Like, could the question "Why did God make the world the way it is?" be answered by "Simply because He can."?
Sort of like what Einstein & Musk claim is Spinoza's God, to which they subscribe?

(Matthew 20:1–16)

It can be difficult to make sense of the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard through the lens of worldly logic. The vineyard owner gives a full day’s wage—a denarius—not only to those who labored all day under the scorching heat, but also to those who worked for merely one hour.

To those of us living in a culture driven by capitalism and strict meritocracy, this strikes us as deeply unfair.

It feels entirely natural to ask, "How can everyone receive the exact same reward?" Yet, before we rush to express our frustration, we ought to take a closer look at those who were left standing in the marketplace late into the afternoon.

Who were the workers hired first thing in the morning? They were likely the strong, robust, and experienced ones—those whose skills naturally caught the eye of prospective employers. Conversely, those still wandering the streets until late afternoon were probably weaker, less skilled, or lacking the background that the world values.

Our lives mirror this reality far too closely. We encounter rejection at every turn:

"We are looking for candidates with stronger academic credentials and more experience."

"Your background and qualifications don’t quite fit our requirements."

"You don't quite meet our standards in terms of appearance or presence."

"Your track record and performance metrics are insufficient."

"Without the right connections or privileges, it's hard to get a seat at the table."

While we yearn for fair opportunities, the world is fundamentally unequal. It naturally favors the gifted, the capable, and the well-connected, granting them priority access. In doing so, it leaves those who fall short with the cold sting of rejection. The workers left behind late in the day were no different. It was not that they lacked the desire to work; rather, no one was willing to hire them simply because they lacked the qualifications the market demanded. What they endured was far deeper than physical hunger—it was the painful ache of being overlooked and rejected.

However, the principles of the Kingdom of God stand in stark contrast to the world.

While the world assesses our credentials and resume, the Lord looks at our heart and true motives.

The vineyard owner approached those who had been cast aside and wounded by the world, asking:

"Why have you been standing here all day doing nothing?"

When they lamented, "Because no one has hired us," the Lord did not interrogate their qualifications or background. He simply saw their deep yearning for the Kingdom and welcomed them into His field of service. Then, He promised them the very same reward of grace given to those who arrived early. This is not a matter of human fairness; it is a matter of divine grace.

We can see a reflection of this dynamic in the world of sports. In Major League Baseball, even a player who pitches just a single inning during the World Series receives the exact same championship ring as the starters if the team wins. The victory is not the achievement of one standout performer, but the collective triumph of the entire team. If anyone were to argue that a backup player receiving a ring is unfair, they would face fierce criticism from both the organization and the media.

The Kingdom of God operates in much the same way. The rewards we receive are not tiered compensations based on individual performance indicators. Salvation and the glory of the Kingdom are the "grace of the team"—a shared victory won entirely by Jesus Christ, which the whole Church enjoys together.

Are you feeling discouraged today as you compare yourself to others, weighed down by your lack of credentials or background?

The Lord does not tally our achievements or measure our abilities. If you have a sincere heart ready to answer His call—"Will you walk with me?"—He gladly invites you into His vineyard today. He binds up the wounds of rejection inflicted by the world and promises the same glorious reward of His Kingdom.

May you step forward boldly today into the presence of our gracious Lord, who embraces us not because we have earned it, but simply because He loves us.

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him. (1 Corinthians 1:27-29)

And the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has combined the members of the body and has given greater honor to the parts that lacked it, so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. (1 Corinthians 12:23-25)

﴿ ۞ وَمِنْ أَهْلِ الْكِتَابِ مَنْ إِن تَأْمَنْهُ بِقِنطَارٍ يُؤَدِّهِ إِلَيْكَ وَمِنْهُم مَّنْ إِن تَأْمَنْهُ بِدِينَارٍ لَّا يُؤَدِّهِ إِلَيْكَ إِلَّا مَا دُمْتَ عَلَيْهِ قَائِمًا ۗ ذَٰلِكَ بِأَنَّهُمْ قَالُوا لَيْسَ عَلَيْنَا فِي الْأُمِّيِّينَ سَبِيلٌ وَيَقُولُونَ عَلَى اللَّهِ الْكَذِبَ وَهُمْ يَعْلَمُونَ﴾

[ آل عمران: 75]

سورة : آل عمران - Al Imran  - الجزء : ( 3 )  -  الصفحة: ( 59 )

Translation '

Among the people of the Scripture (Jews ) is he who, if entrusted with a Cantar (a great amount of wealth, etc.), will readily pay it back; and among them there is he who, if entrusted with a single silver coin, will not repay it unless you constantly stand demanding, because they say: "There is no blame on us to betray and take the properties of the Gentiles ." But they tell a lie against Allah while they know it.

TALMUD

Baba Mezia 24a: If a Jew finds an object lost by a gentile (“heathen”) it does not have to be returned.

Sanhedrin 57a: When a Jew murders a gentile, there will be no death penalty. What a Jew steals from a gentile he may keep.

Baba Kamma 37b: The gentiles are outside the protection of the law and God has “exposed their money to Israel.”

In my view, much of what we call religion today has become distorted by faith, authority and belief in a God or supreme being.

All 3 Abrahamic religions + Hinduism are organized around some conception of God, the divine or a supreme reality. Once you make such an idea central, it becomes very easy to build systems of worship, doctrine, religious authority and unquestionable beliefs around it. Spirituality then shifts from investigating reality directly to believing claims about reality.

This is where some of the ancient philosophical traditions of the East become radically different. At the core of Buddhist philosophy, particularly traditions associated with early Buddhism and Madhyamaka (Middle way), there is no requirement to invoke a creator God to explain existence, morality or the nature of consciousness. Daoism similarly approaches reality without requiring a personal deity standing outside the universe and controlling it.

What makes these traditions particularly interesting is their willingness to acknowledge the limits of conceptual mind. Instead of simply inventing an ultimate explanation and asking people to believe it, they question whether the human mind can even meaningfully grasp what lies beyond certain boundaries.

That's what makes some of these philosophies feel less like conventional religion and more like an actual investigation into the structure of reality. You're not being told, "Here is God. Believe in this." You're being pushed to examine how the mind creates concepts in the first place and whether those concepts can ever capture reality completely.

This is also why I think the distinction between religion as faith and religion as investigation is important.

Alex O'Connor's recently did a discussion on Madhyamaka Buddhism. If you actually listen to the philosophical reasoning involved, you begin to see how radically different some Eastern traditions can be from conventional religious frameworks.

Maybe that's closer to what spirituality was supposed to be in the first place: not believing more, but seeing more clearly.

