious and depraved classes of mankind. Besides possessing a defective moral ideal, they had no adequate motive force to secure conformity to it. Plato descanted eloquently on the beauty of virtue (τὸ καλόν) and the love it was fitted to inspire; but its beauty made no appeal to the conscience, and its love was nothing but a mild, intellectual, impersonal emotion, far too ethereal to cope with the stern realities of life. Aristotle, while resting content with the unheroic and unphilosophical ideal of "the mean" (τὸμέσον)4 could propose no other method of realizing it than the twofold discipline of political citizenship and personal habit, the former affecting merely the outward elements of man's life, not the inward and spiritual, the latter having no power to implant a new principle of holiness, but only at best to confirm a principle already implanted. It was reserved for Christ, not only to reveal a nobler ideal of character, and to realize it in his own life, but to point out and create the motive power necessary to reproduce it in the mass of mankind. No less idealistic than Plato, He was as realistic as Aristotle, while He supplied the fatal lack of both. Besides leaving room for the play of other forces, social and individualistic, He proposed Faith in Himself as the grand regenerative principle of the human soul. Not only did He point out that the kingdom of heaven was within men's hearts, but He directed attention to Himself as its realized Ideal and divinely constituted Head, especially in virtue of that act of self-sacrificing Love which brought Him from glory to the grave; and He called upon all men to believe in his name with a view to that moral regeneration which formed the indispensable passport into his kingdom. This was a principle of which neither Plato nor Aristotle had ever, dreamed.5
That this principle has really been effective as an instrument of moral regeneration is simple historic fact. Wherever it has exerted its influence, it has subdued the pride, crucified the selfishness, purified the affections, and sanctified the lives of men. It reclaimed the social outcasts of Galilee and Judea in the days of our Lord; turned a few simple and earthly-minded peasants into the highest types of saint-ship and moral heroism; created out of the chaos of a dissolving civilization a new moral kosmos, of which the characteristic features were a meekness that forgave all injuries, a generosity that counted nothing its own, a humility that aspired to descend, a courage that made humble men and women go singing into the flames rather than deny their Lord, a purity that shunned the very appearance of evil, a love that embraced the world; and it has generated a moral force which has subjugated many of the most savage tribes, extinguished slavery, abolished the brutalities of the amphitheatre, created a new ideal of sexual and domestic purity, covered the earth with monuments of charity, and conquered its way to the moral supremacy of the world.
Now that the moral efficacy of Christianity is directly attributable to faith is the testimony, not only of Scripture, but of Christian experience. Every Christian will be ready to testify that his spiritual life and moral earnestness have, not only been derived from this principle, but have advanced or declined in proportion to its vitality or decay. For faith is a permanent principle of the Christian life. It is not an instrument brought into operation once for all and then discarded for ever; it is not a principle which the spiritual life can ever outgrow, any more than a stream can dispense with its fountain, or a plant survive separation from its root. While it unites the soul to Christ, and thereby brings the sanctifying agency of the Spirit into operation, it does not thereafter withdraw its mediating function. " Christ dwells in our hearts by faith."6 We are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation."7 Nor is this faith a mere persuasion that Divine power will effect our complete salvation, irrespectively of our own wills; for such a faith, so far from being adequate to the production of the effects ascribed to it, would be the paralysis of all moral life. The Spirit does not operate in violation of the fundamental laws of mind. We are neither regenerated nor sanctified by magic, in spite of ourselves, against our wills, or without them, but through the exercise of our own powers and faculties and by instruments adapted to these ends. Faith, therefore, as the subjective instrument of the Spirit's work, must be naturally fitted to renew and sanctify us; it must have an inherent fitness or tendency to make us holy. By the law of continuity the cause must be adequate to the effect and homogeneous with it. We cannot get more out of the mill than we have put into the hopper. We cannot gather grapes from thorns or figs from thistles. The oak is potentially in the acorn. Life can only be evolved from life. If, then, faith is the necessary antecedent of holiness, and holiness is its necessary consequent, it must not only be a holy principle, but one of such inherent energy as to contain in germ the whole future of the Christian life. Now the question is, Is bare intellectual assent adequate as a cause or instrument to the production of the moral effects we have described?