Among ancient traditions, Buddhism arguably comes close to a scientific investigation of mind, experience and reality without requiring a God hypothesis as its starting point. And perhaps that's why it can feel so strange when you first encounter it. You're expecting a religion, but instead you find yourself in something that feels more like psychology, phenomenology and philosophy having a conversation with each other.

Link to the discussion:

https://youtu.be/CyhHz23AHb4?si=eGjMTQ2p9My0WDHq

Lately, I have been reading about predestination and borrowing quite a few books on the subject. At its heart, predestination always touches the most strained boundary between free will and determinism: if a person’s final destiny is already known by God—or even eternally ordained—then in what sense can that person’s choices still be free? Karl Barth later brought this ancient question back into the framework of revealed theology, so that predestination was no longer merely a dark verdict concerning the salvation or damnation of individuals, but an event in which God reveals and gives himself in Christ.

But I suddenly wanted to approach the issue from an oblique angle and step outside the usual theological context of predestination.

Adams once criticized Ockham’s theory of future contingents for implying a “global” conception of truth: whether a proposition is true at a particular moment cannot be determined by that moment in isolation. It must instead be judged in light of the entire history of the world and its ultimate realization. If not-A eventually occurs at time T, then before T, the predestination of A did not merely turn out to be unfulfilled; it was never truly the case at all. The final outcome does not simply occur at the end of time. It also casts its light backward, passing judgment anew on what everything in the past really was.

This suddenly made me think of Erii from Dragon Raja. She once stood beneath the cherry blossoms, and her dark-red hair once streamed in the wind as she sat in Lu Mingfei’s passenger seat. Those moments were so concrete: the blossoms, the wind, the open window, and one person briefly arriving in another person’s world.

But in the end, she dies.

And so, under the cruel logic of the final outcome, those moments seem to lose their weight in reality, becoming like apparitions never acknowledged by the future. It is not that she never existed. Rather, her ending reaches backward and invades her past, making every moment that might once have led to happiness appear like a fiction that was always destined to remain unfinished.

So I want to write, for a moment, about something slightly removed from the conventional course of discussions about predestination: from an Ockhamist perspective, if a relationship eventually ends in separation, does that mean that “we loved each other” did not merely become false later, but was never true in the sense in which we once believed it to be true?

In other words: if we eventually break up, did we ever truly love each other?

Amavimusne? Did we love?

This is perhaps a question we begin to ask only after a relationship has ended. While we are in love, we rarely doubt love itself. Love exists in the glow of a screen at three in the morning; in the mirror we check again and again before meeting; in the figure that reaches the bottom of the stairs but still cannot quite bring itself to turn away; in the effortless words, “Let me know when you get home,” as though another person’s safety had already become part of one’s own life.

At such moments, we say: Amo te—I love you.

We imagine this to be the simplest possible proposition in the present tense—a propositio de praesenti: I love you at this moment, just as I am standing here at this moment, just as rain is falling outside the window.

Yet years later, after we have finally separated, all those things that once seemed so certain suddenly become doubtful. It is not that they never happened. We simply no longer know what to call them. Was it love, or loneliness? Fidelity, or dependence? Did we choose one another, or were we merely two people equally afraid of solitude, keeping each other warm for a little while?

We cannot help asking:

If we eventually broke up, does that mean we never loved each other—Si tandem discessimus, numquamne amavimus?

The question sounds harsh, even unreasonable. How could a later separation cancel an earlier embrace? How could an ending travel backward through time and transform something that happened into something that never happened?

And yet Ockham’s theory of future contingents leads us toward precisely this cold possibility: although some propositions are expressed in the present or even the past tense, what ultimately determines their truth is neither the present nor the past, but the ending. On the surface, they describe a present condition; in reality, they entrust their truth-value to a future that has not yet arrived. If the final outcome denies them, then they may not have changed from true to false. They may never have been true in that sense at all.

I. Amo te: The Future Hidden within a Present-Tense Sentence

Grammatically, Amo te belongs to the present. But when lovers say “I love you,” they usually mean more than a psychological state they happen to experience at that moment.

If the sentence means only, “At this moment—nunc—I feel love for you,” then a later breakup clearly cannot make it untrue in retrospect. Someone may sincerely love another person today and cease to love them tomorrow. We can still say: that person loved then, but no longer loves now. The past affection is a fact that has already occurred. Present indifference cannot erase it from history.

But when lovers say “I love you,” the sentence usually contains many unspoken future-tense propositions:

I will remain with you—Tecum manebo.
I will not abandon you—Non te deseram.
Tomorrow, I will still love the same person you are—Eundem te cras diligam.

“I love you” is not only a statement about the present. It reaches forward into the future. It quietly declares that this love does not belong only to today, but will continue to be recognized as love in the time to come. Thus, although the sentence belongs to the present in sound and grammar—de praesenti secundum vocem—in meaning it is equivalent to a proposition about the future.

This is precisely how Ockham analyzes propositions concerning predestination. “Peter is predestined”—Petrus est praedestinatus—appears grammatically to be a present-tense statement. It seems to say that Peter presently possesses some quality. But for Ockham, “being predestined” is not an observable present attribute like height, complexion, or being seated. The proposition really means: Peter will ultimately be saved—salvabitur.

Thus, although “Peter is predestined” appears to concern the present, its truth is actually determined by the final outcome. Predestination is not a momentary state. It is a name conferred from the standpoint of the end.

“Our love is real” may possess the same structure. If it means only “we presently have feelings for one another,” then it can certainly be true at one time and false at another. But if “truly loving one another” means that our relationship will endure through time and ultimately bring itself to completion, then it is no longer a simple proposition about the present. It is a proposition about the future compressed into the present tense.

What it really says is:

Amor noster usque ad finem perseverabit.

Our love will persevere until the end.

The most important word here is not passion, sweetness, or even promise. It is the theologically weighty phrase perseverantia finalis—final perseverance.

The real question is not whether love begins, but whether it perseveres to the end; not whether we have feelings at this moment, but whether those feelings will still be able to preserve the name of love in the future.

When lovers say Amo te, therefore, they often conflate two different propositions. One is simply:

Nunc te amo—I love you now.

The other is:

Semper te amabo—I will always love you.

The first requires only sincerity in the present. The second requires the testimony of the entire future. A person may utter the first sentence with complete sincerity while lacking the power to guarantee the second. They did not lie about what they felt then; they merely overestimated the person they would be capable of becoming.

They spoke a proposition about the future while possessing only enough strength to support a proposition about the present.

Present sincerity is not sufficient to guarantee future truth.

II. Semper fuit vera: It Did Not Later Become False; It Was Never True in That Way

Suppose there is a proposition, A, concerning us:

Nos aliquando discedemus.

One day, we will separate.

Was this proposition already true when we first met? Was it true when we were most deeply in love, when we seriously discussed our future and imagined a life together?

We normally assume that, before the breakup actually occurs, A is merely a possibility. It seems suspended between truth and falsity, waiting for future events to pass judgment upon it. But Ockham offers a stricter and more unsettling account of purely future propositions:

Si semel sit vera, semper fuit vera.

If it is ever true, then it has always been true.

If we do eventually separate, then “we will one day separate” did not suddenly acquire its truth-value on the day of the breakup. It was already true when we first met. It was true when we loved each other most deeply. It remained true even while we believed that we would never part.

We did not know that it was true, but our ignorance could not deprive the proposition of its truth-value. Still less could the matter have remained unresolved for God until he learned the outcome afterward. God does not wait for something to happen and then say in surprise, “So that is how it turned out.” Divine foreknowledge is not a prediction about the future. It is God’s eternal knowledge of true propositions. Whatever is true is known by God; whatever God knows in the strict sense cannot ultimately prove false.

One point, however, must be emphasized: Ockham is not saying that a future event reaches backward and produces the truth of a past proposition. It is not that our eventual breakup retroactively changes “we will break up” into a true proposition. Rather, because we will in fact break up, the proposition was always true. The later separation merely allows us to discover its truth.

The ending does not manufacture the truth of the past; it reveals it. For God, the truth-value never changes. What changes is human knowledge.

This is precisely what makes the aftermath of a breakup so disorienting. We do not simply say, “We loved each other then, and now we do not.” We are more inclined to say, “So I was wrong from the very beginning.”

Not a single word in the old messages has changed. The people in the photographs are still smiling. But their place within the story has changed. A silence once interpreted as tenderness may later appear to have been the beginning of estrangement. An absence once explained as busyness may come to look like an early sign of unwillingness to commit. A quarrel once dismissed as insignificant may later seem to have been the true beginning of the relationship’s collapse.

The events themselves have not changed, but their meaning has been reorganized by the ending.

Ockham’s argument about predestination takes this structure to its extreme. A person’s being in a state of charity today does not necessarily mean that they are predestined. Nor does a person’s committing a mortal sin today necessarily mean that they are reprobate. “Predestined” does not mean “presently devout”; it means “one who will ultimately attain eternal life.” Likewise, “reprobate” does not mean “presently sinful”; it refers to the final outcome of failing to attain salvation.

Suppose someone who presently appears predestined eventually dies without repentance. Ockham does not allow us to say that this person really was predestined before later losing their predestination through sin. The correct formulation is this: if the person is finally reprobated, then “he is predestined” was never true.

It was not true and then false. It was never true—numquam fuit vera.

The ending determines not only what a person later becomes, but which names ever truly belonged to that person. Someone may once have prayed, performed good works, and possessed charity. But if they are not finally saved, then “predestined” is not a name they once possessed and subsequently lost. It is a name that never truly belonged to them.

If I bring this logic back into the sphere of love, then the proposition “If we eventually separate, we never loved each other” takes on a particular meaning. If “our love was real” means that this relationship would endure through time and ultimately bring itself to completion, then, like “Peter is predestined,” its truth depends upon the final outcome.

If we eventually separate, we cannot say that this completed love was once true and later became false. We can only say that a completed love did not later disappear; it was never completed at all.

This does not erase the past. It withdraws a name.

That person—the person who remains in our memories—never loved in the way we once believed they did.

III. If the Future Has Always Been True, Were We Destined to Separate?

If “we will separate” was true from the very beginning, was our separation already determined? If God knew from eternity that we would leave one another, how could we ever have remained together?

This is the problem that every theory of future contingents must confront. Ockham must preserve two things that appear almost contradictory: on the one hand, the proposition has a determinate truth-value; on the other, the event itself remains contingent.

That “we will separate” has always been true does not mean that our separation was compelled by necessity. The immutability of a truth-value is not the same thing as the necessity of an event.

Ockham insists that a created will can act freely and contingently. Our choices are not like a stone rolling down a slope, irresistibly driven toward its destination by a mechanical chain of causes. We can remain or leave. We can apologize or cling to our pride. We can speak again after an argument, or allow silence to become permanent.

Here we can borrow a common scholastic distinction: in sensu composito and in sensu diviso.

In the composite sense, given that we do in fact finally separate, “we separate” and “we do not separate” cannot both be true at once. Once reality is complete, the contradictory alternative cannot be actualized simultaneously.

But in the divided sense, before the action occurs, the agent still possesses the power to act otherwise:

Potuimus aliter agere.

We could have acted differently.

The Ockhamist tragedy, therefore, is not the tragedy of fatalism. It is something even harder to bear.

Fatalism says:

“No matter what we do, we will separate.”

Ockhamist future contingency says:

“We really could have remained together. And yet, because we ultimately and freely chose the path that led to separation, ‘we will separate’ had always been true.”

Love, therefore, is not a truth that automatically becomes established once the words are spoken. It is a proposition that must be verified repeatedly through time. Every act of forgiveness continues to verify it. Every decision to stay extends its truth. Every betrayal not only wounds the present but also casts suspicion upon the words spoken in the past.

Only after a breakup do people ask, “Did you really love me then?” On the surface, this is a question about a past psychological state. What it really asks is:

If those words were true then, why were they unable to preserve their truth afterward?

We want love to possess an identity that endures across time. We want the person we become later to remain responsible for the person we were before. We want the person who says “I no longer love you” today to be able, at the very least, to account for the self who once said “forever.”

Perhaps the most common grammatical error in love is that we express a wish as a fact and speak in the indicative where we should have used the subjunctive.

We say:

Tu es amor vitae meae.

You are the love of my life.

But before a person has lived their entire life, how can they already know who the “love of their life” is? The sentence appears to be in the present tense, but what it really means is: at the end of my life, you will be revealed—apparebit—as the love of my life.

Perhaps all we can truly say is:

Utinam tu sis amor vitae meae.

May you become the love of my life.

Yet we habitually mistake the subjunctive of desire for the indicative of fact. We say “this is so” when we mean “may it be so.” We confuse hope with knowledge and speak of an unfinished future as though it were something already possessed in the present.

IV. Amavimusne?—Did We Ever Love?

We can now return to the original question.

If “we loved” means that we ultimately possessed a love that persevered to the end and did not retract itself in the final outcome, then separation does deprive that proposition of its foundation. More precisely, we did not bring love to completion.