The contention of the intellectualists is, that assent is necessarily productive of all Christian obedience, as well as of trust and self-surrender; that the intellect governs the heart and will; and that where conviction appears to be inoperative, it is only seeming and not real.
Now that the intellect does exert an important influence on the feelings and the conduct has been fully admitted. But its control is by no means absolute or uniform. It is subject to important limitations. We have already seen how great is the reflex influence of the feelings upon the intellect. But what we are now concerned to shew is, that intellectual conviction does not necessarily determine conduct, and specially that there is such a thing as inoperative assent to the gospel. This is what is usually called a speculative or historical, as distinguished from a saving faith. It is the faith without works, characterized by James as a dead faith. Luther describes it as "frigida quredam opinio, aut vaga humani animi cogitatio" of men who, though they can talk much of Christ, and know and have meditated on and assent to the truth of his history, yet. have not their hearts renewed by its power.8 Calvin speaks to the same effect of an assent which takes the word of God for most certain truth, but does not penetrate to the heart; and he instances the faith of Simon Magus.9 Newman has revived interest in the subject by his theory of Assent, which he distinguishes into two kinds, "notional" and " real."10 In notional assent the mind contemplates its own creations; in real it is directed towards things. Notional assent deals only ·with abstract notions and general propositions; real has to do with concrete objects, with persons, facts, or things, represented, however, by the impressions they have left on the imagination. The author gives several apt and beautiful illustrations, shewing how the notional becomes real; how truths or sentiments learned from books or teachers, and admitted in the abstract without practical efficacy, become charged with living power when some actual personal experience brings them home to us as realities, transfers them, that is, from the mere intellect to the imagination and emotions. If we apply the theory to religious beliefs, we have to distinguish theological from religious belief. Theological belief is belief in the notions of the objects of faith, e.g. God and the Trinity. Religious faith is belief in the objects themselves. Notional belief in God is attained by various inference; it becomes real through the operation and testimony of the "moral sense."
Now with regard to this distinction, it may be observed that it does not exactly correspond with that between speculative and saving faith. Real is not identical with operative or saving. The imagination may vividly realize its objects without stimulating those emotions which lead to action, and, where it does stimulate them, its effect is not invariably the same either in degree or in kind, for it leads one man to hate what another loves, to pursue what another shuns. Newman himself, indeed, admits11 that it is not invariably effectual, but contends that it is so " on the whole." But why " on the whole " merely, and not" always and necessarily"? Would it not be better to make real assent exactly coincident with operative assent, and thus place the ground of distinction between it and notional assent in the state of the affections or the action of the will, rather than in the impressions of the imagination? But whatever be the true relation between real and operative assent, there is good ground for holding that there is such a thing as notional assent. One may, e.g. by abstraction form a general notion of beauty, or sweetness, or virtue, assent to certain general propositions, and even reason acutely regarding them, without being practically influenced by them. Even the blind have been known to prosecute scientific investigations regarding light and colour with success, their conceptions of which must have been either pure intellectual abstractions, or abstractions infiltrated with analogical conceptions, that is to say, with conceptions framed in terms of the sensations of another sense, as hearing—of which we have a suggestive example in the use of such an expression as "loud colour"—though, of course, where one's conceptions of an object are entirely analogical, they cannot be called true conceptions, however real they may be in the sense of dealing with the concrete, and therefore we may not appeal to them as evidence of the possibility of inoperative assent. So also one may assent notionally to the truth that there is a God and speculate with subtlety about the Divine nature without having any genuine feelings of devotion or love towards God. One may form a correct but abstract conception of sin, and assent to certain theological propositions regarding it, and yet fail to realize one's personal sinfulness, especially in some concrete detail. And one may give a fairly intelligent but still purely notional assent to the main truths of the gospel, without yielding a cordial and practical submission to them. This merely notional faith has neither justifying nor sanctifying power. Like the corn of wheat that does not die to itself, and lay hold of the living forces of nature, and subject itself to their quickening power, it abideth alone, unproductive because isolated from the living realities of religion and the vital forces of the soul. To be morally influential it must come into living contact with the realities and powers of the spiritual world and become transformed by their operation from a seed into a root.