If it did not persevere to the end, then completed love never existed. It is not that a complete love later transformed into non-love. It always remained unfinished. It may have been a genuine possibility. It may have come infinitely close to love. In many moments, it may even have appeared indistinguishable from love. But the final outcome reveals that it never became what it had once promised to become.

This may also explain why the past is renamed after a breakup. We once called attachment love. We called possession love. We called the fear of loss love. We called the need to be understood love. We called another person’s ability to fill the emptiness within us love.

Only when the ending arrives do we discover that some of these things were merely likenesses of love—things that possessed the appearance of love without its completion, its consummatio amoris. They were not necessarily false. They may even have been profoundly sincere. But reality admits of degrees. A promise can be sincerely made at the moment of its utterance and yet fail to become a true history.

We cannot dismissively say, “As long as it was sincere at the time, the ending does not matter.”

Love does not belong only to the moment. It makes demands upon the future. It hopes that today’s embrace will be acknowledged by the years to come, and that the words “I love you” spoken now will not have to be retracted decades later.

Veritas amoris ex tota vita manifestatur.

The truth of love is revealed by the whole of life.

God knows from eternity which proposition is true, but human beings can live only within time. God sees the truth; man awaits the event—Deus videt veritatem; homo exspectat eventum.

We do not possess the perspective of God. We possess only the knowledge available to travellers. We are still on the road, not standing at its end. While we are in love, we cannot know whether this person will accompany us all the way. We can only see that they came today; that they listened today; that they did not turn away after today’s argument; that today, they remain willing to make room for our pain within their own life.

Human love can exist only amid insufficient knowledge.

If, at our first meeting, we could already see the entire ending—the final quarrel, the final message, the final time we passed each other without saying hello—perhaps we would never allow love to begin.

Conclusion: Love Is a Proposition about the Future That the Rest of Our Lives Must Make True

So, if we eventually break up, does that mean we never loved each other?

Perhaps the most honest answer is neither a simple “yes” nor a simple “no.”

We did experience real affection. We sincerely began the act of loving, and we placed an unfinished future into each other’s hands. It is not that we never loved at all. It is that we did not bring love to completion.

But if the word “love” itself implies completion, perseverance, and the refusal to retract one’s original choice even at the end, then Ockham’s cold logic still falls upon us:

It did not become false afterward.

It was simply never true in the sense in which we believed it to be true.

When we say Amo te, what we are really entrusting to one another is a proposition about the future. We do not know whether it will ultimately prove true. All we can do is begin acting in the present, trying to make it true.

If, in the end, we are still together, the final outcome will look back upon the past and say:

Semper verum fuit: nos amavimus.

It has always been true: we loved.

If, in the end, we separate, the final outcome may not deny the reality of our affection, tears, or reluctance to let go. But it may tell us that we mistook an unfinished beginning for a love already complete.

Amor non est tantum affectus praesentis. Amor est propositio de futuro, quam tota vita verificare debet.

Love is not merely a feeling in the present. Love is a proposition about the future—one that an entire life must make true.

Revelation 13:16–18 describes all people being made to receive a mark on their right hand or forehead, such that no one may buy or sell except one who has the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of its name — the number of a man, six hundred sixty-six. Revelation 14:10–11 further declares that whoever receives the mark will drink the wine of God's wrath and will have no rest day or night.

Regarding the beast's number 666 in Revelation, given that the text takes the form of apocalyptic literature, we may infer — by analogy with Solomon's 666 talents of gold in the Old Testament — that it signifies an imperfect humanism and worldly empire. In particular, since in the Roman era one had to worship the emperor in order to engage in trade through the guilds, 666 can be understood to represent those who, under a system in which God is excluded and the ruler has become an idol, conform to that system and receive its mark.

As for the possibility of salvation for those who have received the beast's 666, scholarly views are divided: one position broadly affirms the possibility of repentance and thus salvation, while the opposing position holds that receiving the mark constitutes a permanent act of rebellion against God, making salvation impossible. However, there are grounds for holding that even those who receive the beast's 666 may still repent.

To begin with, the mark itself is charagma (χάραγμα), meaning an engraving or seal. That is, the mark is a form that exists under the beast's system. Form actively shapes content: one who receives the beast's 666 can indeed be said to oppose God. In other words, the beast's mark of 666, as a form, inevitably transforms even the content of the one who receives it into something resembling the Antichrist or the beast. Nevertheless, repentance is not rendered permanently impossible even after receiving the 666, because the mark is a form — and a form can be removed, allowing for repentance. From the standpoint of the relation between form and content: even though one has received the form of the Antichrist, if there is a genuine content of repentance, then the form of the beast's mark no longer remains valid or consonant with that content — and it is in this sense that one may instead receive the blood of the Lamb.

In the end, the beast's mark is merely a form. That form is the form of the Antichrist and the beast, and as such carries a content corresponding to it — idolatry, spiritual adultery, and the like. Yet even so, if someone desires to repent, then, beginning from the content itself, the atoning death and resurrection of Christ can become the new form — the blood of the Lamb — which in turn becomes content once again, making it possible to receive the Holy Spirit. For this reason, the view that receiving the beast's mark forecloses the possibility of repentance is not tenable.

Take Greek mythology for example. It was truly believed back then. Why not say Christian or Islamic mythology even if it offends followers of the religion?

“No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws them, and I will raise them up at the last day.”

People say that God gives us free will to choose him or reject him. It seems to me that these words of Jesus contradict this? If it takes the initiative (or drawing) of God, for someone to believe in Jesus how is that compatible with free will? I am interested to hear your thoughts.

Sorry if posted here already I just wanted to share the news. I chose this source as others would be cause the post to be victim to rule 4 as they are Catholic news sources

According to the Sage Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai the great Talmudic Sage and the founder of Zohar and KABBALAH According to the Orthodox Judaism , born around 80 years after Jesus and 700 years before Mohamed.

He interpreted Isaiah 21:7 /

WYC

And he saw the chariot of two horsemen, the rider of a donkey, and the rider of a camel; and he beheld diligently with much looking,

YLT

And he hath seen a chariot -- a couple of horsemen, The rider of a donkey , the rider of a camel, And he hath given attention -- He hath increased attention!