But even when assent deals directly with things themselves, and not with general notions or merely analogical representations of them, it will still be inoperative if these objects are such as either do not at all affect our interests or feelings, or are conceived by us as not affecting them, or exert only a partial influence upon us, its effects being counteracted by opposite and stronger tendencies. Before any effect can be produced upon the will there must be two things—first, an inclination in a particular direction, not opposed by a stronger in a contrary direction; and secondly, an object known or believed to exist and to possess qualities adapting it to the felt inclination: "ignoti nulla cupido." The knowledge or belief may be derived from sense, memory, testimony, intuition, or inference; it may exist in varying degrees of certainty from opinion to absolute assurance; and its effect upon the motive powers will be proportioned to these. But it is obvious that unless there be a prevailing inclination or desire to which the object appeals, not even the most absolute certitude as to its existence, not even the visible presence of the object, will induce us to make any effort to attain it. The operative character of the conviction depends, therefore, on a variable ratio, compounded of the strength of the conviction and the strength of the desire. Two men have food placed before them; the one is hungry, the other is already satisfied. They form precisely the same estimate intellectually of the reality and valuable properties of the food, of the source from which it has been supplied, and of their right and title to partake of it. Now, if the intellect determined the will, these two men would feel and act alike. The keen sensations of hunger, however, form a different estimate of the qualities of the food from that formed by the man who is full; they invest it with a peculiar and irresistible attraction, so that, while the one abstains, the other eats. And in like manner a person may believe that salvation is offered him through Christ, and even in a general way that it is his interest and duty to embrace it, and yet reject it through want of inclination for it. There are few indeed who are wholly unconscious of spiritual appetites, who have not at times some craving however blind, some longing however vague, for higher and purer and more enduring satisfactions than those of time and sense; but in how many cases are these awakened appetites allowed to be stifled by the baser inclinations of their nature! That men often act in opposition to their judgments both as to duty and interest is matter of common experience. The intellectual theory of virtue,12 the ethical analogue of the intellectual theory of faith, according to which virtue is knowledge, and sin is ignorance or error, and men never willingly sin against their interest, or against their view of what is ideally best, is contradicted by the concurrent testimony of consciousness and general experience. Take a too familiar illustration. A man is strongly tempted to indulge to excess in intoxicants. Past experience convinces him that indulgence would be injurious to his health, a dishonour to his manhood, a wrong to his family, a sin against God. This conviction awakens certain feelings which urge him powerfully to self-denial; but appetite, allied perhaps with certain social feelings, clamours imperiously for gratification. A conflict between the rival tendencies ensues, but the latter, stronger than the other, either prevails at once, or gradually withdraws the attention of the mind from the objects of the opposite feelings towards its own, until at length, unless he uses means to weaken appetite or strengthen conscience and prudential fears, the ignobler principle prevails. And the remarkable fact is this, that all the while, even at the very time he yields, he knows that he is acting a wrong and foolish part; conscience, even when overborne, condemns him in the thing which he alloweth.13 Now how is this fact to be explained in accordance with the theory that the intellect governs the will? Perhaps it may be said that his judgment is for the moment really changed—that he is really acting from conviction—the conviction that the gratification of his appetite is on the whole the most desirable thing for him to do. But a certain ambiguity lurks under this expression. If this only means that he acts under the strongest or prevailing motive, it is an irrelevant truism. If it means, however, that he has become convinced that he is promoting his own greatest good, or doing what is the best thing for him to do, it utterly misrepresents the facts of consciousness and experience. Every man must be conscious of having often acted against his judgment, both as to what was right and what was for his interest, ready to confess with Medea: "Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor."14 Were it otherwise, whence the feeling of self-condemnation?
Where would be the possibility of moral guilt? Why blame ourselves or others for what are merely mistaken judgments? Does not morality resolve itself on this theory into a more or less accurate calculation of consequences? AB ordinarily understood, is it not itself the greatest of all mistakes, and consequently the greatest immorality?
We admit that the appetite or feelings which override our convictions tend to weaken them, and sometimes succeed in destroying them. The passion ever justifies itself to the judgment, and tends to blind as well as to enslave. Feeling and judgment tend to adjust themselves to one another; if the will does not conform to the judgment, the judgment will often be made to conform to the will. But what we wish to point out is that they hardly ever do exist in a state of equilibrium, especially in morals, and where they do, it is too often unstable equilibrium; for consciousness, experience, and the moral sense of mankind unite in testifying that in multitudes of instances, while judgment or conscience proposes, passion disposes.
But it may be asked, Is not the desire of happiness so strong in every breast that the gospel which offers the highest and greatest possible happiness to man has only to be believed in order to be at once and joyfully accepted? If a person is awakened during the night, and told that his house is on fire, and his life placed in the utmost peril, must be not, if be really believe the report, rouse himself from slumber, and exert all his energies to save himself from destruction? Or if a sick man has a remedy placed in his bands and really believes in its efficacy, must not his belief constrain him to make trial of it? Or if a condemned criminal receives a document containing an offer of pardon from his sovereign, must be not, if be believes the document to be genuine, accept the offered pardon? We answer that in the great majority of such cases the effect of belief would be exactly as described, but that they differ in an essential point from the case they are intended to illustrate. In these cases the belief appeals to some of the strongest motives of human nature, the love of life, of health, and of liberty, which encounter no rival sentiments of strength sufficient to resist them;· whereas, in the case of the gospel, belief has to contend with many of the strongest inclinations of the heart. All men doubtless desire happiness, but not the self-denying happiness of the gospel; all love life, but not the life eternal; all would gladly escape the penalties of sin, hut all do not appreciate the holy joys of heaven. Hence there are many who know the gospel well, assent to its leading truths, believe it to be both their duty and their highest interest to obey it, and even desire, in a measure, the happiness it offers, who nevertheless, through the reigning antipathy of their carnal hearts to the purity, spirituality, and self-sacrificing nature of its requirements, resist the clearest dictates of their reason. Even the cases adduced above may be so adjusted as to become suggestive parallels. In the first case, the man might tarry in the burning house in the attempt to rescue his valuables or his family from the flames till he found it too late to escape; the love of life being for the time overmastered by the love of money or of family. In the second case, it is quite within the range of possibility that the sick man might through distaste for the medicine, or hatred of its inventor or administrator, or disgust with life and the world, "throw physic to the dogs," and die. And as for the third, if we suppose the person to be a proud rebel, and the document sent him to contain, besides an offer of pardon, an invitation or command to make humble submission to his sovereign, it requires no stretch of imagination to conceive that obdurate hatred of his sovereign's person, disaffection to his government, the passion for a lawless existence, wounded pride, or contempt of life, might each or all combined determine him to reject the pardon with its humiliating condition and prefer to suffer the penalty of his rebellion.
Assent, then, not being necessarily effectual, cannot be identified with saving faith. The principle which proves itself possessed of moral energy to transform the world must be something vastly more. It must itself be a moral principle; it must include feeling as well as cognition; it must be conviction on fire; nay, it must be conviction in motion; not only assent and trust, but a surrender of the will; not only warp and woof, but willing hand, though as yet neither work nor web. The Will is the gate through which belief and confidence pass into the realm of reality and carry with them the power of an endless life. Hence saving faith is the nodus or ganglion, or nerve-centre, so to speak, where the most vital lines of force converge; the point whence radiate, as from the golden milestone in the Roman Forum, roads of influence and command to the utmost extremities of the empire of the soul. "When," says Newman, " I assign an office to faith, I am not speaking of an abstraction or creation of the mind, but of something existing. . . . I would treat of faith as it is actually found in the soul, and I say it is as little an isolated grace as a man is a picture. It has a depth, a breadth, and a thickness; it has an inward life which is something over and above itself; it has a heart, and blood, and pulses, and nerves, though not upon the surface. All these indeed are not spoken of when we make mention of faith, nor are they painted on the canvas, but they are implied in the word because they exist in the thing."15