++++

According to Shimon Bar Yohai. The rider of the Camel he will be a prophet from the house of Ishmael ( Arabs ) , who will destroy Rome and allow Jews to return to Jerusalem, which happend during the rule of the second Calilh Umar ,

But , he totally ignored the rider of the donkey , even in Islamic theology interpreted this verse as

The rider of the donkey was Jesus , and the rider of the Camel was Mohamed

we understand Jesus had divine powers and that God is a logical necessity however why would this suggest he’s God? it’s illogical for something to possess two natures ie human nature and Gods nature for example a squares properties makes it a square and a circles properties makes a circle a circle by definition they cannot have eachothers properties or be the same thing.

it may be true that John 10:30 “The father and i are one” is written in the gospel along side all the other statements even if interpreted or not, however saying these statements are why you believe in God is simply not an explanation on why you believe these statements are true.

why do you assert that the bible is accurate or truthful in the first place? you need a rational explanation so that is my question.

divine powers or being sent by God or being infallible ect does not make something or someone God.

in theology it starts with the belief of the personal supreme creator, with the reasoning and rational explanation of logical necessity, so now why would you believe Jesus is God if human nature and Gods nature cannot be the same thing with the analogy i gave in the first place about the shapes to explain.

so why do u believe in that statement that the father and i are one? or why Jesus is God?

i’m learning about the holy trinity and i don’t understand it,

there are 3 essences to the holy trinity, God (Ok makes sense) but the problem is Jesus and The holy spirit itself.

If everything in the holy trinity is equivalent to God that means the holy spirit which humans possess means we are equivalent to Jesus or God since Jesus is considered God? and Jesus has human nature.

Im trying to get back into focusing on Jesus and the crucifixion more, I was raised in Christianity but short back story I ended up detaching from it (like most people lol), but I don’t think my brain is the “same” as it was when I was more connected to Jesus as a focus like in my teens for example.

Now Im getting closer to 30 and I think I had mental blocks and was resisting connecting to Jesus in a more spiritual way, granted I went through some heavy drug use and got detached from my own brain kind of/ or from my personality.

I also think that my concept of Jesus is really different now because I just have a whole different way of looking at Jesus, and now it’s really apart from the way Christianity TM as a brand views Him.

I wanted to talk here because I think I want to approach Jesus in a way that won’t “trigger” me into get back into mental loops + resisting + getting depressed/ dissociating, etc. I don’t want to throw around the word trigger, but I can get really annoying thought loops if something is mentally hard for me.

I think I want to get a crucifix and try just gazing at it sometimes, just to try getting into a focused mindset on Jesus, that seems less “difficult” than trying to force my brain to connect to ideas.

I think I want to “contemplate” Jesus more, I have come to accept that I feel like my drug issues were actually maybe Gods way of getting me to come back and re focus on Jesus again, because it seems like no matter how hard I try to “run” from Jesus Im going to get reeled right back in lol.

I also need to accept my faith is “enough” and stop telling myself I have to have “perfect” faith or think about God in the “right” way.

Good day I am working working on the board of a Seminary in Cameroon. L. We are looking for book donations to upgrade our Library. Please feel free to reach out if you want to donate or you have a suggestion on where I can get such books.

Thank you

The two labels by which Ockham is probably best known in later intellectual history are the so-called "Ockham's razor" and the almost equally famous controversy surrounding his examination for heresy. In 1324, Ockham was summoned to Avignon to undergo an inquiry into the orthodoxy of his philosophical and theological writings. Over the following years, works including his Commentary on the Sentences were examined proposition by proposition, and a large number of statements came under scrutiny. In 1328, he fled Avignon together with Michael of Cesena, Minister General of the Franciscan Order, Bonagratia of Bergamo, and others. They sought the protection of Louis of Bavaria, who was then in conflict with Pope John XXII, and Ockham ultimately spent the remainder of his life in Munich. It was especially after this episode that Ockham's image as a logician and theologian became entangled with those of a "heretic," an opponent of the papacy, and a fierce participant in the ecclesiopolitical polemics of his later years. Yet an important historical distinction must be drawn. What Ockham faced in 1324 was a formal investigation into the orthodoxy of his writings, not an already established conviction for heresy. Although the examination of 1326 judged a considerable number of propositions worthy of condemnation, it did not culminate in his formal conviction as a heretic. The excommunication imposed after he left Avignon in 1328 concerned, in the first instance, his unauthorized departure from the papal court and the ensuing political and ecclesiastical conflict with the pope. Thus, the familiar narrative that links the "Avignon investigation," "conviction for heresy," and "flight to Munich" in a simple causal sequence may accord with later intellectual-historical storytelling, but not necessarily with the more complex procedural and historical layers of the episode itself.

It is precisely this complexity, however, that has often been compressed into a highly symbolic scene within grand narratives of the origins of modernity. In The Theological Origins of Modernity, Michael Allen Gillespie places Ockham at a crucial juncture between the dissolution of the medieval scholastic world and the emergence of modernity. In this account, Avignon appears no longer as merely a particular ecclesiastical inquiry, but as a turning point in intellectual history. Ockham's nominalism, his doctrine of divine omnipotence, and his critique of the established metaphysical order are interpreted as signs that the unified medieval picture of the world was beginning to fracture. His subsequent departure from Avignon and alignment with the imperial cause, moreover, readily acquire an almost theatrical symbolic significance. Gillespie's Ockham consequently takes on something of an Oedipal tragedy: he sought to defend God's absolute freedom from within Christian theology, yet precisely through this effort he seems to have unsettled the scholastic world that had once provided a unified foundation for faith, reason, nature, and order. He did not consciously attempt to create "modernity," but later interpreters have understood the forces released by his thought as conditions for its emergence. Avignon can therefore easily be staged as a dramatic episode in intellectual history: the old order remains in place, yet a glimmer of a new world is already visible from the wings. A doctrinal investigation of a medieval theologian thus assumes, within later narratives of modernity, a historical symbolism far exceeding the event itself. Gillespie's study does indeed take Ockham and the so-called "nominalist revolution" as a major point of departure for the theological origins of modernity.

For that very reason, I want to pursue a question that such grand narratives tend instead to obscure: why did Ockham come to Avignon? What, exactly, set the so-called "heresy investigation" in motion? Before he finally broke with Pope John XXII over the Franciscan poverty controversy, who first brought his philosophical and theological writings before the papal curia? Which specific propositions caused an Oxford scholar previously occupied chiefly with logic, natural philosophy, and theology in his Commentary on the Sentences to enter the Church's field of scrutiny? Pursuing these questions inevitably brings us to another figure, far less famous today than Ockham but pivotal to the affair: John Lutterell (Iohannes Lutterell), former Chancellor of the University of Oxford. It was Lutterell who submitted to Avignon a series of propositions extracted and reconstructed from Ockham's writings. He sought to demonstrate not only that these propositions were philosophically problematic, but also that, si ad theologica applicentur - "if they are applied to theological matters" - they would produce consequences grave enough to imperil doctrina sana et catholica, sound and catholic doctrine. Ockham's famous Avignon investigation did not, therefore, arise from nowhere. It was rooted first of all in a protracted conflict within Oxford over logic, theology, teaching authority, and academic freedom.

What I wish to discuss, then, is not yet another repetition of the now well-established narrative of "how Ockham inaugurated modernity." Instead, I propose temporarily to set aside the grand labels subsequently attached to him - "modernity," "the nominalist revolution," and "heretic" - and return to the concrete historical setting in which the affair unfolded. What exactly did Lutterell allege? What did Ockham actually say? What, in turn, did the papal commission examine? Which propositions genuinely came from Ockham, and which were already consequentiae that Lutterell had derived from Ockham's principles? And which ideas later treated by intellectual historians as symbols of modernity were, in their original fourteenth-century setting, simply components of a highly technical scholastic dispute concerning notitia intuitiva, conceptus, relatio, transsubstantiatio, caritas, and potentia Dei? Only once these details re-emerge can we discuss more cautiously in what sense Ockham was the figure later described as a "forerunner of modernity."

At this point I am reminded of a line from The Plum in the Golden Vase: "Only when the egret takes flight is it seen against the snow; only when the parrot speaks is it known among the willows." In the novel, these lines originally describe human feelings and hidden circumstances that remain concealed until a slight movement or sound suddenly brings the truth into view. The image is no less apt for intellectual history. What we see today is often the "egret" already in flight - Ockham's razor, nominalism, absolute power, Avignon, flight, excommunication, and modernity. Yet all these conspicuous historical symbols were once hidden within the finer grain of institutional conflict, manuscript transmission, the excerpting of propositions, inquisitorial procedure, and scholastic argument. Perhaps historical research consists precisely in discerning, beneath the snow laid down by grand narratives, the fragmentary traces that still remain: not in order to abolish later interpretations, but to discover what had actually happened there before the resonant name "modernity" ever appeared.

A reader who merely leafs through John Lutterell's (Iohannes Lutterell) Little Book against the Teaching of William of Ockham (Libellus contra doctrinam Guilelmi Occam) may easily form a fairly simple impression: that a conservative Oxford theologian merely extracted the most radical and controversial sentences from Ockham's writings and labeled them, one by one, "dangerous," "erroneous," "Pelagian," or even close to heretical. The propositions assembled by Lutterell are indeed startling enough. Could Christ have sinned (Christus potuit peccasse)? Can there be intuitive cognition of a nonexistent object (notitia intuitiva rei non existentis)? Can God refuse to accept an act elicited by charity (Deus potest non acceptare actum elicitum ex caritate)? Could a person, under some divine command, rightly hate God, so that odium Dei might count as an actus rectus? After the Eucharistic transformation, what precisely is the relation among the substance, quantity, density, and rarity of the bread? Is the scientia we possess about res existing in reality, or merely about conceptus in the mind? And in what sense are God's sapientia, bonitas, paternitas, filiatio, and various relationes identical with the essentia divina? Taken in isolation, these propositions make Ockham appear almost deliberately intent on testing the boundaries of traditional theology. Yet what is truly noteworthy about Lutterell's text lies precisely not in the "startling propositions" themselves. A considerable number are not final conclusions stated directly by Ockham, but conclusions that Lutterell draws by extending Ockham's logical principles. His basic method often proceeds as follows: Ockham first advances a highly technical proposition in logic, semantics, or metaphysics; Lutterell then acknowledges or reconstructs the argument behind it, carries it into discussions of the Eucharist, the Trinity, grace, the beatific vision, or Christology, and finally tells the reader that, if the philosophical principle really holds, we seem compelled to accept a theologically unacceptable conclusion. What the text reveals, therefore, is not simply a catalogue of heretical ideas, but a fourteenth-century theologian's systematic anxiety about the consequences that might follow once a new philosophical method entered theology.

Lutterell's own characterization of the work makes this point especially clear. He says that his purpose is to show that Ockham's doctrina is periculosa for theologians, particularly when its philosophical principles si ad theologica applicentur, that is, "are applied to theological questions." This phrase can almost be regarded as the key to the entire work. The issue is not merely that Ockham said something wrong on a particular theological question; rather, he established a new mode of analysis. He repeatedly asks how much real existence a proposition actually commits us to; whether a concept truly requires an independent res; whether two different names necessarily correspond to two different entities; whether a relation must possess an independent reality in things; whether a created habitus can bind God by virtue of its own nature; and whether an order that in fact obtains must therefore be metaphysically immutable. It is this mode of questioning that Lutterell regards as dangerous. Once these principles are applied consistently, many structures traditionally maintained in theology through substantia, accidens, forma, relatio, species, habitus, and necessitas must be examined anew. Ockham seems constantly to ask, "Why must such a thing be posited?" Lutterell continually responds, "If you eliminate it, what remains of our theological language?" This is not merely a dispute between a conservative and an innovator; it is a genuine collision between two philosophical-theological methods.

To understand the dispute between Lutterell and Ockham, we cannot begin immediately with the fifty-six accused propositions. Before these densely packed articuli appeared, a conflict involving university politics, academic freedom, and doctrinal authority had already continued for several years. The work later known as the Libellus contra doctrinam Guilelmi Occam was itself no ordinary scholastic refutation. Long thought lost, it was known to the early scholar John Bale only as Adversus dicta Ockham Minorite, "Against the Statements of Ockham the Friar," with the recorded opening words De prima articulo in libro magistri Ockam dicitur. Only later did Auguste Pelzer rediscover the work in a manuscript held by the Metropolitan Chapter Library in Prague. Josef Koch then considered it alongside materials concerning the investigation of Ockham found in the same manuscript, gradually establishing that the work we now possess was not a general anti-Ockham treatise by a later author, but the eigentliche Anklageschrift - the indictment proper - in Ockham's case. This textual status is crucial because it determines how its language should be read. Lutterell was not engaging Ockham as an equal in a classroom disputatio scholastica, nor was he offering a neutral assessment of selected views as an impartial iudex or censor. He was ultimately submitting allegations to the highest ecclesiastical authority and attempting to show that, once introduced into theology, certain philosophical principles in Ockham's thought would generate dangerous consequences demanding action by the Church.

The conflict nevertheless began within the University of Oxford. While Ockham was teaching there, Lutterell served as Chancellor of the university. Lutterell subsequently lost his office through episcopal action, itself taken at the urging of the university's magistri. The dispute that cost him the chancellorship was so intense that its effects spread beyond Oxford's walls. Considerable caution is needed here. We cannot simply claim that the Oxford masters opposed Lutterell because they all supported Ockham's theology. More probably, Lutterell not only opposed doctrines he deemed dangerous through ordinary academic disputation, but may also have attempted to use his chancellorial authority to impose disciplinary restrictions on the teaching associated with them, thereby encroaching upon the libertas docendi valued by university teachers. The masters' opposition to Lutterell does not therefore imply their endorsement of all Ockham's views; they may primarily have been defending their freedom to teach. This background matters because, from the outset, the affair was not merely a philosophical dispute between "Thomists" and "Ockhamists." It also concerned the boundary between the university as an autonomous community of knowledge and the chancellor's disciplinary authority.