This view of faith recognizes the organic unity of the spiritual life: first, by regarding it as the act not of one faculty or set of faculties alone, but of the whole soul, the gathering up and coordinating of its manifold activities into a complex and harmonious whole; and secondly, by making it "the form of an infinite content," of which the whole subsequent life of the soul is the progressive realization. It assigns to it a genetic energy adequate to the production of the rich and manifold results of the Christian life. It regards it as containing in itself, implicitly and purposively, the whole future life of holiness, as claiming in one momentous act of self-surrender that oneness of life with God which constitutes the essence of religion, and which it henceforth becomes the believer's aim to re-claim and realize. Faith has in it the germ and potency of every other grace, including even love itself—not love fully formed, but inchoate and rudimentary, caritas informis, so to speak, which faith converts into caritas formata. For Melanchthon himself did not hesitate to say that there is love in faith—" in fiducia inest dilectio ";16 and even Luther, the very last man, surely, to adulterate his own favourite grace, or imperil his own cardinal doctrine, once uttered the striking words inscribed on his monument at Worms: "Der Glaube ist nichts anderes denn das rechte, wahrhaftige Leben in Gott"—"Faith is nothing else than right true life in God." "The end of faith" is thus in the beginning. A full salvation is in its hand from the first. One with Christ, the believer is also "complete in Him," already seated on his saint—throne in the New Jerusalem, and "filled with all the fulness of God."
Finally, this view of faith recognizes the essential union of morality and religion. The foregoing arguments, it will be observed, turn to a large extent on the moral aspects and relations of faith. We have dwelt upon its moral ground, its moral conditions, its moral characteristics, and its moral intention and efficacy, as evidences that it is not exclusively intellectual but moral in its nature. One of our main charges against the intellectual theory is that it does not sufficiently recognize the necessary connexion between morality and religion. It places not faith alone, but the whole religious life of which faith is the foundation, on an intellectual rather than on an ethical basis. It tends to make human salvation depend on dexterity in weighing evidences, framing definitions, and handling syllogisms, rather than on having one's heart right in the sight of God; to turn out logicians and metaphysicians instead of saints; to crystallize religion into a hard and fast theological system, or to sublimate it into a thing of airy philosophical speculations; to resolve the Divine nature into a logical abstraction, Christ into a mere Idea, and the procession of the Spirit into a dialectic process.
Religion, on the contrary, must rest on a moral basis. Its root—conception of God, given through the conscience not less than through the reason, is that of a Being infinitely good and righteous, to whom we are responsible. No religion can be true which ascribes to Him injustice, impurity, or malignity, or which represents Him as sanctioning any departure from righteousness in his creatures. To separate religion from morality is fatal to both. Their existence depends on their co-existence. A non-moral religion becomes either a mere branch of rosthetics, as was the case with much of the religion of ancient Greece, and that recently promulgated in " Natural Religion "; or a department of logic and metaphysic13, such as Christianity itself in some of its more elaborate theologies is in effect resolved into; or a system of magic, in which salvation is procured ex opere operato, irrespectively of the moral dispositions of its subjects; or an arbitrary scheme of selfishness or "other-worldliness," contrived merely to secure everlasting happiness: while an immoral religion—one that is immoral either in its express teaching, like the licentious idolatries of the East, or in its direct tendency, like the Jesuitical and antinomian corruptions of Christianity itself, is perhaps the most monstrous and pernicious perversion of the religious sentiment that ever disgraced its history, degrading as it does that which is divinest in man into the ally and minister of the vilest; so that, in the language of Cowley, "the heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up hell."
Not that religion is to be resolved into mere morality, as it practically is by Kant, who leaves us no other God, we fear, than the "Categorical Imperative"; by Fichte, whose definition of God is "the moral order of the world"; and by Matthew Arnold, who defines religion as "morality touched by emotion," and God as "the power not ourselves that makes for righteousness." If their divorce is fatal, their absolute identification is prejudicial to both. Religion, while including morality, infinitely transcends it, and in doing so transmutes and glorifies it. Morality, as such, has only to do with duty, and with duty in its finite aspects, relatively, that is, to our own nature and to finite creatures like ourselves; whereas religion has directly to do with all our relations to God, contemplates all duty whatsoever as duty to Him, and supplies sources of consolation and motives to obedience which mere morality can never know.