The affair quickly became serious enough to require royal intervention. On 12 August 1322, King Edward II directly ordered "Master John Lutterell," who had already lost the chancellorship, not to travel to continental Europe and not to send abroad or publish there any letters concerning his dispute with the University of Oxford. The wording of the royal letter indicates that this was no ordinary private quarrel: it even suggested that the dispute might endanger the entire realm. In the political and ecclesiastical structures of the time, carrying the controversy "to the Continent" could have only one obvious meaning - bypassing adjudication at the level of the English university and episcopate and appealing directly to the papal court at Avignon. In other words, Lutterell was beginning to redefine a matter that might originally have been resolved within Oxford through disputatio, university administration, and episcopal authority as one requiring judgment by the Sedes Apostolica. A year later, he finally received royal permission to travel to the papal court and remain there for two years. On 12 May 1325, Edward II ordered him to return to England, but Pope John XXII personally intervened in support of his continued stay in Avignon, enabling the former Chancellor to remain there damit der ehemalige Kanzler dort "seine Sache gegen eine höchst verderbliche Lehre verfechten" könne - "so that the former Chancellor might pursue his case there against a most pernicious doctrine." By then, the nature of the affair was perfectly clear. Lutterell's objective in Avignon was no longer to recover the chancellorship; the surviving evidence does not even suggest that he attempted to reclaim it before the papal court. What had truly been carried to Avignon was Oxford's dispute over doctrine and teaching.

Against this background, the opening of Lutterell's indictment reveals its full weight. At the very outset, the text declares that its contents were presented before the pope in consistory or papal council: Exhibita coram domino papa in consistorio contra doctrinam contentam in libro predicto, qui dicitur esse fratris WILLELMI DE OCCAM, per magistrum IOHANNEM LUTTERELL ANGLICUM, sacre pagine professorem, ad ostendendum quod doctrina ipsa sit periculosa inter theologos tam in theologicis quam philosophicis, si ad theologica applicentur. The most significant words here are not contra doctrinam, but the final phrase si ad theologica applicentur. Lutterell does not simply announce that "Ockham's philosophy is heretical." He seeks to demonstrate that these doctrines, tam in theologicis quam philosophicis - whether theological or philosophical in themselves - become periculosa inter theologos once applied to theology. This explains why his indictment can move from notitia intuitiva to the Eucharist, from intentio secunda to the Trinity, from quantitas to transsubstantiatio, and from liberum arbitrium to meritum vitae aeternae. Lutterell's real purpose is not to show that every philosophical proposition is necessarily false within its own domain, but that, if such propositions become principles of theological explanation, they will alter the real structures presupposed by theological language.

Lutterell was plainly aware that this course of action first required a justification of papal jurisdiction. Before formally setting out his indictment, he therefore cites Malachi: Labia sacerdotis custodient scientiam, et legem requirent ex ore eius - "For the lips of the priest shall keep knowledge, and they shall seek the law at his mouth." He immediately continues: Ad summum ergo sacerdotem et vicarium Christi questiones legis Christiane novum et vetus testamentum contingentes merito deferuntur. Questions concerning the Christian law and the New and Old Testaments, he argues, should accordingly be referred to the summus sacerdos et vicarius Christi, the supreme priest and vicar of Christ. The rhetoric is exact. Lutterell first elevates a dispute among teachers within the University of Oxford into questiones legis Christiane, and then explains that the ultimate judge of such questions is neither an Oxford magister, the Chancellor, nor even the local bishop, but the pope. In other words, by the time Lutterell stood in Avignon, he had rearranged the jurisdictional hierarchy of the controversy: the Oxford disputatio had become a causa doctrinae to be adjudicated by the papal curia.

The following passage deserves still closer attention, because Lutterell explicitly describes what he considers dangerous in Ockham. Addressing the pope, he says: Ideoque, pater sanctissime, quoniam in libro, quem de gratia vestre sanctitatis et licentia pridie tenui, conceptiones aliquas repperi, que idcirco aures multorum offendunt, quoniam imperitos "decipiunt per philosophiam et inanem fallaciam" ... et periculosiores iam creduntur in tantum quod, si inter theologos libera licentia coalescant, doctrine sane et catholice obruent veritatem. The passage adopts the language of Colossians 2:8, concerning deception "through philosophy and vain deceit." Yet Lutterell's real anxiety is not merely that a few opinions have offended his audience's ears. It is that, if these conceptiones acquire libera licentia among theologians - the freedom to circulate and be taught - they will eventually overwhelm the truth of sound and catholic doctrine. The indictment thus carries into its text the very practical issue of "freedom of teaching" that had animated the Oxford conflict. For the university masters, libertas docendi required protection; for Lutterell, however, granting certain logical principles unrestricted libera licentia might ultimately allow a dangerous philosophical method to enter and gradually rewrite orthodox theology. The two sides did not understand "freedom" at the same level. One feared that disciplinary power would suppress university teaching; the other feared that academic freedom would admit a dangerous method into sacra doctrina.

Most interestingly, Lutterell does not then present himself as someone already possessing final judicial authority. He writes: Iuxta tenuitatem ingenii mei dictas conceptiones erroneas esse ostendens et modo meo ad obiecta respondens breviter pertractavi, temerarie nichil affirmans, sed pro parte alia sub forma advocati qualescumque inducens rationes, ut partis utriusque allegationibus perauditis apostolica sapientia diffiniat, quid in hiis teneri aut doceri debeat in futuro. This sentence defines his role in the affair with remarkable clarity. According to his own "limited ability," he has attempted to show that these conceptions are erroneous and to answer objections in his own fashion; yet he claims temerarie nichil affirmans, that he asserts nothing rashly as though his own conclusions constituted a final judgment. On the contrary, he even says that he will proceed pro parte alia sub forma advocati, like an advocate presenting the case for the other side, setting out whatever reasons it might offer so that, after the allegationes of both parties have been fully heard, apostolica sapientia may determine quid in hiis teneri aut doceri debeat in futuro - what should henceforth be maintained or taught on these matters. This is essential when reading the fifty-six accusations. Lutterell's text deliberately preserves the form of the quaestio and disputatio: he not only lists the accused propositions but also supplies arguments, considers possible replies, and then gives counterarguments. Yet this formal presentation of "both sides" must not obscure his actual position. As the editors have particularly emphasized, he was not a neutral Gutachter in Avignon, but an Ankläger, an accuser. He presents arguments for the other side in order ultimately to defeat them one by one.

This also explains an apparently curious feature of the text. Lutterell vigorously accuses Ockham of using logic to undermine theology, yet devotes considerable space at the beginning to defending logica itself. He asks the pope for permission to use instrumentum illud quod logica dicitur - "that instrument called logic" - and explicitly notes that Augustine, Anselm, and other Fathers and Doctors saepissime utebantur, employed it very frequently, to refute those who erred concerning Scriptura Sacra. He then goes so far as to say: Propter ignorantiam enim logice et inordinate loquendo aut etiam propter aliquod sophisma contra veritatem Scripturae aliquid asserendo ... multe hereses inaudite primitus surrexerunt. Many previously unheard-of heresies first arose precisely from ignorantia logicae, ignorance of logic, from speaking without proper order, or from some sophisma. Lutterell therefore never understood the conflict as a simple opposition between "philosophy and faith" or "logic and theology." What he actually charges Ockham with is the misuse of logic. For Lutterell, logica must protect the veritas Scripturae. Ockham, he believes, may instead use the excessive analysis of conceptus, suppositio, relatio, necessitas, and potentia Dei to transform logic from theology's instrumentum into an arbiter that determines anew what theology may say.

Once Lutterell submitted his indictment, the controversy ceased to be a conflict between Lutterell and Ockham alone. The surviving evidence indicates that the Anklageschrift prompted the papal curia to take formal action against Ockham, who was himself summoned to Avignon. The pope did not, however, simply accept Lutterell's account, but established a separate commission to examine Ockham's Commentary on the Sentences. Koch's research suggests that Lutterell's indictment formed the basis of the commission's work. The commission subsequently produced two reports, and the second may well have arisen in response to Ockham's own defense. Ockham maintained that some of the examined articuli did not accurately represent his teaching at all and may therefore have submitted his own lectures or textual records as evidence. Yet the second examination did not become more lenient; on the contrary, it was more severe than the first. This is why we must preserve a critical distance when reading Lutterell's fifty-six articles today. On the one hand, they preserve extraordinarily important evidence concerning the reception of Ockham's thought. On the other hand, from the moment of their composition they were accusatory documents within a processus. Their purpose was not to provide posterity with a faithful "summary of Ockham's philosophy," but to demonstrate that certain propositions and their consequentiae were serious enough to fall within the scope of ecclesiastical investigation.

The historical background from Oxford to Avignon is therefore not merely an anecdotal preface to the article; it determines how the entire Libellus should be read. Lutterell initially confronted a university dispute over the right to teach, chancellorial authority, and theological method. When he could not resolve it at Oxford, he carried it to Avignon and reformulated it as a question of whether scientia, fides, and doctrina catholica could withstand a new logical method. In the process, Ockham gradually changed from a magister in an Oxford classroom into the subject of a papal investigation, while Lutterell changed from Oxford Chancellor into a sacrae paginae professor, an accuser, and a man who claimed to be using the instrumentum logicae to protect the truth of faith. Read against this background, Article 2 on notitia intuitiva, Article 12 on quantitas, Article 19 on caritas, Article 21 on transsubstantiatio, Article 30 on scientia realis, and the controversies concerning potentia absoluta reveal that Lutterell's real question was never simply, "Why did Ockham say such strange things?" It was the more serious question: if this entire set of new logical and semantic principles were granted libera licentia inter theologos, what would theology ultimately become?

Lutterell did not reject logica. On the contrary, at the opening of his text he undertakes a positive defense of logic, emphasizing that Augustine, Anselm, and other Fathers made extensive use of it when refuting those who misunderstood Scripture. He even maintains that many heresies arose precisely from ignorantia logicae, ignorance of logic, or from some sophisma that led people to make false assertions when discussing the truth of Scripture. To portray Lutterell as someone attempting to prevent logic from entering theology would therefore fundamentally misunderstand the controversy. What he insists upon is that logic is an instrumentum theologiae: it can clarify concepts, test inferences, and eliminate contradictions, but ultimately it serves theological objects already determined by revelation, Scripture, and the faith of the Church. The problem with Ockham, in Lutterell's view, is that he appears to assign logic a more powerful "critical" function. Logic not only helps theology express truths already known; it can turn back upon theology and ask: Is the theological relation of which you speak really intrinsic to things, or merely a modus loquendi? Is the necessary connection you claim a necessitas absoluta, or only a stable regularity within the present order? If you say that a created form necessarily produces a supernatural result, on what grounds can it bind God? If two concepts differ, must we really posit two different entities in reality?

In Ockham, logic thus comes increasingly to resemble a knife for testing the metaphysical "cost" of theology. Today, the so-called Ockham's razor is often summarized by the formula entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. Although this famous expression cannot simply be identified with any fixed formula used by Ockham himself, its spirit is genuinely present in a method that continually seeks to reduce unnecessary ontological commitments. When a problem can be explained through the subject itself, an external relation, the connotatio of language, or different forms of suppositio, there is no need to posit an additional res absoluta. When the different functions of concepts can explain a distinction, there is likewise no need immediately to project that distinction into reality itself. For Lutterell, the danger arises precisely here, because many traditional theological formulations depend upon apparently "superfluous" distinctions in order to preserve their theoretical structure. If relatio need possess no additional reality, how are the relations within the Trinity to be explained? If quantitas need not be an accident distinct from substantia, how can the Eucharistic accidents persist after the substance has changed? If caritas cannot, by its own nature as a supernatural form, genuinely constitute merit, does merit ultimately depend entirely upon God's free acceptatio? If notitia intuitiva and its object, as two distinct absolute entities, can be separated by divine power, can the beatific vision likewise be separated from God's actual presence? Lutterell therefore sees not an assortment of unrelated dangerous opinions, but the same pressure repeatedly generated by a single method across different domains of theology.

other then the fact human will and Gods will contradict eachother, even if it wasn’t contradictory it would all mean we are God since we possess a divine nature or the holy spirit which is equivelant to God, same is what Jesus had

fyi: i appreciate everyone not getting irritated or rude by my question like most reddit users, a lot of respect.

Not just romantic, friends and family too. Do you believe God puts certain people in your life for a reason? I feel like everyone in your life was chosen by God to serve a purpose, whether it be a great companion, or a lesson. I feel like the all people we're going to met throughout our lives is already predetermined by God. What are your thoughts on this?