Thus, though not identical, they are inseparable. They overlap one another, and are the complement of each other. Religion is the keystone that completes and consolidates the arch of Ethics, while Righteousness is one of the chief pillars and grounds of religion. Religion is the crown that heads and co-ordinates the various constituents of the moral realm, while at the same time it derives from the latter the main elements of its stability and power.
Whatever theory, therefore, overturns or imperils the moral foundation of religion is to be rejected or regarded with suspicion, no less than that which divests morality of the sanctions and supports of religion. That the intellectual theory of faith incurs this condemnation, has, we think, been made plain. Though it by no means necessarily involves the denial of moral obligation, or the assertion of its abrogation, yet by making intellect the prominent and dominant factor in salvation, it tends to subordinate and disparage its moral elements, and so to weaken the sense of moral obligation. And however strenuously its advocates may insist on the immutability of the moral law, and even on its increased obligation under the gospel, their theory leaves a chasm between the intellectual and the moral which no speculative ingenuity can span, and which can only be bridged over by a practical moral instinct which involves a renunciation of the theory.
Note.—I am indebted to Professor Rawson Lumby, of Cambridge, for pointing out to me the following striking contrast between πιστεύειν εἰς and πιστεύειν with a dative, in confirmation of the remarks made on page 311 of the present volume of this Magazine. I give it in his own words: " In John viii. 30 the construction with the preposition is used. of those who accepted the Lord's deep teaching of his mission from heaven, and his Sonship to the Divine Father. In the very next verse the other construction with the simple dative is employed to designate the Jews who gave credit to Jesus for earnestness of purpose, good intention, and honest setting forth of what he deemed to be truth, but who were quite ready to try and kill the teacher (see verse 37) when his doctrine was unpleasing and clashed with their own notions about their position as the seed of Abraham. Occurring in consecutive verses, accompanied with what we may call companion—pictures of the two kinds of believers, they are very striking sentences. They seem so very apposite to your remarks that I have taken the liberty of calling your attention to the passage, as they supply, as I. think, a very marked illustration of your words."
Before receiving this communication I had come upon another passage in the same gospel in which the contrast is brought out, though not by any means so strikingly, between the two kinds of believing. In John ii. 11, it is said that the effect of our Lord's miracle at Cana upon the "disciples " who witnessed that manifestation of his glory, was that "they believed on him (π. εἰς)." There is no direct use in the immediate context of the other construction of the verb, as in the passage above referred to, but in the previous chapter (see verses 41, 45), these same disciples are represented as having already acknowledged him to be the Messiah; and not only so, but Nathanael, who was almost certainly one of them, is addressed by our Lord (ver. 50) as one who had already "believed." They had "believed "—with an intellectual conviction; but now they "believed on him "—with the deeper faith of the heart, accepting and committing themselves to him as their' personal Lord and Saviour. They advanced "from faith to faith."
1) Gal. v. 6.
2) Acts xv. 9.
3) 1 John v. 4.
4) "The mean" implies the existence of two extremes; but this implies the recognition of a standard to determine what constitutes an extreme, which nullities the theory,
5) See Row's Bampton Lecture.
6) Eph. iii. 17.
7) 1 Pet. i. 5.
8) Preface to Commentary on the Epistle to Romans.
9) Int. III. ii. 9, 10.
10) Grammar of Assent, pp. 31-94.
11) P. 89.
12) In its utilitarian form the theory of Socrates, Hobbes, Bentham, &c.; in its more idealistic form, of Plato, Spinoza, Cudworth Price, Wollaston.
13) Rom. xiv. 22. See also i. 32.
14) Ovid, Met. 7, 23. Adapted from the words of Medea in Euripides:
καὶ μανθάνω μὲν οἶα δρᾶν μέλλω κακά·
"I well know what crimes I am about to perpetrate, but passion gets the better of my resolutions."—Med., 1078.
15) Lectures on Justification, p. 265.
16) Loc. Corn. f. 213. fiducia being given as an equivalent for fides.